Edited again!
50: Downfall
Trans-Andean Tunnel, Ciudad Real-
His wrist comm beeped repeatedly before Virgil Tracy got a chance to respond. He was on the ladder the firsttime, descending in slow, careful steps to the rickety passenger car below. The truck… in fact, the whole upper deck… appeared ready to go.
He'd stepped off the bottom rung, was standing by to brace Officer De la Pays' descent, when the tunnel ventilators finally cut on. A low, droning hum filled the air, which all at once began to move, taking smoke, steam and stinging chemicals along with it.
The Chilean fire-rescue team began to cheer, slapping each other (and Virgil) on the back. Together with the arrival of a mobile crane, and the safe rescue of three more passengers, the rapidly clearing air was the best development they'd had all night. Things were looking up.
Virgil allowed himself to be cycled out of action along with the first rapid intervention team. Yeah, he could use a cup of strong coffee, a chance to visit the head, and to answer his comm, which was becoming pretty insistent.
"Go ahead, Brains," he said, lifting his wrist after a few swallows of dark, head-clearing brew. He had to raise his voice, for the place where he stood (just beyond the zone of greatest hazard) was a chaos of exhausted firemen, busy field medics and ambulance crews. Very noisy.
The engineer's narrow face flashed onto his wrist comm's tiny screen. In an agitated voice, Hackenbacker snapped,
"Virgil, I've s- scanned both tunnels across the, ah… the spectrum, and I b- believe that we m- may have an intruder."
It took a moment for that idea to roll around and lock into place.
"An intruder…?" Virgil repeated. "Like a saboteur or something?"
"P- Possibly," Brains responded, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with a tense finger jab. "He's in the, ah… the freight tunnel, f- for no official purpose, and a- appears to be carrying s- something about the, ah… the size of a sh-shoebox."
Virgil drained the rest of his coffee in one scalding swallow. Handing the cup off to a female civil defense worker (who smiled at him), he said,
"Bomb?"
"M- my conjecture would be yes, Virgil; but, ah… but a clumsy one. Reminds me of the R- Red Path. The best scan I could a- achieve detected some pretty Paleolithic c- chemistry."
Worse and worse.
"But, enough to bring down a weakened structure."
"E- enough for that, yes. Unless we, ah… we stop him."
Virgil rolled his aching shoulders. Beneath the IR version of a fireman's turnout gear, he still wore a pistol.
"Okay. I'm on it, Brains. Heading for the upper freight deck. Warn city authority, and get me our friend's exact location, if you would."
"FAB, Virgil," the engineer replied, signing out.
Forgetting his helmet and air mask (but scooping a couple of wrapped sandwiches from a nearby cart), Virgil Tracy shook off the need for rest and made his way back through the crowded staging area. A few moments later, he'd stepped through an access door and into the service tunnel. There'd be a wall ladder, somewhere…
His departure was noticed. Still beside the sandwich cart, Juan De la Pays glanced over at an equally puzzled Ignacio Velez. Both men belonged to Ladder 37, and were often partnered during search and rescue situations. Neither spoke fluent English, but…
"Y el…? Que hace?" Velez inquired, finishing a roast beef sandwich in two ravenous bites. ('And him…? What's he doing?')
De la Pays shrugged, equally confused.
"No se, 'Nacio… Pero, oi la palabra 'bomba', y eso no me gusta. Creo que no es confusado, pero nunca sabes, con Yanquis."
('Dunno, Nacio… but I heard the word 'bomb', and that I don't like. Don't think he's confused, but you never know, with Yanks.')
Velez nodded feelingly, then tossed away the sandwich wrapper, seized a few more, and said,
"Claro, muchacho. Vamos a ver si podemos ayudar."
('That's for sure, buddy. Let's go see if we can help.')
"Effe-Ay-Bee."
A called-in word to their chief (that the IR agent was wandering into danger alone and without full equipment) got the two firemen clearance to follow and, if necessary, provide assistance. Genuinely concerned, for no-one, ever, was supposed to enter a danger zone without backup, Velez and De la Pays sped off in Virgil Tracy's wake.
