33 Men

by Jonathan Franklin

  Throughout the planning of the rescue, the health officials were aware that they had no legal power to force the men to accept medical help. If a miner became feisty and demanded to exit the Phoenix and walk home, the authorities had no legal grounds to prevent him. Psychologically, however, the men were expected to be not only grateful but dependent to the point of obsequiousness. Having been saved from certain death, the amount of gratitude that continually flowed from below was sufficient to imagine there would be no difficulty in leading the men through the now extensively rehearsed protocol.

  Down below, the men were now in a party mood. Music blasted from the mini speakers set up by the rescue spot. Video cameras filmed every last detail. The men posed for final pictures, and a sense of nervous anticipation filled the humid air.

  The miners gathered to hear the final review of the escape protocol. The capsule had been designed with a floor that opened up to allow the miners to drop out the bottom. In the worst-case scenario, if the Phoenix got stuck, the occupant was expected to lower himself back down to the bottom of the mine while engineers reconfigured the capsule.

  At 8 pm, President Piñera set up shop at a tent halfway up the hill. Like a venue for a low-budget wedding, the mountainside had been decked out with portable tables, long blue tablecloths, soft drinks, juices and snacks and a pair of flat-screen TVs. Here the family members would spend their last agonizing hours watching and waiting. Piñera, his wife, Cecilia Morel, and top aides were set to greet the families here and, if necessary, monitor developments from a live video feed that provided shots of the underground scene.

  Down at Camp Hope, the families were trapped. Each family was ringed by a cluster of journalists who clamored for a tight reaction shot or a final comment about the stress of waiting sixty-nine days to see a loved one. At the Ávalos family tent more than a hundred journalists balanced precariously on stepladders. Shoving for better access resulted in a journalist toppling the entire tent, breaking eggs, upending makeshift shelves with food and nearly crushing the Ávalos family in the process.

  No one was too upset. The families and press had learned to live with and understand each other, despite language and cultural barriers. But not all guests at Camp Hope were welcome. When President Piñera’s brother, Miguel Piñera, known as “El Negro” (“the Black Man”), arrived, some family members erupted in protest. The infamous sibling had picked up the nickname for either his jet-black hair or his role as the family black sheep (depending on whose version you believe). Famous as a nightclub owner, singer and lover of all-night parties, El Negro was insulted and practically chased out of the camp. “Get out of here!” shouted one family member. “We don’t want any more showbiz here.”

  A pair of Chilean Air Force helicopters swept in and out of the helipad, conducting last-minute practice runs to the hospital in Copiapó. By land the journey was a twisted, dangerous sixty-minute drive. By helicopter, the men would arrive in the emergency room within five minutes.

  Then the mountain rebelled again. From below came word of another avalanche. The roof of the mine was again cracking and groaning. With a sound like the rumble of an avalanche and the crack of rocks crashing down, the blast of falling rock and the creaking of an entire mountain were reminders that salvation was still not guaranteed.

  The Chilean government sought to censor the news of the mine collapsing at the last minute. Not now. Not when they were so close. But attempts at secrecy were futile because by now dozens of family members had inside sources in the rescue operation. The rumors multiplied with viral fervor. Despite repeated attempts to control the flow of information, the fledgling government of Piñera was no longer able to control the spigot of information now flowing from both the mouth of the mine and the miners themselves.

  Far atop the mountain, at the paloma station, rescue workers gathered in disbelief. The men were set to be saved in a few hours and now the gods were raging? Dark superstitions haunted the men, who had no doubt that their tormentor was an enraged female goddess, a wily bitch who ruled this—and all—Chilean mines.

  For older, more experienced miners, the final round was a classic bout of miner mythology. The mine was often thought to charge a tax, a price of admission to those who dared to enter. Now the unspoken but widely shared fear was that the tax would be paid in the form of a human life, that the mine would never allow all thirty-three men to escape unscathed.

