The Devil_s Workshop

Chapter 55

Behold, he cometh,' " Fannon said. He stood atop the Texaco tanker car and watched as Gas Can Man poured two bags of ammonium nitrate into the half-full gas tanker. " 'Every eye shall see him, and all kindreds of the earth shall wail because of him.' " After he finished reciting from Revelation he stood there in silence, the wind blowing the treetops and his fine silver-gray hair. Gas Can Man had promised that the mixture of ammonium nitrate would magnify the explosion a hundredfold.

Several of the Choir helped Fannon down from his precarious perch on the tanker car, back onto the ground. He had changed radically in the last seventy-two hours. From gruff and menacing he had become somewhat frail and uncertain. His fists no longer seemed to be powerful weapons attached to lethal muscled arms, but rather like fluttering appendages. It was hard to comprehend so quick and devastating a change in someone who so recently possessed such an inner strength and power that he held them spellbound with his forcefulness.

Robert Vail and the Gas Can Man had crawled under the Texaco gas tanker and were attaching a radio-detonated shaped charge to the bottom of the car. The charge was pre-wrapped in a metal sheath, and R. V. was securing it to the belly of the tanker with one-inch metal screws. The shield around the charge was fashioned to direct the explosion up through the skin of the car. The concussion of the accelerated gasoline would magnify the impact, as in the blast in Oklahoma City. Gas Can Man said it would obliterate everything within two hundred yards.

"Is it done yet?" Fannon suddenly demanded, coming out of it and for the moment reclaiming himself from a stuporous haze.

"Almost," Gas Can Man said.

In ten minutes they had completed the job, but by then Fannon again seemed lost inside himself. They got out from underneath the tanker and moved across the clearing. R. V. and Gas Can Man had to help the dazed Reverend down the steep grade at the side of the tracks.

"He sent me. It was promised," Fannon muttered to his escorts. " 41 have sent mine angels to testify unto you.' He has instructed me in his works."

"We've got to get out of here, Reverend," R. V. said. 4'We've got to get to the roof of the F. A. A. building. We'll take a back stairway up. We can see it from there. We've rented a truck to get us out of town immediately after the explosion, before the winds shift."

"I'm His Bright, Burning Star," Fannon mumbled, not seeming to hear R. V. "His Apocalypse, His Messenger of the Ages."

R. V. nodded and pulled on Fannon's arm, trying to get him off the tracks. "Come on, Reverend, we gotta get to a place of safety before the White Train gets here."

Things are finally working out better, Major Flynn thought. He had just received special track clearances all the way to Richmond. He looked at his watch. They were moving at only twenty miles an hour, and were about to switch to the NEC track that would take the White Train through Washington, D. C. He triggered the headset mike that was hot-linked to the engine cab.

"How're we doing?" he asked the engineer.

"We're clear up ahead. I have the Capitol Dome in sight. We're about a minute from the NEC switching junction."

"Good," Major Flynn said, and flipped over to his "air mike," which connected him to the choppers overhead by ultrahigh frequency. "White Angel to Air One. We're a minute from the NEC switch. This is a previously unscouted line, so be sharp."

"Roger," the Air Commander said. "We have two tankers and two boxcars sighted up ahead of you. They look normal, but maybe you should call the District Trainmaster and double-check if they're supposed to be there."

"Roger that," Major Flynn said, then picked up his cellphone and with his other hand began flipping through his Eastern Section Trackmaster's book. He found the District of Columbia Trainmaster's number and called.

"This is the Military Waste Priority One White Train. We're diverting through your area on the NEC," he told the track warrant officer.

"Right, we've got you pegged. All clear."

"We want a siding report for the Northeast Corridor track through D. C., from South Capitol Street to the Potomac River," Major Flynn said.

"Right. Hang on a minute, I'm changing screens," the dispatcher said, and after a minute he came back on. "We've got one Texaco funnel flow tanker car at Seventh Street. She's about half loaded with petroleum. We have two sided boxcars with pipe fittings, and another tanker at the river full of powdered phosphate."

