Countdown, page 32
“Sure, I’ll do that,” Freddie says.
And he takes his illegal Glock 26, puts it against Mike’s forehead, and pulls the trigger.
Chapter 117
LIKE THE pro she is, my old friend Lisa Bailey knows not to argue or persuade. Seeing the facts on the ground, she knows there’s only one thing left to do.
We’re maybe a meter or two above the various freight cars and tankers of the southbound train, closing in on the lead diesel electric locomotive, and now Lisa slows the Bell 429’s rate of speed. As we near the train’s center exhaust, the stench of the burning diesel fuel makes me gag. The locomotive is also tossing heat into the air, causing thermal bumps and uplifts, but expert fly girl Lisa keeps her craft straight and level.
In my earphones I hear her copilot, Joe, calling out their altitude, any obstructions, and anything in the distance—like utility wires or pedestrian bridges—that can knock us from the sky.
He says, “Lisa, you got it.”
Lisa says, “Amy, go.”
As I brace myself for the downwash from the overhead rotor, Lisa says, “Put ’em in body bags, Amy. I’ll try to keep them occupied from up here.”
I tear off my earphones, unbuckle my seat belt, push open the door with both hands. And then I jump.
I’ve jumped from Blackhawk helicopters, C-130s, and C-17s, but this is one short and violent fall. No parachute, just an ungraceful drop where I hit and try to roll. But the roof of the locomotive is slippery with water and diesel fuel, so I fall flat on my back. The noise from the diesel engine is deafening, compounded by the roar of Lisa’s twin engines as she flares off and moves ahead of the train.
I reach for my waistband to get my Beretta.
Nothing.
I fumble around in my slacks, poking, prodding, but there’s no comforting touch of gunmetal.
The third line from the Ranger’s creed comes to mind, memorized as I became one of the first group of women to pass Ranger training:
Never shall I fail my comrades.
Well, failure is staring me in my damn face without a weapon. I scurry and feel something against my lower left leg, sit up, reach down, and there it is.
Fallen through my slacks.
I grab the pistol, flatten low again for a moment. Lisa is up ahead, moving up and down, side to side. Off to my left, buildings on the island of Manhattan are coming into view, filled this morning with millions of innocents—my comrades.
The top of the train has a flat, slippery section in the middle, with the left and right sides of the roof sloping down. Right off a narrow catwalk on either side are doors leading into the cab.
I’m sure both doors are locked. I’m also sure there’s at least one terrorist—maybe two or three—inside the train, riding their way to jihad and ultimate paradise.
I crawl forward, blinking my eyes against the breeze cutting into me. My jacket is a distraction, flapping heavily in the breeze, so I tug it off and ball it up.
It comes to me, the motto that kept me going in Ranger training and through my service in the Army.
Rangers lead the way.
I get moving.
Chapter 118
ALVI DUDIN takes a moment to drag his old friend and boss Brian Lamott to the other side of the crowded cab. At any other time the locomotive’s alerter would be sounding because no one’s driving, but Alvi bypassed and disabled the device last night. This diesel engine will not hesitate.
He drops Brian’s arms, takes a breath. “Sorry, Brian, but I was never a Russian. I’m a proud Chechnyan—so proud that I vowed to take my revenge against the Christian Russians who invaded my country, raped our women, and leveled our villages. And left me an orphan when I was twelve.”
Alvi passes the center console and sits down in Brian’s seat, sees that damn police helicopter still dogging him up ahead, expertly lifting itself up and over utility wires and low pedestrian bridges. He rubs at his eyes. Earlier the helicopter had come very, very close, and Alvi saw something rotating under its belly. Thinking it was a missile or some other weapon, he had ducked down behind the console just as the cab’s interior lit up with the brightness of a thousand suns.
Bad, tough Americans. If that had been a Russian police helicopter out there, it would have shredded the cab’s interior with machine-gun fire. The two front windows, the two side windows—plenty of opportunities.
He checks the computer screen. Speed at 50 miles per hour, air pressure good, all systems fine.
What a day this will be!
Just a few minutes more.
Something black hits the window in front of him, obscuring his view. He sits back, stunned, and then there’s gunfire and breaking glass and the sound of a woman screaming at him.
Chapter 119
TIME IS running out in all directions, so I hold onto a metal strut, lean over the front of the loud, swaying train, unfurl my jacket and let the wind slap it tight against the operator’s window. I then roll, roll, roll, and come off the left edge of the locomotive, lean over, and fire two quick shots into the side window.
It shatters.
I have one move left, and I don’t dare let go of my pistol.
So I slide down the roof, using my other hand to slow my progress, hammer my feet and lower legs through the broken window, and use gravity and my legs to scissor myself into the cab.
I fall heavily on my side, face to face with what looks to be a recently shot man, and I roll over again, seeing there’s a center console separating me from the engineer’s chair.
The train is rumbling along. I’ve cut my face and hands along the way.
There’s a stream of drying blood on the dirty metal floor from the other side of the train, from where this poor guy next to me was shot.
“Hey!” I yell out. “Let’s see your hands! Get out from there!”
