Red Helmet

by Homer Hickam

  Stanvic eyed her red helmet. “You working for me today?”

  “I’m giving her a tour,” Square explained. “Just wanted to check in, see if it’s okay with you.”

  Stanvic peered at Square suspiciously, then shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”

  “Tell us about those monitors,” Square suggested.

  Stanvic looked peeved, then stood up and waddled out, saying over his shoulder, “You do it. I ain’t no red cap teacher.”

  “Stan’s always been cranky at work until he eats lunch,” Square said, smiling. “He’ll eat about three lunches before he’s through. Tell you what. Let’s first go out into the plant and have a look around. Then maybe all these monitors will make sense. Leave your lunchbox here.”

  Once outside the office, Square said, “In a nutshell, what this operation does is take the raw material that comes out of the mine and separate it into rock, bad coal, and good coal. Rock’s rock. You know about it. Bad coal has enough minerals in it to make too much ash when it’s burned. Some you can sell, like to certain steam plants that don’t care how much they pollute, and some you can’t. Good coal is pure enough to burn in the modern power plants that have pollution standards. Really good coal, the finest, is called metallurgical grade. That’s what’s used to make steel.”

  Song followed Square up a series of steps that provided a dizzying view all the way down to the concrete floor of the huge facility. At the top level, which was over one hundred and fifty feet high, Square pushed open a door and they stepped outside onto another narrow walkway of steel grate. Song gripped the rail with both hands. “Is this where . . . ?” she began.

  Square answered before she could finish. “No. Squirrel Harper fell from that perch over there, beside the froth flotation jig. Never figured Squirrel to be the kind of man who’d fall. He always struck me as being sure-footed.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t an accident,” Song said, recalling the constable’s concern.

  Square made no reply, just kept looking out into the distance. Song caught the brittle aroma of wood smoke, probably from someone building a fire in their fireplace. It was cold enough, and she shivered as the wind worked its way through her loose jumpsuit. Every morning for the last week, there had been a heavy frost coating the porch and the grass in the Cardinal’s front yard. She had already thought about purchasing a warmer coat from Omar’s.

  From their perch near the top of the preparation plant, she could see the mine grounds were tucked in a little hollow, and behind it rose the steep mountain that lay over the underground works. Song studied the mountain, wondering, among other things, how much it weighed. Whatever it was, it was all pressing down on the mine below and the men she thought of now as her friends and colleagues.

  “They’re talking about taking the top off her,” Square said of the mountain.

  “Who is?”

  “Atlas Energy. I heard Cable worrying about it the other day. Test bores show there’s a lot of coal inside her, and the Atlas president has proposed mountaintop mining to get at it. They’ll bring huge machines in, Song, bigger than anything you can imagine. To get up there, they’ll have to scratch that old mountain to pieces to build roads, then they’ll dig down inside her, pull out her guts, and drop them down the side. Oh, they’ll say some day after they’re done, they’ll fill her back up with the spoil. But it won’t ever be the same. Everything will be destroyed. Cable knows that and hates the idea.”

  “Cable against mining? I can’t imagine that!”

  Square shook his head. “You really don’t know the man you married, do you?”

  “Clearly not,” Song said. “I guess that’s why we’re getting an annulment.” She turned away from the mountain. “Tell me about this plant, Square.”

  “All right.” Square pointed out where the raw coal was brought out of the mine from a separate shaft from the manlift, where it was first stored in a big silo, and then transported by conveyor belt aloft to rollers where it was crushed. Then he pointed to a slanted shaft where a series of screens separated the coal by size. “The big stuff is mostly rock and it’s dropped down there,” Square said, indicating a pile of yellowish rock below. He led her back inside and took her along another scary catwalk until they reached a huge tank of swirling black water.

  “This is a jig, a dense-medium separator that uses specific gravity to separate the coal. The better grade of coal floats; the lesser grades sink. The coal that’s skimmed off the top is good quality and is mostly used for power plants.”

  The next stop was another black vat of water, smaller than the first. A sharp odor from it pierced her nostrils. “Cable’s pride and joy,” Square said, patting the tank. “You’ve maybe heard about that steel mill in India with a requirement for an extremely high grade of coal. The only way to get it is with froth flotation, which is what this baby does. The water in it is mixed with special chemicals that make air bubbles sticky. When coal is dumped into the water and air is blown into it, the froth that’s created sticks to the purest coal and floats it to the top. The coal that comes out of this jig is worth a great deal of money. Everybody pays top dollar for it, especially the Indians.”

  Song looked over the equipment with interest. Square led her down the steps until they reached the floor, then walked her to a huge inverted cone. “This is a cyclone. After the coal has been washed in the jigs, it has to be dried. It works just like the spin dry cycle in a washing machine. The coal is spun and the water is pushed out by centrifugal force. Then the coal is fed into what’s called a bed dryer, which burns natural gas to evaporate any water left. Then, and only then, is the coal ready to go to market.”

  “What happens then?”

  “Trucks carry it to a railhead. In our case, we use the one over at Fox Run.”

  “Why don’t they put in tracks and have the train come here? It runs through town already.”

