Joe looked up from his work with a start, his ears pricking up as he sniffed,
sampling the wind. What was that? He strained to hear above the steady
background noise of the city behind him. He could have sworn that he had just
heard the distant, mournful sound of a steam locomotive whistle.
Joe was working in a small, west-facing canyon in the coastal mountains of Orange
County. Surrounded by brush and trees, he was working in an electrical cabinet in
a small clearing on a slope above the canyon floor. A tiny brook burbled a few
hundred feet away, below his position. While looking very much like a rural
location, the swank homes of upscale Newport Beach were less than a half mile away
to the west and south.
The networking equipment in the cabinet before him was once again operational, the
remote computer booting itself up as he stood there watching. His laptop was
monitoring activity at the router’s console port, part of his mind casually
observed the proper network handshaking going on while the majority of his
attention concentrated on what he thought he had heard.
There it was again! But this time it didn’t sound so much like a locomotive
whistle as it did a...
Joe had two small holsters on his right hip. One of them held his "Leatherman"
multi-purpose work tool. Joe removed his GSM phone from the other holster.
Flipping it open, he spoke clearly into the device. "Hi. This is Joe."
"Joe?"
Joe unconsciously stood up straight. "Yeah boss, what’s up?"
There was a brief pause before Don Chadwicke spoke again. "Joe, I need you to come
back to the shop when you’re done there at OC44. How soon can you get back here?"
It briefly occurred to Joe to wonder why Don was using GSM minutes the company
would pay for to make this call, instead of using the dedicated two-way radio
system as they usually did for dispatch. Mentally shrugging his shoulders as his
tail wagged very briefly, Joe replied "I can be done here in about twenty to
thirty minutes, Don. I can be back on the hill..." Joe looked at his watch. "...
before lunch."
"That’ll be fine, Joe." Don paused again, for a much longer period of time. "Well,
thanks then. I’ll see you at lunch time."
Joe’s ears pricked again. Something about Don’s voice wasn’t right. Something was
bothering him. Figuring he’d find out what it was sooner or later, Joe said "OK
boss, see you then." He terminated the call.
Joe’s used a single claw to brush and tap the touchpad on his laptop, selecting
the screen that displayed his serial connection to the RTU computer’s console
port. He interrogated the UNIX machine for active processes, and was pleased to
see that the main application was already running. In a very few minutes he could
put his tools away, climb back into his line truck, and head off for the other end
of the county where SCWD’s plant was.
Joe glanced at the scattered stratus clouds low in the sky to the southwest. It
was a typical southern California morning in late November, with the air temp
about seventy degrees and the sky clear inland, a mild northeast breeze blowing.
The fire season was drawing to a close, they said on TV. One could never tell.
Joe observed several LEDs begin to flash in their standard routine on the various
I/O boards within the RTU. Smiling, he began to close windows and shut down his
laptop. His work here was done. Time to go see what was next on the day’s agenda.
# # #
Far to the east another telephone rang. A feline paw with excruciatingly sharp
claws gently lifted the pawset off the noisy instrument. It’s owner spoke quietly
into the pawset, the voice sounding almost mechanical in the caller’s ear.
"Yes?"
A familiar yet flat, unemotional voice with a slight southwestern accent stated "The interdiction you requested has commenced."
"Good, Hector. How soon before target acquisition?"
The coyote sighed in frustration. He’d been digging his paws in, lobbying against
this operation for weeks, but had only succeeded in backing himself into a corner
in the process. Now, as much as he wanted with every fiber of his being to not
do this, he was initiating the process.
"Thirty six hours at most." He paused to control his tone of voice, thinking
briefly of the bio describing the target’s wife and family. "I wanted to give him
a few hours to himself before I contact him."
The feline actually giggled. At least that was what Hector heard in his pawset. "Let him stew in his own juices for a while, eh? Very good!" The feline’s voice
hardened as the giggle suddenly disappeared from his tone. "Remember the primary
objective, my friend. Don’t ally yourself with your tools. Especially those of a
secondary, disposable nature."
The fur on Hector’s shoulders and upper back rose slightly at that. The brujo was
once again referring to the mixed ancestry of their target. By all things holy
Hector was not able to maintain his indifference towards that attitude, it was and
had been slowly eating away at him. The coyote drew a breath to calm himself and
curb the initial caustic reply that had formed in his mind.
"Sir. Until I see anything indicating otherwise, I will let his exemplary and
exceptional record in covert ops speak for itself. He has surpassed my
expectations in every operation he has concluded for us thus far. I have no reason
to question his loyalty or ability."
