AHMM, June 2007 Read online

  "Trying to lose him?"

  "Oh, not Sean.” She grinned. “He's my dreamboat.” David snorted.

  He had a proprietary system map, and he led them to an undistinguished point along the double track. Sean pulled up when they stopped and everyone got out.

  The neighborhood had been home to light and heavy industry for one hundred and fifty years. Ancient brick buildings abutted the tracks, ghostly signs of faded paint on their walls. Potholed asphalt separated modern warehouses thrown together from corrugated metal. Sheaves of conduit and high-voltage cable drooped across the alleys. Trucks idled everywhere—at the loading docks, double parked, snugged into the bays.

  "There are sidings and turnouts every hundred yards,” David said. “Half of them haven't been used for decades."

  Another slow freight rumbled past on the main line, a fifty-car mix of containers and flats. Trains were leaving the yard as fast as the crews could line and shove them, trying to clear the backlog. Exhaust drifted down, a cloud of particulates in the bright sunny air.

  "This is where the GPS signal stopped,” David said.

  Lizbeth looked up and down the track. “Those cars could be anywhere. Not even all together—just dropped off one at a time and tucked into the odd warehouse."

  "That would have taken too much time, constantly switching the whole train in and out. It had to go as a unit."

  "Let's think out of the box, here,” said Mattingly. “Could they have, I don't know, been picked up by trucks or something?"

  "Trucks so big they'd be illegal on the streets, and it would have taken hours. And they would have left all kinds of marks in the ground. Try again."

  "Got it.” Sean snapped his fingers. “Skyhook helicopters."

  David hesitated, and Special Agent Mattingly looked thoughtful. “How much does a train car weigh? There's a Russian helicopter that can lift twenty tons."

  "Three to four times that, loaded,” David said. “And the locomotive's even heavier."

  "Seems like someone would have noticed, anyway,” said Lizbeth.

  Mattingly's cell phone rang. “Excuse me.” He walked off a few yards to have a low-voiced conversation.

  Lizbeth borrowed the map. “The Hackensack River is right over there. Maybe ... off the bridge and onto a barge?"

  David looked. “I'm not sure that's a navigable waterway. It would be as noisy and messy as the truck idea too."

  "You tell me, then."

  "I don't know.” He kicked at the rail near his boot. “These turnouts, they don't all go to dead ends and industrial sidings. More rights of way have been abandoned than I can keep track of. Maybe the engineer took it down some forgotten shortline."

  "Does that map of yours show the abandonments?"

  "No—"

  They were interrupted by Mattingly, who strode back, his cell phone still open. “Wrap it up,” he said. “Someone stole the train, all right."

  "What?"

  "They just e-mailed in a ransom demand."

  * * * *

  "Look at the consist again!” The CEO waved the car-list printout in David's face. “Wasn't anyone paying attention?"

  They were back at the control tower, Lizbeth having outdone herself on the drive back, siren screaming the whole way. Even Sean couldn't keep up, though he barreled through the door a few minutes later.

  David reached for the paper, but the CEO snatched it back. “Potassium cyanide, phosphoric acid, vinyl chloride, and ammonium nitrate. Three cars of chlorine gas, then sodium metal, followed by anhydrous ammonia and hydrofluoric acid.” His pronunciation was spotty.

  Special Agent Mattingly shook his head; he couldn't believe what he was hearing. “You carry this stuff in unprotected railcars?"

  "Sure,” said David. “Hundreds of them. We see dozens of chlorine tankers every week. Even the cyanide isn't that uncommon."

  "This is worse than an atom bomb!” the CEO shouted.

  David frowned. “What do you mean?"

  "Somebody built themselves a super-duper hazmat IED.” The technician was still in his chair before the computer screens, sweat stains growing on the back of his shirt. Other IT employees had appeared and were scattered around the room at other terminals. “We figured it out while you were gone. Look, the way the cars are ordered, you have, like, three carloads of really toxic stuff—chlorine gas or hydrofluoric acid—and then an explosive, and it repeats like that down the whole train. If you detonate the explosives, tie a stick of dynamite to each one or something, you get a cloud of poison that could kill people for miles around."

