Train Man Read online

  EXTRAORDINARY ACCLAIM FOR THE NOVELS OF P.T. DEUTERMANN

  TRAIN MAN

  “Solid … quality entertainment: the details convince, the people are real, the plot twists legitimate.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  ZERO OPTION

  “Right out of today’s headlines … A superior thriller.”

  —American Way

  “Topnotch … Exciting, moving … Bursting with the expected expertise and insider knowledge.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A gripping tale … Solid, authentic detail that bolts each event to the next and creates an intensely plausible entertainment.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Deutermann … has crafted an engrossing story that fits nicely between The X-Files and the reality of what could be tomorrow’s headlines. And he has done it in a highly interesting and authentic-sounding style, without trying to impress the reader with acres of techno-babble … An entertaining techno-thriller long on adventure.”

  —Booklist

  “Deutermann joins Clancy, Coyle, Coonts and Bond as a master of the military techno-thriller.”

  —Ocala Star-Banner

  “ZERO OPTION is outstanding military suspense … Finely drawn characters and eerily atmospheric locales for the action make this book impossible to put down. [Provides] entertainment and fascination in equal measure … Here in ZERO OPTION, in abundance, is a story about believable people, including villains you’ll love to hate, with three-dimensional passions and motivations, and Pete’s impressive dialogue writing sets a very high standard too. Personally, I eagerly await this master’s next opus!”

  —Joe Buff, author of Deep Sound Channel

  SWEEPERS

  “An explosive drama … A smooth blend of Pentagon politics, revenge, murder, and mystery … Deutermann fans like myself will be thrilled to see that he keeps getting better.”

  —Nelson DeMille

  “Deutermann’s inside knowledge of the Navy and Pentagon politics coupled with his likable protagonists make this a gripping new addition to his line of naval mysteries.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “[An] insightful indictment of high-level Navy power politics … [A] suspenseful voyage deep into the hearts of an exciting group of memorably drawn personalities.”

  —Proceedings

  OFFICIAL PRIVILEGE

  “An attractive combination of murder mystery and naval politics … the author maintains a tight story line and gives us a good idea of how a few people at the top can try to thwart justice.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “The superb plotting and characterization are here, as is suspense and a clear awareness of the dangers and dalliance that can thrive in official Washington. OFFICIAL PRIVILEGE is more than just a whodunit and a Navy story; it is a suspenseful indictment of power politics played at many layers of government service, especially in Washington.”

  —The Florida Times Union

  “P.T. Deutermann invents a new genre—a military detective novel with all the action, adventure and insider knowledge that we have come to expect from him. A must-read.”

  —Nelson DeMille

  “The author of THE EDGE OF HONOR and SCORPION IN THE SEA delivers another fine suspense novel enhanced by solid background detail.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  THE EDGE OF HONOR

  “THE EDGE OF HONOR is that rare book that addresses the complexities of war at the front and also at home. The author captures the Vietnam period and its confusion perfectly. Particularly interesting—and horrifying—is the culture depicted on the Hood, a real-life ship around which the novel is set.”

  —The Baltimore Sun

  “Deutermann’s clear mission is to picture Navy life in a depth we have not seen it before, and he succeeds brilliantly … The pace is rapid. For readers who know the Navy, and those who have never been closer to it than watching ships sail past Ballast Point, this is an engrossing book.”

  —The San Diego Union Tribune

  SCORPION IN THE SEA

  “Absolutely authentic … The cat-and-mouse maneuverings between sub and destroyer have their thrilling moments, and it all ends with a mighty bang … If you like action-filled sea stories, SCORPION IN THE SEA is worth checking out.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS TITLES

  BY P. T. DEUTERMANN

  The Firefly

  Darkside

  Hunting Season

  Train Man

  Zero Option

  Sweepers

  Official Privilege

  The Edge of Honor

  Scorpion in the Sea

  TRAIN

  MAN

  P.T. DEUTERMANN

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  TRAIN MAN

  Copyright © 1999 by P. T. Deutermann.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 99-23846

  ISBN: 0-312-97370-5

  EAN: 80312-97370-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / October 1999

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / March 2001

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  10 9 8 7 6 5

  To the memory of the brave men who constructed the magnificent iron and steel railroad bridges over the Mississippi River during the past century. They were amazing feats of civil engineering then, as they would be today if we had to replicate them.

