Red Helmet (42 page)

“Stay away, Bum, or I'll use your head for batting practice,” Song warned, holding the slate bar like a baseball bat.

Bum laughed all the more, then strolled around the shuttle car, contemplating the situation. “Too bad there's no power,” he said. “I could raise the boom and smear your girl guts all over the roof.”

Song didn't say anything. She just watched as Bum stopped beneath the unpinned roof. She turned off her helmet light so Bum wouldn't notice where she was looking.

“Well, that's a stupid thing to do,” Bum said, misinterpreting her purpose. “I already know where you are.”

In the darkness, Song visualized the draw rock that made up the surface of the unpinned roof. It had a crack, a place where the tip of the slate bar might fit. She recalled her training.
Don't pry down with a slate bar. Pry up.

She thrust the flat end of bar toward the crack. It caught. Then she levered up.

“Hey!” Bum yelled, just as the roof came crashing down on top of him. When it stopped, there was no sign of him, just a pile of sharp-angled brown rock. A grave of rock, Song hoped.

She crawled off the shuttle boom, then poked the pile of draw rock and sandstone with the slate bar. There was no sound from within.

Then she heard something she hadn't heard before. She crept to the curtain she'd hung at the entry. As soon as she pulled it back, a spout of black smoke rolled inside. She dropped the curtain but not before she saw something that looked like a gigantic bright orange and red snake. But it was not a snake. Song recognized it as the worst thing that could happen in a coal mine. She ran back to Cable, pushed through the curtain that still sealed off the little manhole, and found him asleep. She shook him awake.

“The mine's on fire!” she gasped. Then, as her message sank into Cable, she said, “That's the bad news.”

“What's the good news?” he asked, still groggy.

“Bum.”

Cable blinked a few times. “What about him?”

Song smiled a grim, satisfied smile, then proudly said, “I killed the son of a bitch!”

Thirty-Seven

11:02 p.m., Tuesday

T
railing their portable communications phone wire, the Highcoal rescue team stopped at the entry to Two block. The team leader called Bossman, who was in charge of the clear air station at the bottom. “CO and methane levels are good in the intake,” Shorty reported. “I poked my head through the mandoor return and took a reading on the beltline. The return has some smoke in it. CO is elevated, but within limits. Methane is acceptable too.”

Bossman called Einstein and reported the information. “I'm going to send the Fox Run team forward, if you agree,” Bossman said.

Einstein was in Mole's control room. “I agree,” he answered.

Bossman called over Pritha Mahata, the Fox Run captain, and gave him the order to move up. Mahata nodded and waved his men on. Bossman noticed one of the Fox Run men wore coveralls of a different color and wondered what kind of specialty that indicated. Fox Run was a big operation and its miners were known to put on airs. Bossman didn't ask. He had better things to worry about.

“W
HAT
'
S
THIS ABOUT
a fire?” Cable asked. He was fully awake now. “Tell me what you saw.”

“In the intake entry. Like a snake. It was crawling around the roof. I think the headers are on fire too.”

Cable was quiet for a moment. “A fire will slow down the rescue,” he concluded.

“Not to mention it could burn us up,” Song pointed out.

Cable nodded, then frowned at Song. “Was I dreaming or did you say you killed Bum?”

“You weren't dreaming. He tried to kill me first.”

Song explained how she had levered the roof down at the unsupported face.

“He was a sorry excuse for a human being, but he was a friend once,” Cable said. “I just couldn't abandon him.”

Song was too tired to hold back how she felt. “After I left Highcoal, you abandoned me quickly enough.”

Cable didn't respond. Instead, he just kept looking thoughtful.

Exasperated, Song pressed her aching back against the rib, then slid down it until she was sitting beside him. “That's right, Cable,” she said bitterly. “Don't talk about what happened to us. Don't even think about it. After a while, you'll forget all about your short-lived, terrible marriage to that runt half-Asian girl from New York City.”

Cable let out a long breath. “Song . . .”

“What is it?”

“I could use some more ibuprofen.”