As for the 'Yanqui', he'd chased his sandwiches down with another alertness tablet. Virgil normally didn't do that, because it was artificial pep, and he'd pay for it later, in spades. John could manage 72 hours at a stretch that way, but his odd brother definitely tended to become more impatient and abrasive the longer he fought sleep. Or… well… maybe he was that way to begin with.
The service tunnel was narrow and flat bottomed. A stark, grey-concrete passage braced with steel, it had battery operated emergency lanterns spaced ten feet apart on ceiling and walls. There were location placards posted beside each of the access doors Virgil jogged past, with a red dot to indicate his current position and an escape route marked in bright green.
He was at S-12 (counting away from Chile, toward Brazil), while Brains' terse intel placed the bomber up in F-23, dodging detection like a pro. Virgil had to intercept him before he reached the wreck site.
Weakened by fire and crash stress, this end of the Trans-Andean tunnel might be brought down by even a pipe bomb, if properly positioned. Nor could they simply evacuate and hope for the best. No time. There were too many truck drivers trapped in the chain-reaction pile up above, and rail passengers still to be cut free, below. Not to mention a great many fire-rescue, civil defense and med personnel who, learning of the added danger, would refuse to leave. Not that Virgil blamed them. Just like International Rescue, they were here to help, and they wouldn't quit before their job was done.
The ventilators were much louder, heard through the narrow shaft of the service tunnel. Their deep,B-flat minorthrumming made his insides vibrate. All this and a free massage, too… what a deal.
There were echoing thumps and rattles, occasional bursts of static from his wrist comm, and wisps of gusty smoke. (Too bad about the air mask, but maybe one of the responding units upstairs would have a spare smoke hood he could borrow.)
S-15… 16…
Virgil wanted to head the guy off, or he'd have climbed directly to the freight deck. But it made more sense to stay below for the moment; no wreckage, faster movement.
S-17: As far as he could go without risk of overshooting his quarry. Like all the others, this door was painted red, with white block lettering indicating that it opened onto the rail deck. Beside the door, a steel ladder was bolted, rising through a separate shaft to the levels above.
Virgil tipped his head back to squint upward. The freight deck's access door was just visible amid the shaft's dense shadows. About 50 feet, maybe… A long climb, in his current condition. Oh, well… 'No time like the present', as Gordon would have put it.
Brains called in again, just as he was addressing the first rung. Virgil hit the comm, but kept climbing. Reach and pull… step and shove upward… and, damn, it was hot…!
"…With M- Minister Paniagua… are you listening, Virgil? He's got, ah… got ground t- troops on the way, I said, and th- there are some, ah… some police units h- helping with the ex- extractions. But 'our friend' h- has evaded them all so far. You've g- got to find a way to, ah… to stop him, Virgil. I've concluded m- my analysis of the, ah… the tunnels, and can predict w- with reasonable accuracy that the f- freight deck will, ah… will n- not survive another insult. If our f- friend delivers his package, we'll lose this end of tunnel, and, ah… and everyone in it."
"Mm-hmmm," was the best Virgil could manage. Getting sort of winded… longer climb than it looked like from underneath… But Brains had the decency to shut up for awhile, and he'd endured worse in pre-season training camp. (Six years ago.)
Door, red, marked F-17, with two feet of projecting concrete ledge in front. Virgil was shaking like a Chihuahua by the time he'd hauled himself high enough to unlatch the steel access panel. He felt it, first, because you never knew about fire. Stuff had the damndest way of creeping back through the eaves and between floors, lying in wait to lash out and get you. Door was cool to the touch, though.
So, very gently, making as little noise as possible, Virgil leaned away from the wall ladder, and pushed the red door. He was perched at the side opposite the hinges, able to peep through the space formed, as it swung open. Naturally, Brains picked that precise moment to call in again.
"V- Virgil, I believe that I, ah… I d-did emphasize the need f- for expedient action?"
At this point, he was ready to hurl his wrist comm to the distant service tunnel floor. Bonus, if only he could have nailed Hackenbacker at the same time. Expedient action…?
Naw… he was sitting here buffing his nails and reading a damn comic book, what else?
Fortunately (for Brains) Virgil didn't have the wind to snap what was blasting through his head, just then. All that came forth was a slightly strangled,
"Uh-huh."