  acknowledgments

  I am indebted to Simmons-Boardman Books, Inc., and John Armstrong, for permission to use material from The Railroad, What It Is, What It Does, which I found to be the best all-around reference for the layman on railroad operations. Also to Harold A. Ladd, author of the definitive U.S. Railroad Traffic Atlas, for permission to extract definitions relating to railroad terms. I also consulted Ronald Kessler’s excellent book, The FBI, for insights on Bureau organization and argot, which were very useful preparation for talking to people within the Bureau itself. I’m particularly indebted to Don Schwartz, Scott Curley, Bob Lauby, Neal Schiff, and the FBI Public Information Office, for technical advice on government law enforcement organization and other matters. In some cases I have taken considerable dramatic liberties with their inputs, and I have deliberately blurred the technical details relating to some of the bridges and to explosives and demolition techniques. Other omissions and/or errors are, of course, all mine. The characters in this book are entirely fictitious; any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. And finally, my thanks to George Witte and Carol Edwards, editors extraordinary, and to Nick Ellison for some truly outstanding representation work.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  1

  THE RIVER was boundless and almost invisible in the darkness. He could sense the power of the late-spring rains in the current as a sizzle of foam surfaced a pungent stink of alluvial mud. He was letting the current carry him down toward the bridge. He was running the Missouri side to e
nsure that no one in the fish camp on the Illinois side could hear the boat. He watched for the lights of barge traffic but saw only the occasional wink from a channel buoy glimmering across the wide river. The spectral structure of the bridge loomed ahead, its black steel trusses nearly invisible.

  He shifted his weight in the small boat, pulling the coil of damp rope closer as the small outboard muttered behind him at idle speed. He fingered the steel points of the grapnel hook and touched the bulky backpack with his left hand. To his far left, a faint yellow aurora silhouetted the bluffs where line signal lights pointed their message of caution eastward into Illinois. He scanned the top of the bluffs for signs of life. There was a public housing project next to the tracks up there in the village of Thebes, and he wanted to make sure no one was up and about on the rail line. As the bridge took shape, he reached back and shoved the engine tiller to starboard, twisting the throttle handle slightly to bring him back out into the middle of the river. He wanted to be on line with the western channel pier tower, which was gaining definition now in the darkness. The tower was one of two massive concrete and steel structures supporting the center span across the main channel. It loomed nearly one hundred feet over the river.

  The sounds of the swollen river began to echo off the steel girders up above as he neared the bridge. His hand tightened on the tiller and then he switched the engine into reverse and again advanced the throttle. The aluminum boat responded at once, its head falling off slightly to starboard as the prop bit in, until he was nearly stationary on the river, hovering in the black current a few yards upstream of the base of the pier tower. He could see the iron ladder hanging down now, its side rails throwing up two light gray bow waves in the muscular spring current. He reduced the rpm, letting the boat drift down to bump against the ladder. He held that position for an instant and then let go of the tiller, leaned forward, and hooked on the grapnel even as the stern of the boat began its swing out into the current, coming around rapidly as he scrambled to secure the rope to the front seat. The boat fetched up against the base of the pier tower with a muffled metallic bump, bow into the current now, facing upriver. With the engine at idle, he sat back, craning his neck to look straight up.

  He was directly under the western end of the center span. The river sound was louder here, the noise of the eddies and ripples echoing off the underside of the bridge. For one vertiginous moment, the tower looked like the bow of an enormous ship rushing at him through the current. He looked over to the west bank, dark and shapeless, hidden behind three more pier towers between his mooring and the shore. He checked the rope again and then pressed the light button on his watch. Early. Good. But time to go.

  He crouched in the boat, steadying himself against the sudden tilt, and hefted the backpack onto his knees. He checked the mooring rope again and then swung the heavy backpack slowly onto his back, struggling to keep his balance while he secured it. He put on leather gloves and reached for the ladder, testing it, feeling the scabrous paint rubbing off on his leather gloves, and then hoisted himself up onto the rusty rungs in one smooth motion. He steadied himself on the first rung, getting his balance, getting the feel of the pack, and then began to climb. The ladder swayed a little under his weight; some of the bolts holding it to the concrete pier had rusted away. It was an old bridge.

  Forty rungs later, he reached the first steel platform and pushed his head through the open trapdoor through which the ladder was suspended. He was puffing a little, but his heart was still beating faster more from excitement than fatigue. The pack caught momentarily on the edge of the trapdoor, but he turned sideways and squeezed through. Once on the grating of the platform, he rested, sitting with his knees up, his head forward to balance the pack. He could really hear the river up here, an incessant slushing noise echoing off all the concrete and the steel facets around him. He checked his watch again and then sat there for another minute until his breathing returned to normal. Time to go, he told himself again.

  He heaved himself up off the grating and made his way around to the other side of the platform, to the second ladder. Climbing purposefully now in the darkness, he climbed the final thirty feet up to the main girders supporting the track-bed structure. The ladder continued up the side of the trussed arch. He stepped off the ladder and then swung the pack off his back, laying it down carefully on the grating, making sure it was not going to roll off the edge. Leaving the pack, he walked ten feet along the platform toward the junction of the arched truss and the main horizontal girders of the center span. He found the short ladder and climbed down to the ledge under the track bed where the truss pins were. He knelt down and felt along the steel in the darkness, running his gloved hands over silver dollar-size rivet heads until he found the pins.

