Red Helmet (44 page)

“How much does the box weigh?”

“About thirty pounds, I think.”

“And tell me again what's in it?”

“High explosives and everything you need to detonate them.” Cable took his SCSR off and handed it to her. “Here. Take this as a backup. It's still got a little juice.”

“No. You need it.”

“I'll hang on. I swan.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, now get going. Bum's probably curtained himself off, breathing the SCSRs one after another. But keep an eye out for him.”

“Got it. Pick up high explosives, avoid bad air, and keep an eye out for a hopped-up murderer. No problem.” She clipped Cable's SCSR to her belt.

“Put your goggles on.”

“Okay.”

“Whatever you do, never cross in front of a mine fire. The heat will melt you. I'm serious.”

“Okay.”

“One more thing. There's something else I want you to know. I love you.”

“Okay.” Song headed for the curtain, then stopped. “What was that last thing you said?”

“I love you.”

Her light played across his face. “I love you too, you idiot. I never stopped loving you, even though I really tried.”

“I think you're a great coal miner.”

“Is that why you love me?”

“Call it a bonus. Why do you love me?”

“I have a weakness for mine superintendents.”

“That's too bad. I quit, remember?”

“Well, Cable, you can just be the superintendent of my heart.”

Cable chuckled although it turned into a cough. “Go. And whatever you do, come back. If I have to die, I want it to be in your arms.”

“You're not dying in anybody's arms, not today.”

Song pushed through the curtain and into the smoky dark to begin her battle against the all-consuming fire, to save herself and the man she loved.

Thirty-Nine

1:14 a.m., Wednesday

A
t the Highcoal Church a television reporter, a lovely young redhead in a pantsuit, was doing her best to get a story. She held a microphone toward Young Henry, who was on the church porch, sent by his mother to keep any and all media representatives from entering. Backing up the pretty correspondent was a man holding a big camera on his shoulder. He kept swiveling the lens from her face to Young Henry's.

“Sorry, ma'am,” Young Henry said. “Highcoal families only.”

Her big blues batted at the boy. “If you would let me in, I would be like a mouse.”

“Sorry. Mama would whomp me if I let you in.”

“What's your name?”

“Young Henry.”

“Such a marvelous name! Are you sure we can't come inside? I want my viewers to see what the inside of a West Virginia church looks like.”

Young Henry remained firm. “Well, if that's all you're after, ma'am, there's a couple more churches right down the road in Fox Run, and a bunch more on the roads to Beckley and Bluefield.”

She touched his arm. “Please, Young Henry. Just for a few seconds?”

Young Henry, flattered as he was, wasn't fooled. “What you really want is to see people praying and crying for those trapped below. I guess I understand that, but I just can't oblige you. I'm sorry.”

“But if reporters like me don't tell this story, who will?” she asked. “Is your daddy a coal miner? You want me to tell about him, don't you?”

“He was a coal miner, yes ma'am. But he got killed in the mine.”

“Then let me tell his story.”

Young Henry scratched his head, then said, “Ma'am, here's the way I see it. You want to tell the story of coal miners? They don't need nobody to do it, nobody on television or the newspapers anyway. Their story is told every time you turn on your light switch, or watch television, or wash your clothes or your dishes or yourself. Their story is told in every building that uses steel to hold itself up, and every time you ride in a car, a truck, a train, or an airplane. Tell the story of coal miners? Heck, ma'am. It's told everywhere, if you'd just listen to it.”

The television woman glanced over her shoulder at her cameraman. “Did you get that, Bobby?”

Bobby said he did. She smiled at Young Henry. “I think I have my story, Young Henry. I'm going to go do a wraparound and it'll be ready to go national. You're going to be famous!”

The boy lit up. “Really?”

“Really.”

She handed her microphone to the cameraman, then gave Young Henry a big hug and a kiss on his cheek. Young Henry's face turned a brighter pink and his ears looked like they were on fire.

