by David Dun
Fear is just a state of mind, he told himself as he began to put on one of the larger-looking suits, leaving seven suits on the wall and one empty peg. Even a casual glance would reveal that an intruder was down the shaft.
On the suit's headpiece was a light that could be turned on by twisting the portion that housed the lens and the bulb. A mask fitted with the air supply sealed off his face. He checked the regulator and verified that the tank was nearly full. It was similar to the scuba regulators he had used when diving off Hawaii. With everything on, including gloves, no portion of his body was exposed. He removed the mask and let it hang around his neck, thinking that he would wait until the air turned bad. As he walked, he remembered stories about miners and canaries. The need for such a bird would imply that bad air might not be easily sensed. Doubt filled him as he stopped to put on the mask and turn on the regulator.
As he continued deep into the mine, there was an unsettling sense of aloneness. Beyond the beam of his light, darkness housed the lurking unknown. Other than the sounds of his footsteps and his deep breaths, there was silence. Without the breeze there was an uncommon stillness.
Down the center of the mine ran an old set of rails, miniature by train standards but sufficient to handle a half ton of ore in a tiny car that could be pushed by men or pulled by cable. In many places the rails were loosened from the dilapidated ties. The mine could be a century or more old, he realized.
The rock sidewalls and ceiling of the shaft were blue-gray in color and the floor relatively smooth but overlaid with fine gray-white dust, except along the walls, where shards of rock had been pushed to make walking easier. There were old rotten timbers overlaid with new. In many places only the original timbers remained in place. It looked like a reasonably serious but temporary patch job.
After hundreds of yards he came to a Y and followed the plastic pipe down the left fork. Going a little farther, he came to a vertical shaft. The horizontal shaft ended about twenty yards beyond the downturn. Above the vertical shaft were beams, one of which held a large rusted metal pulley. Next to it, affixed to a new timber, was a smaller and shiny stainless-steel pulley that held a Vi-inch cable that ran onto a power drum. Affixed to the cable were stirrups that would enable a person to ride the cable down the shaft.
Over the edge he could see only darkness at the end of the headlamp's reach. Cracking open his air mask, he noticed a noxious odor, like gasoline. It wasn't suffocating, but it was clearly noticeable, and it was coming up the shaft.
Dan walked over to the power winch and examined it. Two buttons on a handheld box controlled the winch motor. It had to be operated from where he stood, which meant that for one man to go down on the cable, another had to run the controls.
Hunting around the machinery, he found a toolbox with a screwdriver. By jamming the screwdriver in alongside the power button, he discovered it would stay in the on position. This way he could at least ride the cable down. To come up, he planned to climb, although he wondered what he would do if it were hundreds of feet down. He studied the drum. The way it looked, there couldn't be over a couple of hundred feet of cable. That was reassuring. Looking down the shaft once again, he studied the walls and noted with satisfaction that they were irregular. At least near the top there were outcroppings large enough to stand on, which meant he could rest and climb. No way could a man climb a 1/2-inch cable without footholds.
Still, it was a serious risk. He knew that if he never came out Maria would find a way to get the police into the compound and maybe with luck she would guess where to look. But it was a slim chance that she could find him if something went wrong. He hesitated. He had his son to think about. His mother would give it a valiant try, but she was getting along in years. It would be hard for her to raise a nine-year-old boy to manhood all by herself. Dan's father was dead and his brother was single and running the ranch. Katie would try but how would she deal with Nate and a panic attack at the same time?
Nate was a good reason not to go down. He found himself sweating and breathing deeply.
Then he heard voices.
23
He ran toward the voices as quietly as he could, hoping to determine something about whoever it was before they became aware of him. Maybe nobody had thought to count suits or maybe they would think he was just another Amada worker.
Voice sounds carried extremely well in the otherwise quiet rock chambers. Either that or they were very close.
"Get your damn gun up, dildo," he heard.
