Engines of Destruction td-103

by Warren Murphy

  "I mean this indentation."

  Melvis got down and took a hard look. "Search me."

  "Let me see," said K.C. She got down with them and looked the thumb over. "You know, way up in Big Sky country I did a photo feature on those new RC units."

  "RC?'

  "Radio Controlled. They got transmitters now that can move a locomotive around the switching yards without an engineer in the cab. The transmit-power switch has a little silver ball at the end of it. Makes a deep dent just like this one has."

  Melvis scratched his own thumb absently. "You don't say."

  "Sure. It's got the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers union all in a lather. The freight bosses can cut the crews down to two, sometimes one, by giving a yardman one of those contraptions and have him move rolling stock around without need of engineers."

  Melvis set his Stetson over his heart and looked mournful. "A way of life is surely evaporatin' when even an engineer is prone to layoff."

  "Ever heard of a rotary-plow engine run by RC?" Remo asked K.C.

  "No, but that don't mean it couldn't be."

  Remo stood up. The others followed suit.

  "Whoever killed this guy took his RC unit and ran the plow down the track," he said.

  "It's possible," Melvis admitted.

  "Except for one thing," said K.C.

  "What's that?"

  "I think that thing glinting in the sun over yonder is the RC unit in question."

  They went over to the glint. It was the RC unit. It had a stainless-steel case and shoulder straps so that it could carried, leaving the hands free to work the controls.

  "So much for that theory." Remo said.

  "Looks like it's been busted open," Melvis muttered.

  "Why would anyone do that?"

  "Got me," said K.C. "Maybe he wanted to get the radio frequency."

  "So where's the desperado what skragged this poor feller?" Melvis wanted to know.

  "Perhaps he was in the plow engine," said Chiun.

  "Suicide," Melvis said, smacking one fist into a meaty palm. "Suicide! That's it! Suicide. Drug-induced suicide. Man cut up his fellow worker and in remorse lit off with the plow engine and run smack dab into the California Zephyr, going out in a blaze of diesel glory."

  "Sounds thin," said Remo.

  "Maybe he had diabetes to boot."

  Everyone looked at Melvis with expectant expressions.

  "There was a Brit who had diabetes," Melvis explained. "Couldn't get his leg amputated for love or coal, so he lay down on a track and let a highball do it for him. Bad leg came off clean as bamboo. Maybe this feller had a terminal illness, and this was his way of goin' out."

  "What manner of imbecile would commit suicide by crashing into an approaching locomotive?" Chiun demanded.

  Melvis and K.C. looked at one another. Out of their mouths came the same answer.

  "A rail fan!" they exclaimed.

  THEY TOOK the transmitter back to the crash site. K.C. got it working and threw the train into reverse.

  No one expected a reaction, but a beacon light atop the train began flashing yellow and the train lurched backward, dragging the Genesis with it. It crawled painfully for all of two feet, then stopped dead.

  K.C. shut down the transmitter. "They're rigged to control only one train at a time. You got to reset it for another."

  "How much of a range?" asked Remo.

  "Maybe twenty miles. With repeaters, more."

  "So the murderer could have stood way back at the shed and sent the rotary plow this way without having to see what was happening?"

  "It's possible. All you gotta do is set the cab controls and start her up by RC. If you're looking to run it smack into the California Zephyr, all you need is the right track and the correct direction. It's not like you gotta steer anything."

  "The question is, who?" said Remo.

  "All we gotta do is pry them two sad-sack engines apart and maybe we'll get our answer," Melvis offered.

  "An excellent suggestion," said Chiun, throwing back his silvery sleeves with a flourish.

  He marched up to the mashed locomotive pile.

  "What's he up to?" Melvis asked Remo.

  "He's going to separate the locomotives," Remo said casually.

  "You mean he thinks he's gonna separate the locomotives."

  "He thinks it, too."

  Reaching the wreck, the Master of Sinanju examined it carefully. He turned. "I may need assistance."

  "Hah," said Melvis.

  "Back up the ugly engine."

  "Won't do nothin'. You saw that with your own eyes."

  "Do it anyway," said Remo.

