Veyron said, “Regardless of who owned the cyanide once upon a time, I believe it is safe to say that the silver mine is somehow responsible for the damage that caused the leak. And if they have been dumping cyanide for years, we better know now rather than later, before we drill into something that we shouldn’t.”
“Good thinking,” Sam said. “If I know big mining, they’re going to drag this thing on through every loophole possible until the EPA forces their hand. It’s going to be nasty, but I’ll make the call. TRY and get hold of the owner, Michael Rodriguez, first, and see if we can get around some of the red tape.”
Tom grinned mischievously, “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I think that’s his helicopter approaching now.”
Chapter Four
Michael Rodriguez flew into Mexico that morning on his private jet. It was hot, but unlike Spain, which enjoyed the cool breeze off the Adriatic Sea at the entrance to the Med, Mexico always seemed dry. It was one of his least favorite mines, but there was no avoiding it today.
Nothing ever happened without his knowledge – on any one of his 43 prized mineral mines. He was an owner who maintained a very active control of the day to day workings of each of his mines, and prided himself on his ability to ensure their efficiency and the loyalty of his employees.
Rodriguez Mining Inc. was started by his grandfather in 1928. Originally, a single gold mine in South Africa, which he’d bought after luck granted him a relative fortune with the discovery of the Royal Clipper, an 80-ounce gold nugget. As the world turned to ruin and the great depression struck solid in 1930, he bought up a number of mines at prices below the value of their inventory. It was a gamble that paid huge dividends in the lead up to the Second World War in 1939, when Germany began stockpiling gold and iron ore.
By the time Michael’s father took over in 1962, the company was already rich. But by embracing the newer drilling technology, he drove the company to be one of the most profitable mining conglomerates in the world, with mines on every continent.
History teaches us that the first generation of entrepreneurs make the money, the second improve on that money, and the third – loses it all. If, somehow, the third generation manages to keep the wealth inside the family from becoming lost in gluttony, greed and temptation, then the family often goes on to being generational old money, such as the Rothschilds, the Waltons, or the Arnaults of the world. The families entire nations borrowed money from.
It was his plan, among others, to place the name of Rodriguez beside those names of the uppermost echelon of rich.
He had flown in immediately when he heard that the Maria Helena was snooping near his mine. He had a fair idea what they were after. It had been all over the world news that the Dead Zone had increased since last year by a factor of nearly 100.
Michael couldn’t have cared less about the environmental losses, but where unexplained environmental accidents occur, local mines often got the blame. No, he would have to show a presence at the investigation if he wanted to keep Rodriguez Mining Inc. above board. It was a small price to pay for what he wanted in the long run.
His private jet had just stopped rolling on the tarmac at Mexico’s Ciudad Del Carmen International Airport, when he stepped off it and boarded a company helicopter. The best way, he decided, to keep things in his favor, was to meet the crew of the Maria Helena in person.
Immediately, before they sought him.
Within twenty minutes, the company helicopter landed on the rear deck, next to another helicopter on board the Maria Helena. While the rotors slowed, Michael, not prone to waiting for anything, stepped out and walked towards the crew behind the decking – where the man who held the outcome of all his dreams, stood waiting for him.
*
Sam watched the stranger approach.
He was maybe ten years Sam’s senior, but bounded out of the helicopter like a much younger man, paying no attention to the spinning rotary blades above his head. It was a sign he was confident around helicopters, or lived in such a world that he believed himself above the possibility of harm. His height was average, and although approaching his mid-forties, Sam guessed, his athletic stride and upright posture displayed the remnants of someone who had once been a boxer. And none of the usual signs of someone who’d inherited nearly 25 billion dollars, such as a team of bodyguards, or flab from a lifetime of inactivity and excess.
“Good morning. Which one of you is Sam Reilly?” he asked, holding out his hand. The man wore a confident smile, and spoke like a man who was used to being listened to. Despite his Spanish origins, he spoke perfect English. His voice betrayed a very slight trace of a Boston accent – the latter being most likely the result of his Harvard education.
“That would be me,” Sam said, meeting him half way to shake hands.
The man met Sam’s eyes immediately. “My name is Michael Rodriguez.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Rodriguez.”
“Call me Mick…” Smiling affably, he winked and said, “Only my employees and those who want to suck up to me for money call me Mr. Rodriguez. Unless, that is, you want to work for me? Because I know you don’t need the money.”
So he knows who I am… or at least who my father is…
“Sure.” Sam was surprised by Mick’s gregarious attitude. Growing up with his own father, he had met many of the world’s ultra-rich, and this man made the first exception to the rule, that all such men act as if and believe they own the planet and all those within it. “What can I do for you, Mick?”
“Sam… may I call you Sam?” Mick asked and then, receiving the slight nod from Sam, continued, “I’ve heard reports that record numbers of fish have been found dead or dying near “The Dipper,” one of my silver mines. Each year the Dead Zone seems to be getting worse… maybe there’s something to this whole global warming thing, or maybe we just take too much from the soil through Northern America?”