"Why, he wouldn't know what to do with it."
"Shut up and do your jobs-all of you," a serious voice cut in. "I don't want any shots fired until I say so."
Dan reversed course and ran until he came back to the vertical shaft. Now staying up could be just as dangerous as going down. Jamming the screwdriver alongside the down button, he hopped in a stirrup and began the descent. He told himself, all the way down, that large mines normally had more than one entrance.
As he descended, he studied the rock walls, trying to reassure himself that they could be climbed. Soon his headlamp wouldn't reach the stainless-steel pulley and estimating vertical distance became difficult. It might be too far to climb even with rests and outcroppings. He couldn't hear the voices anymore. Not knowing whether he was armed, they were probably coming slowly, looking in every crevice and dead-end side tunnel.
When next he looked down, he saw a pool. He looked around for something to stand on and was relieved to see a lateral tunnel just above the pool. Jumping off into it, he pulled the cable after him and began coiling it at his feet. What if the cable wasn't anchored to the drum? He knew the answer; the end would drop uselessly at his feet.
He watched the cable, knowing that at any moment he would have his answer.
Just as he was near panic, the cable began retrieving. It had been anchored to the drum and now was being reeled in even though the drum continued to turn in a clockwise direction. There were seven dust-coated stirrups on the ground, and the first of the seven was going back up. Damn! Frantically he looked around for something to hold the cable and stop the drum. The sixth stirrup was rising.
He saw some timber and wrapped the cable, then waited anxiously to see if the winch would move the timber and start a cave-in. When the cable snapped taut, it stopped.
The moment of relief was broken when he noticed the cable line relaxing. A few seconds later, the winch started and the cable snapped taut again. Once more, it loosened and pulled. Over and over, somebody loosened and pulled. The timber gave an eerie creak. The next time, it moved an inch and groaned terribly.
"Stop, you dumb shit." He heard the words from above clearly. The winch stopped. "Hey, you down there. Come on up. You're trespassing."
He remained silent.
As the last stirrup lifted off the ground, he had to make a choice. In a split second he decided not to go. If he arrived at the top and found armed men, the men who had thrown the stun grenade, the men who had hurt Maria and killed Lynette, they might just give him a shove and end his investigation forever.
After the stirrup had risen well into the vertical shaft, it stopped. A large light shone down and hit the pool. He could only imagine the muzzles of the guns aimed down the shaft. Rescuers would have kept the cable rising.
"Where are you?" the voice asked.
"Enjoy your stay, dumb shit," another voice said, and the cable motor turned on once again. It didn't come down.
They turned off the light and above there was only blackness. He was trapped.
It took a moment before he fully realized his predicament. He had about one liter of water, some trail mix, and that was all. Loosening his mask, he verified that the fumes were coming from the pool. Even a small whiff choked him. When he ran out of air, he would die-unless he could get far enough away from the pool that the fumes didn't overcome him. There was no telling what kind of deadly material the pool contained.
"There's no way out of there, mister. You better come up." It was a differ
ent, more reasonable-sounding voice. "You're going to run out of air, my friend. You've got to come up." Quickly looking around for a weapon, or a place to hide, or something that might help deliver him from the madness of his predicament, he found nothing. There was only a pool of noxious liquid.
He turned and began to jog. Here the ground was rougher. Rock that had fallen from above lay where it hit the ground. There was a track at this level, so he knew it was likely that this tunnel went a long way. It twisted and turned, depriving him of any sense of direction. He stopped long enough to pull out his compass but didn't know what good it would do since the tunnel offered no options.
Determined to control the jitters, he began regular deep breathing and maintained a brisk walk. The passage was narrowing and in places he had to stoop. Soon outcroppings and debris slides to either side narrowed the passage further.
He came to a partial cave-in where timbers had fallen. He squeezed his way between the rough timbers and over a pile of rock that went almost to the ceiling.