There’s a loud outburst of some sort of Slavic language I don’t understand, then a hidden man laughs. “Hey, bitch! I’m nice and comfortable here. Why don’t you come over instead?”
I move around, take stock of my surroundings: center console, chair I’m up against, body of man; terrorist well hidden on other side of console, about a meter away—if that.
“You’re out of time,” I yell. “Come on, let’s figure something out. Let’s stop this train, talk it over.”
More Slavic-type language from the concealed man, while in my mind an English-type language is screaming, You don’t have time!
“Nothing to talk about, bitch! I like it here.”
“How about your name?” I ask. “Mine is Amy. What’s yours?”
Laughter again. “Alvi. If that matters.”
I could do a blitz attack around the console, but he’s probably sitting up, pistol moving, ready to shoot at whatever appears overhead or around the side.
“Sure, Alvi,” I say. “Let’s talk things through. Let’s find out what’s going on here. Maybe I can help.”
Alvi says, “Oh, so we’re negotiating now, are we?”
“Sure,” I say. “I’m open to negotiating. Let’s see if we can find a way out of here that works for the both of us.”
I look around, seeking something I can toss to distract him.
Nothing.
Right now, I’d sacrifice a finger in exchange for an M84 stun grenade.
“Talking…you Yanks, you’re very good at talking. So negotiate. What can you give me, hunh? What can you give me?”
“Well…let me think for a moment.”
Inside the cab there’s nothing but metal, metal, and more metal.
Okay, then.
“Alvi, you open for negotiations? Are you? Because I’m ready.”
“Sure, bitch, give it your best.”
I aim my pistol at a sixty-degree angle to the metal roof and pull my trigger finger as fast as possible until I’m sure only two rounds are left in the clip. The explosive sounds of the gunshots and the whistling ricochets make me flinch.
I sprint around the console at a crouch, give a quick peek, and see a shocked young man in blue jeans and a tan barn jacket, holding a hand to his chest, then pulling it away.
Covered with blood.
“You said…we were negotiating,” he gasps out, bringing up his other hand, the one holding a pistol.
“I lied,” I say, and shoot him again.
Chapter 120
BENDING OVER the German-made viewing apparatus, Rashad smiles with satisfaction.
The second train—the southbound one—is coming into view, its infrared beacon announcing its arrival.
Allah be praised indeed.
“Rashad!”
He remains still, watching the train get closer and closer.
“Rashad! Get away from that scope or I’ll shoot you right here and now!”
He recognizes the voice, of course, and slowly gets up and turns around, hands open, smiling.
Jeremy Windsor approaches him, limping, eyes red-rimmed, beard a mess, clothes wrinkled and stained.
“I say, Jeremy, you do look fairly worse for wear.”
Jeremy says, “If you have a weapon, remove it with two fingers of your left hand, Rashad. Your left.”
Rashad nods and removes his pistol from his waistband as ordered. In one quick motion, he tosses it over the side. At this point, he won’t need it.
He shrugs. “You were never in danger from me, Jeremy. I welcome you here now, as a witness.”
“Stop the trains,” he says. “Stop them right now.”
Jeremy walks closer, his hand holding a small black pistol.
Rashad shakes his head. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“Then make it possible.”
Jeremy is only two meters or so away.
What a lovely, gorgeous, sweet May morning, Rashad thinks. “Nothing can be done,” he says. “The trains will meet. The bombs will go off. Death will shortly arrive.”
Rashad wonders what Jeremy will say next when Jeremy surprises him by shooting him.
Rashad grunts and falls to the ground. It feels like a red-hot lance has pierced his lower left leg. He moans in pain and then Jeremy is there, looking down at him.
Jeremy says, “No time, Rashad. Tell me how to stop the trains or I’ll make it worse.”
And then the MI6 man stomps on his bullet wound with his right foot, and Rashad can’t help himself: he howls with pain and fury, waiting until the hot waves of pain in his lower leg ease for a moment before laughing and laughing.
Jeremy leans down, showing Rashad the pistol.
“Laugh all you want,” he says. “I’ll take your prick off with the next shot.”
Rashad takes a series of deep breaths and says, “Go ahead. Shoot all you want. I’ve thought of everything, even talked to an old SOE man who helped me…He told me of plans they never used during the war because it was winding down…some type of proximity fuse, explodes when it reaches a certain point.”
Jeremy says, “Five more seconds, and then I eunuch you.”
He chokes out a laugh. “Don’t you get it? I can’t stop the trains. I can’t stop the bombs. They’re wired so that when they pass alongside their counterpart, that’s when they explode. That’s when they’ll blow up. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it, Jeremy. Nothing.”
Chapter 121
I STAND up, not daring to look at my watch or look outside.
I force myself to examine the switches, dials, handles, and every other control device in view of this speeding locomotive.
How many movies or TV shows have I seen where the unskilled hero or heroine is forced to land a plane, stop a train, or perform an emergency tracheotomy under pressure?
Too many.
I look and ponder and look again, and—
Oh, for God’s sake.
