The Empire Runaway Read online

  Sam laughs. “So, what are your orders, Chief Maureen?”

  “Let’s head on down to the train since it’s already arrived, and I’ll fill you in more there.”

  She starts walking toward the escalators that will take them down to the train platforms.

  “Sounds great, Chief.”

  She stops, turns. “Don’t call me, Chief, Sam,” she says. “I’m nothing of the sort.”

  She starts walking again. A train whistle can be heard blowing outside the terminal. Soon, Sam will be traveling again. Traveling and protecting. He focuses in on Maureen’s nearly perfect backside and the way it sways gently and gracefully as she walks.

  “I’m gonna like working on a train after all,” he whispers to himself.

  3

  Sam and Maureen occupy a booth in the café car. Since the passengers have yet to board the train, the car is empty, except for an Amtrak blue-uniformed African American woman working the café counter. Both of them have steaming Styrofoam cups of hot coffee set before them.

  “So, if I may be so bold,” Maureen says, both her hands wrapped around her coffee cup. “I’ve been wondering why you got busted down to train duty.”

  “The Mile-High Club,” Sam reveals. He steals a sip of the still too hot coffee.

  Maureen’s already big eyes go wider. “Excuse me?”

  “Prior to my neutralizing that Islamic terrorist bomber at thirty-three thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean, I engaged in a small tryst with a woman named Mary in one of the aircraft’s economy class lavatories.”

  “Thirty-three thousand feet in the air,” Maureen responds.

  “There’s roughly five-thousand-two-hundred-eighty feet in a mile,” he says. “Thus, The Mile-High Club. Maybe you belong already.”

  She smiled.

  “Why don’t they call it the Five-Mile-High Club?” she poses.

  “I guess they’ve never done the proper math.”

  “Well, Sam, my life revolves around rails. I’m rarely more than four feet off the ground.”

  “They have clubs for that too.”

  “That a proposition, Sam Savage?”

  “Call it what you want. But I don’t see a rock on that finger.” He points at her hand. “And you certainly don’t see a ring on mine.” For a quick instant, Lauren’s face enters his brain, but he quickly tries to move on from it.

  “I was married once,” she says. “It didn’t last two years. It was torture for us both because I was never home, and when I was home, he got on my nerves.”

  “Don’t you hate when that happens?”

  “I’m not the marrying type,” the Amtrak security chief says. “What about you?” she asks.

  “I’m never home,” he says. “Just like you. But I do enjoy my trysts.”

  “Preferably in swiftly moving modes of transport, apparently.” Another smile.

  That’s a good sign, Sam thinks. He drinks more coffee.

  “So, back to why was I busted?” Sam says.

  “Your boss, Carl Dater,” Maureen says. “He told you you’re being punished for your . . . let’s call them indiscretions in the air. But the reality is that we need you. We need a man of your talents.”

  “How so?”

  She drinks some coffee then sets the cup off to the side. Leaning in toward Sam, she gestures for him to come closer. He complies.

  “Our experts have uncovered specific intelligence that leads us to believe a hijacking is not only probable but imminent. A hijacking of the Islamic terrorist variety.”

  Sam feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention.

  “For the Empire Run?”

  “That’s the thing,” Maureen says. “We don’t know for sure. All we know is the intelligence points to Amtrak’s Eastern Seaboard runs. The event, or events, could take place on any number of trains that run up and down the east coast . . . from Maine to Florida.”

  “So, you’ve had to take on a whole bunch of sky marshals,” Sam suggests.

  “Dozens,” she says. “You won the lottery. You got the Empire Run.” Looking over one shoulder then the other. “Now, here’s the thing. The terrorist, or terrorists, aren’t going to be anything like your laptop bomber. They won’t stick out like a sore thumb. No red-tinged beards, no prayer beads, no cheap suits, nothing to indicate these are men or women here to destroy western civilization as we know it.”

  “They’re blending in, in other words.”

