8.4

by Peter Hernon

  All things considered, this could work out splendidly. He just needed to survive.

  “How much time do we have?” Weston asked.

  “About an hour and a half,” Murray said.

  With Booker operating the controls, the robot slowly started to descend the steep incline of the skip shaft, clasping the heavy canisters of foam with its clawed “man extenders.” It was briefly lost to view as it rolled through the flames and smoke that continued to dart out of the tunnel on Level 10. Booker glimpsed the robot’s orange helmet through the swirling smoke. Then, suddenly, it reemerged from the inferno.

  Outfitted with its television monitor, audio receiver, and powerful spotlights. Neutron gave Booker a clear image of its progress down the shaft.

  “It’s coming up on the entrance to Level 11,” he said. “There’s some smoke down there, but it doesn’t look too bad.” He carefully guided Neutron out of the shaft and into the coal tunnel.

  Watching the television monitor, he saw a miner’s headlamp burning far down the tunnel. It seemed to be moving.

  Then he heard what sounded like small explosions. Three of them. The sound was clear, unmistakable.

  “Those are gunshots,” he said.

  NEAR KALER, KENTUCKY

  JANUARY 20

  3:10 P.M.

  HIS HEADLAMP TURNED OFF, ATKINS FELT A SHARP pain in his right arm and shoulder as he reached around the stone pillar with the long crowbar and chipped hard at the tunnel’s roof. He’d gauged the distance carefully before he’d switched off his lamp and hoped he was hitting the right place as he dug into the rock again and again, prying at it, wincing at the effort. His arm felt like hot needles had been shoved up under the skin.

  Swiveling with his lamp on, Wren saw him and fired. Gunshots hammering in his ears, Atkins ducked back behind the pillar.

  A section of the roof crashed to the floor. When the powdery dust cleared, Atkins saw Wren standing there, his headlamp pointed at his feet. A six-foot-long block of stone had just missed him.

  Atkins realized that Wren had dropped his pistol and was searching for it.

  Before he knew what he was doing or had time to think about it, he ran straight at Wren, driving a shoulder into his chest, knocking him backward. They both fell down and rolled. Every time Atkins’ right arm scraped the ground, sparklers of white light exploded in front of his eyes.

  Pushing up on his knees, Wren threw a hard punch at Atkins’ head. The blow knocked him down. Stunned, he was aware of footsteps. Wren was running off.

  Atkins rolled over on his back and lay there, trying not to pass out. He could smell the sweet, unmistakable odor of blood. He touched his nose and felt cartilage move. It was broken.

  He stood up gingerly, leaning against the wall as he fumbled with the switch to his headlamp. Elizabeth was at his side.

  “We’ve got to go after him,” Atkins said. “If he gets to the fire extinguishers and uses them we’re stuck down here.” He thought about trying to find the pistol that Wren had dropped. There wasn’t time.

  They started jogging, Atkins moving stiffly, and turned at the first crosscut. They came to another tunnel and turned right. Atkins hoped they were headed toward the skip shaft. He wasn’t sure anymore. It was so damned easy to get disoriented in the dark. They had their lamps on and were making no effort to conceal themselves. Atkins checked his watch. They had about eighty minutes until the bomb detonated.

  “It can’t be much farther,” Atkins said. His right arm throbbed where the bullet had grazed him just below the elbow. It hurt every time he moved it. The pain and tightness worried him. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop Wren if it came to that. The guy was strong.

  They felt a blast of heat, hot air moving down the skip shaft from the fires one level above them. They’d gone the right way.

  Suddenly, a dark shape hurtled at them from a recess in the tunnel. Atkins heard the footsteps and turned just as Wren came at him, clutching something in his hands. He swung the object, and Atkins ducked and heard sharp metal chink into the wall. Coal fragments stung his face.

  Wren had a pickax. He’d found it lying in one of the passageways, just as Atkins had found the crowbar. He was enraged. He was desperate to kill them. He dug the pick out of the coal and swung again, slashing sideways this time.

