Red Helmet

by Homer Hickam

  The ratings reflected the interest, and they were huge. On the morning when the rescue teams and the town doctor (a woman!) reached the trapped trio, there were shouts of joy and hymns of salvation sung throughout the land. When the manlift rose from the darkness, the television cameras, one of them even belonging to Al-Jazeera, moved in for a close-up, and print reporters and famous anchors crowded in just to hear a single word from the adorable female miner. They were disappointed. She stayed silent, her head turned away, as two of her rescuers carried her in a stretcher to a waiting ambulance. Beside her walked her father, Joe Hawkins, his silver-maned head held at an attentive tilt.

  The woman’s husband, the man named Cable, had already been brought out and taken away.

  The next manlift brought out the murderer named Bum, and beside him stood the town constable and more rescuers. Bum hung his head and wept tears of shame and meth as he shuffled to another ambulance. Constable Petrie climbed aboard it with him, and then its siren shrieked as it rolled out of the tipple grounds and through the gate. Bum was also headed for the clinic, before being transferred to the county jail at Fox Run.

  And yet, even then, the story was not over.

  A star had been born by the events deep in the Highcoal mine. Governor Michelle Godfrey had talked the nation through it as the tragedy unfolded. She had proved to be witty, articulate, always informative, confident, and sexy, a potent combination. She had worn her miner’s jumpsuit and a white helmet as she demonstrated how an SCSR worked, talked learnedly of the problems of mine ventilation, and even put on a rescue pack. In the days that followed the rescue, there was an intense media interest in her involvement with the silver fox himself, billionaire widower and very eligible bachelor Joe Hawkins, who also happened to be the father of the courageous woman who’d been trapped and apparently had a hand in her own rescue. The governor and the billionaire had been seen together a few times since, in New York as well as attending the West Virginia Symphony in Charleston. The liaison with such a rich and powerful man only added to the governor’s star power. There was talk of national office. A woman like that was too large in life to stay at the state level. Dick Morris called. So did James Carville. Several times.

  The near-calamity produced another star, a twelve-year-old Highcoal boy, amusingly named Young Henry. His speech on the steps of the Highcoal Church about the importance of coal and the men and women who mined it had delighted viewers with its stirring simplicity. Governor Godfrey soon made an announcement that Young Henry was the new co-poet laureate of West Virginia (joining Irene McKinney), although he had not written poetry at all, just told the truth as he saw it. Young Henry was on David Letterman and Jay Leno, and all the morning shows, his big ears bright red from the attention. He did well on television, to the relief of his mother, and was adored by everyone. Despite his acclaim, his teachers did not let up on his homework and he got a B in English for the semester.

  And still the story was not complete.

  At the Highcoal Church of Christian Truth, they held a ceremony for Song and her fellow red caps to accept them into the fraternity of miners. For this event, the television cameras returned, and the nation tuned in as the five red caps were individually called forward by their instructor, a proud and beaming man named, even more improbably, Square Block. As each received their shiny new black helmet, Square took the scratched and battered red helmets and reverently placed them on the altar. In the choir pews, the choir and Preacher watched with benevolent satisfaction.

  Song was the last red cap called forward. She took off her red helmet and solemnly put on a black one. Square hugged her for a very long time. She needed it. Her legs felt weak. Her whole body, mind, and spirit felt weak. She briefly wondered if she could go on, then she did.

  Preacher rose and crossed to the pulpit. “Song,” he whispered to her, “you should say a few words. The people expect it.”

  Song stepped into the pulpit. As she looked out into the congregation and the cameras, her eyes betrayed her fatigue. She had not slept much since her return to the surface. And tears came when she thought there surely were no tears left. She told herself to stand straight and proud, as Cable would want, as her mother would have required, as her father wanted now, as the world, always questing a hero, seemed to demand.

  “I am proud to be here today,” she said, her voice catching momentarily. “I am proud to be associated in any way with these men, my dear friends and fellow red caps, Gilberto, Justin, Chevrolet, and Ford, and our instructor, Square Block.”

