“You’re sure that thing’s fireproof?” Murray asked.
“He’ll roll right through it,” Booker said. “The trick will be getting him down the skip shaft. It’s hard to gauge distances by remote control. I don’t want him to pitch forward. Then we’d be in trouble.”
Booker, Murray, and Weston were crouched in the skip shaft thirty yards up from the fire that was still pouring out of the main tunnel on Level 10. They’d managed to climb up as far as Level 9. The tunnel was partially smoke filled, but there was no sign of an active fire. A few yards beyond that point, another cave-in had blocked the shaft.
Murray was sure another fire was burning somewhere else in the mine. The rock that blocked the skip shaft was warm to the touch.
They had their emergency air tanks turned on. Their masks were fitted with transistor-sized radio receivers and speakers that allowed them to talk to each other.
Weston wasn’t saying much. He was preoccupied with worries. He knew what Wren had in mind for Atkins and Elizabeth. They’d discussed it in detail before they made their descent into the mine. If the two raised any questions about the cracks that had opened up in the dam at Kentucky Lake before the big quake, there might be serious trouble. One thing might lead to another, all of it bad. He’d read enough of Elizabeth’s computer files to know she’d written extensive notes on what she’d seen at the dam.
He also recalled Atkins’ veiled threat about the cracks a few days earlier. Weston thought Atkins was feeling him out, trying to see how he’d react.
Fortunately, he’d kept no records of the money he’d received during the last six years from a contractor who’d done routine maintenance on the dam. He’d allowed the contractor to pad his bills, not much, just a few percentage points here and there, but over time it added up to nearly $2 million. There was no paper trail, and the work hadn’t had any bearing on the disaster. No dam in the world could have withstood an 8.4 quake. And yet if an inquiry began, it could ultimately lead right to his door. He had to downplay the seriousness of those cracks when they first appeared.
In a sense, the disaster was a godsend. It had washed away the evidence. All he needed to say about the cracks was the truth, at least part of it, that they’d tried to have them repaired before the earthquake struck. An evacuation order might have started a panic. They’d done everything they could, but a horrendous act of nature had doomed their efforts.
The key was to make sure Atkins and Elizabeth Holleran never talked. And if everything went extremely well, maybe Wren would also die down there. Wren and Stan Marshal had both received kickbacks from the contractor. Marshal had panicked and tried to kill Atkins and Elizabeth Holleran by blowing them up during those seismic reflection tests. It was crude, stupid, and careless. Badly frightened, Marshal would keep his mouth shut, but Wren was another matter. The man was quite capable of asking for more money. Weston knew it was only a matter of time before he’d have to deal with him.
All things considered, this could work out splendidly. He just needed to survive.
“How much time do we have?” Weston asked.
“About an hour and a half,” Murray said.
With Booker operating the controls, the robot slowly started to descend the steep incline of the skip shaft, clasping the heavy canisters of foam with its clawed “man extenders.” It was briefly lost to view as it rolled through the flames and smoke that continued to dart out of the tunnel on Level 10. Booker glimpsed the robot’s orange helmet through the swirling smoke. Then, suddenly, it reemerged from the inferno.
Outfitted with its television monitor, audio receiver, and powerful spotlights. Neutron gave Booker a clear image of its progress down the shaft.
“It’s coming up on the entrance to Level 11,” he said. “There’s some smoke down there, but it doesn’t look too bad.” He carefully guided Neutron out of the shaft and into the coal tunnel.
Watching the television monitor, he saw a miner’s headlamp burning far down the tunnel. It seemed to be moving.
Then he heard what sounded like small explosions. Three of them. The sound was clear, unmistakable.
“Those are gunshots,” he said.
NEAR KALER, KENTUCKY
JANUARY 20
3:10 P.M.
HIS HEADLAMP TURNED OFF, ATKINS FELT A SHARP pain in his right arm and shoulder as he reached around the stone pillar with the long crowbar and chipped hard at the tunnel’s roof. He’d gauged the distance carefully before he’d switched off his lamp and hoped he was hitting the right place as he dug into the rock again and again, prying at it, wincing at the effort. His arm felt like hot needles had been shoved up under the skin.
Swiveling with his lamp on, Wren saw him and fired. Gunshots hammering in his ears, Atkins ducked back behind the pillar.
A section of the roof crashed to the floor. When the powdery dust cleared, Atkins saw Wren standing there, his headlamp pointed at his feet. A six-foot-long block of stone had just missed him.
Atkins realized that Wren had dropped his pistol and was searching for it.
Before he knew what he was doing or had time to think about it, he ran straight at Wren, driving a shoulder into his chest, knocking him backward. They both fell down and rolled. Every time Atkins’ right arm scraped the ground, sparklers of white light exploded in front of his eyes.
Pushing up on his knees, Wren threw a hard punch at Atkins’ head. The blow knocked him down. Stunned, he was aware of footsteps. Wren was running off.
Atkins rolled over on his back and lay there, trying not to pass out. He could smell the sweet, unmistakable odor of blood. He touched his nose and felt cartilage move. It was broken.
He stood up gingerly, leaning against the wall as he fumbled with the switch to his headlamp. Elizabeth was at his side.
“We’ve got to go after him,” Atkins said. “If he gets to the fire extinguishers and uses them we’re stuck down here.” He thought about trying to find the pistol that Wren had dropped. There wasn’t time.
They started jogging, Atkins moving stiffly, and turned at the first crosscut. They came to another tunnel and turned right. Atkins hoped they were headed toward the skip shaft. He wasn’t sure anymore. It was so damned easy to get disoriented in the dark. They had their lamps on and were making no effort to conceal themselves. Atkins checked his watch. They had about eighty minutes until the bomb detonated.
“It can’t be much farther,” Atkins said. His right arm throbbed where the bullet had grazed him just below the elbow. It hurt every time he moved it. The pain and tightness worried him. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop Wren if it came to that. The guy was strong.
They felt a blast of heat, hot air moving down the skip shaft from the fires one level above them. They’d gone the right way.
Suddenly, a dark shape hurtled at them from a recess in the tunnel. Atkins heard the footsteps and turned just as Wren came at him, clutching something in his hands. He swung the object, and Atkins ducked and heard sharp metal chink into the wall. Coal fragments stung his face.
Wren had a pickax. He’d found it lying in one of the passageways, just as Atkins had found the crowbar. He was enraged. He was desperate to kill them. He dug the pick out of the coal and swung again, slashing sideways this time.
Atkins leaped back, pushing Elizabeth out of the way.
“Turn your light off!” he shouted.
Wren kept trying to catch Atkins in the light from his headlamp. He was wielding the pickax like a club, savagely chopping at the walls and floor.
Atkins edged backward, one cautious step at a time, keeping his right hand on the wall for balance. Wren was getting close. Atkins knew he’d have to make a move soon. He was losing strength. He took another step backward and almost fell. There was nothing behind him, just open space. He knelt down and carefully felt in back of him with his hands. He’d nearly fallen into some kind of shaft or pit.