  "I got it," said K.C. Raising her voice, she said, "Just call out when you're ready. Hear?"

  "I am ready," returned Chiun.

  Melvis turned to Remo. "Ain't you gonna stop him? He could hurt hisself."

  Remo shrugged. "I learned to let him have his way a long time ago."

  K.C. threw the plow locomotive into reverse.

  The engine grunted, clashed backward. Tangled steel and aluminum groaned like a tortured beast.

  And the Master of Sinanju inserted a hand into the tangle. He did something very quick with his hands. Abruptly, with the sound of a giant spring letting go, the plow engine backed off from the mangled Genesis, trailing thin struts and pieces of flat black blade.

  "Did you see that!" Melvis exploded. His eyes were popping from their sockets.

  "No," said Remo.

  "See what?" said K.C., her head coming up. "I was looking at the controls."

  "Nothin'," said Melvis. "But I sure heard a sprungin'."

  "I heard it, too," said K.C. She grinned. "Guess we got lucky."

  Melvis gave Remo a sharp eye. "A lotta that around these two. Hope it's catchin'. "

  They ran up to the separated engines. The exposed noses were mashed flat. The housing containing the snow-eating fan blades now looked like a grille. The Genesis snout resembled a kicked-in loaf of bread. Crushed air hoses and power conduits drooped from the bottom, as if a hand grenade had gone off in a snake pit.

  "Well," Melvis commented, "they say the Genesis is the homeliest loco since the old Union Pacific M-10000, but a head-on sure didn't improve her profile any."

  Blood was streaking down the one side. It was enough to tell the Genesis engineer had taken the brunt of the impact.

  Remo climbed the access ladder of the Genesis, looked in the broken window and climbed back down.

  "Dead," he said.

  "Too bad."

  "But he still has his head."

  "Why wouldn't he?" Melvis demanded.

  "Never mind," said Remo, jumping down.

  They circled around the other engine. The entire front end had been pushed back into the firewall, cab and all.

  "If he's in here," Melvis said, "he's mashed flatter than an elephant's pillow."

  "Only one way to find out," said Remo. He started up the twisted access ladder.

  "Now what do you think you're loin'?"

  Remo said nothing as he reached the engine roof. Kneeling there, he examined the steel roof plates under him.

  "Find me a crowbar," he called down.

  "Take more than a crowbar to open that sardine can. You need a can opener the size of a canoe paddle."

  "Humor me," said Remo.

  "Come on, little lady. We can swap lies while we look."

  And when they started off for the emergency crew farther down the line, Remo got to work.

  He used his fist. Bringing it down, he popped a line of rivets. Moving his fist, he popped another. He worked quickly, striking key stress points until the rivets began hopping in place like tiny animated toadstools.

  When he had the roof plates nice and loose, Remo lifted them free and looked down.

  There was still a little space left in the cab. About three inches. It was a tangle of metal. But there were no body parts or any smell of blood, brain or bowels.

  Standing up, Remo ca
lled after Melvis and K.C. "Never mind the crowbar. I got it open."

  Remo had to repeat it three times before the pair stopped talking with their hands and looked back.

  They came charging back whooping and hollering.

  Melvis climbed up as Remo jumped down. He gawked at the open roof, looked down inside and asked, "How'd you do that?"

  "I popped the rivets."

  "I can see that. With what?"

  "Pocket rivet popper," said Remo. "Forgot I had it on me."

  "Fingernails of the correct length would have been more seemly," Chiun undertoned.

  Melvis climbed down again and said, "I wouldn't mind havin' me a handy gadget like that. Let me take a gander."

  "Sorry. Get your own."

  "You know what you just done up there ain't within the purview of the DOT."

  "Sue me," suggested Remo.

  "NTSB might just do that little thing."

  "There's no engineer," Remo argued.

  "He coulda jumped clear."

  "Not if he were suicidal," K.C. remarked.

  "You keep your pretty little cowcatcher out of this. Pardon the expression."

  K.C. offered a frown and yanked her engineer's cap low over her eyes.

  "No engineer means you can throw drugs, diabetes and accidental derailments out the window," said Remo.

  "Let's not be rushin' events. Maybe that guy back there set the engine to runnin' and had an accomplice lop his head off."

