LAUREN MITCHELL WAS SHOCKED TO SEE HIM. AT first she wasn’t sure it was the same man. He’d aged, but he looked and moved with the easy, fluid grace of someone much younger. The face was creased and heavily lined, but the real difference, the detail that focused her attention, were the eyes. She remembered how his blue, clear eyes had blazed out from his coal-blackened face when he came up out of the mine on that day so many years ago. His eyes were different. They’d lost some of their sparkle.
Lauren approached Murray as he lit an unfiltered Camel.
“You won’t remember me, but I was here twenty-three years ago,” she said. “You helped bring up my husband’s body.”
Murray, who’d been staring at the ground, quickly looked up. He hadn’t mentioned the disaster to the scientists, figuring they probably already knew about it, and if they didn’t, why give them another reason to lose their nerve.
“His name was Bob Mitchell,” Lauren said.
“One of the best foremen in the business,” Murray said, taking off his helmet. “I met Bob once or twice. He was a fine man.”
He didn’t know what else to say to the woman, who stood there smiling at him with her thick hair blowing in the wind. It had been the worst mine disaster he’d ever seen. More than forty men trapped a thousand feet below ground by a methane explosion, sealed off in a tunnel and slowly suffocating as their air gave out. He’d led a rescue team, one of the lucky ones. Three men from another squad had been killed in a cave-in.
“I never thanked you for bringing him out,” Lauren said. “It’s a little late, but I want you to know I’ve never forgotten and never stopped praying for you.”
Murray took her hand and held it. “I wouldn’t mind a few more of those prayers.”
Lauren said, “This is going to be bad, isn’t it?”
Murray hesitated before he said, “These people have no idea what it’s like down there.”
When it was almost time, Lauren watched as Murray helped them slip into their fire-resistant bunker gear—thick leather overcoats, pants, steel-toed boots and gloves, hard hats. They strapped on their air tanks. Each of them also lugged a twenty-pound tank of dry foam for fighting fires. A coil of rope was attached to their web belts.
Booker carried the bomb’s fusing components, capacitors, and timer in a canvas backpack. The remote control for Neutron—about the size of a laptop—was strapped around his neck. He punched a few buttons and worked the joysticks. The robot easily picked up the bomb, cradling it in its special alloy mechanical arms. It rolled onto the steel elevator cage that would take them down the man shaft to the eight-hundred-foot level. A large spool of non-1 fuse was attached to its back.
“I’m gonna have to get me one of those,” Murray said, smiling. “How much does that machine cost?”
“About $10 million,” Booker said. “If you get us through this, I’ll see if I can get you a deal.”
THE elevator cage had just reached the four-hundred-foot level when the ground moved—a sharp horizontal tremor that made the cage sway on its steel cable. A sprinkling of dust fell on them. They all had their hard hat lanterns turned on.
“Better get used to it,” Murray said, gripping the side of the cage for balance. “We’re probably going to have some more of those.”
Atkins knew he was right. Shortly before they’d made their descent, he’d spoken with Guy Thompson by radio. The most recent seismic data showed the fault was averaging ten or eleven mild shocks an hour and that they were building in intensity.
Murray carried a multigas detector. The size of a pocket calculator, the device was calibrated to detect such gases as methane, carbon monoxide, and oxygen. It emitted a beep and flashed a red light when it registered dangerous levels.
Murray checked the readings. “It’s showing about 3.6 percent. That’s up a little since the last time I went down. We’re all right as long as it doesn’t hit 5 percent.”
Atkins was fairly sure the repeated tremors were responsible for the methane. The powerful shaking had probably opened up a pocket of the gas trapped in the ground. As soon as they’d started down the elevator shaft, he’d noticed another gas, hydrogen sulfide. He remembered the smell, the faint odor of rotten eggs, from the last time he’d gone into the Golden Orient.
He asked Murray if he’d ever encountered anything like that before.
“Not down in a mine,” he said. “It sure as hell stinks, but I don’t think it’s gonna kill us.”
Atkins figured the foul-smelling gas was escaping from deep underground pockets, much like the methane.
There were seven of them. Murray, Walt Jacobs, Elizabeth, Atkins, Weston, Wren, and Booker, who walked behind Neutron. The robot had glided along to the mine entrance, the wheels adjusting automatically to the changes in grade. It moved easily even weighed down with the bomb and the heavy roll of fuse.
The party carried two radios to stay in touch with the people on the surface.
“I feel like I’m going on one of my digs,” Elizabeth said, shifting the weight of the two heavy canisters on her back. “I could use a couple grad students to help carry this stuff.”