"Okay, thanks. We're on our way through. We'll notify you when we clear city limits."

"Thank you, sir. Standing by," the dispatcher said.

Major Flynn hung up his cellphone, and hit a button that hot-miked the entire White Train team. "Everything checks out. Be alert. Let's go."

The engine, which had been moving at quarter speed, accelerated and headed straight through the center of Washington, D. C., pulling two carloads of deadly chemical and biological weapons.

Before Cris and Stacy left Frederick, Maryland, they called the National Response Center (N. R. C.) and were transferred to the Coast Guard office at Buzzard's Point. The Coast Guard was the federal agency that handled all accident notifications and reportable emergency events for the inland waterways and the rail system on the East Coast. A Lieutenant Commander named Robert McKinley listened patiently as they explained what they thought was about to happen.

Lieutenant Commander McKinley turned on a tape recorder. "You have firsthand knowledge that a band of F. T. R. A. S are going to attack the White Train going through Washington, D. C.?"

"Yes," Cris said. Commander McKinley was already looking up the White Train's routing schedule on his HAZMAT computer. He found the Train's icon under "Nuclear Waste Transportation" and clicked "On," quickly accessing the track routing data, which listed the White Train's destination as Midland, Texas, by way of the Appalachian Pass. But the data had not been updated since the derailment in the mountains. Without saying so, McKinley now assumed that the caller on his phone was just another nuclear waste fanatic. The White Train drew a lot of crank calls from "No Nuke" special-interest groups.

"If you fail to respond, millions of people could die," Cris added, sensing that he had somehow lost the man.

"We'll investigate your complaint. Who am I speaking with?" the Lieutenant Commander asked, and Cris gave his name and address.

"Cris Cunningham? Wasn't that some famous West Coast college quarterback about ten years ago?" the Lieutenant Commander asked. Now he was pretty sure he was being jobbed.

"Look… You gotta get the National Guard to stop that train before it gets on the NEC track."

"Thanks for the call. We'll look into it," McKinley said, and disconnected, thinking that the fanatics who harassed the movement of the White Train would go to any lengths to detain it.

After he hung up, Lieutenant Commander McKinley stood in his office and tried to decide how to deal with the warning. He couldn't just ignore it, but he couldn't treat every call with the same level of concern, or he would be calling out the National Guard or FBI three times a day. He made a note to verify the Cunningham address in Pasadena, but concluded there was no need to stir up the "Big Noises" at the FBI or the Pentagon, since his computer indicated the Train wasn't even heading through D. C. To cover his ass, he decided he would add the call to the six-o'clock summary report and monitor the White Train until it arrived in Texas.

Cris and Stacy rented a car and drove to Washington. It was seventy miles, but it took them only forty-five minutes. On the way, Stacy used her cellphone and tried to get in touch with Wendell Kinney at USC, but he didn't answer. She left a message on his machine to call her immediately.

Just after two p. M., when they were inside the Beltway, they heard the sound of two helicopters beating the air overhead. Cris pulled to a stop in the middle of traffic, got out, and looked up. People in the cars behind him started shouting and honking. He ignored them as he spotted the two black Bell Jet Rangers, hovering and moving slowly west two blocks away. Then, while he was watching, the two choppers began to pick up speed. Cris assumed they were directly above the White Train, which now seemed to be heading right through Washington. He jumped back into the rental and accelerated away from the horn-honkers.

Stacy had the city map open, on her knees. "Turn right up ahead on C Street. It goes straight down to the rails and dead-ends," she instructed.

Cris hung a right at C Street, which was near the huge F. A. A. Building. He drove the Hertz rental down the narrow street, then stopped at the dead-end barricade where the rail line intersected. He jumped out of the car and ran toward the tracks, which were bordered by a low retaining wall. Cris vaulted the wall and came to a stop. The White Train was now visible two blocks away, moving slowly toward the spot where he was standing. The Train was a loud and spectacular sight. It approached slowly, its nose light flashing, its white cylindrical hopper cars glistening. Eight armed, white-helmeted guards were on the roof, and the two black helicopters hovered above it.

