The sudden, pouring discharge of the water crane gave them forty seconds of clockwork noise.
Twelve hundred gallons of high-pressure sludge, black with stone oil and sulfur grease, crashed down into the ballast pit with the ear-splitting roar of a breached water gate. The blast wave of falling water set the iron roof beams trembling, rattling the glass panes and masking every sound glow within fifty yards of the central junction.
Len didn’t hesitate. “Go,” he whispered, driving his boots forward into the deluge.
He didn’t step on the hemlock ties or the loose dark rock gravel between the tracks. Gravel rolled beneath a boot heel. Wet ties groaned under dynamic load. Instead, Len took the rusted, two-inch steel web of the outer running rail. He used the Surefoot milestone to keep his balance point lined up directly over the iron ribbon.
His courier training took command of his breathing and his stride. Three measured paces per rail section, weight balanced over the balls of his feet, eyes locked on the faint, oily glint of the rail head six feet ahead. His jointed ash sounding pole was clamped horizontally beneath his right arm, held tight against his leather rib-guard so the brass ferrules couldn’t click against his brass-buckled water canteen.
