Chapter One

It was your basic freight train: big, slow, and ugly, springs squealing like a pig in a Missouri hog pen. The sound didn't make any difference to the fine, upstanding middle-class citizens of Lenaza, a few miles outside of Kansas City. Hell, nothing made much difference to most of them, because they were snoring in their beds. The train had crept into their dreams forever: it rolled through every night at two A.M., give or take.

Tonight, it was a bit on the take side. But me and my guys were about to even the ledger out.

Guys and gals. Never let me forget Trace Dahlgren. At that exact moment she was leaning off the side of an AH-6 Little Bird helicopter as it swooped down toward the freight train in question. I was leaning off the other side, doing my best to pretend I was the patient type. This was necessary because the helo pilot had a hell of a time matching the speed of the train, a useful prerequisite to our immediate goal: disembarking from the aircraft onto the roof of one of the diesels. The train had picked up speed as it started downhill, and to complicate things just a little, the weatherman had screwed up again, and the calm, clear night I'd ordered had turned windier than hell and misty to boot. I swore to myself that next time I'd play hobo and hop on the damn thing if I wanted a ride.

"Can we at least get over the damn train?" groused Trace. "All I see here is dirt." Normally dependable and crystal clear, even the discrete-burst communications system we used was having a hard time of it; it croaked and crackled, distorting her voice.

The helo rocked hard right and we zipped over the train -- but instead of hovering over the engines, we were above one of the chemical tankers. Jum