Sam wasn’t sure whether or not Mick was attacking America’s stance on global warming. He was about to mention that this year’s cause of the Dead Zone was triggered by the mine, when Mick continued to speak.
“I’m here to say that I would like to offer you our full support with your investigation.”
“That’s very good of you, Mick.”
“Not at all. It’s the least someone born into my position could offer. Do we have any idea what’s been causing it?”
“As a matter of fact, we do,” Sam said.
“Well, don’t leave me in suspense, son, what’s causing this disaster?”
“It appears that blasting from your mine may have caused damage to a local Mayan tomb site of great archeological significance, which has in turn released large amounts of hydrogen cyanide into the waters.”
“Cyanide? We don’t even use that on our mine site. We’re a silver mine, not a gold mine – I’ve no idea where that could have even come from.”
“We don’t know for certain yet, but it appears the Mayans may have discovered the benefits of cyanide in separating gold many centuries before the Europeans did back in the seventeenth century. Somehow, your blasting appears to have opened an old Mayan stockpile.”
“Okay, wow. So what can we do about it?”
“We’re going to need to send a team in to find the primary source of contamination. Then, we’re going to need to safely secure it without damaging the archeological site, which will be performed by another team in conjunction with the Mexican government. Last, we’re going to need to repopulate the local fish.”
“Not a problem, pal. Let me know what assistance you need, and I’ll give you my full support. Then send me the bill. If we caused this mess, I want to take responsibility for it. We’re not one of those companies that destroys the land and then moves on without repairing.”
“That’s very good of you, Mick. You’ll be the first I’ve had dealings with to take responsibility with such equanimity. We appreciate it.”
“Not a problem. I still don’t know how this could have been caused by one of my blasting sites. I mean, it’s very unlikely that the aftershock could have damaged the Ciudad Del Carmen,” Mick said, his voice confident, but not pugnacious. “Roberto Jackson, my manager of the mine, says that the Little Dipper has gone to great lengths to protect the valuable archeological relics of Ciudad Del Carmen. In fact, I made the decision a couple of years ago to halt tunneling down the southern long wall, because of the low level risk. Now, the mine moves more towards the north and east, well below the ocean floor.”
“I know it does.”
“Then why do you believe that it’s my mine that has caused all this damage?”
“Because it wasn’t the Ciudad Del Carmen that was damaged.”
The skin around Mick’s strong jawline tightened – only slightly, but it was the first time Sam had noticed the man’s confidence waver. He was probably only just now realizing that it was possible for his mine to be responsible for a disaster that may end up costing him millions to repair.
“Then what Mayan archeological site were you referring to? There aren’t any other sites nearby.” His eyebrow rose with genuine curiosity.
“A subterranean pyramid, found beneath the ocean seabed…” Sam pointed on a map of the Gulf of Mexico to the exact location, “right here.”
“Shit.” Rodriguez’ face became ashen, and small drops of sweat dripped from his forehead despite the Maria Helena’s powerful air conditioning. “That’s exactly where the Big Dipper runs!”
Sam hadn’t considered the significance until that moment. “If it breaks through, more than 400 feet of water will be pushed through at a force that will kill everyone inside the tunnel!”
“Exactly… please forgive me for a moment, I must call my underground manager.”
“Of course.”
Sam watched as Rodriguez calmly walked towards the outer deck, where his helicopter now rested silently. The man spoke on the phone for a couple minutes. His legs were firm on the deck, not pacing, like so many do during a crisis.
“What do you make of him?” Tom asked.
“I don’t know yet. He seems like a nice enough guy, for someone who’s on the same playing field as my father in overall wealth, but there’s something that I don’t trust about him. I just don’t know what… maybe it’s just my inbuilt dislike of the ultra-rich.”
“Yeah, I hate you rich guys, too…”
“It’s nothing that he’s done or said. It’s what he hasn’t that concerns me.”
“What do you mean? He sounded to me like he was happy to provide whatever help he could.”
“That’s just it. Do you know what my dad’s response was when I told him what the Maria Helena was spending her time doing this month?”
“No.”
“He said, ‘but there can’t be much money in that sort of work.’ That’s what people in my dad’s caliber like to do. Avoid paying what they owe. This man sounds like he hasn’t even talked to his lawyers yet, despite potentially being liable for millions.”
“Okay, I’ll keep my eyes on him. See what wildcard he thinks he’s holding up his sleeve.”
Mick walked back, the serious look on his face now gone. “I’m sorry about that. I just called my underground manager. He’s pulling the team out of the tunnel now. I’ve more than a thousand Mexican workers several hundred feet below the waterline. If that thing breaks, every one of them will be dead before they know what hit them. We’re going to have to send a team through to close the entire tunnel, or risk killing them all. The biggest problem is that water is coming through small cracks, and there’s a practical river pouring down the tunnel. The pumps should be able to keep the tunnels open to my men, but the flowing water will make it very difficult to reach.”
“With that, I might just have a solution…” Sam said.
*
Sam switched on the projector.
It showed a hand-drawn diagram of the subterranean Mayan pyramid. A red symbol like a lightning bolt highlighted the point on the eastern tunnel of the pyramid where Tom had been nearly killed by the outward flowing hydrogen cyanide.