Right in the center of the dashboard, or front counter or whatever the hell they call it, is a bright red lever framed by a rectangular white plate, with red letters announcing:
EMERGENCY BRAKE VALVE
I step forward, grab the handle, and shove it up—hard! I’m rewarded with a decrease of engine noise and a squealing and shuddering of brakes. I don’t have to look at any gauge to know we’re slowing down.
Done.
I’ve done it.
Time to get the hell out of here.
“Please…please help me…”
I whirl around, breathing hard, wondering where that voice came from. The form of the other railroad worker—the one I thought was dead—is weakly holding up his right hand. He’s a much older guy, with thinning white hair and the well-worn face of someone who’s spent a lot of time outdoors. Yet right now his face is graying out before my eyes.
I hurry over to him, kneel down, and look at his bloody chest, and he whispers. “First aid kit, over there.”
The kit is clipped to the wall near an instrument bank, and I tear off two fingernails getting it free. My combat-medic training kicks in as a chant starts up in my mind: Stop the bleeding, stop the bleeding.
I unzip his thick dungaree jacket, tear open the flannel shirt, spot a white T-shirt soaked through with blood.
“I’m Amy,” I say. “What’s your name?”
“Brian…”
“Brian, just relax, you’re going to be all right—we’ll get some help here in a bit.”
“Alvi.”
“Dead,” I say, pushing a compress bandage on one chest wound, then a second on another. They both quickly sop through so I place a fresh one on each, then get a roll of light-brown medical wrap and say, “Sorry, this is going to hurt.” I lift Brian up, necessarily hugging him, and he softly cries out, like a small child—which cuts through me more than I think. Then I do my best to wrap his upper torso and secure the two compresses.
“Why…”
“I shot him,” I say. “There are bombs on the train. They’re set to go off shortly…when we pass another train.”
“Emergency brake…” comes another faint whisper.
“Already engaged,” I say. “We’re slowing down…tell me, how long does it take to stop a train like this?”
“A mile…maybe a mile and a half.”
I quickly stand up.
Look through the unobscured window.
Spot the train Lisa and I had stopped earlier, coming closer and closer into view.
A mile and a half!
I go over, throw open the door leading to the narrow catwalk.
Definitely slowing down, but we’re still moving.
Yet not too fast for me to go out there, hit the dirt and roll, then start running like hell.
“Please…” comes the plaintive voice. “Please don’t leave me…”
I look out again.
Slowing down even more. The squeal of the brakes doing their job seems louder now. We’re passing through an industrial area—warehouses, parking lots, chain-link fences, trash piled up on embankments.
I could jump right now, get a good run in, and seek some sort of shelter before the bombs erupt and the gas cloud starts spreading.
To save me…to save my husband’s wife…and most of all to save my daughter’s mother.
“Please don’t leave me…”
And a third phrase from the Ranger creed comes to mind:
I will never leave a fallen comrade…
I go over to Brian and say, “Never thought of it. Hold on—this is really going to hurt this time.”
I pull him up and leverage him into a fireman’s carry, then bump my way through the door. Brian cries out again and then he’s quiet, and I think the lucky guy has passed out—which may prove to be a blessing in the next few minutes.
I maneuver to the rear along the narrow catwalk. Then I manage a controlled fall down a ladder, hit the ground, and stumble but stay upright, my patient still on my back, as the train slides by.
“Come on, Brian,” I say, “let’s go for a little stroll.”
No illusions, no dreams now.
I do the very best I can.
I stagger along the rough terrain of the dirt and gravel between the two sets of tracks, and when I glance back I see the train slowing down, slowing down, as—
The southbound locomotive passes the stopped one and continues moving along, slowing at a glacial pace.
I keep moving as best I can.
Poor Brian.
He seems to be getting heavier with each step.
Boom, boom, boom.
The charges go off.
I’ve failed. Not Jeremy, not MI6, not even the CIA.
All mine.
I keep moving, Brian getting heavier, and a sharp, dark temptation comes to me, of dumping the dying guy here and still making a run for it. I pull up short, awaiting the first whiff of toxic chemicals, imagining the burning in my nostrils and lungs, the drowning in my own fluids here on dry land.
Thump, thump, thump.
There’s a heavy roar as the familiar-looking NYPD helicopter comes down for a landing. The copilot’s door opens, and Joe Woods—crash helmet, flight jacket, flight suit, and all—races to help me with the wounded train engineer. We move back to the helicopter, each of us ducking our heads as we pass beneath the rotor.
Joe opens the rear passenger door and we fairly toss Brian in. Then, with Lisa screaming, “Move, move, move!” we both clamber aboard.
The door is barely shut and I’m on the floor of the helicopter as it lifts up and roars away. I get on my knees and gaze back at the two trains, watching the clouds start to form.
I failed.
Chapter 122
THE HELICOPTER races back toward Manhattan, and with tired hands I put on the earphones and mic, then go back to poor Brian. Joe is working on him, putting an oxygen feed on his face and then using his mic to call ahead to the New York–Presbyterian/Lower Manhattan Hospital, reading out Brian’s vitals.
Joe puts his hand over the mic and says to me, “We’ve lucked out! That’s a new helipad, first in the city!”
Luck.
I just nod and sit against the door, not bothering to get in the passenger seat, knees up to my chest, arms wrapped around them.
