LAMBERTsaid, “The FBI has agents from its field offices in Sacramento and San Francisco heading for Eureka, but they won’t get there for a couple hours. The Eureka PD and Humboldt County Sheriff ’s been alerted, but they’re not equipped to—”
“I know,” Fisher said, then to Bird: “You’ve been listening?”
“Sure have. At best speed, we can be there in fifty minutes.”
Lambert said, “Do it. We’ll keep you unpdated en route.”
TWENTYminutes later, Lambert was back: “The Eureka PD found a man shot at a place called Spruce Point Rail Adventures. He’s the night security guard there. They run one of those novelty lines—old-style trains that travel up and down the coast . . . see the giant redwoods, that kind of thing.”
“And they’re missing a train?”
“ ’Fraid so. A locomotive, three cars, and a caboose. Eureka PD’s not sure how long the guard’s been dead, so there’s no telling what kind of head start the train’s got. Grim’s putting an overlay of the track on your map. It runs north to south only and ends at Olema, just north of San Fransisco.”
Zhao’s roundabout method of reaching San Francisco made sense, Fisher decided. After 9/11, dozens of port cities, including San Francisco, had installed a network of radiation detectors. Slipping Jintao’s yacht past them would be impossible.
“Detonate a couple hundred pounds of radioactive waste in San Francisco, and it’ll make Slipstone look like nothing,” Fisher said. “It’d be a wasteland for centuries. Are there controls on the line? Shunts or spurs they can divert it to?”
“Fifty years ago, yes, but not now. It’s a straight run down the coast. We’re retasking a Keyhole to look for her, but we’re talking about a three-hundred-mile stretch of track, most of it running through heavy forest and mountain passes. It’s going to be hard to spot—plus, this isn’t your run-of-the-mill locomotive. According to Grim, it’s been converted to run faster so it can make more round trips. Top speed: sixty miles an hour.”
There was only one way to stop it, Fisher realized. An F-16 or an F-15 could be overhead in minutes with a laser-guided Paveway missile, but the resulting wreck would spread radioactive material for miles. Better than it happening in San Francisco, but still unacceptable as far as he was concerned.
“Then we do it the hard way,” Fisher said. “We fly down the track until we overtake her.”
“And then?”
“And then we improvise.”
60
OSPREY
“ WEgot her, Sam,” Lambert said. “She’s eighty miles south of Eureka between the towns of Cedar Creek and Blue Flats. Satellite image is on your monitor; we’re streaming it real-time.”
The screen showed a stretch of heavily forested moutainous terrain. At first Fisher saw nothing, and then, breaking from a line of trees, a locomotive appeared, followed by three passenger cars and a caboose. A plume of black smoke trailed from the locomotive’s stack. The train rounded a bend in the track and disappeared into forest again.
“Grim, do you have infrared?”
“Yep, here.”
The train reappeared. In the center of the third car, just ahead of the caboose, was a reddish-yellow oval.
“How far away are we, Bird?” Fisher asked.
“Twenty minutes.”
Lambert said, “Humboldt County Sheriff’s has a SWAT team. They’re airborne and a few minutes ahead of you. They’re going to try and put men onto the train’s roof.”
FIFTEENminutes later, Bird called, “Got a visual. Descending to five hundred feet.”
Fisher trotted to the cockpit and peered through the windscreen. Ahead and below, the Humboldt SWAT helicopter was trailing behind the train’s caboose as the train chugged up a hill. The helo’s spotlight was focused on the locomotive, but Fisher could see no one moving in the cab. On either side of the track, redwoods and pines crowded the embankments, so close their branched seemed to almost scrape the sides of the cars.
“Humboldt SWAT, this is Federal zero-nine,” Bird radioed. “Taking station on your six o’ clock high. Ready to assist.”
“Roger, Federal, stand by. We’re going to make a pass, see if we get an officer onto the roof.”
The Oprey’s console monitor was in FLIR mode, showing an X-raylike image of the scene below. Fisher reached out and tapped a spot on the screen. Bird nodded and keyed his microphone. “Humboldt, be advised, you’ve got a narrow gorge ahead. Two miles.”
“Roger, Federal.”
The helicopter picked up speed and descended until it was ten feet off the roof of the second car A rope uncoiled from the helicopter’s open door and an officer climbed out, clipped onto the rope, and began descending. Fisher saw a figure appear on the coupler platform between the locomotive and the first car. There was a pinprick of light, then another, then four more in rapid sucession.
Over the radio, the helo pilot’s voice: “. . . taking fire . . . taking fire. Get him back in!”
The officer jerked as though hit with a current of electricity, then went limp, dangling sideways.
“. . . hit. . . . Christ almighty, he’s hit.” In the background Fisher could hear bullets hitting the helo’s windscreen. “I’m pulling up . . . !”
The helicopter angled upward and banked over the trees, falling back until it was even with the Osprey. Fisher looked out the side window. In the door of the helo two men were struggling to reel in the dangling officer.
“Federal, this is Humboldt SWAT. Be advised, I have one casualty and a heat warning on my cooling pump. I’m going to have to find a place to set down.”
“Roger, Humboldt, understood. Luck. Federal out.”
The helicopter dropped farther back, then came around and headed west over the trees.
Bird turned to Fisher. “It’s your call, Sam.”
“We’re going to take some fire.”
Bird grinned. “It’ll take more than a little popgun to ground us.”
“That’s what I thought. Give me two seconds over the roof and then get out of here.”
ASthe train entered the gorge, Bird climbed to a thousand feet and eased back on the throttle, letting the train get ahead. It burst from the far mouth of the gorge, chugging black smoke. Bird nosed over and dropped in behind the caboose, twenty feet off the track.
“How tall you think that thing is, Sandy?” Bird asked.
“Twelve feet—no thirteen. Why?”
“I’m not giving any more of a target than I have to. Sam, you and Will get ready. Grab ahold of something. Gonna get a bumpy.”
Fisher hurried back into the cabin, where Redding was checking the SC-20 and pistol. He handed them over. “Both loaded. Harness.”
Fisher took it, slipped it on, adjusted the fit over his shoulders, then slid the SC-20 into its back holster and the pistol into its leg holster.
Bird called, “Sixty seconds, Sam. Ramp coming down.”
The ramp door groaned open. Wind whipped through the cabin. Over the drone of the Osprey’s engines, Fisher could hear the syncopated chug of the locomotive, could smell coal smoke. He walked down the edge of the ramp and crouched down. Twenty feet below, the track whipped past, a blur of steel rails and wooden cross-ties.
“Stand by,” Bird called. “I’m moving ahead.”
The caboose’s coupler slid into view, followed by the roof, and then the windowed cupola. Fisher kept his eyes fixed on it and tried to ignore the trees flashing past on either side.
Fisher glanced back at Redding, who stood at the ramp’s control panel, and gave him the signal. Fisher braced himself. The ramp lurched down and crashed against the roof. The jolt was harder than Fisher had anticipated and it rocked him backward onto his butt. His left foot slipped over the edge. He jerked it back.