The iron rungs of the Catwalk #09 ladder vibrated violently against Julian Vance’s palms.
“Watch your grip!” Lin Mei shouted from four rungs below him. “The grease from the turntable exhaust is blowing upward!”
Julian hauled himself onto the steel grating of the upper walkway. He turned, offering his right hand to pull Lin over the safety rail.
“I have you,” Julian said, locking his fingers around her wrist and hauling her onto the platform.
“Thanks,” Lin said, catching her breath against the iron stanchion. “Look down there, Julian! The bridge is still turning!”
Sixty feet below their boots, the massive steel deck of the central turntable groaned as it revolved through the gloom.
Coach #404 sat marooned in the center of the rotating circle. Its headlights cut twin cones of amber through the drifting diesel fog.
“Mac hasn’t touched the brake,” Julian noted, watching the coach’s tires. “He’s holding to Sheet 4B, Rule 1.”
