Engines of Destruction td-103

by Warren Murphy

  Feeling the breeze, Melvis turned. "Thought you boys was right behind me."

  "Who are you talking to?" a musical, twangy voice asked.

  Melvis took one look at the willowy girl in fringed buckskin jacket and bright blue bib jeans and asked, "Who in heck are you?"

  The woman let her camera hang down in one hand as she dug a business card out of her jeans. "K. C. Crockett. Rail Fan magazine."

  Melvis's face lit up. "Rail Fan! Why, I subscribe to that." He yanked out a card. "Melvis O. Cupper, NTSB. And if I gotta tell you what the initials stand for, you ain't who you say you are."

  "Thank you kindly," said K.C., taking the card. She had a corn-fed smile and hair only slightly less red than copper. Her eyes were electric blue.

  Remo and Chiun came up.

  Melvis jerked a thumb at them. "These here are two boys from DOT."

  "Can I have your cards too?" K.C. asked brightly.

  "I do not have a card," said Chiun.

  Remo offered his. "Can I keep it? I collect them," K.C. asked.

  "Sorry," said Remo, taking it back. "Only one."

  "They're from back East," Melvis told K.C. Eyeing Chiun, he added, "Way back East."

  "Pleased to meet you all. I was riding the California Zephyr when it hit. Sure was an experience, let me tell you. But I got some nifty shots of the wreck. Maybe I can make the cover this time."

  "You were on the train?" Remo asked.

  "Last car. We were going along right smooth when smash! Lights out, boom-boom-bang-ba-boom and we were in the ditch faster than pooh through a possum."

  "You're a right lucky lady," said Melvis.

  "All except for being defiled in the middle of the Nebraska flatlands," K.C. said ruefully.

  "That's means left behind," Melvis told Remo and Chiun.

  "We have an investigation to conduct. Remember?" Remo said.

  "Right. Right. We're gettin' to that." Addressing K.C., Melvis said, "Me and the DOT boys here were just tryin' to make out what this other engine was. Maybe you know, bein' with Rail Fan and all."

  K.C. squinted one eye and then the other at the black engine. She wore a green-striped white engineer's cap on her head, and she adjusted the bill several times.

  "It ain't a switcher."

  "That's for sure," Melvis agreed.

  "Not an Alco, either."

  "Don't have any livery to speak of. Which in itself is plumb peculiar. K.C. gal, you happen to know whose track this is?"

  "Burlington Northern."

  "Sure ain't a Burlington Northern diesel. Their color scheme is Cascade green."

  K.C. nodded. "Whatever it is, it sure don't belong on this line."

  "Sure is a shame about this Genesis."

  K.C.'s face fell. "And it was my first Genesis, too!"

  "Hate to break it to you so rough, but it may be your last if Amtrak loses the good fight. This wreck sure won't persuade Congress to keep her goin'."

  K.C. broke down at that point.

  "Now, don't you get me started," Melvis blubbered. "I'm a sentimental cuss when it comes to high iron."

  While they shared a handkerchief, Remo and Chiun started looking through the scattered debris.

  "Maybe one of these pieces will tell us something," Remo said.

  Melvis called over, "Man, if true rail fans like me and K.C. here can't tell by lookin' at the back end, no fragments will help."

  "It's gotta be something."

  "Perhaps it is Japanese," suggested Chiun.

  Melvis perked up. "Think you'd recognize her if she were?" To K.C., he said, "That little fella used to ride steam trains back in Korea all the time. Family had their own private car."

  "Golleee," K.C. said, eyes drying. "Doubly pleased to meet you, sir. Would you kindly consent to an interview for my magazine? I don't think we've ever run an article on Korean steam."

  "Can we save this for the next convention?" Remo demanded.

  "Allow me to examine this beast for clues to its ancestry," Chiun said loftily.

  The Master of Sinanju began to walk around to the black engine, Remo and Melvis following, while K.C. peppered him with questions.

  "What kinda engine was it?" K.C. asked.

  "A Mikado 2-8-2," Melvis said proudly.

  "Never heard of it. Was it a narrow gauger?"

  "Yep," Melvis said.

  "Elephant ears?"

  "No ears. No cowcatcher. Just bumpers," said Melvis.

  "Whose tale is this?" Chiun demanded.