  Atkins leaped back, pushing Elizabeth out of the way.

  “Turn your light off!” he shouted.

  Wren kept trying to catch Atkins in the light from his headlamp. He was wielding the pickax like a club, savagely chopping at the walls and floor.

  Atkins edged backward, one cautious step at a time, keeping his right hand on the wall for balance. Wren was getting close. Atkins knew he’d have to make a move soon. He was losing strength. He took another step backward and almost fell. There was nothing behind him, just open space. He knelt down and carefully felt in back of him with his hands. He’d nearly fallen into some kind of shaft or pit.

  Groping on his knees in the darkness, he touched the edges of some kind of drop-off. It was a rectangular hole three or four feet wide. He remembered that Murray had pointed out narrow openings between the floors, runs for electric and water lines. Most were covered with steel plates. A few, like this one, had been left open.

  A thought took shape.

  Do it, he told himself. Don’t wait.

  Keeping his back to the hole, Atkins turned on his headlamp and stood up. “Here I am, you bastard!”

  Wren charged as soon as he saw him, gripping the pick with both hands like a baseball bat.

  Atkins waited until Wren was almost upon him, then dropped to his knees and pushed up with his left forearm and shoulder as Wren stumbled over him. Falling through the opening, Wren managed to get his hands up and grab the edge of the hole. He hung there, his feet kicking at the sides of the narrow shaft, trying to get a toehold.

  “Help me!” he screamed. “Please, for God’s sakes.”

  Atkins hesitated, but knew he had no choice, not if he wanted to live with himself. He offered the struggling man his left hand.

  Wren gripped it and started pulling himself up through the hole. He got his head over the edge, then part of a shoulder. Atkins reached down, trying to get the other arm when Wren, with a powerful thrust of his arms, suddenly pushed up and grabbed the shoulder strap of Atkins’ air tank.

  Halfway out of the hole and holding onto the edge, propping himself there. Wren tried to yank Atkins down through the opening. His left arm pinned, Atkins could only swing with his injured right. He punched Wren in the face with no effect. Wren kept pulling him down in a steel grip.

  Atkins felt himself starting to go when Wren suddenly let loose.

  Atkins rolled over on his back and lay on the floor of the tunnel, trying to get his wind back, trying to suck air into his lungs. Elizabeth stood over him, clutching the pick. She’d hit Wren hard in the face with the wooden handle.

  Blood pouring from his forehead, Wren managed to hold on to the edge of the hole. Screaming in rage, he started pulling himself up with both hands. Atkins tried to stand. His head was spinning. He got to his knees. Wren grabbed one of his legs.

  Elizabeth swung again, catching Wren squarely in the head. The long handle of the pick made a dull crack when it hit his cheekbone.

  Wren fell back through the hole. Atkins heard him slam against the floor of the tunnel below them. He looked over the edge. In the light from his headlamp, he saw that Wren had fallen about a hundred feet. His right leg was folded under him at a severe angle. He wasn’t moving.

  “Are you all right?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Where did you learn to swing like that?” Atkins said, standing up slowly, gripping the wall for balance.

  “Girls’ Softball,” Elizabeth said, smiling.

  The tunnel ahead of them was suddenly very bright. Someone was approaching with a powerful spotlight, playing it on the walls. It looked odd. The angle was all wrong. The light was low to the ground.

  It was Neutr
on.

  “FOLLOW the robot back to the skip shaft.”

  The voice was Booker’s, amplified by a small speaker mounted on Neutron’s video camera.

  Atkins and Elizabeth hurried after the robot as it rolled quickly down the tunnel. It made a turn, then another and came out at the entrance to the skip shaft, which glowed a dull yellow from the fires burning one level above them.

  “This isn’t going to be easy,” Booker said over the radio. “You’ll have to get through the fire up on Level 10. Neutron’s going to lay down foam spray. Stay as close to him as you can. We’ll be fighting the flames from this end.”