  “A very perceptive question,” Square said. “They used to but when the demand for coal fell off thirty years ago, they took that track out. Now it’s too expensive to lay down again, at least for now. Trucks are a stopgap measure.”

  Song followed Square through a door where he showed her three tall silos. There were trucks lined up in front of them. “The coal goes here in these bins to wait for pickup,” he said.

  Song looked around. “Who operates the plant?”

  “It’s fully automated so it pretty much operates itself. Not more than a couple of men are needed, mostly for maintenance, and as long as things are perking along, they generally only come in on weekends. Stan’s job is to simply monitor things.”

  “Who watches the trucks and what their drivers load?”

  “Stanvic does that. Before the trucks leave the yard, he checks each one. At night, the gate is kept locked except when there’re special orders. Then Stanvic or Mole comes in and opens up.”

  “Mole?”

  “He has lots of jobs around the mine.”

  The tour ended back in the control room. Stanvic was there with his feet up on the desk in front of the monitors. When he saw them enter his sanctum, he snorted in disgust, picked up his empty lunch box, and trudged out. “Thank you, Stan,” Square called after him, then chuckled. “Stan’s usually pretty grumpy after lunch.”

  “When isn’t he grumpy?”

  Square shrugged. “Maybe when he’s asleep.”

  Square went over the purpose of each monitor and gauge. “So that’s about it,” he concluded. “Anything else you want to know?”

  Song got up and brought her lunchbox to the console table, taking out the printouts she’d made. “Have a look at this,” she said. “This column is the raw tonnage the Highcoal mine produced monthly over the past year. As you can see, every month this mine has been producing more and more. But this column is the percentage of how much of that coal was low grade. The next column is the percentage that was high grade, and this last column is the percentage that was metallurgical. What do you think?”

  Square studied t
he printout. “In April, the percentage of high-grade metallurgical coal to raw tonnage slipped and never recovered,” he said. He looked up at her, his eyebrows raised, his eyes wide.

  “That’s right. But why?”

  Square thought it over. “Maybe a run of dirty coal. It happens.”

  “Wouldn’t the other percentages also change in that case?”

  “You’d think so,” he said.

  “Then what happened to that high-grade metallurgical coal?”

  She watched as her suspicions dawned on Square. “You think somebody’s stealing it?”

  Song nodded. “Is there a way to do it?”

  “Sure. You come in with a truck and haul it away.”

  “Wouldn’t somebody notice that?”

  “You’d think so.”

  “What if it was done when nobody was here? Like on the hoot-owl shift?”

  Square looked dubious. “I told you they keep the gate locked at night.”

  “Except when there’re special orders, you said.”

  “But then Stanvic or Mole are here.”

  Song pointed out the obvious. “So if there’s theft, either Stanvic or Mole would have to know about it.”

  Square drummed his fingers on the printout. “Or both of them are in it together. But there’s another possibility. If, say, somebody had a key and drove a truck in during the hoot-owl shift, they could load up without anybody knowing it.”

  “Wouldn’t that make a lot of noise?”

  “Yes. But around two every morning, as you no doubt have noticed, there’s a train that rumbles through town. It could be done then and nobody would hear a thing.”

  “Just for the sake of argument, let’s suppose somebody did that. What would they do with the stolen coal?”

  Square thought some more, then said, “If they had a buyer, it would be a pretty simple thing to carry it to them and transfer it to another truck. There are a lot of coal buyers around.”

  Song and Square looked at each other, the possibilities and probabilities of the situation coursing through their minds. Finally Song asked, “So how do we find out?”

  “We play detective, I suppose.”

  “Are you willing?”

  Square frowned. “One thing worries me. What if it’s Cable doing it?”

  Song was astonished at that idea. “Cable? Surely not!”

  “If we’re detectives, everybody is under suspicion.”

  “I’ve never known Cable to do the first dishonest thing. Stupid, yes. Dishonest, no.”

  “Cable’s a very intelligent man. Surely he’s also noticed the drop in the metallurgical percentage.”

  “Mole’s computer can’t track it,” Song said. “Only the gross tonnage. I did these calculations by hand.”

  “So you’re saying you saw something even Cable couldn’t see? About his own mine?”

  “Figuring out what’s wrong with companies is my specialty.”

  Square smiled at her. “You are a piece of work, Song, if you don’t mind me saying so.” He paused, then said, “When Cable bought Hillcrest, everybody wondered how he could afford it.”

  Song made a dismissive sound. “He’s got a big mortgage. At least, I think he does.”

  “He sponsors the Highcoal T-ball and Little League teams, buys their uniforms and everything they need.”

  Song started to argue, then something dawned on her as well. “His Porsche. How could he possibly own a Porsche?”

  She and Square shared a glance. “We have our work cut out for us,” Square said. “Let the detecting begin.”

  Song gulped. All of a sudden, her enthusiasm for detective work was waning. Cable, guilty of stealing his own coal?

  But she’d gone this far. She had to keep going, no matter where the evidence took her.

