Chapter 54 - The Virginia Siding
The freezing wind howled through the loblolly pines, whipping the nitrogen vapor across the track ballast in long, spectral ribbons.
"Who crossed the state line, Director?" Arthur Vance demanded, stepping forward, his courtroom baritone cutting through the diesel hum. "Every key player in the European syndicate is behind bars. Robert Hayes, Ignacio, Victoria, Mateo—they're all in custody."
"You locked up the trustees, Mr. Vance," Director Sterling answered, his eyes scanning the treeline along the county road. "You didn't lock up the primary commercial debt holders."
He tapped a tactical tablet held by one of his operators.
A high-resolution corporate registry chart illuminated the dark siding in cold blue light.
"The De La Vega family and the Sterling syndicates were merely the asset managers," Sterling explained, his voice low and clinical. "The actual capital that funded the 1974 Mediterranean transit bonds was provided by an unchartered Virginia maritime conglomerate called Dominion Atlantic Logistics."
"Dominion Atlantic," I murmured, the name triggering a faint memory from Leonard’s old shipping journals in the barn. "They owned the deep-water coal piers in Newport News."
"They owned the piers, and they owned the private security firm that handled heavy logistics for the Defense Department in the seventies," Sterling said. "The current managing partner is Marcus Vance-Sterling Jr. Alistair Vance-Sterling’s nephew."
"A family that doesn't know when a war is over," I said, cold fury settling behind my ribs.
"Marcus Jr. knows the war is over, Mrs. Overstreet," Commander Cruz said, her fingers resting lightly on the receiver of her slung carbine. "Which is why he's not coming with lawyers or sovereign arbitration petitions. He knows what's inside these four reefers. On the international black market, forty cryogenic cylinders of weapon-grade naval isotope are worth four hundred million dollars to unaligned foreign buyers."
"And if he takes them off this farm?" Arthur asked.
"He doesn't intend to take them off the farm on flatbeds," Sterling replied, pointing down the dark tracks. "Dominion Atlantic leased a private five-thousand-horsepower diesel freight locomotive in Richmond four hours ago. They have an illegal track clearance voucher forged through a compromised dispatcher in the regional transit center."
Sterling looked directly into my eyes.
"They aren't coming to negotiate, Diane. They are coming to couple that locomotive to these four cars, throw the mainline switch, and haul this cargo through the port of Wilmington onto an unflagged cargo freighter waiting twelve miles offshore."
"Not on my tracks," I said, my voice dead, flat, and immovable as granite.
"Mrs. Overstreet, we have twelve tactical operators on site, but we are under strict federal rules of engagement within domestic municipal boundaries," Sterling warned. "If a firefight breaks out over four cars of nuclear material, the containment risk is catastrophic. We need to secure the physical mechanical interlocks."
"You don't need a firefight, Director," I replied, handing the heavy beryllium spanner to Arthur and walking toward the junction switch thirty yards down the rail. "Leonard didn't just build a track siding in nineteen-seventy-four. He built an intermodal derail trap."
Cruz and Sterling hurried behind me, their tactical lights illuminating the rusted iron switch stand half-buried in dead winter grass.
The heavy iron switch lever was locked with a four-inch solid brass railroad padlock, stamped: US NAVY PROPERTY — DERATION DETENT.
"Fifty years of rust, Diane," Arthur said, shining the light on the corroded shackle. "We don't have the key."
I reached into my wool coat pocket, pulled out the heavy brass key I had carried for thirty-five years—the same key that had opened the tack room in the tobacco barn—and slid it into the padlock.
"Leonard never changed a lock he didn't have to, Arthur," I said softly.
I twisted the key.
May you like
With a sharp, concussive snap of oiled brass, the heavy shackle sprang free.
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