  The ex-red caps all grinned encouragingly at her. The light from the winter sky poured through the church windows, burnishing their gleaming new ebony helmets, which they did not seem inclined to remove.

  Song, however, took off her helmet and held it up, presenting it to the congregation and, some said later, as an offering to the God of all coal miners.

  “I am proud to be accepted into the brotherhood and sisterhood of the men and women who mine the deep coal,” she said. “I sometimes didn’t think I would make it, but I did. To Square, Preacher, Bossman, Vietnam, and all the foremen and miners who helped me through my training, I cannot possibly express my gratitude adequately, except to say thank you from the bottom of my heart. You are the best people I have ever known.”

  Song took a ragged breath.

  “Cable . . .”—she swallowed, and started again—“Cable used to tell me not to make easy things hard. I told him that there were no easy things, just things that seemed easy but weren’t.”

  She put her helmet on. “I know now he was right, because there was a very easy thing I kept making hard, and that was loving him. Cable was the easiest man in the world to love, yet I kept making it difficult. It was not his fault. It was mine.”

  She looked down, as if gathering her strength, then lifted her head. “I was like the continuous miner operator who keeps digging into the roof, rather than into the rich, good coal. I was like the shuttle car operator who runs over his own cable or swipes a rib when he is turning. In love, I was just a red cap, uncertain what to do next, afraid to ask, certain I was going to mess up if I tried. Oh, for an instructor in love as good as the one I had in coal mining!”

  Song smiled, and the people of Highcoal looked back at her with complete devotion.

  “When we were trapped,” Song said, “I learned what I would do to protect my husband. I would have done anything. I only wish I had done a better job of it.”

  Song slumped, and her shoulders shook, and copious tears came again. Preacher rose and went to her, and put his arm around her to hold her up. “Song,” he said gently, “you must know there’s someone else here.”

  “Yes, Preacher,” she said. “You don’t need to tell me. I feel God here, just as I felt Him in the mine as I passed before the fire.”

  “Yes, He is, child,” Preacher said, “but there is someone else here too.”

  She sagged against him. “Not the one I want, Preacher,” she whispered.

  “That,” he said triumphantly, “is exactly who I mean.”

  The door that led to Preacher’s office opened, and when Song looked, there stood Cable. He struggled ahead on crutches, his rugged face fixed with determination. Doctor K and a paramedic hovered alongside, ready to catch him.

  But he did not falter. Nothing was going to stop him.

  “He came out of his coma this morning,” Preacher said to Song and to everyone. “And he wouldn’t listen to reason. He insisted on coming here.”

  Song hugged Preacher, then ran from the pulpit to hold Cable.

  “I love you, love you, love you!” she cried as the congregation cheered, hugged one another, and wiped tears away. He took her in, held her in the way only he could. She could feel his renewed strength.

  Doctor K drew her aside for just a moment. “There’s no damage from the CO poisoning we can find. Cable’s got a good heart, and apparently he had brain cells to spare.”

  Cable overheard. “I guess that surprises you
, huh?” he asked Song.

  She grinned at him. “That you had brain cells? Pretty much.”

  “You look good in your helmet,” he offered.

  “All women look good in black,” she replied. Then, glancing at Doctor K, she said, “You said yesterday you were going to keep him under for another week.”

  Doctor K shrugged. “He started struggling to come awake on his own last night. His brain scans were perfect so we decided to bring him along. When he came awake—well, same old Cable.”

  “I’m not the same, Doctor K,” he said. “I’m better.” And then he grinned and there was his endearing dimple. Song’s heart soared. She had never felt such joy. She wanted to hold Cable forever. She wrapped her arms around him again.

  “Let me go, honey,” Cable said gently. “I’ve got something that needs to be said.”

  “No, you have to rest. Go back to the hospital and I’ll be along.”

  Cable insisted, and with an iron will, he struggled into the pulpit and gripped the sides to steady himself. The governor was sobbing quietly and Joe Hawkins had his arm around her while wiping away his own tears. The television cameras zoomed in on the power couple, then back to Cable.