Cris scanned the track, and quickly spotted the Texaco tanker parked about two hundred yards east of them, five hundred yards from the approaching White Train.

"Gas car… gotta be the ignition package," he said out loud, then started running across the tracks toward the tanker. His feet stumbled on the gravel-filled, uneven surface. Suddenly, as he ran, he had a strong sense of Kennidi's presence. She was somehow with him, giving him strength, urging him on. He could see her courageous smile, and her swollen forehead; the memory of her painful death made him run even faster. He could now see the unnatural shape of something underneath the tanker car.

The remaining members of the Choir watched Cris running toward the Texaco tanker from the roof of the F. A. A. building. It had been easy to break the lock to the fire door and take the concrete stairs to the roof. Fannon Kincaid seemed to have lost all interest. He was sitting on a roof air-conditioning unit, its hot exhaust fluttering his pant cuffs.

"Blow the damn charge!" R. V. yelled from the edge of the roof as he watched the man run across the tracks and dive under the tanker. The man started to fiddle with the shaped charge.

"No, you can't blow it! Not yet!" Gas Can Man answered, grabbing the detonator from Robert Vail. "The Train's still too far away. It's gotta be inside two hundred yards."

They watched in silence as the White Train moved closer. Far away on the tracks below, the man underneath the gas tanker suddenly started kicking at the bracket that held the shaped charge to the bottom of the car.

The White Train was now four hundred yards from the tanker.

Then it was only three hundred.

"White Angel, we've got a bogie," the Air One pilot said from his leading Bell Jet Ranger. "Some guy just ran under that sided gas tanker up ahead."

"Roger," Major Flynn said. He jumped up and looked out the side window of the troop car. His angle was too acute, and he couldn't see far enough forward to spot the tanker, or the man. "Slow to five miles an hour," Flynn said to the engineer over the headset mike. Then he instructed his air cover: "Air One, make a pass. Take a look at what he's doing. Air Two, hold position."

"Wilco," the chopper pilot said, and he peeled off. The White Train slowed, but still it crept closer. It was now only 250 yards away from the tanker.

Cris was desperately trying to kick loose the shaped charge from the bottom of the gas tanker. The one-inch metal screws that held the metal package to the bottom of car were wiggling, but they refused to break free. As he lunged several more times, trying to dislodge it, he looked up the tracks from under the car and saw the White Train moving slowly toward him. One of the black Bell Jet Rangers had passed the Train and was flying low along the track, directly at him.

Cris had been under chopper attack before, and knew that the gunship was not flying at attack angle. If any rounds were fired at him from its current attitude, they would go high. He continued to kick at the shaped charge as the White Train rumbled slowly toward him. It was now only two hundred yards away.

"Stay back, dammit!" he screamed helplessly into the rumbling of helicopter and train-engine noise enveloping him.

"He's gonna knock the charge off!" R. V. screamed.

"We can't do it yet," Gas Can Man said. "Gotta get a little closer. Wait till it's opposite that wall. Them casket cars is tough. Gotta shred 'em to put all that sarin and anthrax high into the air where the winds'll carry it."

R. V. was looking down at the man under the tanker car, still kicking futilely at the package.

"Just shoot the motherfucker," Fannon muttered, stating the obvious. They turned to see that the dazed Reverend had moved off the air-conditioner housing and was now standing beside them looking down at the section of track.

It surprised R. V. that in the heat of it, so simple a solution had not occurred to any of them. Three members of the Choir now aimed their automatic weapons at Cris and started firing.

R. V. watched as the bullets starred the ground all around the tanker. One of the bullets hit the man under the car, knocking him clear around. R. V. could see the man's small white face looking back up at them.

"Gunfire coming from the roof of the F. A. A. building," the pilot of the leading Bell Jet Ranger said. "Condition Red. Cover me, I'm going in." He peeled away from the tanker and flew toward the roof of the huge building.