Air from the tank might run out at any time, and he had no idea whether he could breathe in these shafts. Instantly he cracked the mask and was greeted by the same pungent smell-but not as strong. Coughing hard, he replaced the mask. To continue on might well be suicide. He had no guarantee that the air would improve. It probably wouldn't. If he went back, he had no idea what they would do to him.
He looked at the gauge and discovered it was half empty. Undoubtedly, stress was causing him to gobble the air supply. He began to control his breathing. Walking around the next bend, he came to an old chamber filled with debris and partially collapsed timbers. Leading off this chamber were three passages. This was obviously some kind of a hub near a concentration of whatever ore they had been mining. There were four options. One of them was a vertical shaft going up. It might lead to the level above, perhaps to the right fork of the shaft through which he had entered.
"You're daydreaming," he said to himself, staring upward into the blackness, trying to figure if he could even climb it. In studying the vertical tunnel, he turned around 180 degrees. Then he sucked in his breath.
In his direction came the faint glimmer of a light How could they be so near? Quickly he ran into the largest-looking shaft and went perhaps a hundred yards before he came to another debris slide and an unfinished vertical shaft. There were massive timbers partially caved in and large boulders, perhaps from a blast before the mine was abandoned. He couldn't keep running. There was an old, rusted crowbar about six feet long lying in the dirt. It was his first bit of luck.
Sighing at the improbability of what he was about to attempt, he climbed up the debris and began the vertical ascent of a narrow chimney. It looked like the start of an abandoned vertical shaft. Wedging himself in an alcove above the main shaft, he waited. The bar was heavy and he laid it on an outcropping. In the process he glanced up and what he saw stopped his breath.
A hand.
Pulling himself up to the next ledge, he found a headless body dressed in a filthy, blood-soaked blue blazer.
Forcing his mind back to the men who were after him, he lowered himself down and listened. His heart beat like a drum. Trying desperately to quiet his breathing, he attempted meditation, but he was unskilled and the fear crowded his mind. He was in a terrible spot. If two of them came down this passage, he might get the first and catch a bullet from the second.
He didn't know if he had the stomach to ambush some faceless, nameless guy whose intent was unknown. Until someone shot at you, there was no way to know for sure that they were out to kill you. There was no black and white here, no obvious villain. Then again, the guard had a gun, and those guys in the mine had guns and were talking about using them. Above him someone had hidden a corpse.
In that moment he knew that everything in his existence boiled down to one thing-his son needed a father. He never should have risked Nate's future by coming here. Maria was right.
Then he saw a light. He held his breath instinctively.
Think, think. Breathe. Get control of yourself.
His breaths began coming again, shallow but regular.
Still the light bounced around the walls. It was taking forever.
"Nothing yet," he heard the words, low in tone, like a whisper. The guy had to have a radio. Sweat broke out on his forehead, stinging his eyes, as if he'd run for miles.
He gripped the iron bar and saw that his hand wasn't quite steady.
The light was bright now, completely lighting the walls.
The first thing he saw was a silencer on a semiautomatic weapon. This was no goody-two-shoes rescue group.
He aimed one end of the iron bar at the side of the man's head. It struck his hard hat with an ugly whack. Then Dan dropped his 240 pounds right on top of the man even as the man collapsed. They hit the ground in a tangle. Dan had one hand on the gun, the other on the man's throat, overpowering him. Glancing around, he saw no more lights. They were apparently alone for the moment. The man struggled feebly, barely conscious.
Dan choked down on the man and could feel the man's body shaking in some kind of nervous spasm. Perhaps by instinct Dan rolled the half-conscious man so that both of them were sitting with his adversary's back in the direction of the large chamber. The man's arms windmilled and there was a loud smack, like a fist hitting mud, and the man's body jerked violently. Instantly Dan knew they had shot their own by accident. Yanking the man's gun from his hand, he snapped off both his light and the man's, then retreated into the mine. After three steps he realized the man would be carrying more clips of ammunition.
