"Mr. Vice President, you tell us what you want, and that's what we'll do."
"The President has instructed me to initiate an independent investigation. The Subcommittee on Bio-Defense is gonna conduct it. That's Senator Osheroff and Senator Metzger. They're gonna want full access to the facility at Fort Detrick, and to the records of the U. S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases."
"When?" Admiral Zoll asked. Ugly silence polluted the room, their collective thoughts dark and ominous as an oil spill. Zoll wondered if they had been called in here to be disciplined or to be warned.
"How long do you need," the Vice President finally said, "to get ready to receive the Committee Investigators?"
"Two days," Zoll answered.
"Okay, then I'll wait to call for the investigation until tomorrow. I'm sure everything will turn out to be fine, and they won't find anything, but we're gonna have to give this a complete onceover."
"Yes, sir," Admiral Zoll said. "I think it's always better to be vigilant and thorough."
"Best to Sally and Beth. Don't fuck this up, guys."
Without saying another word, the Vice President got up and left the office.
Admiral Zoll and General Stallings waited until he was gone, then moved out of the room. They said nothing until they were back in the staff car, heading off the property.
"I assume you'll need the White Train," General Stallings said.
"Yes, sir, but there's a lotta bio-active shit to get rid of. Some of it is toxic and unstable. You gotta find a place we can put it."
"I'll get the Train down to you tomorrow. Sweep the area carefully," the General ordered. "I'll find a secure dump site where we can lose everything without paperwork."
"Hell of a way to start the week," Zoll muttered.
Chapter 32
They were forced to stay on Highway 16 out of the Black Hills. The two-lane road wound back and forth, meandering like a coiling rope down the fire-ravaged slope, heading west toward Howlings Junction. The denuded landscape and blackened tree trunks were monuments to a night of insanity. They had to double back to catch the four-lane highway toward Fort Worth. The Southern Pacific tracks that they suspected Fannon Kincaid was still traveling on followed a much more direct route. Those tracks were on the east side of the mountains, following a gradual slope that allowed the freight to attain speeds of over fifty miles an hour all the way to Fort Worth.
They arrived at the main SP switching yard just after nine in the morning. Stacy parked next to a split-rail fence and turned off the engine. They looked out the front window at acres of track and parked freight cars.
"What now?" she said.
"We gotta find what time that unit train got here, then find out what trains have left this yard since then, or the trains scheduled to leave later today. Then we need to check the Sugar Shack."
"Sugar what?" Buddy asked. He had been sleeping in the front seat, and was trying to come awake. He felt sluggish and dull.
"It's a jungle, a hobo camp down by the river. I wanta see if I know anyone there, ask around about Kincaid. Somebody might have seen him." Cris pushed on the seat, forcing Buddy to get out, so he could exit the back of the Blazer. The Texas heat fell on their faces and shoulders like exhaust from a factory furnace. The relentless morning sun was softening the asphalt, and rippling their view of the distant shopping center. It was only shortly past nine, and already near a hundred degrees. Cris knew the temperature would soon soar to 115.
"So these train-yard jerkoffs who run the switching operation are just gonna tell you what's coming in and going out?" Buddy said doubtfully.
"They won't tell me anything, so I won't bother asking."
"If they won't talk, then you won't get dick."
"This information is guarded, but not protected."
"You sound just like a fucking agent," Buddy said, getting irate, rubbing his eyes and wishing he had slept better.
"Be right back," Cris said, and moved away, heading across the tracks, staying in between cars, moving toward the spot where he remembered the Southern Pacific Yardmaster's office was located. He'd only been in this place once before, and back then he'd been drunk and still suffering the aftereffects of the great tennis shoe robbery. Now, as he moved along, he could feel a terrible weakness in his legs, and it startled him. Then he realized that although he had stopped drinking, his appetite had not come back. He'd had no calories in almost twenty-four hours.
The Yardmaster's office was in a three-story tower at the east end of the switching yard. The observation windows overlooked the tracks and most of the railroad cars parked on the several acres of sidings. Cris skirted a line of parked grainers and then moved down between two rows of stack cars. Crouching on trembling thighs, he inched along, staying out of sight of the high, green-tinted windows until he got opposite the tower. He hoped that the three or four people in the office would be looking back the other way, at the incoming tracks. If the Trainmaster spotted him, he'd be arrested and questioned by the yard bulls.
Cris had been taught the art of carbon-sheet-spotting by an old-time hobo with the unlikely name of Begone John. "These dufuses get their train line-ups and consist sheets delivered in sealed, locked pouchesJohn had once told him, grinning, his brown teeth and stringy pencil-neck belying a soul as crafty as an Arab merchant's. "Everything has five copies, but with downsizing, a lot of these carbon copies are no longer necessary. The stupid pricks just throw the extra sheets in the trash. If ya know what trains are leaving and where the sleepers are, then ya don't have ta wait on the grade with forty other drunk assholes while the sun's fry in' yer brains. Ya just show up at the appointed hour and catch out on the exact right car.9'
Cris snuck around to the windowless back of the Yardmaster's tower, where he found the trash cans. Three fifty-gallon oil drums were pushed up against the yellow-painted wood building. An aerial circus of black horseflies the size of gypsy moths, strafed the top of the oil drums, competing for airspace in the fetid containers.
Cris waved his hands over the can to flush away the angry flies, then began to gingerly pick through the refuse.
He quickly found one of yesterday's train line-up carbons on top. He began to gather up the three-page report, careful not to smudge the sheets as he folded them into an old newspaper he also found in the trash. After some more digging, farther down in the second drum he found the consist sheets. Cris included them in his newspaper package and made his way back to the Blazer, where Buddy and Stacy were waiting.
"Let's go over there," he said, pointing to a small park across the street. They walked to the nearest shaded picnic table, then Cris unfolded the newspaper and began to sort the track line-up carbons from the consist sheets.
"What the hell's all that?" Buddy asked, looking at the sheets.
"Each day, the Trainmaster gets a train line-up, which lists all the trains scheduled to come through the yard in that twenty-four-hour period. That's these sheets up here. He also gets 'consist' sheets, detailing what cars are on each train, and what cars need to be switched in his yard, or held for transfer to other trains. There are always five copies of everything: one for the Yardmaster, one for the Trainmaster, and one for the Engine Foreman; the extra copies are for us." He smiled, and finished spreading them out on the picnic table. First he studied the train line-up and thinned out the choices. He began by eliminating the "locals," trains that made multiple stops.
"A seasoned hobo will rarely ride a local," he explained. "All the stops increase his chances of getting busted by some nosy cinder bull. Plus, locals are slow, and often have to 'go in the hole' to let a 'priority train' pass. You can bet Kincaid and his band of thugs won't be on a local."