  They heard Murray’s voice. “Get your masks on. Button yourselves up real good. Don’t leave any exposed skin. Get the collars up around your throat. Your bunker gear will protect you from the fire. Try not to stand in one place too long coming up that shaft. Keep moving and trust that foam. It’ll knock the shit out of that fire. Good luck to you. Now let’s go!”

  Before they followed the robot into the skip shaft, Atkins took Elizabeth in his arms. They stood there a few moments, holding each other.

  “Let’s do this,” Atkins said.

  “You’re on,” Elizabeth said, her eyes as clear as he’d ever seen them. “We can do whatever a robot can, right?”

  They put on their air masks and tightened them, then picked up their fire extinguishers. They made sure all their skin was covered. It hurt like hell when the edge of the mask grazed his broken nose. He winced again as he looped the straps of the foam canister over his shoulders.

  Neutron moved into the shaft and started up the incline, gripping the nozzles of the two foam packs it carried on its back.

  Crouched over in the tight space, Atkins and Elizabeth stayed close to the robot. Flames were still shooting into the shaft up on Level 10, long darting waves of orange and white fire.

  “Steady now,” said Booker, who was following their progress on his television monitor. “Get ready to turn on your extinguishers. Hold it—”

  Shimmering waves of heat rolled toward them down the shaft.

  “Do it!” Booker said.

  Atkins and Elizabeth started spraying foam. So did Neutron, a wide, double jet that instantly knocked the flames back five feet.

  They’d reached the tunnel entrance. Atkins saw nothing but a wall of fire. Every step forward seemed to take an eternity.

  “When Neutron stops, move on around him,” Booker said. “He’ll buy you a few seconds of time. Get around fast.”

  The robot halted, pivoted so it squarely faced the fire, and laid down a thick blanket of white foam that continued to push back the flames. As Elizabeth and Atkins slipped behind it, Atkins noticed that his foam canister was losing pressure. So was Elizabeth’s. Their face masks started to fog over and blister in the intense heat.

  Atkins saw two dark figures looming a few yards ahead of them.

  Murray and Booker.

  They’d come down the shaft to meet them and were dousing the fire with more foam.

  Murray motioned for them to hurry.

  Atkins and Elizabeth kept climbing up the shaft. Elizabeth stumbled, and Atkins grabbed her around the waist and pulled her with him as he kept going up the steep slope, fighting for every inch. Murray and Booker followed them, moving backward a step at a time as they continued to throw spray on the fire.

  When Atkins and Elizabeth reached the coal tunnel on Level 9, Weston was waiting for them.

  “Where’s Wren?” he asked.

  Atkins shook his head. “He didn’t make it.” That was all he was going to say. They’d have to deal with Weston and what Wren had told them later.

  Murray and Booker soon joined them. Neutron rolled into the tunnel right behind them. The paint had blistered on the front of the robot. The sides of the football helmet had melted. The top had flattened out and turned black at the edges. Orange goo had puddled on the metal surface like candle wax. But the alloy steel was undamaged. He was still operational.

  On Murray’s advice, they moved down the tunnel until they were a good two hundred feet from the entrance to the skip shaft. The smoke had diminished enough for them to take off their face masks. After checking the methane and CO levels with his gas meter, Murray left them there while he scouted ahead.

  When he returned a few minutes later, he was smiling.

  “I have a way out,” he said. “But it’s gonna be a bitch.”

  NEAR KALER, KENTUCKY

  JANUARY 20

  3:40 P.M.

  THEY HAD FIFTY MINUTES.

  Murray’s proposed escape route was the vertical air shaft, which ran up the center of the mine, paralleling the elevator shaft. Barely three feet wide, it was connected to a powerful fan at the surface. A kind of return air duct, it was designed to suck stale air from the mine.

