Peter Hernon - 8.4

The breaks in the circuit, Booker figured, were undoubtedly caused by the fires and cave-ins or the repeated tremors. It was impossible to know exactly where they’d occurred. Booker had set up two detonation lines: one during the descent, the other as they climbed back up. He’d positioned the explosives where they’d be most likely to collapse the shafts.

Atkins was shocked when the physicist calmly announced there was only one solution to the problem. Manual detonation.

Booker said he’d remain on Level 8 and explode the charges that would seal the main shafts and air vents. He made the decision sound as simple as going to the store to buy milk.

He caught Atkins completely off guard. Elizabeth and Weston had already made it up the air vent with Murray helping them. They’d gone up with ropes looped under their arms and around their waists. Twice Weston had almost fallen, only to be caught by Murray, who’d wrapped the rope for extra support around an electrical outlet box bolted to the floor of the tunnel.

The looped end of the rope now dangled in front of Atkins. Murray had shouted down for one of them to start climbing.

“Why in the hell don’t you run the detonator cord up to ground level and set it off up there?” Atkins asked.

Booker shook his head. “If we get another good earthquake and that cord snaps…” He didn’t finish the thought. “Any venting from a bomb this size, and the dust cloud could drift all the way to the East Coast.”

“But you can’t stay here!” Atkins shouted. He’d clamped his hands on Booker’s shoulders as he tried to reason with him. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Booker was resolute. There was no moving him.

“It’s the right time and the right place,” the physicist said patiently. “I’ve got plenty of explosives left. I can seal every vent at this level. I only wish I’d thought of this earlier. It would have made things so much easier. I wouldn’t have had to lug all that extra plastic explosive and fuse down into this hole in the ground.”

Atkins looked at him, shaking his head. It was hopeless. He was staying.

“John, you’re running out of time.” Booker said. “I’m not going to leave. It’s a simple decision. I’ve made it of sound body and mind. I wish you’d go. Please go. If you stay, it’s safe to say the end will come very quickly. You won’t suffer. If by some miracle we survive the explosive charges, we can look forward to being vaporized. I must say I’ve always been curious about the chemical processes involved, all that radiation your bones absorb in a few nanoseconds. Of course, you won’t feel it because you’ll implode when all those gamma rays shoot through you. Photons, actually. Your body will light up, something like a flashbulb, I imagine.”

“Dammit, your leukemia is in remission,” Atkins persisted angrily. “You don’t have to do this, Fred. You can live another ten years. You don’t have to commit suicide.”

“Think logically,” Booker said. “This is the only way we can make sure there’s no screw up. If the ground vents from a one-megaton shot, you’ll have a hot cloud rising to thirty thousand feet within four minutes.”

“You two better get a fucking move on down there,” Murray shouted. For the first time since they’d entered the mine, his voice showed fear.

Booker smiled at Atkins. “You get back to Doctor Holleran, John. Get back to her as fast as you can. There’s going to be a lot of work to do after this. They’re going to need both of you.”

“We’ve got two harnesses up here,” Murray yelled. “They’re ready to pull us up the man shaft.” Moments earlier, Elizabeth and Weston had started on their way to the surface, the rescue lines attached to the helicopter hoists. They were already nearing the halfway point.

Booker looked at Atkins and said, “It’s your turn, doctor. Don’t do anything foolish like trying to overpower me. This seal has to work.”

Atkins wrapped the rope under his arms, gritting his teeth at the pain in his right forearm and shoulder. With a push from Booker, he started up the shaft, helped along by Murray and the rope. It was a hard go. He had to make a conscious effort every time he moved his arms and legs, which felt like lead weights hung from them. As he neared the top, he came close to passing out. He held himself in place, wedging against the walls of the shaft with his feet and shoulder blades.

“Come on, doc,” Murray shouted. “You’re too close to quit on me now.”

Atkins looked up. He only had another five feet to go. He moved one leg, then another, inching his shoulders higher up the wall. Then Murray had him by the arms and he was out of the shaft.

When he looked down at Booker, the physicist waved.

“Remember to make sure everyone’s long gone from this mine at D minus five minutes,” Booker shouted. “That’s when I’ll fire the explosives. It’s going to make a beautiful noise.”

ATKINS WENT UP THE ELEVATOR SHAFT A FEW minutes after Murray. Strapped into one of the jury-rigged harnesses, he was halfway to the surface when a tremor hit. He no longer doubted it anymore. These were preshocks—the increasingly heavy seismic jolts that preceded a big earthquake. His seat bounced and swayed as rock fragments broke off the walls. Grasping the ropes, he leaned forward as they pelted his hard hat and shoulders. Several large pieces just missed him and crashed onto the elevator cage four hundred feet below.

The shaft was starting to crumble. The last two hundred feet were agonizingly slow. Atkins kept waiting for the walls to collapse on him.

When he was closer to the surface, he had to cover his eyes in the glare of powerful spotlights. Squinting into the painful brightness when he reached the top, he saw Elizabeth waiting for him. She was standing next to the president and Steven Draper. Both men were smiling. Draper grabbed Atkins’ hand and pumped it hard.

“Now let’s get the hell out of here,” he said.

They had about twenty minutes until the bomb detonated.

Draper hurried them out of the metal building that housed the entrance to the mine. They emerged into the soft, gauzy light of a winter’s afternoon. The sun was a dull, gray disk, but Atkins and Elizabeth had to hold their hands over their eyes to cut down on the glare.

As they trotted down a gravel path toward the mine’s parking lot. Draper explained there’d been a change of plans. They weren’t going to use the helicopters. More fighting had broken out in the surrounding hills, mainly skirmishes between small groups of the Kentucky National Guard and Army patrols. It was considered too risky for the president to try to fly out. They feared another rocket attack.

They were going to drive out.

Draper wanted to reach the red shack, where they’d monitor the effects of the blast. It was about four miles south of the mine on a hilltop that had been heavily fortified against attack. The scientists had steadily added to the array of portable seismographs and other instrumentation around the blast zone to record the velocity and direction of the seismic waves, analyze the release of strain energy in the ground, and calculate the yield of the bomb. They were also ready to record and pinpoint whatever seismic activity the explosion generated on the Caruthersville Fault and those adjoining it.

As he jogged along next to Atkins, the president asked about Booker.

“He’s still down there with the robot,” Atkins said. “He’s not coming up.”

He explained.

There hadn’t been many times in Ross’ career, first as a lawyer in Evanston, Illinois, then as a politician, when words failed him. This was one of them. He didn’t know what to say, how to respond. He wouldn’t even try. He’d damn well do it later when he could hope to do justice to Booker’s heroism. He’d make sure the man was remembered.