  “Their Caliphate has been destroyed. They have nowhere to call home. When it was bombed into submission, the bastards spread like cockroaches across the entire planet. But what’s worse, so did their ideology. So, now what we have to deal with is your average white male who looks like he should be mowing the lawn, or grilling burgers and dogs in the backyard, or going bowling with the boys. Instead, he decides to shoot up a country music concert in Vegas, or plant complex IEDs inside unmarked packages down in Austin, Texas, or even shoot up a high school.”

  “Muslim radicalization of the Western Judeo/Christian masses,” Sam says, feeling his pulse pick up speed, his mouth go dry.

  “It’s not widely reported, Sam, but with the Caliphate now history, ISIS and Al Qaeda are focusing most of their efforts on creating a Jihad from within. Forming a fifth column, if you will. By radicalizing the average white male and female via the Internet and Dark Net, we are about to face one of the most dangerous enemies any man or woman has ever faced precisely because we have no way of identifying them before they begin their particular brand of slaughter.”

  Sam drinks more of the now cooling coffee, but what he really wants at this point is a nerve-calming beer.

  “So, what’s the plan?” he asks.

  The train whistle blows and the doors to the cars open. Passengers immediately begin to pile in, some of them heading straight for the café car where they’ll spend the entire two-and-a-half-hour trip utilizing the café tables as a mobile desktop.

  “Come with me,” Maureen says, getting up. “I’ll explain more while we get underway.”

  4

  They scoot their way through five cars filled with people stowing their bags and luggage on the overhead racks. Men, women, kids, and folks of all varieties and ages. It’s a madhouse. Coffees in hand, they manage to get beyond them without causing an incident until they come to the engine.

  “Follow me, Sam,” Maureen says.

  Exiting the final car, the two head outside and onto a very short, very narrow exterior gangway to a metal door that accesses the diesel locomotive. Stepping inside, Sam feels like he’s entered not a locomotive, but instead, a submarine. The long, narrow space smells of diesel fuel; and the noise of the engine, while not deafening, is loud enough to drown his thoughts. Sam feels the powerful vibrations of the purring engine through the soles of his boots.

  To his right is a cramped bathroom that appears to be used more for storage than bodily functions. To his left, a massive floor-to-ceiling power house containing two over-sized, rectangular batteries that store electrical power for use when the engine is being operated inside a closed environment. Directly ahead, the cantilevered windshield. And directly below that, the main instrument panel. Set before the panel are two bucket seats and mounted to the wall beside the port-side—or left seat—is a throttle that must power the engine, or so Sam assumes. There’s also a retractable knob that more than likely engages the train’s horn blasters. Or so Sam guesses.

  There to greet them stands a short stocky man dressed in baggy jeans and a khaki work-shirt similar to Sam’s. His hair is blond, his eyes blue, and his face freshly shaved. Sam pegs him for maybe thirty-five.

  “Visitors,” Blond Man says, not without a pleasant smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Maureen?”

  “Morgan, this is my friend, Sam,” she says. “He’s a reporter doing a story on modern-day train travel, in particular, the old Empire Run. I thought it would be nice if he paid a visit to the locomotive.”

  She’s fibbing, Sam real
izes. But is she fibbing for my benefit, or for the sake of the overall mission? Could be that fibbing or lying is a big part of Amtrak security SOP? Or does she suspect Morgan is up to no good?

  Morgan pulls off his oil and fuel-stained leather glove, holds out his hand.

  “Put ‘er there,” he says, smiling, his voice an octave higher than most men his age.

  Sam takes the hand in his, squeezes. It’s a fleshy hand, cold, palm sweaty. Precisely the kind of hand Sam hates to touch. In the meantime, he’s got his eyes glued to the locomotive’s instrument panel. There are more lights, knobs, and switchgear triggers than Sam knows what to do with. Also present are two computer screens that display multi-colored data in the form of horizontal lines that move as the locomotive moves. A laptop computer is mounted to the instrument panel, its screen presenting a condensed version of what is being broadcast on the larger screens.

  “How does it all work, Morgan?” Sam asks, doing his best to play the role of reporter.

