The other man shrugged. “I don’t know how you’re supposed to contain it, and I don’t care. That’s your problem.”
The Deputy Secretary had a moment of blind rage, visualizing himself choking the man to death with his bare hands. No one, to his knowledge, had ever crossed the Secretary before and lived – figuratively or literally – to tell the story. If she found out he was involved, it could very well be worth his life.
“We’ll see whose problem it is if her pet salvage operator or that blasted stone isn’t found safe. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes or your boss’s.” It would be better for him to own up and then shift the blame to Homeland Security, than to have her think it was him.
His counterpart chuckled with no humor. “I told you Ilya Yezhov would come through with it in the end, didn’t I? It’s safe, but unavailable.” He didn’t mention Reilly, but the sinister curl on his upper lip implied the worst for Reilly and his sidekick.
“What do you mean? He’s sent everyone on our tails!”
“Sure, but by the time anyone can dig that tunnel out and find the stone, it’ll no longer matter, will it?”
“So that’s how you’re justifying this?”
“I do what needs to be done.”
“The colony thinks Yezhov’s the golden-haired boy, but has anyone stopped to question what a man with his temperament would do in the new world?”
The contact’s lips formed an oily smile. “In the new world, a man like Yezhov could do just about anything he pleases. Yes. As frightening as it is, we need just that sort of man if our meagre colony is to survive.”
“You’re making a terrible deal.”
His contact shrugged. “Sometimes you have to dance with the Devil.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Inside the Railway Tunnel
Sam and Tom had taken turns to rest on the large bed they’d found in the first carriage, once occupied by Russian royalty at the end of the nineteenth century. It was potentially a two to three-day trip through the tunnel depending on where it came out on the U.S. mainland. Right now, Tom was sleeping, while Sam was working to keep the train moving.
He shoveled another load of coal into the fire chamber. Sam had quickly discovered that stoking the fire mass was a fine art, rather than a case of simply lumping more coal on a dwindling flame. Matvei, their Russian steam train driver and prisoner, had been defiant in his refusal to help. But once he and Tom started to load more coal and experiment with random levers in order to coax the old train to move, the old man, terrified that his precious machine would be destroyed, had caved and offered his assistance.
Keeping the fire mass at the right heat and intensity required precision. Even to the point where Matvei would instruct Sam as to which size coal lumps were to be fed and where exactly on the fire to put it. It took a while to achieve the desired result at first, and for some time Sam and Tom had found they were constantly trying to correct the speed of the train, by either releasing more steam, or opening the blower to increase steam generation.
“There is a balance,” Matvei began. “An ideal value where the fire is most effective. Above this the steam engine becomes inefficient, damaging, and ultimately dangerous to run. Below this, there is not enough steam generated to reach the maximum desired speed of locomotion.”
Sam smiled. It was like listening to his dad talk about sailing when he was a kid. The man had obviously spent his life working on steam trains. Instead of being lost to a world of electric and diesel trains, he’d been taken in by a secret organization who were using an old steam train, owned by a Russian monarch over a century ago, to move their illicit products across the Bering Strait.
“Is that enough?” Sam asked.
“Maybe just one more. But not a full shovel, please.”
Sam dug the shovel into the coal tender and tipped part of it out again. He glanced at Matvei, waited until the man gave him a reassuring nod, and then fed the coal into the fire chamber. The pressure gauges to the right of the engine cab all started to rise, but the speed dial showed they were still slowing.
Matvei noted it too, although he hadn’t looked at the speed indicator. “We’re coming to the first of three major hills.”
Sam dug the shovel back into the coal tender.
“No, you’ve already got plenty of heat.”
“Then what do we do?” Sam smiled. “Get out and push?”
Matvei ignored his comment. “Below the fire chamber you’ll see a grate, and directly under that there is a door called a damper. Opening the damper allows air to flow up from underneath the fire and through it – this in turn feeds the fire and will help generate what is called a steam boost.”
“Okay.” Sam opened the damper. “Now what?”
“Now you turn the blower on.”
Sam pulled the lever to his right and the blower opened up. It was designed to force air up the chimney, which had the effect of drawing air up from the fire and feeding it. Instantly, Sam felt the steam turbines increase their speed and power. His eyes followed the headlights toward the long, empty tunnel and then back. Steam exhaled out of the chimney at the front of the boiler, billowing all the way to the end of the train’s carriages.
“There you go. That will do it.” Matvei was smiling now.
Sam felt his heart race and breathed deeply. There was a simple joy to helping the old technology run. He turned to face Matvei and said, “You really love your train, don’t you?”
“Yes. I never married, but I have been looking after this old girl now for… let me think… close on twenty years now.”
“Why?”
Matvei’s graying eyebrows bushed together. “Why what?”
“Why this train and why doing this?”
“It’s good money.”
“Okay that explains your purpose, but why not electric or diesel? Why this old train?”
Matvei made a big show of sighing heavily, as though the question was absurd. “Because neither of those modern beasts could be half as useful to my masters as a steam train.”
“Who are your masters?” Sam asked.