She shook her head. “Nurse Song to the rescue.” She dug inside one of her pockets, pulled the bottle out, shook out four tablets, and handed them over along with a bottle of water. After he swallowed, she asked, “What's going to happen to us? I mean the fire . . .”

Cable wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve, then finished off the water. “I won't lie to you. If the fire gets to us, we don't have anywhere to go. Let's just hope it stays where it is. By now, the fans should be off so there's nothing pushing it our way.”

“How's our air?”

Cable checked his detector. “Carbon monoxide is up a tick. We'll have to go on the SCSRs again soon. But not yet. Are you feeling sleepy?”

“No. But I've been a little busy, so I guess I'm pumped full of adrenalin.”

“How about banging on the roof bolt again?”

“Yes, sir, Mister Superintendent. Oh, I forgot. You quit.”

“Not until the end of the week,” he reminded her again.

Wearily, Song picked up the slate bar and started thumping it against the metal plate. She did it for as long as she had the strength, then sat down again. “If they heard us, how would they let us know?”

“They're supposed to fire three surface shots as a signal. Then I would expect to hear them drilling a bore hole down to us. That would be to get air into us and possibly a microphone.”

“Oh good. I'll sing ‘Destiny.' Jim Brickman would like that.”

Cable smiled. “I sure do like his songs.”

“You have no clue when I'm being ironic, do you?

“When you're being what?”

“Thought so.”

Song leaned against Cable's shoulder. “Now I'm feeling sleepy.”

“Breathe through your SCSR. Get some oxygen in your lungs.”

“What I really need is a cup of coffee.”

“Fresh out, I'm afraid.” He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “What's next for you?” he asked. “Where do you go from here?”

“Besides heaven? Or, since I killed Bum, hell?”

“You're not going to hell. You're not going to die either. At least not for a long time. What I mean is where are you going after Highcoal? Back to New York?”

Song stared ahead. “I don't know. Considering our situation, you may be surprised to learn I sorta like mining coal.”

“Good thing you own a coal mine, then.”

“No, it isn't.”

“Why not?”

Song shook off the cobwebs that seemed to be slowly covering her thoughts. “I need a mine superintendent. The one I had quit as of the end of the week. You wouldn't happen to know good one, would you?”

“Are you being ironic?”

“No. I'm too tired.”

“Well, I'll keep my eye out,” he said. He studied her. “You're trembling. Are you cold?”

“No, I'm mad.”

“What about?”

“You. Me. Everything.”

“I think you're cold.” He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her in. “You feel good,” he said.

“I'm filthy and I stink.”

“You smell like a coal miner. I like that in a woman.”

She put her hand on his chest, then looked up at him. “How's your leg?”

“It hurts like the devil, but I still want to kiss you.”

“No, you don't.”

“Yes, I do.” And he proved it.

Song met his gritty lips with hers. As exhausted as she was, kissing him was still wonderful. “Cable . . .”

That was when the curtain was drawn back. A helmet light flashed across them. Bum, carrying a shovel, walked bent beneath the low roof of the little hole.

“Hidy folks,” he said, grinning his awful grin. “I'm
ba-a-a-a-a-ack.
And this time I'm in a really bad mood.”

Thirty-Eight

12:21 p.m., Wednesday

F
ox Run is at the Three block entry,” Mahata reported.

“How's the air?” Einstein asked.

“The smoke is a little thicker,” the Fox Run team leader said. “Methane percentage is steady, and the carbon monoxide is acceptable.”

“Okay, tell Highcoal and Amalgam to move up.”

“They have already started.”

“That's not by the book,” Einstein sniped. “Each team is supposed to wait until I tell them to move.”

Mahata clicked off the phone and looked around at the rescue teams. He hadn't been entirely honest with Einstein. The hopscotching had stopped and all three teams were together, acting now as one unit. “I fear Einstein will not be pleased with us,” Mahata said in his clipped Indian accent.

“Screw Einstein,” somebody replied.