  Murray would go first, wedging his back and legs against opposite walls of the air shaft. Slowly, a few inches at a time, he would “walk” his way up the sides. The elevator cage was one level up, a distance of about a hundred feet.

  When he got to the top, he’d lower a rope for the others and help pull them up. “I’m not trying to fool anybody. This is going to be tough,” Murray said. “If you slip, you fall. It’s that simple. And if you fall and break something, you’re dead. The trick is to concentrate. Think ahead every time you move your arms and legs. Try to mentally visualize what you’re going to do. Think it through before you do it. Don’t rely on the rope. And don’t rush it.”

  Murray checked his gas meter. The CO levels continued to hover at the danger mark, nearly fifty parts per million. The methane levels had fallen off some after the fire and explosions, but were starting to inch up again. They were back over the redline, reading nearly 7 percent.

  “Keep track of the time,” Murray said, hooking a coil of rope in his belt. “The clock’s really running down on us. We got to bust it, folks.”

  A sharp tremor jolted them, another strong shake. Fragments of the tunnel’s roof fell. Everyone instinctively dropped into a crouch position, covering their heads with their arms. The quake lasted only three or four seconds but was stronger than some of the others.

  The sound came from far below them, a loud cracking noise that reverberated through the mine. Atkins was sure it was rock fracturing at great depth. The fault was continuing to slip, continuing to build toward a final rupture.

  “They’re coming more often,” Elizabeth said. She didn’t say the rest of it—that the tremors were also building in strength. She wondered how much more shaking the mine could stand before the tunnels collapsed on themselves.

  Atkins and Booker helped boost Murray up into the shaft, which was cut into the roof of the tunnel. He got his back and legs in position in the cramped space and started up the rough rock walls, bracing himself hard with his feet and shoulders. He’d trained to do this very maneuver dozens of times. This was the first he’d ever tried it in a mine. He kept repeating to himself the advice he’d given the others: concentrate on every move, think it through from start to finish.

  It took nearly fifteen minutes for him to climb to Level 8. He was pouring sweat when he pulled himself out of the shaft. Kneeling on the floor of the tunnel, his chest heaving from his exertions, he took a look at the elevator cage less than ten yards away. His heart sank.

  “We’ve got a problem up here,” he shouted down to the others. “The cage won’t work. The cable’s snapped.”

  NATHAN Ross was drinking a cup of hot coffee, trying to warm himself in the damp cold. The sun hadn’t taken any of the chill from the air. He had the collar of his jacket pulled up. His ears felt frozen.

  Ross looked at his watch and frowned. They were cutting this awfully close.

  Draper ran up and told him about the broken cable. Booker and the others were trapped far below ground.

  “We’re lowering ropes to them,” he said.

  “That bomb’s scheduled to blow in forty minutes,” said Phil Belleau. “Those people are down about eight hu
ndred feet. We’ll never get them all up.”

  “We’ll damn well try,” Ross said quietly as he walked to the elevator shack, where a squad of paratroopers had lowered two makeshift harnesses with basket-seats down the man shaft. The ropes were attached to cables that ran to hoists on the two helicopters. The big UH-60s that had remained at the mine.

  “Mister President, I’ve got to insist you leave here,” said Belleau, not giving up. Ross was his sole responsibility. He was ready to force the issue if need be.

  Ross ignored him. He was helping paratroopers carry more rope into the mine.

  THERE was no changing Booker’s mind. Atkins saw it in his eyes, the frozen, unblinking stare.

  “I’m sorry, John. You know what needs to be done as well as I do. We can’t risk any venting.”

  The last tremor had done more than snap the cable to the elevator cage. Booker had carried a small instrument that monitored the fuse circuit in the non-1 detonating cord he’d run through the mine. The device showed several breaks. He’d arranged the charges to fire in sequence, relying on a network of low-voltage electric blasting caps with multi-second delays to touch off the detonator cord and the explosives. The caps were equipped with special shunts to prevent any sparking that might have ignited methane gas.

  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.