Dark Zone (37 page)

Unlike conventional trains, all but two of the coaches on the high-speed Eurostar shared what trainmen called a common truck, the large wheel assembly below the base of the car. These cars were essentially welded together; separating them while the Eurostar was moving without completely destroying the train was probably impossible. But for safety reasons there was one spot where a more conventional coupler was used. This allowed the train to be separated in an emergency inside the Chunnel, with either half able to proceed, thanks to the fact that there was a power car at either end. The device, called a Scharfenberg coupler device, was located between cars nine and ten; it was invisible to anyone walking between the cars, since it was located below the floor.

Mussa had to place his two bombs in precise locations so that the coupler would be obliterated without damaging the cars enough to derail the train. Neither bomb was all that small, of course; they’d still kill anyone within a few yards of the burst—including Mussa if he was not careful.

He measured the location of the first bomb using the package itself—exactly ten bomb lengths from the sidewall at the center and then over four lengths toward the front of the train. Mussa dropped to his knees and turned the package over and over, only to find the spot blocked by the metal bulkhead of the car’s inner door.

Had there been a mistake?

He slid the bomb as close as he could to the proper spot, then placed the other package. He rammed his fingers into the triggering devices—a simple poke hole at the top of each bomb—then began running into coach ten, grabbing his submachine gun from the cart as he went.

91

The bullet caught the top of Karr’s shoulder and made him lose his grip. He tried to swing himself forward so that he would land on the man who had shot at him, but instead he bounced against the edge of the metal fence and rebounded to the left, tumbling over but somehow managing to fall into the V of two girders right next to the man with the gun.

Karr saw the weapon, a Beretta pistol; the next thing he knew he was falling against the man, struggling against the thick girder.

There were two other men nearby in a steel-piped cage, and there were wires around Karr’s hand. The men didn’t have the coveralls the others had had. Karr thought for a second that they were policemen, but then something cracked, loudly, and he felt pain in his skull.

Something hard smacked his head again. A boot—one of the men was kicking him.

I’m dead,
Karr thought, but he fought on.

Karr rolled and then saw that he was against the stack of bomb material—six large pieces of molded plastic strapped together with wire against the metal girder. He started tearing at them, felt something stabbing at him—he twirled and slammed his arm, throwing his assailant off.

The man fell, shrieking as he bounced off the ironwork.

Karr saw the wire for the bombs wrapped around the post. He grabbed at the wire, pulling but unable to get it off.

“Off!” he yelled. “Off! Off! Off!”

“The packages have to go off together,” said Rockman in his ear. “Pull them apart.”

Yeah, no kidding.

The helicopter loomed above.

“Get the helicopter away!” Karr shouted as the air around him began to explode.

92

Dean was just punching the lock button on the bathroom door when he heard the explosion. He slapped his hand against the open button, but the door didn’t respond. He slammed the large button again, harder this time. The door hissed open as the train shuddered, wheels and brakes screeching ferociously. People in the car screamed, throwing themselves down—Dean ran through the coach toward the back as the lights flickered. The back end of coach nine had been blackened and some of the metal twisted; an old man lay white-faced on the floor, arm severed just above the elbow. He looked at Dean for a split second, horror in his eyes.

There were voices behind him, shouts. Dean pushed into the vestibule at the back of the train, now a jagged and misshapen envelope of metal. Sparks flew upward; the train rocked violently from side to side, still moving at a good pace.

The train had been severed; the other half was behind them but a good distance away, with the gap growing even as the brakes were applied. The gap was five, then ten meters. There was another explosion, more sparks, screams from behind him.

Lia was in the other half of the train.

Dean waited a few more seconds as the gap grew wider, then he leaped into the darkness.

93

Rubens pushed the button on the com device, selecting the direct line back to Air Force One, and in the meantime strode toward Sandy Chafetz’s console.

“George, we have more information for the French—and the British. The Chunnel may be a target,” Rubens told the national security adviser. “The computer that accessed the one where the formulas for damaging the Eiffel Tower were discovered had another formula for blowing up the Chunnel. We’re still trying to pull the scenario together, but it looks as if it’s intended to trigger a tsunami across the English Channel. It may involve the French warhead.”

“That’s impossible,” said Hadash. “Even if the tunnel were to collapse.”

“Actually, the simulation shows it’s
not
impossible,” said Rubens. He stopped in front of Chafetz. “The shock wave would have considerable force, at least that of a large earthquake. We haven’t been able to verify the calculations on our side yet, but these simulations anticipate waves reaching over fifty feet, which would flood much of the Netherlands, not to mention the ports along the coast. But even if they are wrong and just the Chunnel itself is destroyed, it would be a massive terrorist strike. The impact in Europe would be incredible.”

Hadash didn’t reply.

“We have to shut down traffic through it, at least until we have more information,” said Rubens.

“Agreed,” said Hadash. “I have the President of France here. I’m going to put him on the line, with the President’s permission.”

As he waited, Rubens glanced down at Chafetz.

“Where are Dean and Lia?” he asked.

“They’re in the Chunnel. Something’s going on there—one of the transmission stations just recorded a wild power fluctuation.”