The feline paused momentarily in return. "Hector, your attachment and devotion to
those you consider distant kin is admirable, even remarkable. But it is misplaced,
my friend, and could be your undoing. You should guard against that."
Hector worked his mouth silently, as though something bitter had suddenly
materialized within it. Hijo de la gran puta ! This miserable housecat never
stops!
After correctly guessing his caller’s reaction to that last comment, The Director
paused for a few moments to let his coyote subordinate stew in his own
juices, a small smile spreading across his features. He reached to his desktop for
a small steel file with his free paw.
Hector continued to remain silent. He stood to gain nothing by pursuing this
conversation, so he simply stopped. Reaching for the cup of coffee on the desk
before him, he sipped quietly and stared out his window at the Chiricahua
mountains while listening to the steady respirations of his boss in his pawset.
After a good half minute of silence had stretched between them, The Director
inhaled noisily and said "I expect a report from you when target acquisition is
complete, Hector."
The coyote put his coffee cup back on his desk before replying. "You will have it,
sir."
"Good. I’ll look forward to hearing from you within forty eight hours, then."
The circuit went dead in Hector’s ear.
# # #
The snow continued to fall out of the gray Colorado sky, driven on by the ever-
increasing wind.
The furs had worked diligently in the storm. The front end loader and it’s crew
had worked their way through almost six hundred feet of rock, snow, and mud. The
front end loader would clear the debris down to the railhead, and then the ground
crew would follow behind with picks and shovels to clear a flangeway inside of the
rails. So far the exposed rails seemed undamaged, and the track had been checked
for proper gauge and alignment. Most of the material they removed had been spread
along the right of way below the slide area, but a couple of the larger boulders
had been dumped in the gondola for transport out of the narrow canyon.
The MofW furs were bundled up so effectively against the storm that it was
difficult to tell who was who. Paw signals sufficed for communications most of
the time, no one wanted to expose a muzzle to the sub-freezing temperatures and
the biting wind. As the weather conditions continued to deteriorate the work
became more and more difficult, reduced visibility caused visual communications to
suffer.
As the maintenance of way crew diligently attacked the slide, the crew of the 480
had taken the main and backed down the line in the heavy snowfall to the wye below
Cascade. Using picks, paw shovels, and fusees to thaw the switch points, the crew
had managed to turn the locomotive and caboose on the wye and slowly back up to
the downgrade end of the work train. The pilot plow on the 480 was now positioned
to clear the way for their return trip. Below Cascade the snow depth was
approaching four to six inches in some places.
Meanwhile, on the 478, Chris and Russ both performed their tasks as a locomotive
crew. Chris worked his way around the old K-28 with a hot water line, melting the
ice and snow from the running gear and brakes of the old engine. Right behind him
Russ would apply liberal amounts of valve oil to the running gear and chip away at
chunks of ice elsewhere on the locomotive with a paw-held pick. In this way they
prepared for their eventual departure and maintained their locomotive’s readiness.
Neither of them were aware of the 480’s return until one of the crewfurs from that
team approached them from downgrade, on foot.
"Hey Mark," Chris greeted his counterpart as he trudged towards him through the
snow and mud trackside. He stepped away from his work a bit and looked downgrade.
Nodding, he continued. "You guys got turned. Good."
The older tiger huffed a bit as he stopped, facing Chris and Russ. His blue eyes
were alight, a look of concern crossed his face. "Your work team have any idea how
much longer they’ll be?"
Motioning for the tiger to follow as he nodded, Chris began to retrace his steps
around the 478, gathering up the water line in his gloved paws as he went. Mark
automatically lent a paw, taking a few loose spools of hose from Chris as they
moved around the pilot of the locomotive. Chris looped up the rest of the line as
Mark trailed behind, carrying his share of the line. Once by the gangway on the
stoker’s side, Chris closed a valve and disconnected his line. He motioned with a
paw, and Mark tossed his burden up on the deck of the locomotive. Once Mark had
climbed the steps to the cab, Chris unloaded his portion of the line and climbed
aboard, following the tiger.
As he achieved the deck Chris noted that Russ was already seated at his station,
staring out his side window into the storm, chewing absently on his now cold
cigar. Chris piled his water line into a tool box on the tender deck and turned to
Mark. "Last report they had about a hundred and fifty feet to go. That was about
forty five minutes ago, when Alex came down here for another shovel to replace the
one he broke."