The ladder climbed through its tight chimney of a shaft, at the end of which lay a third door, this one accessing the private vehicle deck. Just above that was a very loud, rustily screeching ventilator. Virgil, however, went no higher.
Cautiously, he moved his left foot from ladder to door ledge. Tested it first, from long force of habit; then shifted the rest of his weight, and the other foot. Another gentle nudge pushed the door further open, allowing him to step within. After that… maybe it was stupid, but he was hot and very tired…Virgil shrugged off his fireproof jacket and let it drop to the floor. (Seemed like hours since that coffee break.)
He halted a moment, to look and listen. The freight deck was bigger, with a taller ceiling, weak central lighting strip, and a high stream of oily smoke headed for glory in the nearest ventilation fan. The space was divided into three lanes; two for traffic, one in the middle for emergency access, with lots of 'no passing' signs in every conceivable language.
From the Chilean end of the tunnel he heard rumbling cranes and groaning metal. Shouting voices, too… but raised in command, rather than alarm. Other way…? Virgil got his breathing under control, trying to hear past the fans, the heavy equipment, and his own pulse.
Nothing, at first, but then… a furtive scuffing, maybe? From someone who didn't want to be noticed?
Shutting the door behind him, Virgil eased his way forward. He was a hunter and fisherman; he knew how to move softly. A deft movement opened the cover on his holstered pistol. He might not need it, but it seemed best to be prepared.
John (who defined sneaky) might plot a subtler ambush, and Gordon was undeniably a better shot, but Virgil Tracy had merits of his own, chief among them being strength and sheer determination.
(What about Scott…? He thought too much. There was always that hesitation before pulling the trigger that nine times out of ten ended up getting him in trouble. He was the only person Virgil had ever known who'd actually had a gun shot out of his hand. Twice. World of difference, apparently, between launching a sidewinder, and firing a pistol at close range.)
A couple of paces forward, staying close to the tunnel wall. Growl of heavy machinery and squealing fans covering his footfalls.
…And there he was, three lanes away, in the shadows at the other side of the freight deck. Middle-aged guy in a business suit, about Gordon's height, but skinnier. He was carrying something… a parcel of some kind…under one arm. Appeared pretty nervous, too, moving in fits and starts, his eyes on the rescue activity ahead. Might as well have been carrying a sign: up to no good.
On second look, nothing particularly identified him as Red Path, except that he was here, carrying that piece-of-crap kitchen bomb. Just in case, though, Virgil decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Stepping away from the shadowed wall, hand at his holster, he called out,
"Excuse me, Sir! This is a dangerous area! I'll have to ask you to…"
Dammit! The guy whirled (literally jumping off the ground) took one look at Virgil, and began to run. Toward the hole, at first; until Virgil's 'out of the backfield, game-winning touchdown' surge cut him off. Then the guy broke the other way, as though he had any hope at all of escaping a former all-American running back.
Virgil pursued, hurtling concrete lane barriers and gaining on the man, who refused to halt, or to part with his crappy bomb.
"Stop!" Virgil shouted. Almost had him…
There were other voices from behind, now, but he didn't have time to look. Five feet between them…
The noise of their racing footsteps seemed thunderous, awakening echoes from concrete and tile and red-painted doors. The guy swerved, dodging Virgil's first grab, but didn't get away from the second.
Virgil's big hand caught hold of a polyester sleeve, closing tight on harsh cloth and bony shoulder. He yanked the older man around to face him, as they skidded to a halt in the middle of the east-bound lane.
"Hand it… here…. Mister," Virgil panted, taking hold of the parcel. Others were closing in, now, from both ends of the tunnel. "It's over."
But the man (weasel-y looking guy, with sparse, graying hair and a moustache) did not seem especially concerned. Instead of fighting, he gave Virgil a sharp, triumphant glare.
"No, Senor," he hissed. "Not yet, it is not."
Then he crushed his jaws together, hard. Affixed to a back tooth was a glass suicide capsule. Bitten open, it released a mixture of hydrogencyanide gas, which the smiling assassin made sure to cough in Virgil's face, before dying.