Matvei fidgeted with the rope that firmly bound his wrists together. He smiled ruefully. “Don’t misunderstand my decision to help you move my train so that you don’t destroy her as a willingness to tell you everything. Some secrets, I’m afraid, are worth dying for.”
Sam nodded in understanding. He wasn’t going to get anywhere by trying to get any more out of him. “Okay. Back to your train then. Why is she better than any modern electric or diesel beast?”
“Electric is obviously impossible here. These are very old tracks, and if you look overhead, there’s no infrastructure for electric.”
“And diesel?”
“A diesel requires more maintenance. Despite its age, steam engines are surprisingly easy to maintain.” Matvei laughed. “And because my master already owned a steam train, so its appearance wouldn’t rouse any suspicions.”
Sam studied the man’s face. He was serious. Had Matvei intentionally given something away about his master? Find the original owner of the steam train and he would find the leader of the secret organization.
“Any other reason you’d choose coal over diesel?” Sam asked.
Matvei swallowed hard. “Sure. More importantly, they’ll run in the extreme cold of the new world.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
Ben Whitecloud woke with a start as he felt himself falling. As many people had done before him, he often had dreams of falling. A medicine woman had once told him it meant he would die in a fall, but he’d given the information no credence. It was an easy enough way to explain the dreams. And about as believable as the white man’s explanation that it meant anxiety.
Today, he thanked his superb reflexes for grasping the juniper in which he was perched and preventing a real fall into the roiling waters below. It was impossible to believe he’d fallen asleep, but the evidence suggested his exhaustion and worry had caught up with him.
Until today, Ben had no reason to be anxious. He was wealthy by the accounting of his people, with a vast ranch and many cattle. It was true he sometimes worried he’d never stop loving Jenn after she broke off their relationship, but she was still in his life. He had time to convince her to come back to him. He needed nothing else.
But now, her safety was in doubt, and he had no way to ensure it. Stuck in this tree, while floodwaters continued to flow past, he could neither go up nor go down. How long would it be before the water receded? And when it did, would the route he’d taken to his refuge in the juniper still be there? Flash floods were known for sweeping away everything in their path. They pounded both landscape and structures, first with a barrage of dead trees, animals, and whatever else they picked up on their way downstream, pushed by deadly, swiftly-moving water.
The noise had receded, though. He wondered how long he’d slept before beginning to slip. Below, froth and occasional floating objects allowed him to judge how fast the water was running, and he knew he had no chance of swimming in it unscathed. But he thought it was several feet lower than the crest had been.
He began to hope it would be over soon, or at least low enough that he could climb down to look for a route all the way up the cliffside. Now that the tracks he’d been following had been washed away, it no longer made sense to find the same route up and down that Brody had taken. He needed to get to the top and strike out for the ranch house as quickly as possible, before the cartel got impatient and did something unthinkable to Jenn.
He was looking to his right, searching the cliff face above him for a viable climb, when he heard the shout. Twisting around, he caught a glimpse of one of the hands directly above him, peering over the side.
“Yo, boss!” the man yelled. “Are you stuck?”
The question didn’t deserve an answer. On the other hand, the men didn’t know what had transpired today. Their levity wasn’t appropriate, but they didn’t know it.
“Toss me a rope!” he called.
“Hang on, boss. We’re rigging something. Sit tight.” Echoes of the man’s laughter rang off the cliffside on the opposite bank.
Ten minutes later, a knotted harness snaked to within arm’s reach. As he grasped it and wriggled into it, Ben spared a thought for the distance. If the rope had been spliced or knotted together, it stood a chance of giving way, dropping him to his death. Furthermore, he was a solid 190 pounds, and it would take quite an effort to haul him up. He could only hope there were enough men up there to manage the job. But staying in the tree was not an option.
He gave the rope a firm tug, and felt a tug in return. Then, inch by agonizing inch, he began to rise, watching the waters below him as he did.
When he reached the top of the mesa, two pairs of hands grabbed him by the arms and dragged him over the side. He resisted the urge to grab one of the men and hug him for all he was worth, but he did stretch out his hand for a heartfelt handshake.
“Thanks, boys,” he said. He glanced beyond them to where the rope stretched toward the horses. Even though he was certain the horses had done the heavy work, it had taken real skill to make sure the ropes would hold where they’d been knotted together, and to keep it from fraying where it pulled over the edge.
Quickly, he explained what had happened, and they agreed there was no point in waiting there for the water to go back to normal. It could take days. They rode back to the ranch at as fast a pace as they could while making sure the horses would make it, leading Jenn’s mare while Ben rode Brody’s larger gelding.
Ben marveled at the bone-dry ground he was covering. The storm that created the flash flood had missed his land by miles. It was the way of the desert, though, and he’d known of many floods occurring in spots that never saw as much as half an inch of rainfall in a month. This was the first time he’d had to race one for his life, and for the life of someone he couldn’t lose. The thought made him spur his mount to greater speed.
When they arrived at the ranch, Ben organized all the hands that could be spared from essential ranch chores to load a hay truck with a hollow core to conceal the drugs. With those loaded, he had them cover it with a top layer and close the back end. It was a big risk. If he were caught with the drugs, he’d spend the rest of his life in jail. Even worse, the cartel would probably kill Jenn and Brody.