  "They assembled it on their own? Just whose train was this?"

  The CEO let out a roar of rage and frustration. “Once again, nobody knows!” The yes-men shuffled and glared.

  "We were hacked,” the technician said hesitantly. “I think. We're trying to trace the orders, but there are authorizations missing. Password discrepancies. Sysop-level overrides."

  Special Agent Mattingly broke in. “You mean, someone just ordered up a death train, like he was shopping online at Amazon? He wasn't even here at the rail yard?"

  "No.” David turned to him. “I think I'm getting it. There are far too many cars to schedule manually. People input the reqs and orders and delivery details and all the rest, and the computer keeps track. The yardmasters look at their terminals, and then they pass the actual switching orders to the hostlers on the ground. If a hacker got into the system, he could arrange for whatever he wanted."

  "Which seems to be what happened,” the technician said. “The block was assembled and moved to the dispatch yard. The last order we can find left the switcher coupled up. All the hacker had to do then was sneak in and drive it away."

  "But...” the CEO floundered. “But the train disappeared before it even got out of the subdivision. Where did it go?"

  "Hoboken.” The senior FBI man entered the conversation, holding yet another printed piece of paper. “Here's the e-mail. It arrived at whitehouse-dot-gov fifty minutes ago. No signature."

  "He e-mailed the White House?” The CEO couldn't believe this. “Not us directly?"

  "I think he wanted attention."

  "He got it,” said David. “What are the demands?"

  "Eleven point four million dollars, wired into a Nauru-registered bank, by noon,” said the agent. “Or he'll detonate the entire package."

  "Or she,” muttered Lizbeth, just loud enough for David to hear. He looked at her. “You never know,” she said.

  "What's Nauru?” asked the CEO.

  "A South Pacific tax haven,” said the FBI agent. “It's not a bad tactic. We don't have time to set up a trace from our end, and the Naurans ... Naurites ... authorities there won't cooperate at all. The money will be long gone by the time we figure out where it's going."

  "You're not actually going to pay up, are you?” David said.

  "It's not my choice,” the agent said dryly. “I believe the governor and the president are discussing the matter now.” He looked down at the message. “He appended a list of all the cars, identified by number, contents, and origination. It's no hoax."

  One of the yes-men decided to earn some points. “The ransom amount, eleven point four million, I believe you said—isn't that rather, um, precise?"

  The special agent read off the e-mail. “In fact, eleven million, four hundred twenty-nine thousand, one hundred and seventy-three dollars. And eighteen cents.” He looked up. “Does that mean anything to anyone?"

  The CEO let out a strangled noise, and his face went even more red. David looked at him curiously. No one answered.

  "Google it,” Sean said to the technician. “Just type in the number and see what comes up."

  "That won't be necessary,” the CEO said through gritted teeth. “The amount matches the compensation reported on our last 10-K."

  "Compensation?” Lizbeth frowned. “Oh. You mean, yours?"

  He nodded once, shortly.

  "Just yours?"

  "Yes!” Another long paus
e. The underling who'd been foolish enough to raise the question had a stricken look on his face.

  "Well,” said David eventually. “Could be a message there."

  "Makes it sound like an insider,” said Lizbeth.

  "The SEC reports are public, though, so anyone could have looked it up."

  Mattingly made a note. “We'll see what the profilers say."

  "Hoboken's just across the river from Manhattan,” said Lizbeth. “What kind of radius would this poison cloud have?"

  The senior FBI man answered. “A lot depends on dispersion rates, wind speed, and so forth, but they found some expert who says we could expect fifty percent lethality within five miles."

  Silence fell around him. Only the dispatchers, oblivious under their headsets, continued to talk in the background.

  "Maybe the wind will blow the other way...” said the CEO hesitantly.

  "Sure,” said Lizbeth. “Onto New Jersey? Or would you prefer Staten Island instead?"

  David was struck by a sudden thought. “How much fuel did the switcher have?"

