by Eric Flint
"We had men working on tasks at different ends of the mine. The distance from this X to this X, is about one and a half miles. When something happened early this morning here . . ." He pointed to the first X. ". . . the men from here went to help." He pointed to the second X in the smaller tunnel. "The men in this longer tunnel were the more experienced miners. Those in the other end were mostly apprentices with our most senior man.
"Since the explosion we felt, we have not heard from any of them. There was contact shortly before that explosion, but none after. All of the communication in the mine is down due to damage, so we needed to send men inside to see. There are men in there now, and they're setting up communications and trying to move forward. The further they go, the more damage they're seeing, indicating that whatever happened this morning—the explosion, also happened at this end of the mine." He drew a circle around the end of the longer tunnel. "That's where we think everyone was."
He stopped at that point and looked at the audience. There was a range of reactions, all of them subdued, some of them delayed as translations were made. Several sniffles. But these were a pragmatic lot of people, and the reactions were more stoic than he expected.
"The further we move into the mine, the worse the smoke. The air quality—the survivability of the air that they can breath—is diminishing. The rescue team is now wearing what we call SCBAs, or 'self-contained breathing apparatus' because the air in the mine won't sustain life." He paused, letting the statement sink in. There were several sobs as the understanding grew. It was if nobody wanted to cry out first. Eyes went back to him.
He let the room settle a moment. "That does not mean that they're all dead. It just means that we can't breath the air on the way in. We're attempting to drill a hole from here . . ." He put an X on the surface above where the miners were. ". . . to pump in air to this area." He drew a line from the surface down to the end of the long tunnel. "That will take us most of the night, if it works. There's a lot that can go wrong in drilling this hole. We're using equipment that's not designed for this, and it's slow going.
"We're also moving down the tunnel from the elevator to the area where the men may be trapped and unable to communicate. This is being done by the rescue team.
"So far, we have found no one, alive or dead. It will be after sunrise tomorrow that we think we'll have the hole drilled, or the men down to the end of the tunnel." He paused for a moment. "This is hard, I know." He stepped from behind the pulpit, so there wasn't anything between him and the audience. "Members of my family have sat in those pews the same as you, waiting for words, alive or dead. It will take time, and even when we find the dead, it may take time to identify them. We won't announce anything until we're positive. It may be several days. I can take questions for as long as you like and I'll be staying here through the night with you."
The questions went on for many hours, and Larry answered them all. Honestly and to the best of his ability.
He met every person in every family.
He was right. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, or ever would do.
* * *
Hank was tired. His men were tired. They were nearing the limits of their endurance and were very close to giving up when they got the news from topside.
The air sample that had been pulled at the far end of the mine, where the well-drilling rig had managed to break in, had shown very high levels of carbon monoxide. Levels that couldn't sustain life even for a little while. Miners had self-rescuers, and additional ones were scattered through the mine and on equipment, so the possibility existed that someone could have been swapping them out over the last thirteen hours, but. . . . But, if the guy had that kind of energy and wherewithal, he would have gotten out by now.
Hank sat by the phone, took off his mask for a moment to grab a slug of water and quickly put it back on. He sat with his back to the ribs, and his hard hat off to cool his head. He motioned at the guys to gather around him. He looked at his watch. They had broken every rule about how long a rescue team should be in a mine. But he had no choice. Dawn of the second day had broken above them, and they had found no bodies, no survivors, and massive destruction. The explosion had blown all of the seals down, along with most of the lighting, vacuum breakers, mining carts. Even all of the mules were dead, over thirty of them in their stalls. The loss was just about total.
Hank was trying to decide if this was a rescue mission or a recovery mission. Recovery meant that they had to leave now, rest, re-equip, and come back to fight the remaining fires and remove the bodies. "One more crosscut, guys, and that's it. We don't want anyone to have to look for us and drag our butts out of here in a body bag. One more crosscut, and we terminate the mission. The far end of the mine does not have a sustainable atmosphere, and we're way past the time when someone could use the self-rescuers to survive. They only last for an hour when new, and all the ones in the mine are a couple of years old." He held out his arm, and one of the team members helped him to his feet. "One more crosscut, and we call it."