  "Sorry," said Melvis, grinning sheepishly.

  To Remo, Chiun said, "Why do you not hang on my every word as these two do?"

  "My brain hasn't been steamed," Remo grumbled.

  "Aw, you're just sore on account of you were born too late to catch the steam bug."

  "You could run every train on earth off Niagara Falls, and I wouldn't care," said Remo.

  Melvis and K.C. gasped like two old maids.

  "Such language!" K.C. said. "Shame on you. This great nation was built on rails. Trains don't pollute, fall out of the sky like planes or lose a body's luggage, either."

  Chiun came to a dead stop. Throwing his head back, he struck a heroic pose, hands fisted, tight to his hips. "It is not Japanese," he pronounced.

  "How do you know?" asked Melvis.

  One long-nailed finger-on the undamaged, left hand, Remo noticed-pointed to a sooty string of seemingly meaningless letters and numbers low on the side of the black engine.

  "Japanese do not use the English letter l. "

  "You got a point there."

  "So what is it?" asked Remo.

  "Look," K.C. said, whirling.

  Remo and Chiun whirled in unison, eyes going in the direction of her excitedly pointing fingers.

  On the parallel UP track, a train was coming. The engine, Remo saw, was painted in mottled desert-camouflage livery.

  "Do I see what my eyes are tellin' me I'm seem'?" Melvis asked breathlessly.

  "If you're not dreaming, neither am I," K.C. breathed.

  "What is it?" Remo asked, concern in his voice.

  "I do not know," Chin said grimly, "but it is painted a warlike color."

  "That there must be one of the last units on the Union Pacific still tricked out in Desert Storm camouflage colors," Melvis said, awe coloring his tone.

  "What?"

  "It's true. Back durin' Desert Storm, the Union Pacific painted a number of their SD40-2's just like that one yonder to show support for our troops in the Gulf."

  "Kinda takes your breath away, don't it?" K.C. said.

  "Amen. Diesel always makes my heart go hippityhop."

  As the engine rattled by, both Melvis and K.C. took off their hats and laid them over their hearts. The rest of the train consisted of old boxcars painted in assorted colors, their sides dusty and peeling.

  "Makes your heart pound like an old kettledrum to see such a rare sight, don't it?" Melvis said. "And look at them HyCube boxcars. They're runnin' on eight-wheeled trucks. I never saw the like of it."

  "Down Sonora way I once saw an Alco RSD12, highballing like a bat out of hell." K.C. blushed. "Excuse me-Hades."

  "High nose or low?" Melvis asked as the railcars flitted by.

  "High. Painted burned orange."

  Melvis sighed. "Life can be sweet sometimes."

  "I got pictures of it. Wanna see 'em?"

  "Swap you an Alco RSD12 for a FPA4, with Napa Valley wine-train livery."

  "Deal!"

  As Remo watched with increasing incredulity, they pulled out their wallets and began exchanging snapshots of diesels they had known and loved.

  While they were lost in reminiscences, Remo found a thin piece of twisted black metal. "This look like a piece of a fan blade to you, Little Father?"

  Chiun examined it with narrowing eyes. "Yes."

  "Awful big fan."

  Remo called over to Melvis. "How big of a fan on the Genesis?"

  He had to repeat the question and go spin Melvis aroun
d in place before he got his attention refocused.

  "Hey, none of that now!" Melvis roared.

  "What's this look like to you?" Remo demanded, holding the metal in front of his face.

  "Looks like a whopper fan blade."

  "Off what?"

  "Ain't off the Genesis," K.C. said.

  "That's a fact. Looks too old."

  "So it's off the other engine?" suggested Remo.

  "Gotta be."

  "The fan blades are mounted on top for cooling the engine, right?"

  "Yeah, but that looks too big to be off an enginefan blade."

  "So that leaves what?" Remo asked impatiently.

  "You know," K.C. said, "I once heard about a critter called a rail zeppelin."

  "Ain't no such animal," Melvis insisted hotly.

  "Is, too."

  "Let her tell it," Remo said, giving Melvis an eyepopping neck squeeze.

  "Back in the thirties, when they were experimenting with high-speed rail, someone built a streamlined railcar with a great big old airplane engine attached."

  "Do tell," said Melvis, fingering his collar.

  "It's true. The propeller was in back, pusher style. When she started to spin, the rail zep took off like nothing natural."