  He reached into his vest pocket and removed a slim black metal flashlight, pointed it down into the space between the pin housing and the truss girders, and switched it on. He saw the cavity he was looking for. It matched the plans. He switched off the light and climbed back up the ladder. From where he stood on the catwalk, the shining steel of the westbound track was level with his face. He reached forward and hefted himself up to the track level until he was standing astride the westbound tracks. He faced west and experienced the premonitory tingle of dread everyone feels when standing on a railroad track, the gleaming rails pregnant with the possibility that a train might loom out of the darkness, or was coming up even now, unseen, from behind. He stepped across the tracks and hopped down onto the pine-board catwalk between the track beds. The planks reeked of creosote and engine oil, and he was surprised at their flimsiness. The river below remained invisible, but as the cool wet air rose between his legs, he visualized the hundred or so feet of space between his perch on the catwalk and the swirling surface below. He clambered back over the tracks and swung down to the outside catwalk to study the structure.

  The center span track-bed support truss was attached to a pier tower at each end; it was nearly two hundred feet long. The overhead truss arch was constructed of a heavy steel vertical lattice on the upstream and downstream sides of the bridge, woven together with a lateral truss structure across the top. At the base end of each truss, well below the track bed, were two massive steel boxes, one on each side of the tracks. Each box had a twelve-inch-diameter hole drilled horizontally through the center. Passing through the hole was the main truss pin, a foot in diameter and five feet long. The pin ends penetrated the box on either side and were secured in a saddle mounting, which, in turn, was bolted to the concrete ledge on the pier tower itself. The descending side girders of the arch were supported entirely by these pins.

  Each saddle mounting was nestled in a concrete cavity cast into the inside face of the pier tower. The entire structure looked as solid as Gibraltar, but he knew that the truss could actually flex on its pins, expanding and contracting in broiling summer heat and icy winter air, and also when the weight of a train deflected the center span. These massive river bridges were alive, and, while they looked solid, they were flexing all the time, in infinitesimally small degrees, reacting to the stresses of temperature, winds, and loads. Even the pins themselves were free to rotate in fractions of degrees.

  He returned for the backpack and dragged it down to the pin structure on the upstream side of the bridge. He opened the pack and carefully lifted out the two coffee cans packed on top of the contents, setting them gingerly down on the main horizontal girder. He dug back into the pack, first extracting two pieces of wooden dowel, each a foot long and one inch in diameter, and then brought out six limp plastic bags of black powder, stacking them in a mound. Holding the flashlight in his teeth, he leaned into the cavity and began to pack the three-pound bags into the space between the inner face of the concrete cavity and the inside face of the pin. After he had placed two bags, he set one of the wooden dowels upright between them. Moving faster now, he set the remaining four bags, pushing and tamping them until they fit snugly around the inside face of the dinner plate-sized pin, with the
dowel protruding a few inches at the top. The stack completely covered the round face of the pin, with no space between it and the concrete.

  He picked up the backpack, clambered across the track beds to the opposite side of the bridge, and repeated the arrangements, again packing the bags between the pin and the concrete cavity’s inside face. When he was finished, he checked his watch. If the operating schedule was holding, he had just under thirty minutes. Enough time, he thought. Just enough.

  He climbed back to the upstream side of the tracks, picked up one of the coffee cans, and returned to the downstream side of the bridge. With the flashlight again in his teeth, he removed the plastic lid, discarding it into the darkness, and then removed a quarter stick of dynamite and one blasting cap from a nest of torn rags in the can. He unwrapped the wax paper at one end of the quarter stick and gently pushed the blasting cap into the center hole until only its silvery top and two hanks of bell wire stuck out. Leaning over the powder stack, he wiggled the dowel, raising it carefully so as not to disturb the stack. He threw the dowel into the river below and then slid the quarter stick into the hole, fitting it snugly into the stack until only the wires were visible.

  He reached into another vest pocket and pulled out two coils of bell wire and a roll of electrical friction tape. He twisted the bared conductor from one of the coils together with one of the blasting cap’s wires and then put the coil down on the concrete. He repeated the procedure with the second coil of bell wire, then pitched the coffee can off the bridge. Some of the rag fragments drifted up between his feet momentarily in the updraft.

  Standing up, he tied the two lengths of bell wire together in a loose knot and wrapped the married wires around a section of the truss base. He taped the bare connections, picked up the empty backpack, and then began threading the two lengths of bell wire under the eastbound track bed, across the catwalk, then under the westbound track bed, reaching down under the rails as he made his way back across to the upstream side.