  "Couldn't happen that way," K.C. said.

  Melvis squinted up his homely face. "How's that?"

  "See this here tilt reset switch?" she said, indicating the RC control panel. "If the engineer falls over or drops dead, the tilt function comes on, signaling the air brakes to clamp down."

  "A fail-safe?" asked Remo.

  "Yep. Once the RC is dropped, you have to reset everything. And that poor guy back there is too long dead to have been the one to wreck the train. It was the one who killed him that did the deed, sure as the corn grows high in July."

  "You don't say," Melvis blurted.

  K.C. stuck out her tongue at him. Melvis grinned back.

  "Enough," said Chiun. "This deed is the work of a ronin. "

  "A what?" Melvis and K.C. asked in unison.

  "A ronin."

  "Never heard of a ronin. You, K.C. gal?"

  Reaching into the bib of her farmer's jeans, K.C. extracted a dog-eared paperback book. Remo saw the title: Kovac's Engine Handbook.

  "Ronin, ronin, " she murmured. "How you spell it.

  Chiun said, "R-o-n-i-n."

  "Nope. No Ronin locomotive in here."

  "He's not talking about an engine," Remo said.

  "Then what is he talking about?"

  "A ronin is Japanese."

  Melvis grunted. "No wonder. Kovac's covers only U.S. of A. motive-power units."

  "Diesel or electric?" K.C. asked.

  "Neither. Samurai."

  They blinked.

  Just then Melvis Cupper's pager started beeping.

  "Sure hope that ain't what I think it is," he complained, charging off in the direction of the emergency crew.

  They took their time following him. When they caught up, Melvis was handing a cellular phone to an Amtrak worker in a white plastic hard hat and orange safety vest.

  "We got a haz-mat situation down the line a piece," Melvis bellowed. "Not twenty miles from here."

  "How's the engine?" K.C. asked in a stricken voice.

  "Dunno. Look, I can't take you boys with me on account of it's a hazardous-materials situation, and you're general pains in the butt anyway. Adios and happy trails."

  Melvis tried to push past the Master of Sinanju, whose right sandal suddenly darted between Melvis's ostrich-skin boots.

  Melvis fell flat on his face, and the Master of Sinanju stepped onto his back.

  "I will not allow you to stand again until you have agreed to take us with you," Chiun said with measured vehemence.

  "You're a nice old geezer, I do admit it," Melvis grunted. "But if you don't get offa my back in five seconds, I'm gonna rear up and wash over you like the Galveston flood."

  Face bland, Chiun shifted his sandals apart.

  "Better tell your friend to do what Mel said," K.C. said anxiously. "He can't weigh much more than ninety pounds."

  Remo shook his head. "He's on his own."

  "How can you say that about such a sweet old man?"

  "I meant Melvis," said Remo.

  "Last chance," bellowed Melvis. "I'm countin' backward from three."

  Chiun tucked his hands into his kimono sleeves.

  "Ready? Three!"

  Chiun closed his eyes. He seemed to be concentrating.

  "Two." Melvis arched his back.

  Chiun showed no sign of moving.

  "One! "

  Chiun tapped one toe softly.

  Melvis suddenly collapsed like a deflated tire. He went "Oof!" as his face jammed into the soft soil. He began making strenuous noises like a rooting hog. His blunt fingers gouged the earth as he strained to lift the incredible weight of the old Korean from his broad back.

  The Master of Sinanju simply stood there, eyes closed, serene, a vagrant breeze snatching at his wispy beard.

  Puffing, Melvis twisted his face around so he could breathe through his gulping mouth.

  "What'd you do-set a boulder on my back? That ain't fair."

  "There ain't nothing on your back except that little old man," K.C. pointed out.

  "Don't you prevaricate at a fellow rail fan. I know a dad-gum boulder when one lights on my poor spine."

  "I will step off if you agree to take us with you," said Chiun.

  "Dang it, you got me flummoxed. Okay, doggonit, I agree."

  And Chiun stepped off. He alighted gently as if he weighed no more than a small child.

  Melvis got himself turned around, stared up at the Nebraska sky and concentrated on getting air in and out of his wheezing lungs.

