Grantville Gazette, Volume I

by Eric Flint

  "What is it?" Mike's voice was level, his look clear and relaxed.

  "Thought you should know, sir. Telegraph report from Grantville says that a very large explosion has occurred."

  All of the heads in the room swiveled and focused on Mike Stearns. A dark cloud seemed to come over his face.

  There was a pause.

  To the men in the room who knew and understood Mike Stearns, his pause spoke volumes. The lieutenant knew that the pause, the—dare he think it—the hesitation, meant the Prime Minister was caught up in thoughts about Grantville for a moment.

  "Do we know a how big? What kind? Where in the town was it located?" The questions came hard and fast, a little harder and faster than normal.

  The lieutenant swallowed. "We don't have any of that information at this time, sir. The telegraph operator was an up-timer. He said he thought it might be the mine, but he wanted to be clear that this was unconfirmed, and more information would be coming as soon as he had it. I thought you would like to know sir."

  "Lieutenant. This information . . ." Mike cut off his statement, then started again. "Thank you for bringing this to our attention. We can deal with this in a few minutes."

  Warner Barnes, an up-timer sitting alongside Duke Hermann of Hessen-Rotenberg, the Secretary of State, cleared his voice. "Umm, Mike. This is Grantville. Why don't we take a few moments and . . ."

  "Thank you, Warner. Right now there are more pressing things. More pressing places. Places and people that need our full attention." Mike paused and took a breath, and looked around the room. There was a mix of government leaders, mostly down-timers, and the handful of up-timers supporting them with whatever education and experience they had. The Prime Minister's face grew grave. The lieutenant started to close the door, when Stearns looked at him. "Wait. You need to hear this too." He stood.

  "Some of you are not going to like what I have to say, so I'll say it and be blunt. Right now, Grantville isn't all that important."

  All of the down-timer's faces showed surprise.

  "It's not that important, not compared to what is going to happen in the spring. Because if what happens this spring fails, and we get our asses kicked, then Grantville is irrelevant. There's a lot that's more important than what might be happening in our—" He motioned to the down-timers. "—old home town. And if there's one thing this group has to do—we must understand what's important."

  Mike paused and straightened. "When it comes to what we're doing now, it's simply not that important. If any of us are thinking about only Grantville, or for that matter, only Sweden—" He looked at Tortenssen. "—or only Hessen-Rotenberg—" He set his gaze on the duke. "—then you don't understand what we're doing here."

  Mike placed his hands flat on the table and leaned forward to gaze at everyone. "Thank you, Lieutenant. That will be all for now. Please prepare a report when you have some facts."

  The lieutenant stood at the door for a moment, and then quietly closed it.

  * * *

  Reverend Green stood in front of the open door of his church, looking out onto the street. The cold morning air stung his face. It felt good. He breathed deeply and surveyed the block. The church was an old one, built in the Grantville's heyday, near the turn of the twentieth century. The massive red brick structure sat next to the rectory. The first of the busses from the mine would be along soon. He stood on the steps of the church, in front of the door, watching and waiting.

  The church ladies had already set up the meeting hall in the back of the church with food and more was arriving. He could smell some of it all the way up here. Hot casseroles and rolls, pies, dried fruit, someone had heated a ham and brought it. Plenty of water, maybe even some tea and coffee. The smell of coffee in the church made him think back to the time that it wasn't unusual to have coffee. Now it was almost a special occasion. He looked at the ground.

  "Some occasion," he thought, "we could live without more of these . . ."

  He didn't have to wait long. The first bus was full of down-timers, some he knew and some he had never seen before. It was escorted by a Grantville police car, the officers bundled up against the cold. As people left the bus, he began to welcome them. It was mostly women and children, a few old men. They came to him with vacant stares, glazed and shocked eyes, red with tears and worry.

  He silently prayed for more strength and ushered them through the front doors, to the meeting room. Most had not been in his church and stared in amazement at the high ceiling, the organ, and the serene color of the walls. It was warm inside and soon the place would be warm and humid, like too many people in a house at Thanksgiving, when the windows would fog over on the inside. Warm and safe.

  "Welcome, welcome, please come in, welcome, go all the way to the back, there's food and drink, welcome, welcome, you'll be safe here, this is for families of all faiths, welcome, there's food in the back . . ."

  There were at least forty people. Reverend Green turned to the police officers. "How many are we to expect? How many are in the mine?"

  The smaller policeman spoke first. "Father, there are at least three more busloads of people at the mine. Some won't leave, but you should expect at least another one hundred twenty or more. We're making it clear that we're only allowing families of the miners on the busses."

  "How many were in the mine? Do we know?"

  The second officer answered. "They think twenty-eight. They're putting together the rescue team now; they should go later in the afternoon."

  Reverend Green sighed and bowed his head. "Are you going to stay here?"

  "Yes, Father," replied the smaller one.

  "Good." He looked up at the man. "We're not Catholic here, so please don't call me Father. I'm a Reverend. We're Baptists here."

  "Okay, Reverend. You got it." The policeman tossed a small salute his way, and smiled.