  "Good question.” Sean looked at the technician. “Can you find out?"

  Before the young man could answer, David shook his head. “I don't trust anything from the computer, at this point. Right? Let's go talk with the guys who actually know."

  * * * *

  Stepping out of the dispatch center, David, Sean, and Lizbeth stopped short as a trio of humvees squealed to a stop in front of them. The vehicles were a dark, ominous color, unmarked, with military plates and an excess of aerials. Men in black armor and helmets hopped out—no, deployed, that was the only verb that fit—from the vehicles, carrying submachine guns. An M1079 van rolled up behind them, its windows opaque and covered with mesh.

  Lizbeth looked at the closest soldier. “Who the hell are you?"

  "Counterterror detachment, ma'am,” the man said.

  "Put those weapons away. Someone could get hurt."

  "Ma'am.” The soldier's eyes were obscured by the reflective visor of his helmet.

  "What authority are you operating under?"

  "Sorry, Sheriff.” The soldier glanced from her to David and Sean. “And you are?"

  David shrugged off his growing annoyance. “Special Agent in Charge."

  "No, you're not,” the man said calmly. He paused a beat, then said, “Oh, you mean for the railroad. Got it."

  The paramilitaries had formed a cordon around the building—facing outward, David noted, surprising himself by briefly worrying it would be the opposite.

  "Well?” Lizbeth sounded impatient.

  "The governor has requested federal assistance. Further details are compartmented."

  "Forget it, Lizbeth,” Sean said.

  They all stared at each other for a while.

  "I don't know what good you can do here,” David said. “But we're not going to argue about it. Try not to shoot anyone, okay?"

  The soldier turned away, dismissing them, and they walked warily past the military vehicles.

  David didn't feel comfortable until they were well into the yard, surrounded by track and long lines of freight cars. As the day warmed, a comforting smell of creosote rose from the cross ties, mixed with diesel and bearing oil and industrial volatiles. Distant clanking and banging sounded irregularly, as cars were blocked and shifted in the acres around them. Ballast gravel scuffed underfoot.

  "Someone's taking this seriously,” Sean said.

  "Too seriously. The CEO's not going to be able to keep it secret with them around.” David looked carefully left and right, then stepped across another track. Loose cars coasted down from the hump, silent until their wheel flanges squealed into the retarders. Careless switchies could lose arms or legs, or their lives.

  "The FBI, I see why they showed up,” he said. “But where's the FRA response team? Or the state police? Or even the National Guard? These military superheroes ... they're violating posse comitatus just being here."

  Lizbeth shook her head. “The President can declare an emergency and authorize, well, pretty much whatever he wants. We had a staff lawyer from Justice here last year, did a presentation on the new rules.” She jumped over a switchpoint and adjusted her gun belt. “Anyway, your IT guy seemed on the ball. I wouldn't want to be the hacker once those commandos get his name."

  "Computer forensics.” David shook his head. “No telling how long it'll take, and we've got a two-hour deadline. Best we keep working it from our end."

  Halfway to the crew shed, they came on a yardman walking alongside a slowly moving engine, holding a small control unit that was strapped over his reflective vest. When he saw them approach, he and the engine stopped simultaneously.

  "Hey, Jack,” said David.

  "Hiya, Dave.” The man's face was lined and weather beaten under his battered safety helmet, his Carhartt overalls deeply stained. He grinned. “I was wondering when you'd show up. Must have been some night they had—the whole yard's froze up, and they're starting to stack the mainline sidings in front of the intake."

  "Anyone ask you about train 432?"

  "They asked, but I didn't come on until eight. I talked with some of the third-shift crew, though. They were going crazy, switching cars all over the yard. Breaking down cuts right after lining them, just to clear room. Billy said he moved one gondola three different times."

  Lizbeth was studying the switchman's chest. “Is that one of those remote control things?” she asked.

  "Yeah.” He looked down with a grimace. “Union fought for years, but you can't hold back progress—not when it means cutting out more jobs. No more two-man crews, since you don't need anyone riding point anymore. First time I saw an engine running with nobody inside, it was just plain scary. But you get used to anything, I guess."