  As the mountain continuously cracked, rescue workers scrambled to speed up the rescue plan designed with both the precision of heart surgery and the blind guesswork of a never before attempted operation. The miners were on the cusp of freedom, but the constant groans and creaking inside the mine were a terrifying reminder that time was running out.

  The miners were hardly shaken by the latest cracks. By now they had grown accustomed to the rain of rocks. If it was not directly in their area of operation, the men felt safe—lightning bolts might be striking but until someone was hit, the miners felt they had dodged death. Psychologists routinely see similar behavior in soldiers at war who, after multiple exposures to live combat, are able to walk steadily while bullets whistle nearby.

  Televisión Nacional de Chile (TVN), Chilean national television, was set to broadcast the entire operation live. TVN wired seven cameras, each with a unique perspective. The live shots would be patched together so that family members and the world could follow every detail of the rescue. Like the Super Bowl or the World Cup, no angle would be missed.

  Fearful that miners might arrive unconscious or covered in vomit, the Chilean government maintained full control over the images the world would see. Health officials successfully lobbied against putting the men on the world stage until their initial condition was known. A huge Chilean flag was raised to block the view of the non-official press, a move that provoked chants and whistles of protest from the gathered press.

  At 11 pm, as the press hooted and complained that they couldn’t film a thing, TVN broadcast the winch lifting the Phoenix in preparation for its maiden descent. Despite heavy media exposure over the past week, the capsule maintained an air of mystery. It looked like a rocket designed by clever sixteen-year-olds. With fins at the tail and retractable wheels on the sides, the cylinder was designed to slide smoothly over the curves that contoured the 2,000-foot tunnel into a snaking trip. Coming up the tube would be like a crude amusement park ride.

  President Piñera looked at the rescue capsule in earnest. He asked Sougarret if the capsule was really 100 percent safe. Sougarret assured the anxious leader there was no worry, little risk. Piñera repeated his question, insistent in his queries. “I wanted to go down,” said Piñera, who admitted that he was enthralled by the idea of personally vouching for the safety of the Phoenix. Security aides to the president were apoplectic. Having already suffered in their attempt to protect a president who insisted on flying his own helicopter and scuba diving, they knew he was serious. So did Cecilia Morel, the first lady. She immediately picked up the scent of a risky folly. Catching her husband’s eye, she told him to abandon the plan. “Don’t even think about it,” she ordered. Though it ran against his instincts, Piñera obeyed.

  With a tinge of jealousy, Piñera watched as rescue worker Manuel González climbed into the capsule—the first man to attempt a complete journey from the rocky mountainside down to the unknown world where thirty-three men had lived in physical isolation from the world for sixty-nine days. A large yellow wheel above the capsule began to spool out the cable, which slowly unwound. The fins of the capsule entered the shaft, and the Phoenix dipped out of sight, with the whole world watching.

  THIRTEEN

  THE RESCUE

  DAY 68: TUESDAY, OCTOBER 12

  As the Phoenix descended, three separate video monitors were being scrutinized above ground. President Piñera and his wife, Cecilia, were surrounded by top aides who peered at the live feed from the bottom of the mine. When the capsule arrived, all the action would be broadcast to the world. Piñera had overrule
d aides who wanted the live coverage to be limited to long-distance panning shots that offered no sense of emotion or drama. Immediately understanding the worldwide interest and inherent drama in the entire operation, Piñera successfully argued that it was a moment for Chile to showcase its “know-how.” Not coincidentally, that was the same message that the fledgling president had sought to sell to the Chilean public as his strongest virtue. Not a politician known for emotional or tender connections to his public, Piñera’s strength and political capital were largely encapsulated by this entrepreneurial spirit of “let’s get it done.”

  The second camera was manned by Otto, a serious yet genial Austrian who was in charge of lowering and raising the Phoenix via a 2,300-foot cable. Atop the platform of his truck-sized control center, Otto placed a laptop with a live feed from below. Here he could not only receive audio feeds from below but also watch as the Phoenix arrived. The grainy black-and-white image looked to Otto like a remote-control vehicle that was traveling to another planet.