  Reverend Green went back inside and headed toward the meeting room. They were going to overflow, so he approached one of the senior church ladies. "We'll need more blankets, and we'll need to open up the sanctuary for people. There will be more. How are we set for food?"

  "Could use more," said the woman. "We'll do what we can."

  "Talk to my wife. She knows who to call at the other churches. We all need to get involved in this one. Twenty-eight is what they say are in the mine. I pray to God some of them make it out." He looked at the clock on the wall. Eleven thirty in the morning and the first rescue team had not yet gone in for a search. This was going to be a long, long day. He prayed a little, looked up, and then purposefully stepped into the throng of people, arms outstretched, comforting and welcoming.

  Soon another bus arrived, then a second, and then a third. The building was nearly to capacity and the food was running low. Within an hour, a group of Catholic ladies, all of them down-timers, a mixed group of Methodists, and a down-timer group of Lutherans had arrived to help out. There were up-timers in the mix, but most of the crowd were down-timers.

  It wasn't too much longer before the reporters started to arrive. There were five or six of them out in the street, kept there by the police officers' watchful eyes. One of them managed to talk his way in, but was soon discovered and tossed out unceremoniously by two very large and angry Methodist women, with support from a pair of Catholic church ladies. Pastors, preachers and priests showed up to comfort the waiting families. Social services were there. The place was filled to capacity. All they could do now was wait.

  So that's what they did.

  Every half hour, Reverend Green would walk around the church, stopping to talk, to tell someone where to get help, how to notify someone who wasn't there, offer support to the visiting clerics, and check in the back to see how all of the church ladies were getting along. He didn't have a lot to worry about. The groups of women were self-organizing. They agreed on shifts to support the Baptist core group, with relief coming from all other quarters. He stuck his head in the back rooms, and observed them for a moment. It was more diverse than it had ever been ba
ck up-time. The Protestant denominations were well represented, as well as support from both of the synagogues in town. There was even a fledgling humanist society represented, and those three people were in the back, working hard.

  He leaned against the doorframe and took a moment to watch this miracle. This group of people had become a community, far more disparate than any West Virginia town could ever be, and yet it still functioned almost the same way. Good people looking out for good people. He smiled inwardly. After all, isn't that what a community is supposed to be? Come together in times of need, despite differences. Answer to the common threat, defend the common good? Here in the back room of his Baptist church, were people from different times and faiths, together. Side by side at the sinks and the ovens. Hauling out the garbage, cleaning the countertops.

  His inward smile turned quietly outward, as he realized that even in the darkest tragedy, there was good.

  From that, he took strength.

  * * *

  The leader of the mine rescue team was a coal miner named Hank Jones. He had been part of a rescue team back up-time. In his mid-fifties, he was still in good shape and was still an active coal miner. Experience had taught him that he should expect something like this someday, and knew that he would have to have a team to back him up.

  The typical rescue team is five men. Hank had been training with a group of down-timers he personally selected. He'd hoped to be able to give one of the men a team of his own and expand the training, so that there would be a backup. But there hadn't been time to do so. Never enough time.

  Hank and the team were ready to go in. Stacks and Larry had wanted to shut down the fans, shut down everything before they went it. Hank knew better, and there was a heated argument about what to do. It was critical to keep the situation underground stable, to not change the conditions and potentially create new hazards. It was a basic rescue team procedure. Hank's job as a team leader—the team leader—was to take charge.

  He had to assert himself. When the rescue team is called, they own the mine and everyone else works for them. Mine owners, maintenance, management, everyone. There were some Swedes from the army, a couple guys that tried to take charge with a national defense posture that Hank also had to squelch. He was in charge. That's what happens when you call out a team.

  Normally he wouldn't assert himself that way. He would hang back, learn who everyone was, take opinions, and collaborate. But this one was personal, for him and everyone at the jobsite. Larry Masaniello was taking it particularly hard and it could be affecting his judgment, Hank decided. But Hank didn't call Larry on it in public. He asked for a meeting off to the side, and focused Larry on supporting Hank. And the families.

  "Keep these guys off my back, Larry. Let my team do our job down there. Keep the army out of this; that's the last thing we need. We brought them into the disaster planning as a courtesy more than anything else. Help me with those assholes. Focus on them and focus on the families. Have you delegated anyone to speak to the families over at the church?"

  Larry shook his head. "No. That has to be me." His eyes began to cloud with tears. Hank could see him struggle, and then smile. "Funny, we never picked anyone for that position in the event of an emergency. Sorta like we didn't think it would happen."

  Hank grabbed Larry's shoulder. "You know it's bad. I know it's bad. But at least be honest and open with them. Don't give them a lot of hope, but—well you'll know what to do. Just be the man that you are. It's all you can do."

  The five-man team was ready for the job. They had trained and practiced, sometimes on their own time, sometimes by being paid overtime for the long hours extra they put in. They had the best equipment, including the extra-bright battery cap lights and flashlights. But for four of the men, it was their first real rescue mission.

