John Barnes - Directive 51

“I feel like I’m in a damned costume,” Heather complained to Arnie.

“We all are,” he said, pulling his hat lower and making sure the bandana was still up around his face.

Sergeant Rogers chuckled. “That’s good, a costume. I guess it is.” He too wore jeans; a big flannel shirt (to hide the body armor, just unwrapped that morning and not yet deteriorating); the broadest hat he could find, low over his face; and a bandana covering his nose and mouth. “I guess we look like the James gang or something.” That little chuckle of his was beginning to creep Heather out. “I just want to thank you for letting me be in on this.” He and nine Rangers from Third Battalion were the nucleus of the force; Everett, who had once been a Ranger himself, hadn’t had much choice about whom he could recruit on four days’ notice.

Heather had persuaded them to let her come in as an added gun. She hadn’t mentioned that she was pregnant. Everett hadn’t ratted her out about that either, or else the Rangers had figured if she didn’t care, why should they? Whatever the reason, she was grateful; she didn’t think she could have stood to be on the sidelines for this.

Everett sat now, quiet and staring into space; everyone waits for action their own way, Heather thought. Bambi wants to chatter like a mad sorority girl, I get cross and whiny, and as far as I can tell, Rogers thinks everything is slightly funny and there for his amusement.

“Checklist, Plan B,” Everett said, looking around at the five Rangers who were present. “It’s still possible that somebody’s been turned or caught, or something big came up at the last minute. The steam train from Columbus is supposed to be flying two American flags on the front and back cars, with two red flags on the front of the locomotive. One of our guys is in charge of those flags, and his backup is one of ours, too. Check?”

“Check,” they chorused.

“So if it’s one American flag down, Rogers?”

“Package is not on the train but everything else is fine, so we pull down the block from the track, let them roll by, and if it’s safe there’ll be a note dropped from the last car.”

“Two American flags down, Machado?”

The short skinny man did not move from the crate where he sat with legs spraddled, but his voice was loud and clear. “Package is not on the train, we’re blown, run for it.”

“Extra American flag, Diem?”

“Package is on the train, proceed with operation, expect surprises or difficulties.”

“Extra red flag on the front, everybody?”

“Come in prepared to shoot, sir.”

Everett had them recite, more times than Heather could count, “Two American two red, go by plan. One down, let it pass. Two down, run. Three up, make it up. Three red, fight.”

Everett had rolled off two trains ago, reset a switch, and hung a flag; hours later, Heather and the main team had dropped out of a boxcar and hurried under cover while everybody up front was busy dealing with backing the train out of the siding it should not have gone into. Since the engineer had already been hitting the brakes after seeing the flag, and there was literally at that point not another train for miles, there was no danger, just a loss of time; since Heather and the rest of the team were not officially on the train, they were not missed when it rolled again.

Now they waited at the chosen interception point, where an observer—Sherry, taking her turn up there—in a high window could see the train far off, but the oncoming train wouldn’t see the barricade of semi trailers across the tracks too soon. The objective was to have them come to a dead halt so that the locomotive, and the five cars carrying security forces and the prisoners, stood just opposite this warehouse.

“Train,” Sherry sang out. Everyone stood up, stretched, reached for gear, and froze when Sherry added, “Three American flags and three red flags.”

They’ve got Graham, things have changed, expect to fight.

Heather felt the pit of her stomach roll over. Hey, Leonardo, (she didn’t know why but she was sure he was a boy), hang on, kid.

The time before they heard the steam train’s whistle screaming, and the grinding of wheels on rails as the brakes tried to take hold, was long; the time before the train came to a halt, where they had planned, longer still. They had moved forward into their positions by the doors; three Rangers had darted across the tracks to take up their places behind Dumpsters and wrecked cars. Rogers barked, “Go!”

Heather was with Everett and the slim man named Machado; they were tasked with rushing the second car, where Weisbrod and McIntyre were supposed to be, if their informant was right and if no plans had changed in the interim. Heather was just putting her hand on the door handle when it slid open. Kim, the Ranger on the train in charge of securing the car, had opened it. “In,” he said, and they dashed in.

There was a dead soldier propped in one corner. Heather had a nasty moment when she saw Graham and General McIntyre lying face down on the floor, but Weisbrod said, “We’re all right, Sergeant Kim is just making sure we stay that way.”

Kim gestured at the dead man. “He said he was sent to secure the prisoners, and I told him they weren’t his prisoners anymore, but he was mine. So he went for his weapon. Bad move. I think he was Georgia Guard. So I made our special guests lie down flat, locked the doors, and waited for you. There was some shooting up forward, but my orders were to just hold this car.”

“Dearmond, or someone, changed the flags,” Everett explained.

There was a knock on the internal door toward the locomotive—thud THUD thud THUD THUD thud, the agreed signal. Machado moved to the door and slid it open, cautiously.

Rogers stepped through. “Dearmond and Crespin just learned to drive the choo-choo,” he said. “The engineer jumped for it, letting the dead man switch stop the train. Dearmond was supposed to be the guard in the locomotive cabin, and Crespin was supposed to detain six Georgia Guard in the next car. They got the Guard under control—just a couple injuries, they’ll all be okay—but they had to figure out how to be an engineer and a fireman for about a quarter mile there.”

“Hell,” Dearmond said, “it’s pretty simple. You don’t even have to steer or navigate.”

“So what’s in the car behind us?”

“That would’ve been Taggart’s job.”

“Well, we can’t move our main package till we’ve secured the next car.” They directed Weisbrod and McIntyre to crawl out of the line of fire. Then, cautiously, Rogers moved to the far side of the car, and made a flurry of hand gestures out the open boxcar door.

Crashing and shouting in the car behind them; a shot, and then what sounded like a volley.

“All clear, sir, but we’ve lost Taggart,” a voice called.

“Dammit.” Rogers dropped from the car and ran to the one behind it.

There had only been three Georgia Guard in that car, but they had been clever or lucky, and when Taggart seized control, one of them had shot him. They had lain in wait, hoping to ambush whoever was attacking the train; they had not anticipated how fast things would happen with three Rangers entering from two doors and a window simultaneously. Only one of the Guard had fired, and he had been killed instantly by the returned fire.

“This really sucks,” Rogers said. “Taggart was just transferred here from the Second Battalion, which is based up in Washington State, and his family’s all up there. He might’ve been home for Christmas, and… well, shit. Guess we’ll have to let the Third Battalion bury him, too, and hope they won’t let the politicians make an example of him. But I don’t see any way we can take his body with us.”