  The final video feed was manned by Pedro Gallo, the humble inventor who had catapulted from hapless telecom guy to the top ranks of the rescue operation and into the hearts of the miners. Few of the rescue team workers had logged as many hours as Gallo in daily conversations with the miners. As a working-class entrepreneur, he was able to understand their gripes, relay their concerns and assuage their secret desires. Though Gallo would later deny it, the miners swore that it was Gallo who stuffed chocolates and sweets into the paloma. Those symbolic acts of defiance as well as Gallo’s undisputed loyalty to the miners, and not the rescue hierarchy, had made him—in the eyes of the miners—a virtual saint.

  Five rescue workers were now gathered, ready to head below. Two navy marines with extensive medical experience, two rescuers from Codelco and one member of GOPE, the Chilean police special operations unit that had bravely entered the mine during the dangerous first forty-eight hours after the collapse.

  The Phoenix would arrive below through the roof of a workshop. When the mine was still functioning, the workshop had been a place to fix or store vehicles. During the men’s entrapment the workshop was considered an area too unstable for sleeping, so the miners rarely ventured the 415 yards from their main living quarters up the tunnels to the workshop site. Now this dangerous area was ground zero for the final and most important day of the entire ten-week nightmare, and the men moved their cots and clothing to the area next to the workshop.

  Despite the anticipation and adrenaline, regular shifts were maintained. Someone had to man the paloma to receive last-minute supplies—including special clothing, sunglasses and fresh socks. While food delivery would be suspended at the very last moment, the rescuers were expected to spend a full day underground and the paloma would be used to send hot meals to keep them fed and alert. The paloma shifts had been set in stone weeks earlier, long before the exact rescue date was set. For this last paloma shift it was Franklin Lobos who drew duty. It was an assignment that would nearly cost him his life.

  At 11:37 pm a rattling and clanging alerted the gathered men to the Phoenix’s approach. The red fins of the capsule descended from the roof as if in slow motion. As the capsule emerged bit by bit, it was like a visitor from another planet. The trapped miners were stunned. A dream come true. Yonni Barrios approached and peered inside at rescue specialist Manuel González. For the first time in sixty-nine days, another human had arrived.

  The thirty-three watched in awe and respect as González unlatched the capsule’s door, stepped down and hugged Barrios. A horde of nearly naked miners then rushed to hug and greet him.

  For one miner, Florencio Ávalos, freedom was just minutes away.

  Ávalos was ready. He had slipped into the tailored green jumpsuit with his name stitched across the chest. A pair of Oakley sunglasses protected his eyes. On his right wrist a monitor measured his pulse and sent wireless updates to the rescue team on the surface. His left index finger was inserted into a device that measured oxygen levels in his blood. Tightly wrapped around his chest, a sophisticated electronic monitor transmitted another half dozen vital signs to the technicians and doctors above ground.

  The other miners gathered around to watch, photograph and make home videos of the scene. Despite their nervousness, a strange calm filled the chamber. Like professional athletes in a locker room before a big game, the men joked and paced but their confidence was evident. The men momentarily forgot the terror of the collapse and the lingering sensation that death had been stalking them. For now, the scene was more like a party as cumbia music blared from farther down the mine. White balloons bounced around the floor as the men ambled excitedly—naked except for pairs of clean white pants.

  The prospect of escape filled them with a dose of adrenaline. The men now felt like they were going to actually win their ten-week battle with the mountain. Along the length of the dark tunnels, the miners made last-minute explorations of the tunnels, the bright beams from their flashlights dancing in the distance. The clanking of carabiners was a reminder that rescue workers from Codelco, GOPE and the Chilean Navy had arrived.