  “I want to express my thanks to each and every one of you here today,” he said. “You fought for Song and me, each in your own way, and you brought us out safe. You even brought ol’ Bum. If you pray for anyone, pray for him. He did evil things, but even he is not beyond salvation and God’s mercy.”

  A few “amens” were heard, though they were faint ones. Preacher looked dubious, then shrugged and nodded agreement.

  Cable looked across the congregation and saw Einstein, Bossman, Mole, the rescue team leaders, and the other rescuers. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your courage and your tenacity. You are the best of the best, and I’m proud there are such as you still in these United States.”

  Cable looked at each of the former red caps. “You new black caps deserve your honor today.” He began to waver on his crutches, and his face went pale, the blood drained away. Song rushed to him, put his arm around her shoulders, and held him up. He had enough energy to say one more thing. “Square, good job, old son.”

  Square nodded his gratitude. “It were a pure pleasure, Cable.”

  To applause, cheers, and whistles, Cable came down from the pulpit, and Song helped him to the door. Outside, Doctor K and the paramedics put Cable aboard the ambulance. Song climbed in with him, and the ambulance pulled out. There was still a long recovery ahead for Cable, but that didn’t matter. Song was going to be there with him every step of the way.

  But that was still not the end of the story.

  A little more than four months later, the sun was warm, the sky was blue, the women were in sundresses, the men in suits, the children in their Sunday school clothes on the same lovely beach where once Song and Cable had been married, and were about to be again.

  Nearly all of Highcoal was there, all expenses paid, courtesy of Joe Hawkins: Chevrolet, Ford, Justin with his son, Tommy, Gilberto and Rosita, Rhonda, Young Henry, Preacher’s family, Mr. and Mrs. Omar Kedra, Square and Hildy Block, Bossman and Mrs. Carlisle, the Petroskis, the Williamses, all the foremen and every miner who wanted to come. Over four hundred men, women, and children of Highcoal were there on the island of St. John—Love City.

  Preacher, barefoot in a suit and tie, said the words. Cable and Song said them back, and the rings were exchanged once more. They were both wearing red helmets, symbolic of their recognition that they were yet students of love. “I now pronounce you wife and husband, coal miners both,” Preacher said, and the marriage was sealed.

  The reception that followed was grand, and the food, the drink, all were astonishing in their bounty. Even Jim Brickman made an appearance, singing “Destiny” for the once-again newlyweds. “You were our destiny,” Cable told him, proposing a toast to the musician. Brickman happily lifted his glass to his new friends. Bossman came over and vowed that when they got back to the States, he was going to take the singer-pianist on a tour of the Highcoal coal mine, which was scheduled to be opened within a few weeks. Brickman agreed to go into the deep darkness. Maybe, he said, he’d even write a song about it. Bossman offered him a chaw of tobacco.

  While the party was still going strong, Song and Cable slipped away aboard a small sailboat and, a couple of hours later, were in Sir Francis Drake Channel between St. John and Tortola. Above them, the stars were spread like a blanket of diamonds on a black velvet sky. The moon was bright and full, and the deck of the boat was made luminous by its milky light. The sea was luminescent. It was magical.

  Song took off her wedding dress and put on a loose sarong. When she appeared on deck, Cable, who had stripped down to shorts from the first moments aboard, whistled. “Second honeymoons are great, aren’t they, honey?”

  Song sat down and watched him at the wheel. “Well, Cable, what do we do now?” she asked, her tone strictly business.

  “Uh-oh,” he said. “Are we having a meeting?”

  “We are.”

  “What’s the subject?”

  “What do you think? You. Me. Us.”

  He frowned and said, “There you go. Making easy things hard again.”

  “There are no easy things,” she snapped, “just those that seem easy but aren’t. It seems to me, as sweet as all this is, we’re back to square one.”

  “How can you say that, after all we’ve been through?”

  “Because, Cable, darling sweet man, we still haven’t settled where we are going to live.”

  Cable frowned. “We haven’t? I thought you loved mining coal. You can’t do that in New York, you know.”