It was a feeble joke meant to cheer up Walt Jacobs. The man had looked feverish ever since they’d arrived at the mine. His face was pale. He glanced back and smiled at her, and she sensed he was putting on a brave front. They’d just started, and she was already worried he wouldn’t make it.
So was Atkins. Jacobs looked physically weak, unsteady on his feet. He’d also been concerned about Elizabeth, but after watching how easily she carried her packs, he realized she was in better shape than any of them.
At the eight-hundred-foot level, they left the elevator cage. It was the place where the shaft had collapsed. It was totally blocked by fallen rock. They got their first look at the deep room-and-pillar cuts that tank-sized machines known as continuous miners had carved out of the rock face. They were on Level 8.
Atkins found the layout just as Doc Murray had described it. Each level was comprised of a gridwork of three or four parallel tunnels with crossovers that connected them at right angles. As many as twenty-five “rooms” opened onto each side of the thousand-foot-long tunnels. Only the central or main tunnel connected to the air shaft and skip shaft. The air shaft was at one end. The skip shaft, which had once carried the coal to the top, was at the other.
The tunnel’s roof and walls were covered with a thick layer of white powder. Atkins had remembered that detail from his first visit.
“That’s rock dust,” Murray explained. “They mix it with water and spray it on the walls to keep down the coal dust. It reduces the risk of explosions. Dust can be volatile.”
Booker placed his first explosive charges near the elevator cage, chipping out holes in the shaft for five sticks of plastic explosive. He attached the non-1 fusing, crimping it onto the explosives with a special tool, and began to unreel the fuse from the spool attached to Neutron’s back.
They advanced down a tunnel single file. Murray led the way, playing a spotlight on the walls and roof, checking for any sign of fresh cracks.
“Stay as close to the center of the tunnel as you can,” he said. “The roof supports are better in the middle.” The supports consisted of hundreds of steel bolts drilled up into the ceiling, each of them four feet long.
Looking behind a few minutes later to check on everyone’s progress, Murray noticed that Weston and Wren had drifted over toward the side of the tunnel. In the disorienting, absolute darkness, it was easy to get out of line, even with a headlamp.
“Hold it,” Murray told them. He’d noticed a thin crack in the ceiling. “Get back here behind me.”
When the two men were safely out of the way, he jabbed at the crack with the sharp end of an eight-foot-long crowbar he carried. A sheet of rock about five feet wide and an inch thick crashed down, throwing up a cloud of white dust.
“Hope you got the idea,” Murray said. “Stay… in… the… middle of the tunnel. The shoring along the ribs over on the side wall is pretty poor. I’m noticing a lot of cracks.”
With the stop it took them fifteen minutes to advance about five hundred feet to the end of the tunnel. Murray led them into the air shaft. Thick, heavy sheets of plastic covered the opening to the shaft.
“That’s a fire curtain,” Murray said.” A fire breaks out, that’ll give you a little protection. Maybe a couple minutes. They’re mainly used to channel fresh air or to help seal off a tunnel from poisonous gas.” He grinned. “Like I said, it’ll buy you a couple minutes.”
The air shaft sloped down at a steep incline. It was possible to walk on the grade, which had been designed to serve the double purpose of providing an intake for fresh air and an escape route in an emergency.
“We’ll go down about seven hundred feet, then cut down a tunnel on Level 15 and take the skip shaft to the eighteen-hundred-foot level. That’s the end of the line.”
Ever since they’d entered the mine, they’d heard an intermittent rumble deep in the ground. It was the same unnerving sound Atkins remembered from before. It was far below them, the sound, Atkins thought, of mountains of rock sliding together in the earth’s crust.
Before they started down the air shaft, Murray tied everyone to a lifeline. He looped the ends through metal rings in their web belts much like mountain climbers used carabineers to link up to a rope. It was a steep descent. They sometimes had to hold on to the walls to keep their footing. If someone stumbled, the line would keep them from knocking down the others. The air shaft was just over five feet high, so they had to walk hunched over. Neutron moved easily, its orange football helmet passing well below the roof of the tunnel.
There were frequent tremors, none severe. Their faces and hard hats were soon covered with the chalky white powder that fell from the roof like flakes of snow every time the ground shook.
Murray called a brief halt to take another gas reading. Jacobs rubbed his temples.
“What’s wrong, Walt?” Atkins asked. “You okay, fella?” His friend looked like he’d been stricken with a crushing headache. His eyes were clamped shut. He put his hand against Atkins’ shoulder to steady himself.
“I’m fine, just a little wobbly,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve. “I forgot how hot it was down here. It’s like a steam room.”
It was warm, another of the details Atkins recalled from their descent nearly a week earlier.
“That heat’s one of the things that’s got me concerned,” Murray said. “A mine’s usually cool. Low sixties year-round. We’ve got readings in places nearly ninety degrees. This ground is really putting out the heat.”
