The concussive shockwave from the blown timber bridge was still rolling off the granite cliffs when the first motorized scouts of the Vanguard broke through the pine line. They didn't arrive on heavy steam locomotives; they came in low, wide-wheeled iron buggies powered by noisy, high-pressure petroleum burners that spit blue flames and thick grey soot from exposed exhaust stacks.
The river gorge below was a boiling cauldron of foam, splintered oak beams, and shattered iron trestles. The freight engine sat idling forty yards back on the embankment, its heavy boiler shuddering as Captain Miller held the manual brake against the slope. Behind them, the freight shed was a wall of roaring orange fire, sending thick plumes of black smoke into the freezing mountain sky.