Knowing he was taking a terrible risk, he stepped back to the body, grabbed the man's radio, his air tank, and two clips from leather pouches on his belt. The man groaned and Dan could feel the body armor. In all probability he wouldn't die unless the bad air killed him. Again he retreated around the corner. Everything was quiet for several minutes. Then he heard the man gasping. "Help," he said. "Help."
Dan cracked his mask. The air was bad but didn't seem sufficiently bad to cause suffocation. He held down the broadcast button on the radio.
"Come and get your man. You cretins shot him."
"Yeah? Well, you can prove that in court. Right now you need to give up that gun."
"Help me," the man screamed.
"I have no gun. You're the ones with the guns and that fellow didn't look like Roger the ranger out trying to help a lost soul."
"Come out and we'll talk. We can work this out."
''Body armor and automatic weapons with silencers? That doesn't seem to me like a real talking-type group."
"Go get the dumb son of a bitch," he heard the boss say.
"What if he shoots?"
"He's an officer of the court. He won't shoot you in cold blood." A hint of sarcasm in the tone.
They know who I am.
"I'm dying," the man groaned.
"Don't shoot. Red Cross coming through here." He saw a light coming up the passage.
"I'm dying," the man said again.
Dan was staring around the corner with his gun pointed at the ground and his light off. The rescuer approached the downed man and put his own mask over the man's face. He could hear the deep sucking breaths.
"Put your gun down when you carry him out."
"What?"
"You heard me. Put down that gun when you carry him out of here."
"You bastard. You never said-"
''You try walking out of here with that gun and I'll shoot you in the back."
"Keep the gun," the boss said. Dan squeezed off three shots right next to the rescuer.
"Shit, you idiot," the man screamed in panic. "You're gonna kill somebody. Bullets ricochet in here."
"Throw the gun or wave bye-bye to your fat ass."
He threw the gun.
"Smart man."
"I hope you got life insurance," the leader said. "That kid of yours will need it."
"You shouldn't be telling me you're going to kill me. Makes
me harder to catch."
"Well, fuck you."
Dan took the second gun and began feeling his way back down the tunnel toward his pursuers. He wanted out of this hole, and he figured an outright attack this soon would surprise them. Feeling with his hand enabled him to distinguish large boulders and the wall. It was hard not to stumble. When he came around a bend with a straight view to the main chamber, he saw four headlamps. Now was his chance. He could nail at least one or two of them as if they were pigeons to ground-sluice. He wanted to see Nate again, and killing these men was the surest way to do it.
His body was shaking, hands slick with sweat. He wanted to kill them. He wanted to walk out over their dead bodies. Somehow his finger would not pull the trigger.
Then it was too late. They turned off their lights.
He ran perhaps twenty paces, kicked a rock, and then deliberately hit the ground. At the sound there was a spray of gunfire lighting the darkness. Bullets popped everywhere. Instantly he was slithering fast, without thinking, oblivious to the pain of the hard rock on his knees, elbows, and belly. The shooting stopped. Ammunition would be a problem he knew. They weren't expecting a war.
He could feel the fear like a hot flame in his body fueling his adrenaline. He could see nothing. There was a debris pile, he knew. Reaching for it, he had a premonition. Or maybe he was thinking like the enemy. The leader would have crawled right in front of the debris pile-right where Dan would come through-and would wait. He moved to the side, flat against the wall. Clearly, the questions were: Who would first turn on a light? Or would somebody start shooting at noises?
In the mine, noises were hard to place; echoes confused the ear. Perhaps if he made a noise, he could seduce a light. Scraping the barrel of the gun lightly along the rock might do it. He reached as far from his body as he could, then yanked the gun back. A spray of bullets smacked the wall and fire erupted from a barrel not ten feet away. If the shooter hadn't hesitated at the sound, Dan would have lost his arm. He fired into the blackness at the spot he had seen the fire.