8.4

by Peter Hernon

  “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.

  NEAR KALER, KENTUCKY

  JANUARY 20

  10:40 A.M.

  THEY’D REACHED THE SKIP SHAFT. THE BELTED conveyor that once brought a black stream of coal to the surface had been dismantled, leaving a rough, steep tunnel that was narrower with less headroom than the air shaft. They had to walk in a stiff crouch, their hard hats often scraping against the roof. Even Neutron’s football helmet occasionally grazed the top of the shaft.

  Following Murray, they descended another three hundred feet to Level 18. Slow going, it took nearly thirty minutes to cover the distance. They were as far
down in the mine as they could go—eighteen hundred feet below the surface. Beyond that point, cave-ins had blocked both air shafts and the skip shaft.

  Atkins checked his watch. They’d been underground a little more than ninety minutes. He was surprised. The time had seemed much shorter.

  Murray took them another five hundred feet up the main tunnel on Level 18 to the base of the collapsed man shaft.

  “Here’s what I was talking about,” he said, playing his spotlight on the gaping black hole where the elevator cage had once descended another two levels to the bottom of the mine. The earthquake had opened a crevasse that had swallowed the man shaft. A ragged hole about fifteen feet wide descended to depths unknown. Murray shined his powerful light on the jagged walls of the trench as Atkins and the others cautiously approached the edge and peered over. They couldn’t see the bottom.

  “God knows how far down that goes,” Weston said.

  Ever since they’d started their descent, Atkins had found Weston unusually subdued but had no complaints with his performance. He’d done whatever Murray asked without objection. So had Wren, who’d always been reasonably pleasant and cooperative.

  “I tried this the last time,” Murray said. He picked up a hefty piece of rock and dropped it into the crevasse. They didn’t hear it hit bottom.

  Operating Neutron’s control panel, Booker had the robot gently place the bomb on the floor of the tunnel about five yards from the edge of the drop-off. “I suggest we lower it two hundred feet into that hole,” he said. “That will put it at roughly the two-thousand-foot mark.” That was the depth Thompson and the other seismologists had calculated was needed for the weapon’s shock waves to achieve maximum effect on the fault.

  “Will your climbing ropes support four hundred fifty pounds?” he asked.

  “No problem,” said Murray.

  First Booker had to arm the device, punching in the coding sequence, the same eight digits he’d used earlier to activate the bomb’s electronic circuitry. Then he flipped the red switch on the small control grid on the bomb’s hard case, the fail-safe companion to the green switch he’d already thrown.

  “The bomb is armed,” Booker said quietly. He’d never done it manually before. Arming procedures at the NTS were carried out electronically, using cables that ran to the warhead, which usually sat at the bottom of an eight-hundred- to thousand-foot-deep borehole or in a tunnel carved into the side of a hill. This was definitely a first for him. He noticed that his hands were trembling.

  He’d completed the first critical step. The second was to set the timer and firing mechanism.

  Opening his backpack, Booker took out the capacitors and batteries. The four dry-cell batteries, taped together, would provide the electrical pulse needed to charge the capacitors, which, in turn, would activate the fuse and fire the warhead. The whole process would be triggered by a small, digitally programmed timer.

  “Doctor Booker, that’s as far as we’re going with this.”

  Atkins had been watching Booker. Turning, he saw Walt Jacobs, who was holding something in his right hand. It was hard to make it out in the dark. Then Atkins recognized it. A small pistol.

  “Walt, what are you doing?” he said, not believing what he was seeing. The man had finally snapped. Atkins was angry with himself for letting it happen. It was his own damn fault. He should have seen it coming, should have kept him out of the mine. Without thinking, he took a step toward his friend.

  Jacobs held up a hand. “Stop, John. I don’t want to shoot anyone. But I will if I have to. This bomb can’t be detonated. It could start an earthquake the likes of which we’ve never seen. I can’t allow that.”

  Atkins’ head was swimming. He knew that he had to choose his words carefully, try to make a persuasive argument about why they had to risk it. But there wasn’t time for more discussion, and he could see that Jacobs was in no mood for it anyway.

  “Walt, you’ve studied the data, the seismic reports,” Atkins said. “You know that strain energy is building up here. My God, you’ve felt the ground shaking. It’s been moving ever since we entered this mine. We’re going to have a big earthquake here. You know that as well as anybody.”

  “You… can’t… do… this! Not a nuclear shot,” Jacobs said in a burst of anger. He was about five feet from Booker. He pointed the pistol at the physicist’s head.

  “Put the capacitors and timer back into the backpack with your left hand,” he said. “Do it slowly and carefully. Then set it down next to me.” His voice was firm, deliberate. He moved a few steps closer to the edge of the fissure.

  Atkins realized Jacobs was going to kick the bag over the side.