Mark watched as Chris reached for his own shovel and turned towards the tender
deck. The tiger seated himself on the stoker’s box, staying out of the way of
Chris’ work. With his left foot Chris kicked the doors of the firebox open and
began shoveling coal into the maw of the 478.
"It’s been a lot of years since I’ve seen it snow like this so early in the
season," Mark said to the coyote and the husky.
"It sure is thick," Russ agreed, talking to the snow falling outside.
As Mark opened his mouth to venture another comment they all heard a dull, deep
rumble, and the 478 began to dance nervously under them. Chris looked up from his
work into the suddenly wide eyes of his engineer.
"Avalanche!" Russ said in a hushed tone, not moving.
# # #
Joe slowly descended the half-dozen steps on the east side of SCWDs plant, exiting
the facility. As he made his way across the parking lot towards his personal truck
a large SCWD line truck rolled by on it’s way off the hill, the occupants nodding
and waving paws as they passed, smiling at him. Joe waved briefly in response.
Unlocking the driver’s door of his truck, Joe tossed his briefcase and jacket onto
the passenger seat. Placing a paw on the doorframe he slowly looked around him,
taking in the main building, the treatment plant, and the various shops and
outbuildings that comprised the SCWD facility. He spent long moments staring at
the American flag that fluttered from the pole at the opposite end of the parking
lot, near the main entrance of the administration building he had just walked out
of. As he watched the red and white stripes move in accordance with the wind
currents a red-tailed hawk landed on the small globe atop the pole. The bird
stared down at Joe, and Joe stared up at the bird. After several seconds of mutual
contemplation the hawk emitted a single, shrill cry and took flight. She soared on
the updrafts at the south edge of the parking lot, high overhead, and disappeared
from sight beyond some pine trees.
Muttering a single, strong expletive under his breath, Joe sighed as he sat in the
driver’s seat of his truck. He looked through his windshield at the broad expanse
of metro Orange County spread below him. Repeating the same expletive a little
more quietly, he started the engine of his truck and selected first gear.
Resisting the temptation to leave some rubber behind, he accelerated slowly out of
the parking lot and headed down the hill.
Joe was going home.
# # #
Even though the weather was pleasantly warm, Annie suddenly shivered at her desk
in her home office. The plasma display of her computer system seemed out of focus.
She stared at it for a few seconds, waiting for the chill to pass.
She felt oddly uneasy, as if she were slightly ill. Reaching for a remote, she got
up from her desk and turned on the TV in the entertainment center. After a few
seconds the usual senseless blither-blather of the daily soaps issued forth from
the speakers, nothing unusual enough to make the local news was going on.
Mike and Debbie were both in school, she knew, he at Hope and she at Los Pinos.
The chill passed, yet Annie still felt somehow unsettled. She picked up her GSM
phone and pressed the speed-dial for Joe. Her sense of vague uneasiness continued
as she waited for him to answer.
He didn’t.
# # #
The rumbling faded as their locomotive’s jittering tapered off. As the footing of
the three furs stabilized on the deck of the 478 Russ stared out the forward
facing window on the engineer’s side of the cab.
"Dear God," he exclaimed quietly.
Mark and Chris looked at the husky’s face, and then mirrored his frightened stare
as their heads simultaneously turned towards the grade ahead. A white cloud
billowed towards them through the falling snow. As the cloud sped towards them
Mark said "Lord have mercy." The tiger closed his eyes tightly.
Before Chris or Russ could offer any further comment or plea the 478 was enveloped
in a cloud of snow and dirt. A mild concussion buffeted the cab, and quite a bit
of snow and dirt blew in through the open windows, but the furs were spared
anything more unpleasant than a good dusting. As the rush of the cloud abated and
the air began to clear around them they became aware of shouts from up the line.
As the visibility improved they could see several furs moving towards them down
the right of way, stumbling and shuffling through the snow. At least two were
being supported by others, seemingly unable to walk. All three furs in the cab of
the 478 suddenly burst into activity, simultaneously leaping towards the nearest
gangway and thence to the ground, running. In a wild dash Chris beat Russ and Mark
to the first group of MofW furs by a couple of steps.
"What happened?" he cried, knowing the answer well enough already. Mark and Russ
moved to help the furs.
The foreman, Bill, was struggling with a second fur to help hold up Eddie, the
front-end loader operator. Eddie’s left leg was clearly broken below the knee,
bent in an unnatural way. Blood soaked the leg of his denim jeans, and also his
jacket on the left side. Eddie’s eyes were glazed, he was already going deep in
shock.