Atkins still found that puzzling. His best guess was that heavy seismic activity at great depth was causing it. Rock strain generated heat, and in this case, the strain was still building, still putting out energy.
They stopped several times so that Booker could place explosive charges in the shaft. He kept unwinding the yellow fuse line from Neutron.
Atkins marveled at the robot’s ability to make the descent. The engineering was superb. The omnidirectional platform and unique tread system compensated instantly for sudden grade changes. The hydraulics automatically shifted the robot’s center of gravity. It was designed to descend a steep grade.
When they reached Level 15, Murray moved them back into the mine tunnel.
“How far down are we?” Elizabeth asked Murray.
“About fifteen hundred feet,” he said.
Except for a mild headache from the depth, she was holding up well, better than she’d expected. She quietly asked Atkins how he felt.
“Just like a walk in the country,” he said, forcing himself to smile. It was tough, but he hadn’t experienced any panic attacks, which was about as good as he could hope for. Having Elizabeth along helped him for a reason he hadn’t considered: she gave him something else to focus on.
They started through another maze of dark tunnels carved out of the coal seam. The rooms were interspersed with thick columns left in place to support the ceilings. The damaging effects of the earthquake were more apparent at this level. Parts of the roof and walls had caved in, leaving only narrow passageways. With every mild shake of the ground, more dust and rock fell.
It was getting warmer.
Murray called another halt to check his gas meter. He’d been doing this often.
“I’m reading about 4.2 percent methane,” he said. “That’s a hell of a jump since the last time.”
Looking up the dark tunnel, Atkins remembered what Murray had told them about sitting in the barrel of a shotgun.
GUY Thompson, resplendent in a broad-brimmed cowboy hat with an eagle feather in the brim, was monitoring an array of seismographs they’d set up around the periphery of the mine. The instruments were programmed to send signals to the red shack four miles away. The instruments would pick up the effects of the explosion, the intensity of the seismic waves it generated.
Thompson, who was at the red shack, had just gotten them online. The digital instruments indicated a pronounced increase in seismic activity.
“We’re getting a mag 3 or better every ten or twenty minutes,” Thompson told Steve Draper over the radio. “I’m thinking maybe we’re building up to something.”
President Ross and Draper felt most of the tremors, the alternating vertical movement and side-to-side swaying. So far, nothing serious.
Gunfire broke out again, more distant this time. Automatic weapons. Ross had been told that the 101st Airborne continued to run into pockets of resistance. The patrols were keeping the pressure on the rebellious National Guard troops and militia units still scattered in diminishing numbers throughout the surrounding hills. Remote, thickly forested, the country offered superb cover and the Kentucky soldiers were making the most of it.
The president’s Secret Service chief, Phil Belleau, kept pushing him to withdraw to the red shack. The position—it was on a hilltop—was more secure and easier to defend.
Ross refused. Two UH-60 helicopters were parked near the entrance to the mine, ready to fly him out at a moment’s notice. One was a backup in case the first was disabled. Both engines were kept idling, the crews on standby.
Ross was hardly aware of the shooting or the drone of helicopter gunships as they circled the hills, hunting for targets. He was engrossed, watching a strong-motion seismograph record the vibrations coming from the deep earth.
“See if you can get them on the radio,” Ross said. “Let’s find out how they’re doing.” He wanted to keep such calls to a minimum, afraid of distracting them.
Draper turned on the portable radio. There was a long burst of static before he got through to Atkins. “John, what’s your situation down there?” he asked.
“We’re starting to pick up some methane,” Atkins said.
“How bad?” Draper asked.
“Over four percent.”
That wasn’t good news. If methane reached high enough concentration levels, there was always the danger of spontaneous combustion and an explosion.
Listening to this exchange, Lauren Mitchell remembered how the Golden Orient was notorious for the deadly gas. There’d been at least three methane explosions before the big one that had killed her husband.
Spontaneous combustion.
Those two words were a miner’s curse.
The radio crackled again. “We’re approaching the skip shaft,” Atkins said. The long, steeply inclined tunnel had once housed the coal conveyor. “It shouldn’t be too much longer before we’re in position.”
Lauren Mitchell knew it was time to leave. She’d done everything she could and wanted to get away from this place. She missed her grandson. Her house was in the evacuation zone, but she’d made up her mind not to leave or let anyone run her off. If the worst happened, she wanted to be on familiar ground.
She also knew what could happen in the mine and didn’t want to be around to see it if it did.
She’d promised Murray she’d pray and had been praying steadily. But she knew what a 4-percent-and-climbing methane level meant. If it went too high, all the prayers in the world wouldn’t stop the explosion.