P.J. looked at him skeptically. “You were limping along on that cane. What’s the deal with your ankle?”
“I sprained it,” Chee said. “It’s just about healed.”
She still looked skeptical. “You ridden in a copter before?”
“Twice,” Chee said. “I didn’t enjoy it either time, but I’ve got a good stomach for motion sickness.”
“I’ll let you know,” she said. “Give me the number where you’ll be tonight. If it’s go, I’ll call you and tell you where to meet the refueling truck.”
Chapter Twenty-one
For once Chee came out lucky with the timing. As promised, P.J. had called him. Yes, they would revise their schedule for the next day a bit and divert a few miles to do a follow-up low-level check of the Gothic Creek drainage. He could go along. Everything had been more or less cleared and approved. However, it was one of those ‘less said the better’ affairs. Why run the risk that some big shot far removed from the scene might suspect this rational interpretation of regulations could cause trouble? The most economical and convenient time to do this diversion would be the final flight of the day. Chee should be at the refueling truck at 2:40 P.M., at which time the truck would be at the same place Chee had seen it previously, parked beside the road leading to the Timms place on Casa Del Eco Mesa.
“Thanks,” Chee said. “I’ll be there waiting.”
And he was. He’d gotten down to the office in the morning, caught up on paperwork, handled some chores for Captain Largo, had lunch, bought himself some snack stuff (including an extra apple to offer to Rosner) and headed west for the mesa. By two-fifteen, he and Rosner were sitting in the shade of the truck snacking and watching the copter land. It was the same big white Bell with radiation-sensor pods on its landing skids, and the pilot put it down far enough away to avoid blasting them with dust.
Rosner drove the truck over. He introduced Chee to pilot, copilot and technician, and started refueling.
“P.J. told me something about what you’re looking for,” the pilot said. “I’m not sure she had it right. Mine opening up on the canyon wall. Is that it?”
The pilot’s name was Tom McKissack. He looked a weather-beaten sixty or so, and Chee remembered P.J. had said McKissack was one of those army pilots who’d survived the risky business of rescuing wounded Air Mobile Division grunts from various Vietnam battles. He introduced Chee to the copilot, a younger fellow named Greg DeMoss, another army copter veteran, and to Jesse, who would be doing the technical work. All three looked tired, dusty and not particularly thrilled by this detour.
“Sounds like P.J. had it right,” Chee said. “We’re trying to locate the mouth of an old Mormon coal mine abandoned back in the eighteen eighties. We think it has a mouth fairly high up the canyon wall. Probably on a shelf of some sort. And then on top, maybe the remains of a tipple structure where they hoisted the coal up and dumped it.”
McKissack nodded and looked at the Polaroid camera Chee was carrying. “They tell me those things are a lot better now,” he said. He handed Chee a barf bag and a flight helmet, and explained how the intercom system worked.
“You’ll be sitting on the right side behind DeMoss, which gives you a great view to the right, but nothing much to the front or the left. So if your mine is on the east side, your best chance to see it will be when we’re going north, down the creek toward the river.”
“OK,” Chee said.
“We normally fly a hundred and fifty feet off the terrain, which means our equipment is scoping a swath three hundred feet wide. Down a canyon it may be lower, but we rarely get closer than fifty feet. Anyway, if you see something interesting, holler. If the situation is right, I can hover a minute so maybe you can get pictures.”
McKissack started the rotors. “One more thing,” he said, his voice coming through the intercom now. “We’ve been shot at a few times out here. Either people think we’re the black helicopters the Conspiracy Commandos are taking over the world with, or maybe we’re scaring their sheep. Who knows? Are we likely to get shot at in this canyon here?”
Chee considered that a moment and gave an honest answer. He said, “Probably not,” and they took off in a chaos of dust, motor noise and rotor thumping.
Later Chee had very few memories of that flight, but the ones he retained were vivid.
The tableland of multicolored stone, carved into a gigantic labyrinth by canyons, all draining eventually into the narrow green belt of the San Juan bottom. Multiple hundreds of miles of sculptured stone, cut off in the north by the blue-green of the mountains. The slanting afternoon sun outlining it into a pattern of gaudy red sandstone and deep shadows. The voice in Chee’s ear saying: ‘You can see why the Mormons called the Bluff area “the Hole in the Rock,” and the tech saying: 'If there was a market for rock, we’d all be rich.'