Mahata peered at the team member who'd made the comment. He was in rescue garb, but his heavy tan coveralls did not match the others. The Fox Run team wore smart navy blue coveralls with an American flag stitched to their shoulders. The Highcoal team wore forest green; the Amalgam team were in red. This man's tan coveralls looked somehow retro, as if they belonged to a rescue team of twenty years ago. “You are not a member of my team,” Mahata accused. “Or any of these teams. Who are you?”

“I'm on my own team,” the man said.

“Raise your helmet,” Mahata demanded. “Let us get a look at you.”

When the odd rescuer hesitated, Mahata took a step toward him. “All right, all right,” the man said and raised his face plate, revealing the face of a skinny young man with a GI buzz cut.

“Who are you?” Mahata demanded.

“Chevrolet's my name, rescue's my game,” Chevrolet said.

“All right.
What
are you?” Mahata demanded further.

“My buddy's in there,” Chevrolet said.

“What do you mean?”

“The woman. She's a red cap and so am I.”

The Fox Run team members stared at the young man, then started to laugh. “Whoa, son, you got some brass,” one of them said.

The other team leaders discovered the disguised red caps on their teams too. There proved to be a total of four. “Mine's a Mexican!” Cotton Eye reported with some astonishment.

“
Sí
,
señor
,” Gilberto said. “But I have my green card.”

Cotton Eye scowled at him. “Like that makes any difference!”

Ford and Justin were pushed out of the gathering to stand beside Gilberto and Chevrolet.

“Where did you get your equipment?” Mahata demanded.

“Highcoal has a lot of retired rescue miners,” Chevrolet answered with a shrug. “Our daddy, God bless his soul, had an outfit at our house. We borrowed the others, sort of, when their owners weren't looking.”

“The oxygen bottles? Where'd you get them filled?”

“Quick trip to Bluefield took care of that.”

Mahata called for a conference of team leaders. “What do we do?” he asked Shorty and Cotton Eye.

Shorty shook his head. “We can't send them back by themselves. They're red caps. They're liable to get lost.”

Chevrolet was listening in. “We ain't gonna slow you down. Our equipment's good,” he said.

Cotton Eye reached over and slapped Chevrolet on the side of his helmet, then laughed. “The boy's right, Pritha,” he said. “Let's keep going. We can kick their red cap butts later.”

Mahata gave it some thought. “All right, if we all agree. I am assigning one of my men to watch our foolish little red cap. I suggest you do the same with yours. Let us go ahead.”

“I got something else to say,” Shorty said. He flashed his light over his team members. “My boys and I think we need to ditch the book. We've only got about three hours of oxygen left in our packs. At this rate, we'll never get up to Six block. We got to get moving. Let's shotgun it. Straight ahead, fast as we can go.”

Mahata looked at the roof immediately overhead, then flashed his light down the escapeway. “The roof seems good,” he mused. “The air quality is not that bad.”

“I agree with Shorty,” Cotton Eye said. “Let's make a run for it.”

“Einstein will go very much insane,” Mahata worried. “He is also certain to levy a fine upon us.”

“If we bring them back alive,” Chevrolet interjected, “who gives a flying you-know-what?”

“You will please be quiet, red cap,” Mahata interrupted. “You do not have a voice here. And kindly do not use profanity. Yes, yes, I know you didn't say the word, but you thought it. That's the same thing. It's bad luck.”

“The next red cap says a word, he's going to get his butt kicked,” Shorty growled. “Butt ain't profanity, is it, Mahata?”

“It is not to my way of thinking,” Mahata replied.

“All right,” Shorty said, “let's take a vote. Red caps, you don't get one.”

The rescue teams huddled. One by one, through their faceplates, their eyes met. Every man nodded an affirmative. Chevrolet, Ford, Gilberto, and Justin stuck their thumbs up, even if they didn't count.

The decision was made. The rescue teams were through with Einstein's book. “Let's move, you smoke-eaters!” Shorty yelled, and every man cheered.

W
HEN AN AMBULANCE
arrived at the Highcoal Church, reporters and television personalities rushed it, thinking that somehow they had missed news of a rescue. The doors were opened and they were disappointed to observe an old man on a gurney, who was soon off-loaded. Still thinking there had to be a story, they stuck a microphone in the man's face. It turned out to be Square Block.