  As they approached the lift with the thin wisps of smoke streaming out, Hank spoke. "All right, you guys. Are you ready for this?" He looked each of them in the eye as he looked around the huddle. Each man met his eyes and nodded. Hank looked for uncertainty and saw none. They were going to have to depend on one another to a degree that they had trained for but never actually experienced. Satisfied with their silent answers, he proceeded.

  "Step one is to re-establish communications. Since we don't have any more phone wire, we'll have to trace and repair what we find. We have practiced that in our SCBAs. We should be able to splice the wires within two minutes even with the tank and air mask of the SCBAs. That's what we'll do. We think most, if not all, of the men were at the west face. It's the deepest part of the mine and the furthest away. Since we don't have the ability to put down a full borehole, we're having the well-digging truck try to hit that part of the mine. They will be able, maybe, eventually, to get an air sample. If the improvised bits work, and if it digs a straight hole and doesn't miss. We'll take readings for carbon monoxide and methane every one hundred feet of travel, and stay within sight of each other at all times. Nobody gets out of sight, not unless we plan for it, and all members are aware.

  "After we get the phones working and after we understand the mine atmosphere, then we can start looking for survivors." Hank realized he swallowed that last word. Survivors. Based on what he saw and what he knew from the past, it was unlikely that there would be any survivors. But the first team in was always a rescue team, seldom a recovery team. And he intended to keep it that way, until he was absolutely sure.

  They stepped onto the lift and gave the signal to the operator. They went down slow, taking air quality readings as they descended, not using their SCBAs. It was smoky, but breathable.

  The next hours would be painstakingly slow, as they repaired the phones, established communication, and began the advance down the main tunnel.

  * * *

  It was three in the afternoon when Larry pulled his pickup truck in front of the Baptist Church. It was a busy place. He looked over the notes in his hand and steeled himself. With the short days of winter, the daylight was already taking on dusk-like appearance, and it gave an unreal diffused glow to the imposing church. What he was about to do was going to be the hardest thing he had ever done in his life, and he wasn't sure he was up for it. He hoped his wife had made it here. He was going to need support for this.

  He had nearly made it to the front doors when he was recognized by the reporters, who shouted out his name, and began to fire questions. "Larry . . . Larry . . . Can you tell us how many might have died? . . . what's the body count? They said that there would be no announcements at the mine, and that everything would be announced here. Is that correct? Did anyone survive? Is the search still going on? We're on a deadline here. People have a right to know . . ."

  It was the "right to know" that made Larry turn on them. He had told himself he would ignore the press, but that got to him in a way that surprised even him. He turned to the reporters and a small group of curious onlookers. He exploded. "I'm here for the families of the men who are in that mine! Nobody else. They're what's important right now. You wait your turn, you God damn vultures."

  There was one reporter in the front who knew his trade and saw an opportunity when it presented itself. He slipped past one of the barricades that had been erected and started in on Larry. "So there are fatalities. How many? What did they die of? Are you confirming that there are fatalities?"

  Larry started to go for him but couldn't move. Reverend Green had opened the doors and five or six pairs of arms were restraining him. He struggled for a moment until he realized he was being restrained and then relaxed.

  Reverend Green leaned toward him. "Priorities, Larry. Remember what's important."

  Larry looked at Reverend Green. He didn't know the man all that well. Knew who he was, but didn't really know him. His respect for the Baptist minister went way up that afternoon. He nodded. "He's only doing his job, and it seems he's a better at it than his cohorts. Come inside. I've saved a little coffee for you, if you want it. There are a lot of people who have been waiting for you."

&nb
sp; Larry wasn't prepared for what he saw when he stepped into the sanctuary of the church. He froze. There were more than three hundred people crammed into a place that was designed for only two hundred. An image from a horror movie, Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds came into his head. The scene where Tippi Hedren was in the attic, and the killer birds were packed into every nook and cranny, all quiet, staring, and ominous.

  He tried to swallow but his mouth was dry. There was a pathway being made to the pulpit. He saw his wife Erica there. She was looking at him too, but in admiration. He locked eyes with her, and moved through the crowd. He could do this. Just maybe, he could do this.

  After some introductions, and with a chalkboard relocated from the one of the Sunday school rooms, Larry began. The tension in the room was brutal. "First of all," he began, "I want to thank Reverend Green for his hospitality in accommodating all of this. But I understand that there are people supporting this church from all directions and faiths. Every part of this community, old and new, is here. For that, I thank you all. As I go through this, I'm going to stick to the facts, and what I know for sure. But . . ." He paused, trying to find the right words. "I'm not going to pull any punches—I'm going to tell you like it is as we see it. I'll tell you everything I know. But no matter how bad it gets, don't give up hope. We have hope."

  He stepped to the chalkboard and drew a line to show the surface, a vertical tunnel, and then a horizontal tunnel near the bottom of the board. "We know that something happened. We think it was here." He drew an X at the end of the bottom tunnel. "We don't know what. When it happened, there were men working there . . ." He drew a circle around the X. "And over here." From the vertical shaft, he drew another horizontal line in the opposite direction from the first, only much shorter. "And we had men working here." He drew another circle at the end of that tunnel.