The other members of the team looked at each other, and nodded quietly. They fanned out across the tunnel and went deeper into the mine.
* * *
The onlookers at the mine scanned the sky when they heard the buzzing sound of an aircraft in flight. They searched the clear and cold morning sky. The direction of the sound couldn't be pinpointed. Most people turned to the north, the rest turned in multiple directions. The aircraft came into view from the northeast and the gathered crowd turned to watch it. The aircraft began a long slow turn around the rising column of smoke. It circled only one time, and then turned toward the landing strip.
A murmur began, wondering who was on the craft. Rumors flew. Guesses were made. Most of the down-timers had no idea who it would be. It was certainly not important, at least for them.
* * *
Mike Stearns stared at the column of black smoke rising from the metal structure that made up the entrance of the mine. From his perspective in the Belle, eight hundred feet above the ground, it looked bad. Very bad. He leaned his forehead against the cold glass canopy as the airplane made the wide turn over the mine. He was aware of the upturned faces pointed in his direction and just as aware when they turned back after identifying the plane, focusing on the reality in front of them. Whoever was flying above them wasn't important, not today. He looked at the smoke again. His breath began to cloud the glass in front of him. He let it obscure his vision. Is this how a mine owner feels when something like this happens in his mine, under his direction, he wondered. He had always hoped so, in the past. But he was never sure.
* * *
Larry was nudged awake gently by Reverend Green. "Telephone, Larry. They want to talk to you. The mine. It's Stacks."
Larry eased to a standing position and every eye that was awake followed him. When they saw he was moving toward the phone in Reverend Green's office, the people who were already awake woke the others. Larry let his wife stay asleep, closed the office door behind him, and picked up the phone.
"Masaniello."
"Larry, Stacks. The drill got in, we pulled a sample, and it was only eight percent O two. There's no way . . . they took a couple of samples just to be sure. They've been down there too long. We think we need to call it. I have been in touch with Hank and he's going to do one more crosscut, then we'll transition into a recovery mission. But he and his team need to come out, no matter what." Stacks' voice was flat, almost emotionless. It was as if he let any emotion into his voice, he wouldn't be able to control it."
"Thanks, Stacks. You did what you could." Larry hung up the phone and turned to Reverend Green. He simply shook his head.
"You did what you could too, you know."
Larry scoffed. "Did I? I don't think so. There's always something else I could have done, or should have done. Some procedure, some rule about safety. I don't know . . . something. I'm responsible for their deaths. Nobody else. My mine, my responsibility."
There was a soft
knock on the door and Erica poked her head into the room. "Someone here to see you." She opened the door and Mike Stearns walked in. The look in his eyes mirrored the one in Larry's. Grief and pain. Mike and Erica came in, and closed the door behind them.
Larry looked directly at Stearns. "They're calling it, Mike. They're all dead." Erica came to him and gave him a gentle embrace. Mike just nodded.
Larry looked at the ceiling, tears welling in his eyes. "Mike, I'm a coal miner from a little town in West Virginia. I got no business runnin' a mine. Crew of guys, yeah, maybe, but a whole fucking mine? What was I thinking? Hell, what were you thinking? I wasn't the right guy for this at all. No wonder Quentin Underwood is such a prick all the time. Who could live this way?"
Erica pulled herself closer to him. Reverend Green looked at Mike, and his eyebrows went up, as if to say "Well . . .?"
Mike took a step forward. "Would it help you to know that I have been anticipating this for over a year?"
They all looked at him with surprise. "What we're doing here isn't trying to make a buck off of the backs of our brother miners, Larry. That's how Quentin thinks. That's all he thinks about. That's how he can do what he can do. He has skills, but no, I dunno—no humanity, I guess. He's perfect for this shit, precisely because it doesn't bother him." Mike leaned back against the door. "But you and me, we're different. We're not trying to make a buck. Do you know what we're doing, Larry?
