PART 1
THE KIDS
ONE
Most days Henry Carpousis worried about something. Recurring anxieties included losing his job, getting mugged or contracting a flesh-eating disease. But, thirteen hundred miles from home on this warm April afternoon, he had a new concern.
Running into a killer grizzly.
The bears were active in this part of Montana’s Rockies according to a local they’d encountered at a convenience store.
“Wouldn’t head into back country without a rifle,” the man had warned. “You’ll be sorry sons of bitches if you meet a grizzly havin’ a bad hair day.”
Their guide, Greg Mahoney, insisted they carry no firearms. A retro hippie with ponytailed hair and bandanna, he got all weirded out if you even mentioned guns.
“Almost there,” Greg said, checking coordinates on his GPS app. He pointed up the slope of the dry ravine they were traversing toward a clump of eighty-foot evergreens. “It should be just past those trees.”
Thank God. Henry was winded by the exertion. He was fifty-five years old and more than a few pounds overweight. His friend Loren Childs, the third member of their group, also boasted a middle-aged gut. Greg was half their ages and in peak condition. He was one of those stalwart types, flush with wilderness savvy: just what city-breeds like Henry and Loren needed on such a trek. Still, Henry wished Greg had brought a rifle.
They’d hiked miles from the campsite, far from help should trouble arise. Cell phone reception was nonexistent. Henry’s only weapon was bear spray. Back home in Milwaukee, he’d rigged his can of deterrent to a belt holster and spent hours practicing quick-draws.
Loren bubbled with excitement. “Oh, man, can you believe it! We’re finally going to see ’em!”
“Just hope we can get close enough,” Henry said, trying to concentrate on their quarry, the sole reason for risking a vacation week in grizzly-infested mountains.
Greg selected the least intimidating path up the ravine. Even so, it was a steep climb: nearly forty-five degrees in spots. Henry was soon breathing hard and worrying he’d miss a foothold, tumble to the bottom and suffer a broken back.
But he reached the top without incident and acknowledged a sense of conquest. The feeling didn’t last. The weathered sign nailed to a wiry pine ignited fresh concerns.
RESTRICTED AREA WARNING
DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE TRANSPORT CORRIDOR
NO TRESPASSING
Smaller lettering listed sanctions facing violators, including arrest and prosecution under an array of federal statutes.
“Maybe we should turn back.”
Loren rolled his eyes, accustomed to Henry’s apprehensions.
“Don’t worry,” Greg said. “Tau Nine-One is eight miles away. They won’t have electronic surveillance this far out. The sign is just meant to scare you.”
Henry grimaced. It’s doing its job.
Greg led them into prohibited territory. They emerged from the trees onto a ridge overlooking a narrow valley.
“Stay low,” Greg warned, ducking behind a line of bushes flanking the edge. Henry and Loren followed suit.
They were a couple hundred feet above the railroad that meandered along the valley floor. The single track emerged from a natural tunnel of Douglas firs and deciduous trees to their left and vaulted a wide stream on a rock-ballasted truss bridge, its angular framework pockmarked with rust. After crossing the stream, the track swept into a tight S-curve to avoid a series of rocky outcroppings then vanished back into dense forest.
“Fantastic view,” Loren whispered.
They’d chosen the location by studying Google Earth and US Geological Survey maps. What looked good from a distance often proved disappointing when actually on-site, but in this instance they’d nailed it.
Loren set up his tripod and still camera and Henry did the same with his trusty Samsung camcorder. Still, he couldn’t allay the fear that they were too close.
“What if someone spots us from the train?”
“Stop being a wuss,” Loren snapped. “We’re gonna nail some great shots. ROM will go crazy!”
ROM was Railmasters of Milwaukee, their hometown club. Like many long-time members, Henry and Loren ventured far from their urban enclave in search of classic trains.
Greg fluffed his backpack into a pillow and stretched out on the dry ground. “Siesta time for me, trainspotters. Wake me when the choo-choo shows.”
Henry didn’t like the term trainspotters, which was often used to make fun of railfans. It was a bit unsettling being out here with someone not involved in the hobby. But Greg, a trucker whose route included the brewery where Henry and Loren worked, had made it clear that pristine Montana wilderness was the attraction, not documenting old locomotives.
And Greg had proved invaluable. Henry and Loren originally had intended to contact the Department of Defense for permission to document the train. Greg had dissuaded them, warning that not only would such a request be denied, it could trigger a Homeland Security investigation.
Tau Nine-One was a top-secret installation. Greg had even tapped some military acquaintances for info but had learned little about the facility.
The winding sixteen-mile track connected Tau Nine-One with the small town of Churchton Summit to the south. The line was a surviving branch of a defunct carrier, the Milwaukee Road, built to reach early twentieth century gold and silver mines. Following the Milwaukee Road’s abandonment in 1977, the DOD had purchased the severed right-of-way and a set of vintage locomotives and passenger coaches.
Henry was hungry. Even though he’d read that grizzlies could smell food up to eighteen miles away, he took a chance and opened a bag of peanuts.
An hour passed. Greg popped awake and got to his feet as the unmistakable growl of a vintage diesel engine echoed through the woods. The sound emanated from their left. The train was coming from Tau Nine-One as expected, on its late-afternoon southward trek ferrying workers back to Churchton Summit. It ran two daily round trips seven days a week: an early morning run to the complex, usually in darkness, and this one.
Henry double-checked the image in the Samsung’s viewfinder, adjusted the shotgun mike and hit the record button. He would shoot a panorama, documenting the train as it emerged from the trees and crossed the bridge. Loren would nail close-up stills with his zoom. Tomorrow they would get additional shots from public property near Churchton Summit’s enclosed, run-through passenger station. At next month’s ROM meeting they would have all the ingredients for a dynamite presentation.
The roar of 1,500 horsepower diesel engines increased. Henry’s excitement grew, until he caught a flash of movement beyond the bridge. His first thought was that it was a grizzly. But a closer look identified it as a different sort of animal.
A man, his camouflage attire blending him into the foliage. He held some sort of electronic device. If he was a railfan, he was certainly audacious. Henry never would have risked getting that close, even to record locomotive sounds.
The man turned and stared straight up at them. Henry froze, heart pounding, certain they’d been spotted. Abruptly, the man sprinted toward the bridge pier on the north side of the stream and ducked out of sight under the span.
The train slithering from the trees captured Henry’s attention. The back-to-back locomotives with streamlined contours were gorgeous: vintage F7s built by the EMD division of General Motors, circa 1949. Tapering noses gave them a regal look, an effect softened by their drab color, army brown. Two men, an engineer and conductor, were visible in the cab of the lead diesel. The second loco was a slave unit, unoccupied. Their flanks were devoid of lettering except for DODX beneath the cab windows, a common reporting mark for military trains.