  Morgan takes on a satisfied grin like he enjoys the soapbox.

  “What you see all around you,” he says, “what you feel under your feet, and what you hear inside your head, is all the brainchild of inventor Dr. Rudolph Diesel who designed the diesel engine all the way back in 1892. When the diesel fuel ignites, it pushes the pistons that are connected to that electrical powerhouse behind you. The electricity then powers the motors attached to the wheels.”

  “What’s so different about diesel compared to regular combustion engines?” Sam asks.

  “Good question, Sam,” Morgan says. “You see, a diesel engine is an internal engine that utilizes the heat generated by the compression of air during the upward cycles of each engine stroke. The heat ignites the fuel, generating the power.”

  “I get it, Morgan,” Sam says. “What if the engines were to get too hot?”

  “Too hot?”

  “What I mean is, what if the engine were to run out of control? Would it melt down?”

  “I see what you’re getting at,” Morgan says. “It’s a constant battle making sure the engines are cool enough to operate, but also generating the necessary heat required to move tons upon tons of freight and/or passenger cars.” He crosses his arms over his barrel chest. “Mark my word, if things were to get out of control, the system wouldn’t melt down so much as explode. That would be a disaster for both me and first two cars behind me.”

  A cold chill runs up and down Sam’s backbone. He recalls the many runaway train accidents that have occurred as of late in both Europe and United States. Trains crashing into station barriers, jumping the rails and rolling down steep embankments, plus one train that skipped the tracks on a tall trestle bridge out in Colorado and ended up plummeting two hundred feet into a deep, rocky gorge, killing all aboard. And to think some people are afraid of flying.

  “But in the end,” Morgan goes on, “locomotives like this one, run on both diesel and electricity because both costs less than gas.”

  “It all comes down to the dollar, doesn’t it?” Sam says.

  “Money is the God of America, is it not, Sam?” Morgan poses, a strange grin plastered on his face.

  Just then, a radio coughs.

  “Morgan, you there? Over,” comes a tinny voice through the conductor’s belt-mounted walkie-talkie.

  “Excuse me for a moment, Sam,” Morgan says, pulling the radio from his thick leather belt. “We ready to go, over?”

  “Ready. Get her moving, Blondie. Over.”

  “Roger that. And don’t call me Blondie. Over.”

  Morgan returns the radio to his belt. “Well, as you no doubt heard, it’s time for me and this big hunk of machinery to get to work. We’ve got a few hundred souls that badly wish to get to New York safe and sound. Good luck with your article, Sam.”

  The conductor holds out his hand once more. Sam begrudgingly shakes it.

  “Thanks for the tour, Morgan,” Maureen says.

  “My pleasure, Maureen. Anytime.”

  He follows Sam and Maureen back down the narrow corridor to the door. Maureen opens it, and together, she and Sam step back out onto the gangway. When the door is shut behind Sam, he swears he makes out the distinctive noise of a deadbolt being applied.

  Oh well, Sam thinks to himself. Deadbolts on locomotive doors must be as SOP as lockable cockpit doors are on airliners. Both modes of transport need to protect themselves from hijackers and terrorists bent on creating a really bad day for a whole lot of innocent passengers.

  In essence, that’s what Sam is . . . an extension of that deadbolt.

  5

  Now occupying the first passenger car, Maureen leads Sam back through a series of carriages—or cars—that house seated passengers. They once again enter the café car and take their places at the one table that’s still open.

  “We seem to have lost our coffees along the way, Sam,” Maureen says. “Would you like another?”

  “How about a beer?” he says.

  “It’s nine in the morning, and we’re on the job. Nice try, Savage.”

  “Worth a shot. So then, what’s the plan, Stan?”

  Maureen produces two rings from her leather coat pocket. One is a gold band, and another is a diamond. She shoves the diamond on her wedding finger.

  “Hope it fits, hubby,” she says.

  More deception, he thinks. First, I’m a reporter interested in trains. Now, I’ve suddenly got a ball and chain.

  Sam tries the ring on for size. To his amazement, it fits.

