Mac Cole felt the vibration through the iron pedals before he heard the motor.
It started as a deep, rhythmic thrum in the steel sub-frame of Coach #404. Sixty hertz. A heavy, industrial electrical frequency that made the steering column hum against his prosthetic palm.
Groan-clank-hummm!
Beneath the floor of Bay 04, the massive subterranean drive gears engaged.
The movable rail-sled carrying forty thousand pounds of transit steel began to slide forward. It rolled out of the inspection stall, moving onto the massive circular turntable bridge spanning the center of Terminal 9.
“Hold on to something!” Mac roared into the cabin.
He clamped his steel mechanical left hand around the steering wheel at twelve o’clock. He slammed his heavy leather work boot onto the Bendix air-brake treadle, holding sixty pounds of pneumatic line pressure against the drum shoes.
Beside the driver’s pedestal, Harlan Reed let out a high-pitched, piercing shriek.