  "What's the range on it?"

  "Oh, twenty or thirty yards, maybe, if you've got line of sight."

  David and Lizbeth looked at each other.

  "You thinking what I'm thinking?” he said.

  "He's a hacker. So he knows electronics."

  "The departures yard is right next to Arsenal Street. Warehouses and a fence. He could walk it right out of the yard without ever stepping foot inside. Then he climbs in, and off he goes."

  "Let's check it out."

  They took their leave of the switchman and headed for the north side of the yard. The exit portal was a half mile away, and David, still wearing the fleece shirt he'd put on at four A.M., was sweating uncomfortably when they arrived. Sean called the dispatcher, and after some discussion, led them to a siding occupied by a long set of double-stacked containers. A whistle sounded nearby, and they backed up to the flatcars while a long consist bucked and strained and slowly moved off next to them. David listened to the wheels clacking, gradually picking up speed.

  "Right here,” said Sean. “Last confirmed sighting."

  The yard fence was only two tracks away.

  * * * *

  "Ninety-four minutes,” said David from the passenger seat.

  "Check with dispatch,” said Lizbeth. “See if the guy's e-mailed in again."

  "Don't worry, they'll call as soon as anything happens."

  Sean had gone off to the maintenance shops to find out more about the locomotive, figure out what kind of driving range it had been fueled for when it left the yard. Lizbeth and David went back for her cruiser and followed the tracks out of the departures portal.

  "I understand about the hacking and remote control and all,” said Lizbeth, “but it's still hard for me to believe he could get away with it. Didn't you boost yard security after 9/11?"

  David sighed. “Look over there,” he said, pointing back at the yard. Inside the razor-wire fence they could see a row of battered and graffiti-ridden freight cars, with more beyond.

  "So?"

  "The cars.” David waited. “In particular, those containers, and the reefer, and the tankers."

  "I don't ... wait. The graffiti. I'll be darned."

  "Right. Teenage
daredevils with spray cans run circles around us. There are just too many holes in the perimeter, which is too long anyway. We've got no chance against a determined criminal."

  "And you the chief of security, no less. All right, now I'm worried."

  "Believe it."

  They continued along the tracks, bumping over turnout rails and weaving through alleys to stay near the right of way. A smell of burnt oil and solvents lay heavy in the air among the industrial buildings.

  "This is pointless.” Lizbeth abruptly pulled over. “We're miles from where the train disappeared."

  "Maybe."

  She yanked off her sunglasses and rubbed her face, then looked at him. “You're on to something,” she said. “What?"

  "How do we know where the train was last night? Once it left the yard, no one actually saw it. Radio calls, AEI logs and the GPS in the locomotive. It's just more electronic noise. Why couldn't our guy hack them too?"

  Lizbeth looked skeptical. “Breaking into your computer system is one thing. Isn't GPS based on satellites? And how would he fool the AEI detector?"

  "The detector just responds to an ID signal. Maybe he could clone the tags, drive out and broadcast the right signatures directly into the detector—you know how close the access roads get you to Croxton. The train wouldn't have to be there at all."

  "It can't be that easy."

  "I don't know. They told me the dispatching servers were invulnerable.” David shrugged. “If you knew the radio frequencies, that would take care of the GPS, too, since it simply broadcasts its telemetry."

  "Telemetry,” she said. “Signatures. You're talking like you understand this stuff."

  "Sean does. I try to keep up.” Another thought occurred to David. “And he probably just didn't bother with the FRED, which is why the detector missed it."

  The radio crackled, and they paused long enough to identify the call as unrelated police business. Lizbeth drummed the steering wheel with her fingers.

  "That's how it disappeared,” she said. “Son of a gun. It was never there to begin with."

  "And that's how he got it to Hoboken. I've got one of our corporate librarians going through the old maps, and I'm sure he'll find some ancient rail line or abandoned passenger track or something. Once he was off the grid, he was on his own."