Larry was confused and angry. "We're digging a hole in the ground and killing people for coal."
There was a brief flash of anger in Mike's eyes. "That's right, Larry. But why do we have to do that? Think about it. Why?"
Larry hung his head, and stared at the floor for a moment. He then looked up at Mike, then his wife, and finally Reverend Green. He pointed to the door, and the people gathered outside the office. "I need to talk to them."
Mike nodded, slowly at first, then empathically in a final nod. His wife—"thank you Lord, for Erica"—just hugged him.
Reverend Green spoke next. "We'll follow your lead, Larry. You take the pulpit and we'll be behind you. We'll be there."
Larry took a deep breath and let it out. He straightened and headed for the door. When the phone rang, he was caught off guard, and actually jumped a little. Larry stopped as Green answered, "First Baptist." There was a pause. "He's right here." He handed the phone to Larry.
"Masaniello."
"Larry, Stacks." The tone of Stacks' voice wasn't anything like the last call. The emotion was overflowing, and he was close to tears. "We found two guys! We found them alive!" Larry could hear a background of cheers and celebration. "I just got the word from Hank. We're sending down two spare SCBAs and a stretcher team. One of them is pretty bad, but Hank thinks he'll make it! You won't believe it! Metzinger, that clever SOB, was living off of compressed air. He was in the tool crib—and you know that air is piped in there for testing the pneumatic tools—so he set up a compressed air line, a valve, and they got under some plastic sheeting. They've been there for over sixteen hours! They're fucking alive!"
"Thanks, Stacks. What are the names?"
"Wilhelm Metzinger and Willy Huenefelder."
Larry wrote the names on a pad of paper from the desk. "What does Hank say about the rest of them?"
The tone of Stacks voice changed again. "He—Hank, uhh." Stacks volume lowered on the phone, somewhat conspiratorially. "Larry, I don't know that I agree. Now that we've found these guys, I think we should keep this a rescue mission, not a recovery. Hank is saying that it should be a recovery from here on out. I don't know, and some of us think that—"
"Stacks, if Hank says it goes to recovery, it goes to recovery. That's his call. That's what he does for us. Does the compressed air go any further than the crib?"
"No. Metzinger had to rig up something because it was damaged downstream from the tool crib."
"Then there's really no hope, is there, Stacks?"
"No." He heard Stacks half sigh and half sob into the phone.
"Thanks, Stacks. And, Stacks . . . good job."
"Thanks, boss."
Larry placed the phone back in its cradle, and double checked the two names on his paper. He turned to the others in the office. "They found two of them alive. Metzinger and Huenefelder."
Smiles broke out across the room. Then Mike very quietly asked a question. "And the mission changing to recovery?"
Larry nodded. "Hank called it. One miracle is all we can expect per day, I suppose. This actually makes it harder for the twenty-six other families, doesn't it? And it won't be easy for the other two, either."
Larry straightened with as much resolve as he could muster, rubbed his face with both hands to clear his eyes, picked up the paper, and strode to the doorway. The others filed out behind him.
* * *
It took almost a month of working around the clock to get the mine back in operation. Things were tight for energy supplies over the last part of the winter, but by spring, production had resumed. In the meadow, where the monument stood for the up-time miners who had been killed in the Number 9 Mine disaster, the bodies of twenty-six down-timers were buried. A stone was erected for them, with names and other words carved into the face, in English and German.
They have not died in vain.
These men fought the battle under the ground, just as others fought it above the ground, on the sea and in the air.
These men fought for the community and the nation, and through their sacrifice, helped to bond them together.
We are all in their debt.
The Salon
By Paula Goodlett and Gorg Huff
"Ah . . ."
The sound of a throat clearing drew Heather's attention away from the paperwork on her desk at Trommler Records. "Hey, Jacob. What's up?"
"It is Thursday, Heather. I wanted to leave about three so I can attend the salon."
"Salon?"
"The salon at Rachel Hill's house. Surely you've heard of it? People come from all over to attend them."