“This is where the crack was found in the tunnel.” Sam pointed to the spot where the leak was first identified. “We’ll have no way of finding out how close the other side of the hole is to the Big Dipper, but for the blasting at that point to damage the enormous blocks, one must assume that it’s pretty close.”
Mick opened up his computer tablet. “Here’s the schematics of the Big Dipper. Our tunnel draws directly below the subterranean pyramid – about ten feet below. For our blasting to cause that type of damage between the two structures, there would have to be an opening somewhere already.”
“Perhaps the Mayans maintained a storeroom underneath the pyramid that we would be able to see?” Mick asked.
“It’s highly possible,” Sam accepted. “So, you were considering sending in a team of miners, who would be willing to take the risk of entering the mine and blasting the roof in from about 50 feet below the pyramid?”
“Yes.”
“Mick, you pointed out that the risk would be high, and failure would result in the flooding of your entire mine.” Sam saw Mick nod in agreement and then, pointing to the diagram of the pyramid, asked, “What if we blocked the entrance to the pyramid here, and here?”
“Then, the pyramid would remain lost forever?” Mick asked.
“No, then your team could go in and seal the mine from below, losing no more than 50 feet of your long wall. Once that was complete, we would remain with a team of archeologists to remove the blocked entrance and explore the Mayan tomb.”
“How soon can you do it?” Mick asked, his eyes wide with respect.
Tom looked at his engineer, “Veyron – what do you think?”
“I need to build the steel framework and then pump the concrete. Ideally, I’ll need about three days, given the location.”
Sam looked back at Mick to see if that would meet his new friend’s approval.
It looked like Mick hadn’t heard it. Instead he was speaking on his cell phone, his body tense with anxiety. “I understand. Do what you can – pull everyone out.”
“What’s happened?” Sam asked.
“That was my underground manager. The water’s just burst through the tunnel.”
“Shit. Okay, at least you got your workers out…”
“That’s just it though… my underground manager just told me he pulled them from the Big Dipper, and moved them to Mine Shaft Four. He thought it would be safe there, because of the twenty miles between the two shafts. But that amount of water will fill that distance quick.”
“Okay, how long do we have?”
“Maybe an hour, at best.”
“Can’t he just pull them out now?”
“No, the entrance is blocked by the oncoming water. They’re trapped literally below the torrent of water.”
“He thought he’d move them to safety, by mining below the water line?” Sam said, with no attempt to hide the contempt from his voice.
“Mining is expensive. He was just trying to maintain production.” Michael spoke honestly, and without shame. It was obvious that mining was a hard man’s game. “Now, what are we able to do about it?”
Sam looked at Veyron again.
“It will break my heart, Sam, but we could use the Sea Witch to block the entrance to the pyramid. Her solid steel hull would plug the entrance.”
“Do it.” Sam said, without another thought for the destruction of his 5-million-dollar machine.
*
Tom climbed down the reinforced steel hatch, and into Sea Witch’s cockpit.
In the pilot seat, Sam sat, already commencing the startup procedure. Behind him, Veyron was going over a final check of the submarine. Next to Veyron rested a single piece of scrap paper – on top of which, a number of algorithms and mathematical equations were scribbled in careless handwriting.
Ordinarily
, he would trust the man’s calculations with the confidence that came by working with an expert, but on a complex dive like this, they might usually have weeks of preparation. Today’s mission was determined out of necessity, after discovering they had less than an hour to save the lives of more than 1000 people.
The cable and hooks were attached to the submarine, ready for launch. Tom felt the sub shift as he strapped himself into the copilot seat.
“Well gentlemen, I guess that’s my cue,” Veyron said. “This is where I get off.”
“Thanks, Veyron,” Sam said without looking up from the instruments he was checking.
“Hey Veyron.” Tom stopped him, for a second.
“Yeah?”
“How confident are you that this crazy scheme's going to work?”
“That the Sea Witch will block the entrance to the pyramid?” Veyron frowned, narrowed his eyes and glanced up and to the left. He appeared to be performing mental arithmetic. “I’d say, at least 95%.”
“That’s sounds all right.”
“But that the structure of the Sea Witch will maintain its ability to withhold the pressure, and you aren’t crushed to death? I’d say, definitely better than 50:50.” Without waiting for Tom’s response, he then climbed the last rungs of the ladder, and said, “Best of luck, gentlemen.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Tom replied.
Sam grinned. “Those odds aren’t too bad. Tom and I have survived worse.”
Above, Veyron closed the first hatch. The ratcheting, grinding sound of the mechanical locking mechanism being engaged echoed in Sam’s ears as its twelve hydraulic locks slid into place. The first red flashing light turned to green.
Tom started work on his safety check sheet. As the submarine shifted under the crane’s steel wire, swinging mildly, he lurched but didn’t let the movement distract him.
Above, the second light switched green – confirming that the airlock and outer hatch were both sealed.
“Maria Helena, this is Sea Witch, ready for launch.” Sam’s voice was slow and confident, as though he were on any other mission.
The Sam Reilly Collection Page 32