Zero Hour - Cussler Clive - Страница 31

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Kurt flipped the radio back on, switching channels until he heard someone speaking.

“… do not allow the train to pass,” another Russian-sounding voice was saying.

Kurt broke in as soon as the frequency cleared. “Whoever you are in the truck, I’d move if I were you.”

Kirov’s voice came next. “Driver, if you move that truck, I will personally cut your heart out.”

Two hundred feet from impact, with the train beginning to gain momentum, the truck driver made a decision that split the difference. He threw open the door, jumped from the rig, and ran for the hills.

“Didn’t see that coming,” Joe muttered.

“Oh no,” Hayley gasped.

“You have to stop now,” Kirov threatened.

“Don’t stop,” Kurt told the burly Australian engineer.

“No worries,” the big man said.

“I really don’t want to be in a train wreck,” Hayley cried.

The engineer looked at Hayley. “Don’t worry, love,” he said. “At this speed, we’re not really a train anyway.”

The truck was only a hundred feet ahead.

“What are we, then?” Hayley asked.

The engineer grinned manically and held the shuddering engine’s throttle wide open. “The world’s largest, most powerful bulldozer!”

There was something both inspiring and borderline crazy about the engineer. Either way, he wasn’t slowing down. And Kurt was glad for that.

“Brace yourselves!” the engineer shouted.

The last hundred feet vanished in ten seconds. The rumbling train thundered into the broadside of the truck, shoving it forward. The diesels alone weighed six hundred thousand pounds. The sheer power they were generating, and the weight of the entire train, made quick work of the truck, lifting it and then discarding it to the right as if it were made of tin.

The impact was incredibly loud, a thundering boom followed by the wrenching sound of shredding aluminum. The feeling was like that of a ship breaking a large wave. The train shouldered through the blow with great power. The headlights blew out, and the windshield cracked, but the safety glass stayed in place. And when the last bits of the truck were finally tossed aside and sent tumbling down the embankment, the train itself was still on the tracks.

Four cars back, the impact had felt like a sudden application of the brakes. Kirov and his partner had to grab the handholds to keep from being thrown to the ground. They saw the remnants of the truck thrown off to the side and felt the train continuing on, accelerating smoothly once again.

“How are we going to get into that locomotive now?” his partner asked. “They’ll be waiting to pick us off the second we open the door. If we can even get there, that is. There’s no door between the two engines. They’re separate units.”

“Maybe we could go on the roof,” Kirov said.

Even as he suggested it, Kirov considered the insanity of the attempt. He’d seen it many times in the movies, but he doubted it was really possible. To walk on a swaying train roof in a fifty-mile-per-hour slipstream was not really feasible. Crawling might work, especially if they got up there before the train picked up too much speed.

Before he came to any conclusions, the sound of an announcement came over the public-address speakers.

“This is Kurt Austin,” the voice said. “We’ve taken the train back from the hijackers and are resuming our regularly scheduled journey. To the passengers of the Ghan: we apologize for any inconvenience tonight’s festivities may have caused. A satellite link has been established with dispatch. They’ve been apprised of our situation and assure us that help is on the way.

“To the hijackers who came on board during our unscheduled stop: if you want to end up surrounded by Australian SWAT teams and military units, then, please, sit back, relax, and make yourself comfortable. Otherwise… get off this train!”

To Kirov’s surprise, a cheer went up from the passengers. It rang out through the compartment and echoed around him on all sides.

He looked at his partner. “The tables have turned.”

Both of them started for the door together. Ten seconds later, they were standing in the open space between the two cars, staring at the ground as it began to roll by at an ever-faster clip.

One car behind, a man jumped and tumbled across the gravel. It looked to Kirov like an agonizing landing. Two more followed, doing little better with their dismounts.

“We have to jump,” Kirov’s partner said.

Kirov didn’t want to jump, but the alternative was worse. Capture followed by embarrassment, suicide, or imprisonment as a spy and a terrorist. He looked ahead for an open spot. “You first!”

Without delay, Kirov’s partner launched himself. He seemed to land and tumble more than slide.

The train’s horn howled through the night, and Kirov knew time was running out. Any faster and he’d be facing certain death. He took a deep breath and stepped into the breach.

For a long second, he flew, waving his arms for balance. Then he landed sideways and tried to tuck and roll. His face slammed into the gravel. His neck and shoulders were wrenched in the process. He flipped several times, covered at least fifty feet, and ended up facedown in an unconscious heap the second time in less than an hour.

In the forward engine, Kurt, Joe, and the engineer were celebrating as the Ghan continued to pick up speed and leave the original hijackers behind. Hayley was in a seat, shaking and looking like she might be sick.

“Are you going to be okay?” Kurt asked, moving a wastepaper basket into range just in case she wasn’t.

“I think so,” she said. “At least that’s over.”

“Good,” he replied. “Because as soon as we make the next stop, we’re hopping on a helicopter and flying the rest of the way.”

She looked up at him, her eyes bulging out. “Helicopter accident rates are five times higher than that of passenger trains…”

The words trailed off. It was too much, too fast. She turned toward the bucket and promptly threw up.

Dirk Pitt stepped from the elevator and onto the tenth floor as soon as the doors opened. Unlike the other floors of the NUMA building, the tenth had no receptionist to check people in or workers busy with different tasks. In fact, the only real noise in the open space came from the hum of exhaust fans and the climate-control unit that kept the computer servers and other processers cooled to the correct temperature.

Walking at a brisk pace, Dirk passed through the symmetrical stacks of computing power. Somewhere in the center, he found the goal of his search: a man with a long ponytail, wearing blue jeans and a corduroy shirt.

The lanky figure stood in the middle of three rectangular glass screens that were the size and shape of full-length mirrors. In fact, the arrangement was somewhat like that of a department store fitting room, which allows the customer to view his or her potential clothing purchase from all angles.

In this case, the angled glass screens did not reflect much, except perhaps the obsessive nature of their designer and chief user: one Hiram Yaeger.

Yaeger was a certified genius. He’d been designing and building computers since he was twelve years old. At NUMA, he’d been given almost unlimited resources to build his own systems, collect his own data, and apply it how he saw fit. The tenth floor of the NUMA building had long been given over to Yaeger’s machines. In recent years, he’d expanded, taking over portions of the eleventh, much to the chagrin of the meteorology group, who were moved to the basement.

In a constant search for the most efficient human/machine interface, Yaeger had redesigned his system countless times over the years. He used multiple keyboards, voice activation, even virtual reality and talking holograms. This setup was his latest.

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