Heather had to search her memory. "Hill. Hill. I know an Ashley Hill; she's on the geology survey team. But I don't remember a Rachel."
Jacob shook his head. "You amaze me, you up-timers. There's a treasure in your midst and you don't realize it. You should come with me, meet her. See the electric car."
"Oh. Her. I remember seeing the car. But I never met her. Grantville isn't that small and I was a kid back then." Heather wondered if he meant to ask her on a date. She liked Jacob, although his taste in music was horrible. On the other hand, his taste in music was one of the reasons Trommler Records had made such a splash. The oldies she preferred sounded like horrible screeching, at least that's what Jacob said.
"You should come."
"Sure. But I want to break for lunch now, then I'll come back and we'll go." Once Jacob nodded and left, Heather headed for the one place she knew she could get the low-down on anyone in town, the City Hall Coffee Shop. Cora would know all about Rachel Hill. Cora always knew everything about everybody.
* * *
"Come on, Jacob." Heather grinned over at Jacob, who didn't get nearly enough exercise, apparently. "It isn't that far and the road isn't all that tough to walk."
"We could have waited for the bus," Jacob grumbled. "Or a cart. Or a wagon."
"Silly. Not that many vehicles come out this way. Now, let's hurry a bit. This was your idea, after all. It's your own fault."
The gravel road wound a bit, but not as much as some in Grantville. It was also quiet, very much so. Heather looked around, enjoying the fall color and the peace. These days, Grantville was much busier than it had been in her childhood. More people came in every day, it seemed.
People from everywhere, just about. One of the truly big surprises to many of the residents was just how much—well, tourism—there was in the seventeenth century. Young men went on grand tours all over Europe. Young women came in for the economic opportunities that abounded in the area—not to mention the right to vote.<
br />
But this road was quiet, which was a welcome relief.
"There's the little bridge." Jacob pointed. "And that's what used to be the garage, but the Mehlers made it into a nice little cottage. We go left when we get there."
"Ah."
Jacob grinned. "I always feel that way when I see Rachel's house. Once you get here, you feel like there isn't another person within a thousand miles."
They stopped to admire the view. It did feel like there couldn't be another person anywhere near. The hills reached up and blocked any view of the town, and there wasn't another house near. It was perfect. Today was a bit misty, the fall colors were at their best; and the deep red house was in a perfect setting. Across the graveled road, a tiny waterfall trickled down the rocks.
These days, since the Mehler's arrival, what had been lawn was mostly garden. Herr Mehler had become seriously interested in what one of Rachel's many books called "French intensive gardening," so he had deeply dug three-foot wide beds with paths between them.
"It still seems strange that so few people in the town knew about Rachel," Jacob said. "Now that her salon's are so well attended."
"She kept to herself, mostly." Heather hesitated. "After the accident, when she couldn't get around very well, she got to be pretty reclusive. In a way, the Ring of Fire did her a favor, I guess. That's what Cora said. I mean, people sort of knew who she was, since she grew up here. But she went off to college and didn't make a real big splash when she came back."
* * *
The house was laid out in a typical farmhouse pattern, with four rooms on the ground floor. Considering the number of bodies in the living room, Heather was glad the ceiling fan was turned on. Jacob introduced Heather to Rachel with what seemed a proprietary air. What Heather couldn't figure out was what he was being proprietary about, Rachel and her salon or Heather. He seemed to be showing off the cultural jewel of the salon to Heather and Heather to the gathered group. It was quite a group, at that.
There were eleven people in the living room. Jacob introduced Heather to them all. Father Gus from Saint Mary's was there, along with Father Nick Smithson. There was also a Spaniard who introduced himself as Don Diego Valdez y Mendoza. He immediately wanted her to confirm that up-timers really did believe in astrology. After all, they published horoscopes in the newspapers up-time. It was immediately apparent that this was a conversation that was repeated with each new up-timer to join the group. Apparently he wouldn't, or couldn't, give up on his pet notion.