"The loader’s gone," Bill said in amazement. "The slide took it right off the
track and threw it into the river. Eddie was thrown clear, but not before he got
banged up real good."
Something clicked in Chris’ head. He became quite calm. Addressing Russ, who had
taken Bill’s place holding the moaning Eddie up, he said "Get him in the crew car.
Stoke up the stove. I’ll be in there directly." As he said this the other group of
furs approached, helping a very coherent Gary limp along. Mark moved to assist
this group.
Expletives flowed from Gary’s mouth more or less in direct proportion to the blood
oozing from a nasty cut above his right eye. The otter had been hit in the head
with something big and hard, that was obvious. A noticeable bump was already
rising on his forehead. As Gary continued swearing Chris noticed that his speech
was slurring slightly.
"Gary was working directly in front of the loader when the slide hit," Bill
continued. "I think he caught the bucket as the loader spun towards the river."
Chris nodded silently. Even a glancing blow from the large steel bucket of the
loader could do serious, even lethal damage to a fur.
Chris addressed the second group as well, motioning for them to follow their
foreman towards the crew car. "Get him comfortable and quiet." Chris looked
around, quickly counting furs. Addressing Jim, the last of the second group, he
asked "Is anyone missing?"
Jim’s jacket was torn in several places, and his right paw was bloodied and
disfugured. "I don’t know, there should be ten of us, all told." Chris looked
around. Russ and Mark were helping get the seriously injured furs into the crew
car.
"C’mon, let’s count noses where it’s warm." He carefully wrapped an arm about
Jim’s shoulders.
The coyote and the marmot shuffled and stumbled through the snow and rock towards
the waiting train.
# # #
Hector Sandovál hung up his telephone with a grimace on his face. That
conversation had gone no better. The employer had been quite resistant, and Hector
had needed to point out some less visible but perfectly legal clauses in the
contract the Interstate Police Force held with them.
They did not want to release the target, they made that very clear. Even though
they had involved their legal staff, Hector and his contract had prevailed. He had
not needed to resort to some of the more base, yet also still legal, methods of
persuasion. The target had been released as desired.
Hector sighed. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, The Director was right about
one thing. Hector had developed an emotional attachment to the target. That didn’t
bother him, the fact that The Director had picked up on it bothered him. He
considered the fur a "friend", someone he enjoyed being around and talking to.
From his bio he knew that he shared several traits in common with the target.
As he leaned back in his old swiveling wooden desk chair his ears rotated in
response to the arhythmic, faltering steps he heard behind him. A smile creased
the muzzle of the coyote as he closed his eyes. After a few seconds he felt her
paws begin to gently rub his shoulders.
"Le deseo, amante," the mountain lion purred quietly in his ear. The tip of her
tail gently tickled his rib cage.
"Gracias, novia," Hector replied, the voice rumbling from deep within his chest.
Suddenly he sat up, and then rose from his chair. Turning to his beautiful wife,
Hector put all thoughts of the IPF out of his mind as he took her paw in his, his
smile growing larger.
"Why don’t you get your purse, and I’ll take you down to that new steakhouse in
Tucson. You know, the one you’ve been wanting to check out?" He stroked the soft
fur below her right ear. "Maybe we can take in a movie before we come home."
Lupe’s tail twitched briefly in happy anticipation. "That sounds wonderful," she
purred in reply, leaning close to his face. Hector anticipated a kiss, but wasn’t
disappointed when she gently nipped the tip of his ear just before twirling on her
good foot and heading for their bedroom to fetch her purse.
# # #
The crews of both trains and the MofW crew were all in the crew car. Eddie and
Gary were resting as comfortably as could be. Eddie was unconscious.
Mark and his engineer, a black bear by the name of Zachary, and Chris and Russ
were huddled with John Briscol and Carl Wallace at the far end of the crew car.
"Do any of you guys know first aid?" Chris asked. To his surprise, they all
nodded.
"Let’s break out the first aid kits and do what we can for these guys," Chris
said, searching the eyes of each of his crewmates. The others looked back
expectantly.
"Mark, can you keep the 478 and the 480 hot?" Somebody was going to have to keep
the fires burning in the locomotives and keep their steam pressure up. If the
fires went cold it could turn very bad, very quickly.
The tiger nodded. "No problem, Chris."
"Why don’t you and Zack keep our locomotives in readiness. I think we’ll be
pulling out as soon as we can get Eddie and Gary stabilized for the trip."