  “We’re married suddenly, Maureen? Thought you no longer believed in the sacred institution?”

  “For now, we pretend we’re just your normal everyday married couple, enjoying a trip to New York City for the weekend. That way, we blend in with the crowd. We’re incognito, like spies.”

  “Incognito,” Sam repeats. Then, with a sly grin. “So, if we’re married, that means we’re lovers too.”

  “Something along those lines,” Maureen admits, while rapidly blinking her starry hazel eyes, and gazing at the ceiling. “We were lovers. But I’m afraid that lately, I’ve been seeking out men who are more endowed than you are. It means I’ve been a naughty girl.”

  “Are you sleeping with Morgan, the conductor? I knew Blondie was up to no good.”

  “My, but what a big locomotive he has,” Maureen says, once more blinking her eyelashes rapidly.

  “Cheater,” Sam says, twisting the ring on his finger. “I should have known you’d mess around on me. I wanna divorce. I get the house and the Billy Joel records.”

  Maureen gazes up and down the busy café car as if making sure no one is taking particular notice of the couple. She gets up, comes around the table, seats herself directly beside Sam—so close he can smell her lavender scent.

  “I’ve been a really bad, bad girl, Sam,” she says, setting her hand on his thigh. “I think I need a spanking.”

  I’m beginning to love Amtrak trains, Sam thinks.

  “You are indeed a naughty girl,” Sam says.

  She squeezes his thigh.

  “What was that you said about the Mile-High Club, Sam Savage?”

  “I believe I referred to myself as a proud member.”

  “And it’s me who’s the naughty one?”

  “Well, you are my wife, after all, Maureen.”

  “Have you ever heard of the Mile-Long Club?” she says, squeezing his thigh a second time.

  Sam feels a start in his heart. He also feels something happening inside his jeans. It’s a rather tight feeling, but pleasant at the same time.

  “I don’t believe I have,” he says.

  Maureen gazes over her shoulder once more.

  “The handicap lavatory is nice and spacious. It’s presently unoccupied. Why don’t you meet me there in a couple of minutes, Mr. Savage? I want to see up close and personal just how true you are to your name and reputation.”

  “I’ll be there. Let’s hope we don’t make a whole lot of noise.”

  “Oh my,�
�� she says, “you might have to gag me.”

  Slipping out of the booth, Maureen makes her way out of the café car and into the car directly behind it where the handicap bathroom is located. Meanwhile, Sam stares out the window onto the Hudson River and smiles.

  “Everyone’s job should be this much fun,” he whispers to himself.

  Exactly two minutes pass before he slips out of the booth and heads for the connecting car. Passing through the noisy coupling compartment, he presses the rectangular black button that automatically opens the car door, and he steps inside. To his left is a luggage storage rack. Directly ahead of him, a long narrow aisle flanked by bucket seats. Everyone seems to have their heads down while they stare at their phone or laptop screens. A few scattered people are reading newspapers or magazines. A few appear to be sleeping.

  Sam might be having some fun playing married man with Maureen, but he’s still on duty as the sky marshal, even if he is operating on solid ground. It’s his job to observe everything and everyone, to look for anything that might seem odd or out of the norm. Admittedly, he’s got his eye out for anyone who might appear to be Muslim, be it a woman in a half burka or an adult male bearing a long scraggly beard and perhaps a Kufi on his head. Sam doesn’t go out of his way to profile people since he knows most Muslims are peace-loving people, but he’s also aware of this sad fact: Ninety-nine percent of the terroristic acts that occur worldwide come from Muslims. Mostly, the terrorism shows itself in the form of Muslims attacking fellow Muslims. But when a terrorist act occurs in the US, it is often the result of Muslims versus westerners.

  However, like Maureen said, a new breed of terrorist is emerging these days. They are radical Muslims who appear to be very much the average white bread male or female. They could be your best buddy, your next-door neighbor, or even a policeman or elected official. Internet indoctrination knows no bounds. But it’s still Sam’s job to sniff these evil wrongdoers out. Sniff them out and eradicate them before another 9/11 occurs.