94

Dean’s first thought as he rolled onto the track was that he hoped he didn’t hit the third rail and fry to death. Then as he rebounded he realized the back half of the train was still moving in his direction at a very good pace and very likely to run him over. He felt the rumble and sensed the air closing in on him—he pushed to what he thought was the middle of the track, squeezing himself down as a tornado engulfed him.

Lia jumped from her seat when she heard the explosion. But as she got up, a man came into the car firing a submachine gun. She threw herself down between the seat and the table, rolling on the floor as the car exploded around her.

Charlie, Charlie, Charlie—are you OK?

The gunfire continued, the man and then another passing through the car. There were screams and then another explosion.

Lia wondered why she was still alive, why the gunman hadn’t shot her.

She was in the interrogation room in Korea, rolling and fighting them off, attacked.

I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them.

But she couldn’t. For the first time in her life she couldn’t win, no matter how hard she fought.

The wind stopped. Dean remained prone against the ballast segment at the base of the tracks, the scent of burnt metal thick in his nose, his lungs choked with dust and smoke. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and at his temple. The train had seemed to scrape along the top of his back, but he didn’t think he’d been injured.

When his heart stopped pounding he pushed to get up. He slammed his head so hard that he fell down immediately, stunned; it was only then that he realized the train had stopped over him.

Finally he began to push forward, but he got only a few feet before his way was blocked; the rear power car was too low to the tracks for him to get under. There was no way around it. He tried to turn, but there was no room, and so he had to back up, working out slowly.

Lia’s alive,
he thought to himself.
And I’m going to go get her out.

95

Karr pushed at the plastic lump, then felt his balance give way. He groped wildly in the air; before he could grab onto anything he smacked hard against a metal bar and began to fall in the other direction. But the cord he’d twisted around his arm pulled taut and held him.

Only for a moment. He slipped down two feet as the light it was attached to pulled away from the structure, socket and all. Tommy grabbed a cross member but lost his grip, swinging against one of the other girders and smacking his head. Blood ran down the side of his face. Dizzy but still managing to hold on, he realized the wire was now taut again. He gave it a gingerly tug, then a much stronger one, and pulled upward. He got his head even with the bomb sacks, but as he reached for them he slipped or the wire slipped and he spun into a thin ladder used by workmen when replacing the lights and doing other work. He grabbed at it, so disoriented that even with the solid foot-and handholds he thought he was falling.

The explosive packs were a few feet away to his left. When the world stopped spinning a little, Karr reached toward them, lost his balance, and slipped off the ladder. He became a disembodied head and unconnected arms, grabbing at wires and the air, pulling and punching and screaming.

One of the explosive vests flew downward, bounced off a post, and then sailed below, where it exploded. Tommy Karr saw the explosion in slow motion, gray and black particles steaming up toward him. He thought he was flying, then realized he was on the beam with the bombs. He took another package and this one he was able to heave, sending it far into space toward the gold dome. It disappeared there, and then there was another explosion from the ground, far away and yet close enough to shake him so violently he thought he was flying through the tangled steel.

The next vest sailed down but failed to explode for what seemed like hours. He grappled with a fourth and flung it, and somehow this one looked as if it exploded nearly in his hands.

Had it? The pain that had pulsated through his body left him. He felt a tickle in his neck, the light touch of a girl’s fingers stroking him—Deidre, he thought. For a moment he thought of nothing and saw nothing and felt nothing.

The moment stretched into an hour and then collapsed back on itself. When he managed to clear his head he saw he was upside down, his legs jammed against the ladder, the last explosive pack on the girder above him, just out of reach. He grabbed it on his second try and flung it as far as he could.

It burst open into a cloud of dust.

His head weighed five hundred pounds. His heart thumped like the heavy whoop of a helicopter blade.

A helicopter was five or ten yards away, hovering there.

Somebody yelled at him in French.

He vaguely understood that they were telling him not to move.

96

Mussa permitted himself a moment to gather his breath after the train had been successfully stopped by Ahmed, who had slipped into the rear power car before the bombs went off. Running through the cars with their submachine guns, Muhammad and Kelvin had killed the passengers. Mussa himself had shot the French border policeman who’d had the bad luck to be on the back half of the train.

The man had turned to Mussa at the last moment, as the blood burst in a cloud from the side of his head. The look bothered Mussa—it was the expression of a man not ready to die.

Undoubtedly he’d seen that expression often, certainly in his early days. But he could not remember it bothering him as much as now.

A test from Allah of his resolution.

The floor shuddered and a hiss rose from beneath him. Ahmed was unhooking the power car from the rest of the train. He would drive it down the track about thirty yards, providing a barrier to anyone who happened to pursue. The engine would also have a very minor role in helping to deflect the explosive blast upward, in case the yield of the weapon was less than calculated. The track communication system, which used the tracks to convey signal and other information, would be jammed from the car with an electrical interference device.

God was great.

“We are done,” said Kelvin, entering coach eighteen with Muhammad.

“The carts will be set up here. Come.”

Lia’s mind retreated as the punches landed against her. She stepped back, cowering.

Had she always been a weakling? Had she simply fooled herself into believing she was strong?

So many times she’d been faced with danger—in the Army as well as working with Deep Black—and she’d never felt fear like this, never been paralyzed.

All her life she’d lived by the belief that cowards died. She felt herself melting toward the darkness, a trapped mouse waiting to be exterminated.