  “True, but I also love my job. My other job. The one I do for my father.”

  Cable made a hopeless gesture, then shook his head. “You’re right. Here we are again.”

  Song looked toward the bow pushing forward into the night. “But if we love each other enough, isn’t it possible to figure out things like geography and time? Can’t we do that, Cable?”

  “If you love someone enough,” he said thoughtfully. “I guess so. And I love you enough. For you, I’d live at the bottom of the sea.”

  “Then what are we to do?”

  A small smile appeared. “Already done it.”

  Song turned her head toward him. “What have you done?” she demanded.

  “I had a talk with your dad. Bossman is going to be the new superintendent of the Highcoal mine. Management at Atlas has been shuffled off and I’m taking over. I’m going to be responsible for three coal mines, not just one. That ought to be enough coal mining for any man. I’m going to modernize all of them. My base of activities will be in New York, but I’ll spend plenty of time underground. It’s going to be fun!”

  Song rose and stood behind him, wrapping her arms around his chest and resting her head against his bare back. He felt cool to her cheek and he smelled so good too. Eau de Cable. “That’s sweet, Cable, but I can’t let you do it. You love Highcoal too much. No. Here’s my decision. We’ll live in Hillcrest. I’ll do my work on the computer and the Internet. I talked to Mole. He has a sister who works for the phone company. She’s guarantees a clean line into Hillcrest.”

  “How much did that cost you?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  He pushed his ridiculous fedora back on his head. “Looks like we’re on opposite sides of the drift again. Now you’re going to live in Highcoal and I’m going to live in New York. Lady, I don’t know if we’re ever going to figure out this business between us. But our meeting is temporarily adjourned. There’s our mooring.”

  Cable pulled the boat into a pretty little lagoon, tied off on a float, and took the sails down. Then he held out his hand to her. “Let’s go below,” he said. “After all, we have a honeymoon to attend to.”

  Song settled into bed and held out her arms for Cable. Instead of getting in with her, he said, “We’ll share our time between New York and Highcoal. Simple. That’s a hard thin
g made easy.”

  She looked at him, blinked several times, then said, in some astonishment, “Why didn’t we think of that before?”

  “Because we were being selfish,” he answered.

  She opened her arms even wider. “Let’s not be selfish any more, not about anything.”

  He climbed into bed and let her take him in. “I want to die in these arms,” he said, nuzzling her.

  “You almost did,” she whispered. “Those weeks while you were in a coma, I almost went out of my mind.”

  “But I’m here now. So, past and present and future Mrs. Jordan, what are you going to do about it?”

  She touched his face, stroked his cheek, then held his chin so he couldn’t look anywhere but into her eyes. “I’m going to do what any bride does on her wedding night. And maybe one thing more.”

  He drew back a little. “Not another complication! And what would this one be?”

  She kissed him and said, “I’m going to try to make a baby. But you have to help.”

  He grinned as big a grin as she’d ever seen, with his amazing dimple deeper than a coal mine. It was certain that Cable liked the sound of what he’d just heard and, in its way, it was the end of the old story and the beginning of a new one.

  Song and Cable got busy.

  It was the easiest thing in the world.

  Acknowledgments

  I am indebted to many men and women in the coal mining industry, state agencies, and the federal Mine Safety and Health Administration (MSHA) for their expertise and assistance during the writing of this novel. Among them were Mike Rutledge and Gilbert Randy Whitt of the West Virginia Department of Mines, Don Hager of the Consol Energy Company, and Pat Brady, Yvonne Farley, Becky Farley, and Ron Minor of MSHA. Guy Harman of Safety Source, LLC, teaches red caps in the Virginia and West Virginia coalfields, and was especially helpful by making some significant and important suggestions during the writing of the manuscript. Billy “Willie” Rose, a fellow Coalwood Rocket Boy and a great mining engineer, also assisted along the way. My thanks also include my uncle, Harry “Ken” Lavender, who is always willing to give me coal mining advice. Of course, any errors within the novel are entirely my own.