S
ONG WAS THANKFUL
she hadn't encountered Bum. Cable was probably right. He had taken his SCSRs and curtained up somewhere. In the entry, the smoke was oily and dense, her light only able to cut through it a few feet. The threads of fire she had seen on the headers were still there, but did not seem to be getting any bigger. At least the headers were holding. She turned to follow the rails toward Cable's jeep. There was an orange pulsating glow up ahead.

When she reached Cable's jeep, she began to feel the heat from the glow. There was no doubt about it. This was the main part of the fire. She could even hear it, a groan like a chorus of anguished demons. Cable had told her to count four crosscuts past his jeep, then look in the fifth one for the shot fireman's box of explosives.

Song plunged on into the oily smoke, the heat rising with every yard of progress. She passed the first crosscut, then the second. It was at the third opening she encountered the devil's maw, a ferocious mouth agape with flames. It roared at her, puffed fire in jagged flames, and seemed to be daring her to approach its evil majesty. She recalled Cable's admonition.
Never cross in front of
a mine fire
. The fire belched hot gas across the entry, subsided, then threw flame across it again like a giant, black dragon.

Song thought of all the prayers she had heard in the mine. She decided maybe it was all right to add one more. “Lord, I am not a Yogist, I swan. I'm just a coal miner. I think, I hope, that makes me one of yours. Let me get through and I promise . . .”

She stopped and thought some more. She and Preacher had shared a moment after choir practice one evening. He'd asked her if she had recently prayed. Song had confessed all her prayers were impromptu, usually to keep herself or her fellow red caps or the other miners safe. Preacher had nodded in satisfaction. “Those are good prayers, Song. And don't think they don't work. God is listening all the time.”

“Then why doesn't He answer all our prayers, Preacher?” Song had demanded.

“What we don't see,” Preacher answered, “are the ripples that happen every time anything happens. They're like stones dropped in a pond. Even bad things that happen have a purpose. We don't know what their purpose is, but it's for something.” He'd smiled at her. “It takes faith to believe that in the end, goodness triumphs through adversity. Everything good, Song, takes faith.”

Now Song had no choice but to have faith. “All right,” she said. “Lord, here's my prayer and I've got a reason for it You might like. I need to get across this fire and then I need to get back. Why? Because the man You gave me to love is back there and it's the only way to save him. Is that good enough?”

Song didn't expect an answer except by results. She took a deep breath, lowered her head, and ran. She struck the scalding air, then threw herself across it, landing, rolling, and then she was on her feet again. She smelled something burning and realized it was her hair. She took off her helmet and slapped at the embers until she was sure she'd put them out. She took stock and realized she was alive. She looked up at the roof and silently voiced her thanks. One more cut to go.

“W
HAT ARE WE
going to do, Einstein?” Bossman demanded. He dropped into a chair beside the MSHA man.

Einstein had a telephone to his ear. “All right,” he said into it. “Keep me apprised.” He hung up and looked at Bossman. Einstein's face was drawn and desperately fatigued. “That was Birchbark. He thinks he should punch into Six West soon. If anybody's alive there, we can communicate.”

“What do you mean
if
? You think they're dead, don't you?”

Einstein sat back and rolled his head, the bones in his neck crackling like tiny firecrackers. “Two methane explosions, a roof fall, and a mine fire are tough to survive. Yes, I think they're probably dead.”

Bossman started to argue, saw the futility of it, and took off his helmet and threw it across the room. It landed hollowly, then rolled until it finally came to rest next to the door. “What do you think happened?”

“An investigation will determine that, but I think we'll find it was Bashful's drilling into the old works that started everything. It set off a methane pocket that blew, then probably started some old timbers burning. When they burned through a crosscut or maybe an old mandoor, they set off a second pocket. That one in turn started the fire on Six block.”

“Of all the things to happen, I would have never guessed this one,” Bossman said, lowering his head in fatigue.

“That's why the mining industry has to be eternally vigilant, Bossman,” Einstein said grimly. “It's a never-ending job.”