  González placed a white plastic credential—like those used backstage at rock concerts—over the neck of Ávalos. The rescue was filled with formality, orders and procedures. Every detail had been rehearsed for weeks. Yet the mountain could still throw a monkey wrench into protocol. Even the deepest calm at 2,300 feet was a superficial escape from the claustrophobic reality.

  At 11:53 pm Ávalos stepped into the capsule, and the rescue workers latched the door shut. The miners all listened impatiently to the chatter between Otto, the Austrian winch operator, the communications center and Pedro Cortés, below. Meanwhile Ávalos nervously anticipated the imminent family reunion: the two sons who had not seen their father for two months; the wife who had been writing letters and watching videos but had not touched or looked into the eyes of her husband. Ávalos had left for work on a cold winter morning; now it was spring.

  As the capsule slid upward, Ávalos’s compañeros screamed, cheered and whistled. Then, instantly, he was alone. For fifteen minutes, Ávalos peered through a metal mesh that sliced the world into diamond-shaped viewing holes. A light inside the capsule illuminated the smooth, wet rock walls. The spring-loaded metal wheels clanked as they rolled along the rocky path. The capsule dipped and bobbed as it followed the uneven tunnel and slowly brought Ávalos toward freedom.

  When he was just 65 feet from the surface, Ávalos could see the first signs of light and hear the first sounds of life. Rescue workers were now screaming down, asking if he was okay. Then suddenly he was in the light: a hero to the waiting world, a father reunited with his crying sons and a huge boost in the polls to President Piñera, who waited in the front row.

  As Florencio was pulled from the capsule, his nine-year-old son, Byron, broke down in tears. Rescue workers jumped and celebrated. The cameras flashed on a wrenching scene—for a moment the nine-year-old boy was alone, awash in emotions. First lady Cecilia Morel, health minister Mañalich and Rene Aguilar, the second in command of the rescue operation, swept in to calm the child. Then true comfort arrived—a hug from his father.

  Ministers, hard hat rescue workers, doctors and journalists all openly wept at the beauty of the scene. The men had defined themselves from that first note as Los 33 and had been adopted by the world as a beloved collective, now famed for their ability to work as a team. In a world so often defined by bloody acts and individual egos, Los 33 remained united while entombed, a brotherhood of working-class heroes. Teamwork had kept them alive, and now they would all be rescued together.

  Florencio hugged first his family, then President Piñera, then the rescue workers. Next he was placed on a stretcher and wheeled into the field hospital. The entire hospital staff erupted in applause. They assumed Ávalos was healthy—he had been chosen to journey first based on his mental and physical strength—but nonetheless he was given glucose and a nurse took his blood pressure. As he lay in the bed, Florencio t
hought about his younger brother Renán, still trapped below.

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 14, 1 AM

  As narrator, clown and undisputed leader of Los 33, Mario Sepúlveda had carried a constant burden on his shoulders for sixty-nine days. He had never failed to see the power of humor to guide the group—a court jester to the invisible kings and princes who sent orders from above. Yet Sepúlveda also had an instinctive ability, a native sense of group dynamics, knowing when it was necessary to use brute threats of physical violence. With the responsibilities of leadership lifted, he was about to bloom in the limelight.

  Below ground, Sepúlveda had cracked a last few jokes before climbing into the capsule. Now, at 1:09 am, as the Phoenix neared the surface, he began a running commentary on his own rescue.

  “Hey, old woman!” he yelled to Katty, his thirty-three-year-old wife. Through the mesh, Sepúlveda could be heard laughing. As raucous cheers went up, Sepúlveda sprang from the capsule and, without pausing to let rescue workers remove his harness and safety jacket, bounded over to President Piñera, dropped to one knee and began pulling gifts from his cherished homemade yellow satchel: a handful of white rocks, gleaming with the golden sparkle of pyrite. A rock for the president. A rock for the minister. The recipients laughed and clutched the stones. Sepúlveda hugged a stunned Piñera three times, and then flirted with his own wife, suggesting they would have sex for so long that neither would be able to walk. “Get the wheelchair ready,” he joked.