Before that, these hills were medicine grounds for the Native Americans that lived here. Museums and casinos now dominate, the buildings lining the highway. The people that once flocked to them are gone. Reaching out, I don’t sense any night runners in the area.
A few more twists in the road and I see a few residential areas that mark the beginning of Lead. We slow and creep through the outlying areas looking for any indication that someone is around. The big, open pit we saw from the air appears beside the highway. Just prior to entering the town itself, a parking lot opens to the side with a viewing area of the actual mine. I have us pull in to take a look and listen prior to entering.
The lot is empty as we pull to a stop and disembark. The teams form a small perimeter within the lot itself. There is a park next to the parking area and adjacent to the mine itself with a larger building located near the edge of the mine that appears to be visitor center. I have the Stryker shut down so we can listen. The battery stays on in case we have need of the heavy caliber weapon system. Keeping in mind that someone here may not be all that interested in us being around, it’s my plan to remain on the edge of town to give them a chance to make contact. I hope that contact doesn’t come in the form of a hail of bullets streaming into our midst. With that thought in mind, I have the teams take up covered positions around the house-like center.
The diesel shutting down brings a quiet to the surrounding area. The breeze picked up since we descended into the first valley and a low moan is heard at times as it blows across the monstrous open pit mine — much like blowing across a bottle opening. Other than the occasional sound of the wind, it’s quiet.
Greg and I walk along a path leading to the edge of the mine. The size of it cannot be adequately described. It’s much like looking down into the Grand Canyon except that is much prettier to look at than the scene stretching before us. The mine is a series of deep, terraced sides leading down to a small lake of brown, muddy water. The step-like wall sides are black with tan and reddish clay mixed in. There are a lot of places where dark-colored seepage runs down the walls like sludge. Several landslides, some going all of the way to the bottom, mar the terraced walls. A single switch-back road heads down into the depths from the opposite side ending at the brown lake.
It’s there, at the edge of the pond, that something catches my attention. At the end of the dirt track is a larger black mound. Several small wisps of smoke drift upward from it and are blown away as the occasional draught of wind catches them. Whatever is smoking down there was done recently giving a further indication that someone is around.
“What do you think that is?” Greg asks.
“I have no idea,” I say, lifting a pair of binoculars up to look at the pile. “It looks like a large ash pile. There’s something else there but I can’t make out what it is.”
“There’s no way we’re going to get the Stryker down that,” he says, pointing to the narrow road leading down.
“They must have had those large dump trucks that drove down at one point, but fuck if I’m riding in the Stryker along that road,” I reply.
“I’m with you on that. We’d probably bring the whole thing down on our heads and I’d rather not roll the Stryker today if it’s all the same to you.”
“It would be a rather long walk home.”
“If we do decide to investigate, maybe we can find a four-wheel drive somewhere,” Greg says.
“Have fun with that.”
“What? No sense of adventure, Jack?”
“Oh. I enjoy a good adventure. It’s dying I’m not overly fond of.”
The signage near the fence surrounding the mine states that this was the site of the Homestake mine which was once the largest mine in North America. It was apparently closed in 2002 and there is some mention of something about a deep, underground lab that was supposed to be opened. Something by the name DUSEL, whatever that is, or was. There’s more on the history, but I’m not interested in reading the wall of text that entails.
Off in the distance on the other side of the mine is a rise of land ascending above the surrounding terrain. The sides have been cut into and climb sharply giving it the appearance of a mesa. From my vantage point, it appears the top has a few scattered, stunted evergreens. Stunted, that is, when compared to what I’m used to in the Northwest. In my magnified view, I catch a hint of movement to one side. Focusing on the spot, I see a couple of deer tentatively emerge from a tree line to the far right across the mine. They warily approach a small pond and dip their heads for a drink. It’s then that I notice a few birds wheeling about the gray-covered skies and a hawk soaring aloft looking for a meal.
A gust of wind whips against my clothing, moaning across the deep hole before me. The thoughts of why we’re here and the chilled breath of air bring me back from my sight-seeing. I lower the glasses and head with Greg back to the Stryker. There has yet to be a sign of anyone which makes me uneasy. We haven’t been exactly stealthy in our approach wanting whoever may be in the town to know we’re here. Although the sight of an armored vehicle can be a little unsettling, I wanted to park on the outskirts in an attempt to show we aren’t threatening and give them a chance to approach us cautiously. I would have thought the sight of the military would alleviate any fears if someone wanted help but, so far, nothing. Of course, they could think we are roving bandits who stole the thing; which, technically, we did.
I see the radio tower a short distance away. It’s obvious that whoever is here isn’t coming to us, so, if we’re going to make contact, then it’s up to us to go to them. I’m still not all that comfortable trekking into the small town when it’s apparent that they want to stay hidden, but it could be because they’re frightened. I don’t know how to alleviate that, especially arriving in a Stryker, but we should at least investigate the radio station and make plans based on what we find.
“Okay, let’s mount up,” I call to the teams. “If we receive any fire, they’ll have made their intentions clear. If that happens, remain onboard and we’ll disengage.”
I can tell Gonzalez and the rest of Red Team preparing for a “Hooah, sir” but I bring that to a screeching halt with a look. Funny, I swear Robert and Bri were about to join in with them. That’s all I need, my kids giving me a “Hooah”. Instead, Gonzalez and McCafferty give me a mischievous smile. Great, I know I’m due for one at some point today. At least I hope that’s the reason for the smile and I won’t be waking up with mascara.
The sound of the Stryker starting up and the ramp closing resounds across the desolate parking lot. We edge out onto the main road and make our way slowly into the main part of Lead. Rounding a couple of corners, the central area of town stretches away to the sides of the two-lane, dust-covered highway. A few motels and restaurants line the street along with a church and an opera house. On a tall pole, a flag flutters in the breeze next to a post office. All in all, it looks like most small towns. Except for the opera house that is; you don’t see many with one of those.
With the whine of the .50 cal as it tracks from side to side, we pass the Black Hills Center of Hope. I wonder if there’s any hope left in this place. If there’s a semblance of humanity left, I suppose there’s always hope. It just depends on the stance that the groups of survivors take. Seeing the place makes me think about the homeless. Surely there must have been a large part of them that didn’t get the flu shot.
The radio station is set back from the main road in a dusty lot. I halt the vehicle in front near to the entrance. A dirt lot, which should be smoothed over from the dust and wind, hosts a myriad of wheeled tracks. They lead from the entrance to the station and continue down the road from the entrance heading in the opposite direction. It’s pretty obvious someone has been here recently and either visits often or is still here. If someone is here, not coming out means that they are either scared out of their wits or up to no good. There could be other reasons, but those are the two that stick in my mind. I’m hoping it isn’t the latter.
The station itself is a small, concrete block building. If there was a sign denoting the station’s name, it’s now gone. Where it should have been, ‘Golddiggers’ is crudely spray-painted. The front of the building has two large paned glass windows with an entrance door situated between them. The windows have slatted blinds covering them making it impossible to see inside. I remain parked in front for a few minutes observing, looking for any movement. Nothing.
“Okay, here’s the deal. I’m going up to the door and see if anyone is home. Gonzalez, take McCafferty and
