Chapter 10 - The High Green Signal
The late October wind blew cold and sweet across the western approach to the Buckeye Yard, carrying the sharp, clean scent of crushed limestone, fresh creosote, and the faint, hot metallic tang of brake shoes cooling on the siding.
It was 11:45 PM on a Wednesday night.
The yard was alive with the deep, throbbing rumble of four thousand-horsepower diesel engines idling in the classification tracks. High above the rails, mounted on a fifty-foot lattice steel tower, the signal bridge displayed three vertical emerald lights against the black sky: THE HIGH GREEN.
A clear track. Maximum authorized speed. Eighty miles of open rail stretching west toward the Indiana line.
I sat in the elevated control tower on the third floor of the Buckeye Yard operations building, wearing my dark blue work shirt with M. VANCE — GENERAL SUPERINTENDENT embroidered in white thread over the pocket.
My right arm moved with complete, effortless freedom across the dual-screen dispatch console. The titanium plate was still there, tucked deep beneath the muscle, cold and permanent, but the bone around it was twice as thick as it had been before the fracture.
The track-occupancy display glowed with fifty miles of amber and green lines, showing the movement of six manifest trains moving cargo across three divisions.
The door to the dispatch office opened.
Frank Kowalski walked in, carrying two ceramic mugs of hot tea from the breakroom and a box of warm cider donuts from the orchard down the road.
"Train 188 is through the interlocking," Frank said, setting a mug on my desk blotter. "Eighty-two cars of mixed freight. Clean air test at the terminal. He’ll hit the Marysville siding by one-fifteen."
"Who's running the switcher at Hilliard?" I asked, clicking the mouse to line the power switches at the western crossover.
"New crew," Frank smiled, his teeth showing through his graying beard. "A kid named Miller. Grandson of the old chief. He runs the locomotive like it’s made of glass. Doesn't bump the couplers. Doesn't miss a hand signal."
He looked out the panoramic windows at the yard below, where the yard-goat was pulling a cut of twenty container flats onto the newly expanded siding—the twelve acres of land that now bore a small, black-and-white steel sign near the throat switch: VANCE INDUSTRIAL CORRIDOR — DEDICATED TO RETIRED RAIL WORKERS OF FRANKLIN COUNTY.
"Saw Blythe Caldwell this afternoon," Frank said casually, leaning against the filing cabinet.
I didn't take my eyes off the monitor. "Where?"
"Community center on Sullivant Avenue," he said, taking a bite of a donut. "She was wearing an orange reflective vest and hauling bags of winter coats out of a donor van. Some supervisor from the municipal court was standing over her with a clipboard, telling her she had thirty minutes to scrub the soup-kitchen floorboards before her daily hours were certified."
"Did she look like she was enjoying the work?" I asked mildly.
"She looked like she was discovering that ninety-degree mop water doesn't care about a French manicure," Frank said.
We both laughed—a clean, honest sound that rose into the warm air of the control room, mingling with the low, steady chatter of the road channel on the radio.
"Buckeye Dispatcher to NS 188 West," my radio crackled, the voice of the lead engineer coming through with the scratchy fidelity of an eighty-mile link. "We're through the plant, Maren. We've got a high green at milepost ninety-four. Thanks for the line."
I picked up the heavy black microphone, keyed the transmit button with my right thumb, and spoke into the clean night air:
"NS 188 West, this is Dispatcher Vance. You've got eighty miles of clear rail and sixty miles of double-track ahead of you. Watch for the frost on the bridge at Darby Creek. Keep your speed at fifty, keep your eyes on the markers, and have a safe run home."
"Copy that, Dispatcher. High green all the way."
May you like
I released the button.
Out on the main line, the heavy freight engine blew two long, low blasts of its horn—a deep, resonant chord that shook the glass in the tower windows, echoing across the frozen fields, clearing the path into the wide, dark country ahead.