This time the tiger and the bear both nodded. "Can do," Mark said quietly. Turning
towards Zack he held a paw out towards the door to the near platform, and the
locomotive crew moved off to care for their beasts of iron.
Chris looked next at their conductor. "Carl, is there any way we can get in touch
with Durango?"
The lynx shrugged. "Not with these little things," he said dejectedly while
holding up his portable radio. "Maybe with one of the locomotive radios, they’ve
got more power."
"Can you give it a try?"
"Sure," the lynx shrugged again before turning. "I’ll get right on it," he said as
he walked towards the same door Mark and Zack had exited through moments ago.
"Thanks," Chris called to the lynx’ back as he walked away.
Chris turned to his friends. "John, can you de-brief these guys while Russ and I
get the injured ones ready to go? We need to make sure they’re all accounted for
and figure out what happened so somebody can report to Rudy when we get back."
By way of an answer John looked at Russ. "You know splints?" the mountain lion
asked.
"Never applied one," the husky replied.
"I have. Why don’t you talk to the crew and get a nosecount, and I’ll help Chris
out with Eddie."
"That works," Russ said with a small, tight smile.
"Chris, we’ve got some wooden survey stakes in the tool car, I think, and some
other pieces of wood as well. I’ll go rustle them up while you break out the first
aid kits, OK?"
Chris nodded. "Thanks, guys." The coyote suddenly looked at the floor. Without
preamble he said aloud "Lord, we ask for Your help in this time of trial. Help us
get our friends and fellow workfurs out of this canyon and back to their families.
Grant us a safe return to our homes. In Jesus name, amen."
Chris looked up again, meeting the gaze of his friends. Placing a paw gently on a
shoulder of each of them, he smiled briefly and said "OK guys. Let’s get busy."
# # #
Annie heard her front door shut behind someone. It was early afternoon, too early
for Joe or either of their pups to be making an appearance.
She was deep in a major provision fault issue and couldn’t get up to go see who
had come home.
She returned her attention to the task at hand, paws dancing on her keyboard as
she waited for a reply from an instant message she had sent a few moments ago to
her counterpart in Atlanta. The "hold" button on her desk telephone blinked
impatiently, a district manager was waiting for her to supply answers. The fox
attempted to interrogate the stock level of a particular item in a location in the
mid-west, hoping that one of what the DM needed would be available for transfer.
An instant messenger window opened in her display. Her Atlanta counterpart, a
sweetheart of a raccoon named Samantha, sent something that was at first
confusing.
Your part has been deleted from the southeastern region database. We have two
in stock in Atlanta and one at Oak Ridge. Sam.
Annie scratched an ear in confusion. How could Dymec stock parts anywhere if they
had been deleted from the database? And why would anyfur delete records of stock
on hand? She commanded another window to her display and began scrolling part
numbers.
She never even heard him. The first she was aware of his presence was when a paw
gently squeezed her shoulder and his lips touched the top of her head between her
ears. It was the way he had been greeting her at the end of the workday for years.
Yet it was only early afternoon...
"Hi honey."
She heard no reply from him, but did hear his briefcase as he set it on the floor
next to the small sofa behind them. As she continued to scroll her screen she
asked "Why are you home so early?"
"Fuck."
Annie blinked and whirled around in her chair. That was such an uncharacteristic
response from her husband of twenty years that she knew something was very wrong.
The vision that greeted her confirmed her suspicion. He was bent over, unlacing
his work boots. In itself a quite normal thing, what caught her attention was the
bottle of Jack Daniels laying on the sofa cushion to Joe’s right. She hadn’t seen
him drink whiskey in a very long time.
The look on his face when he turned his attention from his boots towards her
caused her to shiver again. It was a cold, empty glance, emotionless and distant.
All thoughts of Dymec and work vanished from Annie’s mind. In a flash she was
seated beside her husband on the sofa, placing the bottle of whiskey on an end
table, in the process placing herself between that bottle and Joe.
Joe leaned back, resting his head against the backrest of the sofa as he stared
vacantly at the ceiling.
Annie caressed his face gently. "Honey, what happened?"
Joe slowly turned to gaze at her.
"I got riffed today."
Annie was unfamiliar with the expression. "What?"
Anger suddenly boiled up out of Joe’s soul, his eyes blazed. "Riffed! Furloughed!
Fuckin' fired! After seventeen years!"