  "How fast she go?" asked Melvis.

  "Don't rightly recollect. But they broke a few landspeed records for that time."

  "This doesn't look like an airplane blade," Remo said.

  "He's right, at that," K.C. said.

  "So that means what?" said Remo tiredly.

  "Hell, only thing I can think of is a rotary-plow train," said Melvis.

  "What's that?" asked Remo.

  "You seen snowplows?"

  "Sure," said Remo.

  "Imagine a big old engine with a big old rotaryplow blade framed in the front, like a big old lamprey's mouth with whirlin' fan blades instead of teeth."

  K.C. looked back at the squashed black engine. It had round portholes on its sides instead of windows.

  "Could be a rotary-plow engine, at that."

  "Except for one dang thing," Melvis inserted.

  "What's that?" Remo asked.

  "It's the middle of summer. What would a plow engine be doin' out on the middle of corn country goin' the wrong way on a passenger line?"

  "Causing a derailment," said Remo.

  "You sayin' this is calculated sabotage?"

  "Look at it. Wrong-way engine. Head-on collision. What else could it be?"

  Melvis scratched his head. "Maybe the engineer was on dope."

  "Which one?" asked K.C.

  "Why, the plow engineer, of course. Otherwise, why would he take her out six months after the last snowfall and be goin' the wrong way on occupied track?"

  "Sounds sensible to me, much as I shrink from the notion of an engineer on drugs," said K.C.

  "They don't raise engineers like they used to," Melvis said sincerely.

  "Or engines," said K.C., looking at the demolished Genesis.

  Melvis rocked back on his boot heels. "Yes, siree, this could be the end of Amtrak."

  "You keep saying that," said Remo. "Why?"

  "Yes. Why?" asked Chiun.

  "Don't you two know? The Amtrak contract with the freight lines runs out this year. Congress is fixin' to defund it. Amtrak can't pull her weight financially, except on the Northeast Corridor and a few other places. The freight boys are all bet up because they gotta give passenger traffic the priority, sidelinin' their consists when they got goods to haul, while Amtrak just blasts on by."

  "So the freight lines would like to see Amtrak out of business?" said Remo.

  "Sure as shootin' they would."

  "Perhaps they are behind this outrage," said Chiun.

  "That's a good theory. Except for one teensy little fact."

  "What's that?" asked Remo.

  "The freight boys are experiencin' more derailments than Amtrak. They're gettin' it worse by a ratio of three to one."

  Chiun piped up, "Perhaps they seek to throw suspicion from themselves. It is often that way on 'Fetlock.'"

  "Which?" asked K.C.

  "Never mind," said Remo.

  "Look," Melvis said hotly. "It can't be the freight lines. See those tangled-up rails? Somebody has to clean them up. And that same somebody has to pay for the cleanin' up. It sure ain't Amtrak. They don't hardly own a solitary stretch of high iron in the nation. The freight lines control it all. They're the ones eatin' the cleanup bill." Melvis suddenly looked around. "That reminds me. Shouldn't the Hulcher boys be here by now? What's keepin' them?"

  Remo asked, "Who are they?"

  "Hulcher. They're only the kings of rerailin' train sets. You saw them workin' back at Mystic."

  "You were at Mystic?" K.C. said excitedly. "Jiminy, that was a wreck. Wish I'd seen it."

  Remo squeezed her neck, and she subsided, too.

  Of Melvis, he asked, "Hulcher the only people in that business?"

  "No, just the biggest and best."

  "Every time a train goes off the tracks, they make money, right?"

  "Oh, don't you blaspheme," K.C. cried, her buckskin fringes shivering in anger. "Don't you speak against Hulcher."

  "Hell, don't even think what you're thinkin'," said Melvis. "They're railroad men. They wouldn't cause wrecks. Besides, they don't have to. These rail lines are over a hundred years old. They're bound to throw a train or two just from age and orneriness. No, Hulcher ain't back of this. No way, no how."

  "Well, someone is."

  "I say it's dope. Dope is a scourge upon the land. Show me a derailed GE Dash-8 or a flipped-over Geep, and I'll bet my momma's Stetson there's cannabis in the air."

  "Either that, or the evil antirail Congress is at work," said K.C. with a perfectly straight face.