Bossman struggled to his feet and staggered over to Mole's coffee pot to pour himself a muddy cup of joe.

Einstein watched him. “How can you stand to drink that stuff?”

“I called Atlas headquarters,” Bossman said, waving away Einstein's question. “They've started the ball rolling to put the fire out. It'll be an expensive proposition. If past fires are any guide, it'll take weeks. Our miners are going to be out of work for a while.”

“Out of work miners are nothing new,” Einstein said, yawning, and stretching. He looked up in surprise as there was a sudden commotion outside and the door flew open. A distinguished man with a silver mustache entered the room. He had an authoritarian presence. “Where is my Song?” he demanded. “Where is she?”

Mole jerked awake and stared at the intruder. “Who are you?” he, Bossman, and
Einstein all asked at once.

“Who do you think?” the man bellowed.

Now they knew.

Joe Hawkins had arrived in Highcoal.

Forty

2:02 p.m., Wednesday

H
er arms loaded with a big yellow box, Song stumbled through the curtain, then sprawled into the gob. When she looked up, she saw Cable was passed out again, his head lowered. She crawled to him, then shook him by his shoulders. Finally, and with what seemed immense effort, he opened his eyes.

“I got the shot box, Cable!” she yelled into his face, trying to get him to wake up. “And look what else!”

Song held up a fresh SCSR. She activated it and slipped it over his head, inserting the mouthpiece in his mouth and clipping his nose. “There were two of them attached to the shot box.”

“God bless Rimfire,” Cable mumbled. He took several deep breaths, coughed, then took several more. He looked at his detector. “I should be dead,” he marveled.

“I prayed you'd be okay,” she said.

“You prayed?”

“Hey, I'm in the church choir, aren't I?”

“Did you see the fire?”

“I had to cross in front of it.”

“That's impossible.”

“I know, but I'm a stupid red cap, so I did it anyway. That required another prayer. I'm getting this praying thing down to a science, I'm telling you. Funny thing too. So far, it works! Preacher may be on to something. Now, tell me what to do with this stuff.”

Cable nodded toward the shot box. “Slide it over. Let's see what you got.”

Song opened the box and he ran his hand through the packages. “This ought to do it,” he said.

“So what do we do?” Song asked eagerly.

“We blow a big hole out of the third cut. Vietnam and I both noticed moisture seeping out near it. That's why I decided to close the section down. Part of the old works we abandoned years ago is underwater. If we blow a hole in the right spot, there's a good chance we can flood the section and put out the fire.”

“Okay. But then what do we do? Grow gills?”

He smiled affectionately at her. “It won't stay flooded long. The main line drops toward the bottom. The water should drain away from us.”

“How long will that take?”

“I don't know. Anyway, we have no choice. You ready to make some noise?”

“I've never even lit off a firecracker.”

“Well, honey, we're about to explode the equivalent of ten million firecrackers.”

“Then let's do it.”

He smiled at her. “You are truly a wonderful woman.”

“I know, Cable. But let's save this lovey-dovey stuff till later, okay? We've got work to do.”

He turned all business. “You're right. Carry the shot box to the face, then come back for me.”

Song took a deep breath, then another. “Next time I'll break the leg, you do all the heavy lifting.”

After hauling the box to the face, Song returned and helped Cable to it. He started removing the short, cylindrical sticks of powder, along with several coils of wire. “We usually drill holes to put these in,” Cable advised, holding up a cartridge. “But we don't have anything to drill with. Go find a slate bar or a shovel. We need to dig as deep a hole as we can.”

“We?”

“All right.
You
. While you dig, I'll set up the blasting battery and the wires. We'll only need to detonate one stick. It will set off all the others.”

“How many are you going to use?”

“All of them.”

“Is that a lot?”

“You bet it is. We're going to make a very big hole, Song.”

Song looked around until she found both a slate bar and a shovel, then came back and began to attack the face. She kept hacking and digging until she had excavated a small hole. The results were not impressive. “I don't think I can get much deeper,” she said.