They scoot their way through five cars filled with people stowing their bags and luggage on the overhead racks. Men, women, kids, and folks of all varieties and ages. It’s a madhouse. Coffees in hand, they manage to get beyond them without causing an incident until they come to the engine.
“Follow me, Sam,” Maureen says.
Exiting the final car, the two head outside and onto a very short, very narrow exterior gangway to a metal door that accesses the diesel locomotive. Stepping inside, Sam feels like he’s entered not a locomotive, but instead, a submarine. The long, narrow space smells of diesel fuel; and the noise of the engine, while not deafening, is loud enough to drown his thoughts. Sam feels the powerful vibrations of the purring engine through the soles of his boots.
To his right is a cramped bathroom that appears to be used more for storage than bodily functions. To his left, a massive floor-to-ceiling power house containing two over-sized, rectangular batteries that store electrical power for use when the engine is being operated inside a closed environment. Directly ahead, the cantilevered windshield. And directly below that, the main instrument panel. Set before the panel are two bucket seats and mounted to the wall beside the port-side—or left seat—is a throttle that must power the engine, or so Sam assumes. There’s also a retractable knob that more than likely engages the train’s horn blasters. Or so Sam guesses.
There to greet them stands a short stocky man dressed in baggy jeans and a khaki work-shirt similar to Sam’s. His hair is blond, his eyes blue, and his face freshly shaved. Sam pegs him for maybe thirty-five.
“Visitors,” Blond Man says, not without a pleasant smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Maureen?”
“Morgan, this is my friend, Sam,” she says. “He’s a reporter doing a story on modern-day train travel, in particular, the old Empire Run. I thought it would be nice if he paid a visit to the locomotive.”
She’s fibbing, Sam realizes. But is she fibbing for my benefit, or for the sake of the overall mission? Could be that fibbing or lying is a big part of Amtrak security SOP? Or does she suspect Morgan is up to no good?
Morgan pulls off his oil and fuel-stained leather glove, holds out his hand.
“Put ‘er there,” he says, smiling, his voice an octave higher than most men his age.
Sam takes the hand in his, squeezes. It’s a fleshy hand, cold, palm sweaty. Precisely the kind of hand Sam hates to touch. In the meantime, he’s got his eyes glued to the locomotive’s instrument panel. There are more lights, knobs, and switchgear triggers than Sam knows what to do with. Also present are two computer screens that display multi-colored data in the form of horizontal lines that move as the locomotive moves. A laptop computer is mounted to the instrument panel, its screen presenting a condensed version of what is being broadcast on the larger screens.
“How does it all work, Morgan?” Sam asks, doing his best to play the role of reporter.
Morgan takes on a satisfied grin like he enjoys the soapbox.
“What you see all around you,” he says, “what you feel under your feet, and what you hear inside your head, is all the brainchild of inventor Dr. Rudolph Diesel who designed the diesel engine all the way back in 1892. When the diesel fuel ignites, it pushes the pistons that are connected to that electrical powerhouse behind you. The electricity then powers the motors attached to the wheels.”
“What’s so different about diesel compared to regular combustion engines?” Sam asks.
“Good question, Sam,” Morgan says. “You see, a diesel engine is an internal engine that utilizes the heat generated by the compression of air during the upward cycles of each engine stroke. The heat ignites the fuel, generating the power.”
“I get it, Morgan,” Sam says. “What if the engines were to get too hot?”
“Too hot?”
“What I mean is, what if the engine were to run out of control? Would it melt down?”
“I see what you’re getting at,” Morgan says. “It’s a constant battle making sure the engines are cool enough to operate, but also generating the necessary heat required to move tons upon tons of freight and/or passenger cars.” He crosses his arms over his barrel chest. “Mark my word, if things were to get out of control, the system wouldn’t melt down so much as explode. That would be a disaster for both me and first two cars behind me.”
A cold chill runs up and down Sam’s backbone. He recalls the many runaway train accidents that have occurred as of late in both Europe and United States. Trains crashing into station barriers, jumping the rails and rolling down steep embankments, plus one train that skipped the tracks on a tall trestle bridge out in Colorado and ended up plummeting two hundred feet into a deep, rocky gorge, killing all aboard. And to think some people are afraid of flying.
“But in the end,” Morgan goes on, “locomotives like this one, run on both diesel and electricity because both costs less than gas.”
“It all comes down to the dollar, doesn’t it?” Sam says.
“Money is the God of America, is it not, Sam?” Morgan poses, a strange grin plastered on his face.
Just then, a radio coughs.
“Morgan, you there? Over,” comes a tinny voice through the conductor’s belt-mounted walkie-talkie.
“Excuse me for a moment, Sam,” Morgan says, pulling the radio from his thick leather belt. “We ready to go, over?”
“Ready. Get her moving, Blondie. Over.”
“Roger that. And don’t call me Blondie. Over.”
Morgan returns the radio to his belt. “Well, as you no doubt heard, it’s time for me and this big hunk of machinery to get to work. We’ve got a few hundred souls that badly wish to get to New York safe and sound. Good luck with your article, Sam.”
The conductor holds out his hand once more. Sam begrudgingly shakes it.
“Thanks for the tour, Morgan,” Maureen says.
“My pleasure, Maureen. Anytime.”
He follows Sam and Maureen back down the narrow corridor to the door. Maureen opens it, and together, she and Sam step back out onto the gangway. When the door is shut behind Sam, he swears he makes out the distinctive noise of a deadbolt being applied.
Oh well, Sam thinks to himself. Deadbolts on locomotive doors must be as SOP as lockable cockpit doors are on airliners. Both modes of transport need to protect themselves from hijackers and terrorists bent on creating a really bad day for a whole lot of innocent passengers.
In essence, that’s what Sam is . . . an extension of that deadbolt.