  Twenty-Nine

  Square sat in his truck, far enough from the light poles that surrounded the Highcoal preparation plant to put him in the shadows. He was watching the gate that the coal trucks only rarely used, the one on the far end of the mine complex, hidden from the town by a hillock and a tall stand of pine trees. Square poured another cup of coffee from his thermos, then checked his watch. It was approaching two o’clock. Soon the coal train bound for Fox Run would be coming through. He yawned and stretched. It was probably going to be another night of detective duty without result. For three nights, since Song had told him her suspicions, he had driven to the preparation plant to watch it. So far, nothing unusual had occurred.

  He heard the rumble of a powerful engine and turned toward it. On the access road was a huge black coal truck, without lights, slowly making its way. At the gates, the driver got out, unlocked them, pulled them open, then got back into the truck and drove it toward the silos. The driver was too far away for Square to make out his face, but he was a big man with wide shoulders.

  Square got out of his pickup and slipped through the gate. He stayed in the shadows, working his way until he could get a clear view of the black truck. The driver stayed inside the cab. A few minutes later, the coal train rumbled through town, its long line of cars thumping and bumping, a crescendo of noise. That was when the driver hopped out of the truck and rigged the silo holding the highest grade of metallurgical coal. Bingo, Square thought. Song was right. And now Square had the culprit. Soon everything would be clear as to why the precious coal was being taken, and who was doing it.

  Unheard within the raucous thunder of the passing train, the fine grade of coal slid down the chute into the truck. Square slipped around a stack of lumber, to get into position to write down the license number of the truck. He was disappointed. A stack of mine posts obscured his view.

  The driver walked away while the truck settled beneath the tons of coal. He lit up a cigarette, producing a glow on his face, a face that Square now recognized. The coal from the chute stopped, the truck was fully loaded, and the man got back in the truck, started it up, turned it around, and headed toward the gate. Square ran after it, then slowed, clutching his chest. Black lung didn’t allow many long-distance runners.

  While Square labored to catch his breath, the truck roared out onto the highway, its lights blinking on. Square stumbled ahead until he reached his pickup. After taking several hits off a small green oxygen bottle, he gave chase. He had to get that license number. It was one thing to recognize the driver, another to have the constable find out who owned the truck. That would tell them so much more, and prove their case too.

  It wasn’t long before Square caught sight of the truck’s tail lights. It was heading in the direction of Fox Run. That was no surprise. There were lots of buyers of coal in the county seat. Square began to relax as the oxygen accomplished its magic. He just needed to catch up, get the license, then perhaps keep following to see where the truck went. But he didn’t catch up with the truck. Either it had turned off, or the driver was driving like a maniac at top speed with a full load. Square kept going, driving over the first mountain, and then along the narrow valley that led to the next. He rounded a curve and was surprised to see the black truck pulled over. He had no choice but to pass it by.

  Square looked for a place to turn around but there wasn’t one until he reached the top of the next mountain. He turned off and tried to decide what to do. He decided his best course was to slowly drive on to Fox Run. Maybe the truck would catch up with him, even pass him. He pulled out on the road just as the black coal truck crested the mountain. Without slowing, it slammed into him, the pickup’s windshield shattering in a hail of glass, its airbag pounding Square in the chest. The coal truck kept ramming Square’s pickup all the way through the guard rail and over the mountain. It landed hard on its roof, then began to roll, knocking down trees as it plummeted toward the valley far below.

  Thirty

  Doctor K, dressed in scrubs, came out into the waiting room. “He’s still with us,” she told the assembly, which included Hildy, Square’s wife, and numerous children and grandchildren. Preacher, Constable Petrie, Song, and all the red
caps were also there. Doctor K directed her comments to Hildy. “He has two broken ankles, a couple of cracked ribs, a broken arm, and probably a concussion. There were no internal injuries that we could find. His black lung is being a bad actor, so we have him on a respirator.”

  “Is he going to be all right, Doc?” Hildy asked. Song had been surprised to discover she was a fellow New Yorker and had grown up in Idlewild. Square had met her while he was in the navy.

  “I hope so,” Doctor K said. “He’s in intensive care. He’ll stay there until we get him stabilized.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “Sure. But only you and the immediate family.” She did a quick count. “Okay, the top dozen or so.”

  “How about Preacher?”

  Doctor K smiled. “Sure. I guess Preacher is family too.”

  After Hildy and selected children, grandchildren, and Preacher were led by an ICU nurse through the double doors, the constable asked Doctor K, “Did Square wake up long enough to say what happened?”

  “No. And the paramedics said he was unconscious when they pulled him out of his truck. He’d be dead if it hadn’t lodged against a big oak tree. There was a cliff that was vertical all the way to the river after that.”

  “Who found him?”

  “A miner going to work at the Fox Run mine saw where the guard rails had been knocked down.”

  “What I don’t understand is why he was out so late,” Justin said. Justin had spent the hours of waiting by regaling his fellow red caps with the story of how he’d helped all day with a continuous miner. He’d even been allowed to operate it for a brief period.

  “Maybe Square has a girlfriend at Fox Run,” Chevrolet proposed.

  “Shut up, brother,” Ford said. “That’s not nice.”

  The constable scratched up under his cap and eyed Song. “You’re being awfully quiet,” he said. “Do you know anything about this?”