  "What the hell happened?" he gasped at last.

  Chiun smiled thinly. "I thought like a boulder."

  "That's some powerful imaginin'. You near to squashed me flat."

  "To squash you flat would have required thinking like an elephant. I did not wish to do that to you, a fellow appreciator of steam."

  "Appreciate that," wheezed Melvis. "I surely do."

  THEY FLEW approximately thirty miles due east, over the Union Pacific track. Corn and prairie predominated.

  "What's in the big trunk?" K.C. asked Remo after they had lifted off. Melvis had insisted three freeloaders were as inconvenient as two, so what the hell.

  "I don't know," Remo said truthfully.

  "Then why are you guarding it like it contains the family jewels-pardon the indelicate expression."

  Remo cocked a weary thumb in Chiun's direction. "Ask him."

  "What's in the trunk?" Melvis repeated.

  "Sloth."

  "You got a sloth in there?"

  "That is not the sloth I speak of." Chiun eyed Remo, who watched the flat green ground surging beneath them.

  "The only sloth I know of climbs trees and eats grubs."

  "There is another species of sloth. It is a cousin to shame."

  "That is definitely a different critter."

  "Why is she coming along?" Remo asked Melvis.

  Melvis leaned over and lowered his voice. "I kinda like the shimmy of her caboose-if you know what I mean."

  Remo was about to point out the undeniable fact of the ten-year age difference between them when they came upon the wreck.

  "It's the Desert Storm consist!" K.C. said.

  "Yeah, and if it ain't in a pickle, I'm an unhung rapscallion."

  Chiun's eyes flashed. "Why are soldiers guarding that train?"

  "Take her down lower, pilot," Melvis said, jerking the pilot's right earlobe like a sash cord.

  The chopper pilot sent the helicopter angling down.

  That caught the attention of the soldiers. A
s if hooked up to the same nervous system, they turned in unison, and pointed their weapons at them.

  "Dang if they don't look like they're hijackin' that train!"

  The tiny figures lit up their tiny weapons. Tiny flashes of stuttering light showed here and there.

  The arriving rounds were tiny, too. But they stung.

  "Up! Pull her up," Melvis howled as the Plexiglas bubble began to spiderweb and frost up before their eyes.

  Chapter 17

  Before the helicopter dropped out of the Nebraska sky, Major Claiborne Grimm figured it couldn't get any worse.

  He was wrong. And it was already as bad as he could imagine it ever getting.

  Short of all-out thermonuclear exchange, that is.

  The desert camouflage Peacekeeper train had been rolling on high iron en route to the Strategic Air Command airbase in Omaha, making good time. It was a routine train movement. Norton Air Force Base in San Bernadino, California, to Omaha. A month later it would retrace the trip.

  No one would know it wasn't an ordinary freight consist of the Union Pacific line. It looked ordinary. The production-model SD40-2 diesel engine was right off the line. The modifications enabling her to operate in wartime were indistinguishable even to the most ardent rail fan. Her armor, bulletproof glass, silvery flash curtains and hidden surveillance cameras wouldn't show up if the unit were photographed at a dead stop with a telephoto lens and made into a Rail Fan magazine gatefold.

  The desert camo livery was getting old, but the beauty of it was that it was functional.

  Back in the early days of the MX missile program, the brass would never have dreamed of slapping military-style camouflage coloration on a Peacekeeper train. The whole idea was to disperse the nation's MX arsenal along its rail system, staying mobile so the Russkie spy satellites couldn't pinpoint them. If they couldn't pinpoint them, they couldn't target the U.S. nuclear force for a surprise first strike.

  It was a gigantic shell game, and it had cost the American taxpayers untold billions of dollars in research-and-development costs until Congress slashed defense funding and the Air Force voluntarily abandoned the MX program.

  Congress thought that was the end of it. The American public thought that was the end of it. But it was not the end of it.

  The Air Force had possession of the only multibillion-dollar train consist in human history and it wasn't about to mothball it. Not in the uncertain post-Cold War world, where the once-mighty Soviets had reverted to being the plain old Russkies-and who knew which way they would jump?