"You’ve been fired?" Annie asked incredulously. That was inconceivable in her
mind. Joe had never been fired or laid off from any job in his life, as far as she
knew, certainly never in the thirty years that she had known him.
Joe returned his gaze to the ceiling, his demeanor calming somewhat. "SCWD calls
it a furlough. The difference is I could conceivably be re-hired in the future and
retain my seniority." Joe swallowed, the action leaving Annie with the impression
that he was swallowing much more than saliva. "But Hell," he continued, "fired is
fired. I’m out of a job."
"Why?"
Joe shook his head sadly. "That’s the kicker. Don wouldn’t tell me. He had some
goon from HR there, and all they would say was that they were prevented by
contract from explaining their grounds, but that they were within contractual
rights to ‘furlough’ me at this time without cause or notice."
Annie sat back, her paw still gently caressing the side of Joe’s head behind his
right ear. She was completely at a loss as to what to say or do. Joe continued to
stare at the ceiling.
They were still posed like that a few minutes later when a GSM phone rang. Joe
reached slowly for his hip.
"Yeah?"
Annie could hear an indistinct male voice on the other end of the wireless
connection.
Joe suddenly sat up straight on the sofa as all color drained from his eyes. "Say
that again?!" he commanded.
The cadence of the voice on the other end changed somewhat as Joe listened
intently, his ears up.
"The fuck you say!" Joe growled. He listened to the voice a bit longer.
"Well gee, Don, that’s swell, but it really doesn’t help me put food on the table
for my family, now does it?" Joe angrily flipped his phone closed as he rose from
the sofa. As he returned the phone to it’s holster at his hip he began pacing back
and forth across the room in front of Annie.
To her wordless, questioning look he simply growled "God damned IPF," and
continued pacing before her.
# # #
Two short blasts from the 480’s whistle floated through the snowfall to the ears
of Chris and Russ on the 478. It was Zack’s signal that he and Mark were beginning
to head their train downgrade, towards the wye below Cascade. Due to the fact that
the 478’s train was between them and the 480, there was about three hundred yards
between the 478’s cab and the 480.
Russ tugged on the whistle cord above his head, sending three short blasts of the
478’s whistle in return to indicate that they were beginning to back up.
John Briscol’s voice called to them over the radio. "They’re pulling out, Russ."
"Copy."
Next was Zack’s voice. "I’m going to hold between three and five miles an hour,
Russ. The visibility down canyon really sucks."
"OK, Zack. I’ll give you about two minutes before we get rolling." Russ reached
for a lever and released the brakes of his train, yet maintained brake application
on the 478 itself. He and Chris could hear the rush of escaping air as their train
stretched out a bit.
Chris shoveled a couple of more scoops of coal into the 478’s firebox and then
hung up his shovel on the tender wall. After carefully inspecting his water level
and steam pressure, he seated himself across the cab from Russ on the stoker’s
cushioned toolbox.
"Eddie’s not looking so good," Chris commented cautiously. "If we can’t get home
in a timely manner he may lose that foot. He’s already lost a lot of blood..."
Russ stared at the young coyote across the cab from him. Chris was his friend and
a damn fine stoker, but today Russ had seen a side of him he’d never known
existed. He wasn’t sure which perplexed him more, the commanding presence Chris
had assumed in a time of crisis, or the "christian" he had become in the middle of
everything. Both of these were new to Russ.
Russ blinked slowly. "You guys did good work with Eddie and Gary."
Chris smiled. "Do you know what John did before he got into railroading?"
Russ shook his head in the negative, his right paw reaching for and resting upon
the handle of the brake valve for the 478.
"Viet Nam," Chris replied. "Air Cav in the late sixties and early seventies."
To Russ’ widening eyes Chris added "He told me he lost count of how many furs he’d
patched up with minimal resources before his first tour was up."
"How many tours did he do?"
"Three."
"Wow," Russ exhaled slowly. "I never knew that."
The distant wail of the 480’s whistle floated to them, shortly followed by Zack’s
voice coming from the portable radio speakers. "We’re clear of the south switch at
Cascade, Russ. Forward visibility down here is about two hundred yards."
Russ released the 478’s brakes before reaching for his radio. "Copy, Zack. We’re
getting underway now. Let me know if your speed or conditions change. How’s the
wye look?" Their train gently eased into motion, moving backwards down grade.
"OK, I guess. It’s snow covered, but you can still see the rails, so you guys
shouldn’t have any trouble getting turned around."
"Thanks Zack. Keep us posted. 478 out."
"480."