Kincaid and the Christian Choir saw the chopper coming at them and pulled their aim off of Cris to target the approaching gunship. Ten automatic rifles opened up from the roof. The noise of rapid-fire weapons filled the air, mixed with the ringing jingle of hot brass ejecting out of their gunports and bouncing on the hard cement roof.

Cris was jolted by the nine-millimeter round as it tore into him and shattered the bone in his right shoulder. It blew him around, so he was suddenly looking up at the roof of the F. A. A. building. He could see Fannon's men up there firing at him. Bullets continued to spark off the metal rails and tear up the ground around him. Then their line of fire was blocked by the black helicopter, which had pulled off him and was streaking toward the roof.

Cris couldn't move his right shoulder or arm, but he finally got swiveled around again under the tanker; on his back, with his shoulder oozing heavy arterial blood, he once again took aim at the loosened shaped charge. He positioned himself for another try. He was getting weaker. He knew he had only one good kick left in him. Using every ounce of strength that remained, he launched his foot forward…

The shaped charge flew off the belly of the tanker, but it landed ten feet away, right in the middle of the center rail that the White Train was heading down.

As the Bell Jet Ranger climbed toward the roof of the F. A. A. building, it began taking withering machine-gun fire from the F. T. R. A. S. Suddenly its gas tank ignited, and the black chopper exploded, raining hot pieces of metal and plastic all over the men on the roof of the building. The main fuselage and rotor were blown forward, then fell in two fiery pieces on top of the adjoining four-story parking structure.

The engineer of the White Train saw his "security" gunship explode, and he panicked. He decided, without orders, to get the hell out of there and make a run for it. He pushed the throttle down, but didn't see the shaped charge that had just landed directly on the track, forty yards in front of him.

Cris saw the chopper crash, then heard the White Train speeding up. He got to his feet, with maddening slowness, and began to stumble toward the shaped charge lying on the track. His right arm was limp and his destroyed right shoulder was pouring out blood.

The White Train was gaining on him. Suddenly, his vision began swimming. He felt as if he were moving in a dream. His legs were like lead, and everything was happening in slow motion. "No!" he yelled at the closing train. He knew if the White Train ran over the charge, it was still close enough to explode the tanker and blow everything to bits. But he could not keep moving forward. He stumbled, then fell.

Somebody ran past him, moving so fast that he felt the rush of air against his face. He struggled to look up, and saw Stacy reach the track a few feet away and grab the shaped charge. She started running away from the rails, carrying the package in both her hands, moving as fast as she could. She was almost to the wall.

From the roof of the F. A. A. building, R. V. was holding the detonator, but he was not looking at the tracks. He had shifted his gaze to watch the burning helicopter, which had just crashed on the parking structure.

Fannon Kincaid grabbed the detonator out of R. V.'s hand as the woman scooped up the shaped charge and ran away from the tracks. Suddenly the second Bell Jet Ranger streaked toward the roof and attacked. As nine-millimeter shells from the nose cannon blew chunks of concrete out of the roof around him, Fannon pointed the radio detonator at the woman. The helicopter pilot adjusted his aim and fired again. A stream of armor-piercing bullets blew Fannon Kincaid's left leg off. He spun in anguish and pain, and pushed the button on the detonator as he went down in a hail of gunfire.

Stacy threw the detonation package as far away from the tanker car as she could. Her arm was outstretched, and her face turned away. She never saw the package explode, but she felt it.

The blast ripped part of her right hand off and threw her backward almost two hundred feet. Debris and smoke rained down around her. Her clothes and hair were on fire. She could feel searing heat and intense pain. Then she was on the hard gravel. She looked up and saw Cris falling toward her. He was screaming something, but she couldn't understand any of it. All she could feel was his weight on top of her and his breath on her neck as he smothered the flames with his own body.

She could feel herself in a new place, balancing somewhere between life and death. There was peace and no pain. Cris's voice was somewhere far away, whispering, "Don't die, please… I love you." Then there was complete silence and a white light, clear and beautiful.