  "Let's at least find out where this plow engine came from before we go blowing up Congress, shall we?" suggested Remo.

  Chapter 16

  The rotary-plow engine was out of Hastings, the next stop for the California Zephyr.

  It was normally kept in a shed by a siding. The shed was still there, but there was no engine inside. No yardman, either.

  "Maybe the yardman took her out and went the wrong way, accidental-like," Melvis said.

  "If it isn't snowing, is there a right way?" asked Remo.

  "Now that you mention it, no."

  "They're too slow to run on the same track as a fast train, even going the right way," K.C. interjected.

  "What's fast about the California Zephyr?" Melvis grunted.

  "The old California Zephyr was fast."

  "This ain't the old California Zephyr, I hate to tell you."

  K.C. grinned. "It suits me. I'm only heading to the big Rail Expo."

  "The one in Denver?" Melvis said, face brightening.

  "That's the one."

  "Man, do I yearn to go to that shindig! They're gonna have every brand-new kind of spankin' engine there is from every nation on earth. And a few old ones too."

  "And I aim to bag 'em all," said K.C., lifting her camera.

  Melvis cleared his throat and asked, "Anybody ever tell you you got the prettiest Conrail blue eyes?"

  K.C. blushed like a beet. "Aw, shucks."

  "Can we get back to the investigation?" asked Remo.

  Melvis grew serious. "Allow me to kindly remind you this is an NTSB investigation. That there's an NTSB chopper what brung us here. And if you don't like it, you can lump it and walk."

  "If we leave," Chiun said haughtily, "we will take our stories of the famed Kyong-Ji line with us."

  "Now, hold on a cotton-pickin' moment here! I wasn't meanin' you, old-timer. Just your skinny-ass friend here. He can hightail it back to whatever he's from. You and I, on the other hand, are gonna do some serious confabulatin' about Korean steam. I ain't hardly asked all the questions I got stored up in my poor brain."

  Chiun's eyed thinned. "I will consider this offer if the investigation goes well."

  "Well, let's get a move
on." Melvis looked around. "I guess that dang plow engineer is the meat in a cornfield-meet sandwich for sure."

  A changing breeze brought a metallic scent to Remo's and Chiun's sensitive nostrils. They began sniffing the wind carefully.

  Melvis eyed them dubiously. "You boys turn pussycat all of a sudden?"

  "I smell blood," said Chiun.

  "Ditto," said Remo.

  Melvis joined in tasting the breeze. "I ain't smellin' nothin' but diesel and ripenin' corn."

  "Blood," said Chiun, walking north.

  Remo followed him. The others fell in line.

  THEY FOUND the man's head before they found the man. The head was in two parts. He had been split down the center of his face, the line of separation falling between his eyes, dividing the bridge of his nose perfectly. He must have had a gap between his two front teeth, because on either side of the two halves the teeth had survived the sudden cleaving intact and unchipped.

  The blade had come down that perfectly.

  The Master of Sinanju picked up the two head halves and clapped them together like a husked coconut. It was evident from the horrified expression on the dead man's face that the swordsman had been facing his victim.

  "One stroke down, separating the two portions, and one across the neck," said Chiun grimly. "The Pear Splitter Stroke, followed by the Scarf Sweep."

  K.C. said, "I ain't never seen such a thing."

  Melvis piped up, "Honey, I seen a lot worse. Why, once down Oklahoma way I saw a man's head up in a tree like a pineapple just a-waitin' to be picked. The look on his face was about as hornswoggled as this poor soul's, come to think of it."

  "The rest of him must be around here," Remo said, looking around.

  They found the body a short distance away. He lay on his stomach in the high prairie grass, with his hands tucked under him, as if he'd fallen in the act of unzipping his fly.

  "Musta spliced the poor feller as he was takin' his last leak," Melvis muttered. "A right unkind thing to do, you ask me."

  Remo turned the body over on its back. It rolled over as easily as a log. And just as stiff. Rigor mortis had set in.

  The hands were frozen at his belt line, as if they had held something before he died. His fly was closed.

  "My mistake," Melvis said.

  Kneeling, Remo examined one thumb. It was rash red, and a slight indentation was visible in the fingerprint area.

  "What's this?" Remo wondered aloud.

  "His dead thumb," said Melvis, winking in K.C.'s direction.