ground.
“It’s the hazmat train!” Specks says and points up the rail toward Slaughterhouse. Over a mile ahead just coming into view on the other side of the last ridgeline is a short, five-car train moving away from us.
“ Damn it. We’ll never catch them before Denver,” I say, my thoughts racing for a way to stop them. “Will they pull into the yards before going on?”
“ Normally, they’d change crews on the main line, but wouldn’t need fuel until the city. Don’t know that mercenaries change crews, though — they have a union?”
I do n’t laugh at Specks’ poor attempt at humor.
He continues , “But on this trip, they’ve been out there stranded in the snow for six days. They’ve had to run their engines constantly all that time to keep the fuel lines from jelling in the cold weather. They’re sure to be low on diesel.”
Specks strain s to see better.
I reach behind my feet, fi nd the small pair of binoculars I’d used at the lodge and hand them to him.
“ Two locomotives,” he says, “pulling five cars. Looks like they have LP gas behind the power – that’s a Federal violation, right there.”
“I don’t’ think that matters much to the mercenary’s union.”
“Yeah …, then there’s an un-placarded box car … what looks like a chlorine gas tanker … anothe r box, and a way car on the end.”
“Way car?”
“Caboose.”
“I didn’t think they use cabooses anymore.”
“Oh, yeah. They use them up here, some — especially on long trains snaking between mountains and through canyons. And they use them on short lines that go through dark territory. Think this one might have a special purpose?”
“Could.” I had a thought. “The way those cars are positioned, and all the cars left back where we picked you up, seems like their plan was to have more LP gas cars.”
“Like maybe they’re short after your dad rammed them?”
“ Yeah. Could they pick up more tank cars in the yards?”
“Possible. There’s probably a ton of ‘em out there — usually is in a train yard of any size. They might make the time to take on a couple hundred gallons of fuel and switch in more tankers.”
Ever nearer the ground, for now bringing this helicopter in to land on a moving postage stamp demands my full attention. Without the stabilizing effect of the tail rotor, and the engine still torqueing as it winds down, we start a slow spiral. But I get it under control and straighten it out. If I can now guide the thing away from the rocky slopes and to level ground, our crash landing is less likely to be fatal. The most level area is the railroad tracks, and I head for them.
But how about that train that currently occupies the rail I want to land on?
“It’s too late,” Specks says. “He’s starting into the tunnel. We won’t be able to stop the thing to get on it.”
“Maybe we won’t have to stop them.”
“He’s going fifty, sixty miles-an-hour. What are you gonna do …?” Specks stared at me as understanding seemed to hit him. “You and your damn papa are definitely cut from the same foreskin!”
I spot an empty flatcar toward the end of the train. As the locomotives speed in, that empty freight car is nearing the 500-foot-long tunnel entrance at probably sixty miles an hour. If I can time it just right, maybe ….
I glance at Specks as we drop from the sky.
His eyes are bugging behind the thick glasses. “What are you doing? You’re not really going to —”
“— land on that flatcar,” I finish his question and answer it at the same time as if I’m confident I can actually pull it off.
“Ah, shit! ,” he says, bracing his hands on the dash. “Suppose you’re going to make me jump out like your dad did from the train?”
“Not this time. Just hold on.”
Without powered flight, the big main rotor acts as a sort of parachute. It catches the air with its airfoil edges to somewhat offset the descent with a little lift force. Also, without
“It’s the hazmat train!” Specks says and points up the rail toward Slaughterhouse. Over a mile ahead just coming into view on the other side of the last ridgeline is a short, five-car train moving away from us.
“ Damn it. We’ll never catch them before Denver,” I say, my thoughts racing for a way to stop them. “Will they pull into the yards before going on?”
“ Normally, they’d change crews on the main line, but wouldn’t need fuel until the city. Don’t know that mercenaries change crews, though — they have a union?”
I do n’t laugh at Specks’ poor attempt at humor.
He continues , “But on this trip, they’ve been out there stranded in the snow for six days. They’ve had to run their engines constantly all that time to keep the fuel lines from jelling in the cold weather. They’re sure to be low on diesel.”
Specks strain s to see better.
I reach behind my feet, fi nd the small pair of binoculars I’d used at the lodge and hand them to him.
“ Two locomotives,” he says, “pulling five cars. Looks like they have LP gas behind the power – that’s a Federal violation, right there.”
“I don’t’ think that matters much to the mercenary’s union.”
“Yeah …, then there’s an un-placarded box car … what looks like a chlorine gas tanker … anothe r box, and a way car on the end.”
“Way car?”
“Caboose.”
“I didn’t think they use cabooses anymore.”
“Oh, yeah. They use them up here, some — especially on long trains snaking between mountains and through canyons. And they use them on short lines that go through dark territory. Think this one might have a special purpose?”
“Could.” I had a thought. “The way those cars are positioned, and all the cars left back where we picked you up, seems like their plan was to have more LP gas cars.”
“Like maybe they’re short after your dad rammed them?”
“ Yeah. Could they pick up more tank cars in the yards?”
“Possible. There’s probably a ton of ‘em out there — usually is in a train yard of any size. They might make the time to take on a couple hundred gallons of fuel and switch in more tankers.”
Ever nearer the ground, for now bringing this helicopter in to land on a moving postage stamp demands my full attention. Without the stabilizing effect of the tail rotor, and the engine still torqueing as it winds down, we start a slow spiral. But I get it under control and straighten it out. If I can now guide the thing away from the rocky slopes and to level ground, our crash landing is less likely to be fatal. The most level area is the railroad tracks, and I head for them.
But how about that train that currently occupies the rail I want to land on?
“It’s too late,” Specks says. “He’s starting into the tunnel. We won’t be able to stop the thing to get on it.”
“Maybe we won’t have to stop them.”
“He’s going fifty, sixty miles-an-hour. What are you gonna do …?” Specks stared at me as understanding seemed to hit him. “You and your damn papa are definitely cut from the same foreskin!”
I spot an empty flatcar toward the end of the train. As the locomotives speed in, that empty freight car is nearing the 500-foot-long tunnel entrance at probably sixty miles an hour. If I can time it just right, maybe ….
I glance at Specks as we drop from the sky.
His eyes are bugging behind the thick glasses. “What are you doing? You’re not really going to —”
“— land on that flatcar,” I finish his question and answer it at the same time as if I’m confident I can actually pull it off.
“Ah, shit! ,” he says, bracing his hands on the dash. “Suppose you’re going to make me jump out like your dad did from the train?”
“Not this time. Just hold on.”
Without powered flight, the big main rotor acts as a sort of parachute. It catches the air with its airfoil edges to somewhat offset the descent with a little lift force. Also, without
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