  “I’m afraid I can’t, Walt,” Booker said. He sat down, both hands clutching the blue backpack to his chest. “I’m not trying to be brave or stupid. But you’ll have to shoot me to get this. Do you really want to kill me?”

  Elizabeth was standing next to Murray and Wren. She gestured to the on-off switch for their headlamps. It was on the battery pack attached to their belts. They understood. So did Atkins, who’d noticed what she’d done.

  Jacobs fired a shot at Booker’s feet. The explosion was deafening. The earsplitting echo blasted back through the tunnels.

  “Put the pack down, doctor,” Jacobs repeated, his face hard-set. “I’ll shoot you if I have to.” The pistol practically touched Booker’s forehead.

  Calmly staring at Jacobs, Booker continued to hold the backpack on his lap. gripping the sides.

  “Fred, give it to him,” Atkins pleaded. He realized that Jacobs’ change of heart about a nuclear explosion had been a ruse. He’d gone to some trouble to pull this off. Shown a lot of nerve. He’d kill Booker. Atkins didn’t doubt it for a moment.

  Booker said, “Are you completely sure you’re right about this, Walt?”

  “For the last time. Give it to me,” Jacobs repeated.

  Booker set the backpack down on the ground.

  “Turn out your lights!” Elizabeth shouted.

  Within seconds, everyone switched off their headlamps. Jacobs pivoted, trying to keep all of them in sight, but the sweeping arc of his light wasn’t wide enough for him to see everyone. He missed Atkins, who ducked down and crawled to his left, toward the collapsed man shaft.

  “Stop right there!” Jacobs shouted. He’d heard movement in the darkness that pressed in around him. He turned just as Atkins lunged at him from the side, catching him hard around the waist and driving him to the ground.

  The impact knocked Jacobs’ helmet off. The lamp disconnected. Atkins groped for Jacobs’ hands. He was trying to get the pistol. He couldn’t remember where the edge of the crevasse was. He sensed they were very close to it.

  There was another shot, a ringing explosion close to his ear. Atkins gripped Jacobs’ gun hand. He felt the hot barrel of the pistol and was suddenly aware of light. Elizabeth and the others had switched on their headlamps. Atkins got a close look at Jacobs’ twisted face. His eyes were bulging with rage. He looked like someone else.

  Something crashed against the side of his hard hat. Jacobs had hit him with the pistol. Atkins let go.

  Jacobs scrambled to his knees, clutching the backpack.

  They’d rolled to within a few feet of the crevasse.

  Murray stepped toward Jacobs, who whirled and fired, the gun roaring. The shot missed him. Murray, everyone, dropped to the floor of the tunnel. Jacobs fired at the bomb. Then another, the bullets making a slapping sound when they ricocheted off the metal casing.

  Atkins grabbed Jacobs around the legs. Jacobs swung down hard with the pistol, slashing at him, clipping him on the shoulder blade. The pain burned, but he managed to hold on. Jacobs chopped at him again, and this time Atkins grabbed his gun hand and bent it back sharply at the wrist.

  Crying out in pain and anger, Jacobs dropped the weapon. He pulled away, chest heaving, and stepped toward the dropoff. He still gripped the backpack.

  “Walt!” Elizabeth screamed. “For God’s sak
e, let’s talk!”

  Jacobs hesitated. He looked at her, his expression softening. He was only inches from the edge.

  “Don’t do it, please.”

  Atkins could see his friend’s fear and anguish. The man had lost his wife and daughter, everything. He wasn’t going to lose this last battle. Atkins wanted to help him. He slowly reached out his hand.

  “Walt, take it.”

  He said it over and over, begging his friend to take his hand.

  Jacobs took a slow, deep breath, clutched the backpack to his chest, and threw himself backward into the crevasse.

  NEAR KALER, KENTUCKY

  JANUARY 20

  11:20 A.M.

  ELIZABETH DROPPED TO HER KNEES AND CRAWLED to the edge. She looked down, her headlamp playing on the walls. Jacobs had disappeared, swallowed up in the deep black hole.

  Atkins put his arm around her waist and gently pulled her back. His shoulder throbbed where Jacobs had struck him with the pistol.

  Elizabeth shook her head. “John, what happened to him?” She could only imagine what losing his family had done to him, how it must have affected his reason. Their deaths, compounded by the overwhelming destruction he’d lived with for days in Memphis. It was too much for him.

  Atkins was in awe of what his friend had done. It left him speechless.

  Murray walked to the edge of the hole and stood there, staring down into the blackness. His legs spread slightly for balance, knees bent, he looked perfectly at ease. Weston and Wren also inched forward to take a look. Both quickly stepped back.

  Weston said, “That could be a thousand feet deep.”

  Murray shook his head. “More,” he said. “I’ve looked down some deep holes in my day. I was listening hard. I didn’t hear that man hit the bottom.”

  “What exactly was in the backpack he took with him?” Wren asked Booker. “What’s the damage?”