He wouldn’t ask one of his hands to take the risk of driving the truck to Durango for the meeting. As soon as it was loaded and secured to his satisfaction, he swung into the driver’s seat. He set his cell phone where he could both see it and hear it, and attached it to a charging cord to make sure the battery wouldn’t die while the phone searched for a cell signal in the background. His ranch foreman slapped the door and wished him good luck.
“Take some of the men and get to that ruin as soon as the water will let you,” Ben told his foreman. “Go armed, and be careful.”
“No worries, boss,” the man answered. “I’ll take care of things here. Come back safe.”
Ben lifted his hand in the time-honored cowboy gesture that meant everything from ‘hi’ to ‘I’ve got this,’ and then shifted into gear and pulled away with his men watching. In the rearview mirror, he saw his foreman pointing here and there, setting the men to work. They were good hands, and he valued every one of them. He fervently hoped he wouldn’t lose another over this debacle.
Ben had been on the road for about half an hour when his cell phone twanged a guitar riff, his ring for an unknown caller. He reached for it and thumbed it on. “Ben Whitecloud.”
“Are you on the road, Mr. Whitecloud?” The caller’s voice was unfamiliar, but the menace in it matched that of the cartel member who’d captured them that morning.
“I am. ETA 20 minutes.”
His caller gave him directions to an equipment rental lot off College Drive. “Drive around back. I’m in a U-Haul truck, and you’ll follow me from there.”
Ben was growing more nervous as he approached the rental company lot. The business was still open, meaning there were too many witnesses. He wished he’d thought to paint over his ranch logo on the truck doors, but it was too late for that now. He turned in and drove to the back of the lot as instructed, spotting the U-Haul truck as soon as he rounded the building. He flashed his headlights, and the driver of the truck immediately answered with a flash of his own. The U-Haul pulled away, going around the opposite side of the building with Ben following.
From there, they followed a circuitous route in the direction of the airport. Ben muttered to himself that if they’d wanted the goods at the airport, it would have saved him some mileage for them to say so in the first place, as it was much closer to his ranch than the city was. But before they reached it, the U-Haul turned down a private dirt road and eventually pulled into a large barn.
Ben followed. He was met by armed men, who gestured with their semi-automatic weapons for him to step out of the truck. Ben was a peaceful man, but a proud one. His Ute heritage had given him the near-black hair, dark skin and high cheekbones that typified most Native Americans. It had taught him lessons of racial prejudice when he attended agricultural college, but also taught him patience. However, his patience was beginning to wear thin.
“What is this? Just take what belongs to you and let me go. I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain.”
One of the men surrounding him put a single shot through the lower door of the truck and gestured again. With dread borne of anticipated failure, Ben opened the door and slid to the ground. He stood passively as the same man handed his weapon to another and then patted Ben down, relieving him of the second pistol he’d placed in his shoulder holster.
“Wait here,” the man grunted. He took his weapon back from the other man and signaled two to cover Ben. The rest went about transferring the drugs from Ben’s truck to the U-Haul, taking some of the hay as well.
When they’d finished, the only man who had spoken directed Ben to face his truck, his hands on the door, eyes straight ahead, and not to move.
Ben turned, expecting a barrage of bullets to the back, or a single one to the back of his head, at any moment. Instead, he heard the other truck start up. When it had clearly left the building, he steeled himself for the execution he was certain would come. None of the men who’d threatened him had concealed their faces.
Minutes later, he dared to look around. He was alone in the building. Ben wasted no time in idle speculation about why he was still alive. It was enough that he was. He got into the truck and drove out of the building, still expecting to be shot. But shots never came. He drove at speed to the ranch. No word had come from the cartel member who had Jenn and Brody.
Had he bought his own survival at the cost of theirs?
Chapter Fifty-Seven
On Board the Maria Helena
Elise studied the array of computer monitors surrounding her. One, a display of seismic activity from the Marianas to the coast of California, showed no unusual activity. Another, from west of the same coast to the eastern foothills of the Rocky Mountains, showed some minor temblors, but nothing out of the ordinary for the seismically active region.
Still another was scrolling a feed that pulled from various social media sites and more arcane sources. The query was long and convoluted, aiming to tease out any news of something unusual, whether it had to do with geology or not. Elise had constructed it to exclude the usual noise about car accidents, bank robberies, people unhappy with the way they’d been treated at restaurants, stores, or on airlines, and funny cat videos disguised by sponsored spam pages as amazing, shocking, or she’d never guess whatever they wanted her to believe.
Sometimes she rued the day the internet had been opened to the public. On the other hand, for the patient person who knew how to make Boolean logic sit up and beg, it was a rich source of information hiding in plain sight.
She marked a police blotter entry from Colorado for follow-up. A supernatural wind had sucked a man out of a previously-undiscovered Anasazi ruin and into a cave of some sort. Now that was something that didn’t happen every day.
The Sam Reilly Collection Volume 3 Page 45
