47: The Tunnel
Ciudad Real, the Atacama desert, Chile-
They'd surged along the dust-washed highway, flanked by noisy police cars and urban assault vehicles. Crowds of motorists, forced off the road by the Chilean authorities, watched the strange convey rumble past. Some cheered; others gestured defiantly or turned away, too accustomed to chaos and spectacle to work up much interest. Just as well, considering how many opportunities there were for a quick, saleable photo. Firefly had no invisibility field, and Virgil had other things on his mind.
A chain of geysers fired off in the middle distance, shooting great clouds of super-heated steam high into the desert air. Further away, at the foot of the Andes, he glimpsed the sullen glow of cooling lava. All this, and geologically active, too; terrific place for a tunnel…
Pressed for time, Virgil floored Firefly's accelerator pedal, but couldn't wring much more out of her. The small vehicle was built for endurance, not speed, but at last Ciudad Real crested the horizon, all glare and noise and civil confusion.
Virgil got a quick impression of tall loading cranes, huge warehouses and damaged quays frantic with activity. Then they turned off the Pan-American Highway. The usual route being blocked with refugees, their police escort led Firefly through the narrow lanes ofan evacuated residential neighborhood which she was too bulky to safely negotiate.
Virgil winced as Firefly's treads clawed through the trunk of a parked car, then plowed over someone's fence.
"Sorry, folks," he murmured, genuinely upset, "I'll replace it first thing tomorrow."
And the striped swing set, the garage, the flower shop…
Thankfully, they soon reached downtown Real, and the tunnel'swest entrance. Rising amid pink marble office buildings, it looked less like a tube than some kind of smoke-spouting, triple off-ramp. Accident victims and local rescue crews poured from the tunnel, crowding the entrance lanes and robot toll booths as well as several dozen side streets. Nor were these the only impediments; glaring-bright construction lamps had been set up around a small village of triage tents, creating a veritable obstacle course.Virgil and Brains were forced to wait fifteen long, frustrating minutes while a path was cleared for Firefly and the modified elevator car.
When at last it was safe to do so, Virgil maneuvered cautiously past crowded toll booths and onto the lowest tier; the bullet-train level. This section had the highest clearance, 35 ft, and lay just beneath the commercial freight lane. According to one Manuel Paniagua (the city transport minister) both levels had been severely damaged, starting four miles into the throat of the tunnel, and continuing a considerable distance beyond.
What had happened was this: Braman's sudden collapse had caused a city-wide power outage and systems crash. By the time power was restored, approximately ten minutes later, a harbor-bound freighter had gone amok, smashing through two separate loading docks and into a warehouse, while a pair of bullet trains got their signals crossed.
The first train, receiving data that indicated trouble ahead, slowed to a 20 mile-an-hour crawl. The second train, the 5:50 from Lima, gathered instead that the tunnel was about to be closed to traffic. Automatically, its computerized throttle engaged, causing the train to surge forward.
(In later years, the tunnel authority would switch to human conductors, but at the time, full automation had seemed the wave of the future.)
5:50 from Lima rear-ended the slower train at about 150 miles per hour. There was, according to survivors, a tremendous crash, followed by the shrill screams of jack-knifing train cars and tearing metal. The slower train's middle four cars piled up and over one another, punching a twenty-foot hole in the floor of the level above. Concrete and steel rained down. A big freight truck plunged halfway through the sudden gap, its cab dangling in mid-air above the shifting, settling train wreck. Fuel hissed from the truck's deeply scored side tanks. Sparks flared, and then fire.
Sensing a heat pulse, the tunnel's sprinklers cut on, spraying jets of icy water and flame retardant in all directions. And all at once, the Trans-Andean Tunnel was a hell of billowing steam and shrill sirens, flickering lights and panicked cries. People rushed about, calling for help on their cell phones or pulling others out of the smashed and twisted vehicles. Those who could, limped for the near opening, but many were forced to retreat further within.
The truck driver had struck his head upon the steering wheel. He was unconscious, with traffic piling up behind his crashed truck in a chain reaction wreck that quickly reached three-and-a-half miles.
When Virgil and Brains reached the mouth of the tunnel, local rescue crews had already evacuated the private vehicle lanes. All of the personal cars were out. They were working now on the weakened freight tier, using ceiling-mounted cranes to pry the traffic jam apart and release trapped drivers. But the badly damaged bottom level, filled with smoldering wreckage and terrified passengers, they just weren't equipped to deal with. Fortunately, help had arrived.