Peter Hernon - 8.4

“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.”