The EarthCore camp sat on a plateau notched into the mountain, a natural formation that had been enlarged and leveled to create more room. Slanting walls of green limestone rose up on either side and behind. From the air, the camp looked like a tiny cork bobbing amid a frozen brown-green tidal wave.
It had been years since he'd actually been on-site at a dig. Since Cori's death, he'd run things from his Renaissance Center office. But this one was too big, just too damn big, to leave to chance. He'd hired the best in Mack Hendricks. Mack could run thing as he saw fit, but Connell had to be there, watching, monitoring, ready to solve any problem that might jeopardize this impossible find.
The rotor blades kicked up huge clouds of dust and sand as the helicopter touched down. Connell stepped off the chopper into this man-made windstorm, a handkerchief covering his mouth, his eyes squinting against the flying particles of dirt. A Jeep waited for him at the edge of the pad.
The chopper flew off, leaving expanding clouds of dust to swirl and stretch across the arid landscape. Mack waited for him in the open-top Jeep.
It somehow surprised Connell that Mack Hendricks fit every American's stereotype of Australian men — blond, square jaw, solid shoulders, the skin around his eyes wrinkled from constant laughter and too much time in the sun. He had a genuine smile and looked like he could quickly acclimate himself to any social situation, whether it called for black-tie or biker jackets.
"G'day, Mr. Kirkland,” Mack said cheerfully, the sun reflecting off his damp, smiling face. His tenor voice and Aussie accent rang through the now-quiet desert. “How was the flight in?"
Connell grimaced as he tried to work some dust out of his mouth. “I made it, that's how it was.” He threw his briefcase and duffel bag into the back as he plunked down in the passenger seat. Out of the helicopter's air conditioning, the desert felt blowtorch-hot.
Mack gunned the engine; the Jeep shot down the narrow but well-constructed road connecting the landing pad and camp. Connell peeked over the open side; an almost straight vertical face of green rock fell away less than five feet to his left. He tried not to think about the jostling bumps caused by Mack's speedy and casual driving.
"How far have you got in the past week, Mr. Hendricks?"
"We're a hair over thirty-six hundred feet in the first three days of actual digging, but we're moving incredibly fast now that it's underway,” Hendricks said. “Angus's laser drill head design is the most amazing thing I've ever seen. We're frigging vaporizing solid rock. I've never seen a shaft progress this fast. We're running three shifts and we're capable of more than two thousand feet a day."
"How far to the ore body?"
"We're eighty-four hundred feet from what Angus says should be the first large tunnel, which leads to a huge cavern. We have to do a small amount of blasting to reach that tunnel. After that first cavern, there's another tunnel branch that leads to the ore body. It's about fifty-two hundred vertical feet from the planned shaft bottom, but we'll be following horizontal tunnels so it's more like ten miles of rough walking and some crawling. I figure with all the switchbacks in the caverns it's at least a day's hike from the shaft bottom to the Dense Mass. We'll be under for quite a while."
A day there and a day back. Two days underground just to see the Dense Mass. The time estimate gave Connell a true appreciation for the size of the cavern complex.
Even though the camp was a good half-mile southwest of the dig, mining noise reached Connell's ears clearly as the Jeep pulled to a stop. The camp's efficient, secure appearance pleased him. Head-high rolls of razor wire surrounded the perimeter, leaving one gate pointed downslope toward the desert, and another upslope pointed toward the mine. Four small Quonset huts housed camp staff: one for the mining crew, one for security, one for male staff and one for female staff. Large canvas tents were pitched over the Quonsets to keep sunlight off the corrugated metal. A larger Quonset hut, the size of a small airplane hangar, housed vehicles and large equipment. A sixth hut served as the mess hall.
The lab was the only building with real walls. It glared a blinding white in the late afternoon sun. A typical construction-site trailer near the lab served as the administrative shack. Sweaty people bustled through the sandy camp. The air was filled with pulsating sounds from the large diesel generator that powered the pump pushing fresh air into the shaft and provided the camp with electricity. Opposite the hangar/garage sat a 10,000-gallon diesel fuel tank, its long, round body oddly calling to mind a plastic submarine marooned in the desert.
"Very nice, Mr. Hendricks, very efficient,” Connell said as he exited the Jeep and headed straight for the lab.
The lab's interior seemed as icy cold as the desert was scalding hot. The sudden temperature change made his head hurt almost instantly. The lab was a tiny maze of expensive, humming equipment. Connell recognized some of the equipment, although he couldn't begin to guess the purpose of most of it. Angus's wild, red-haired head popped up from underneath a machine. A smile broke over his small face. He hustled to his feet and over to greet Connell.
"Mr. Kirkland! I'm glad you made it out all right."
Connell stared at the smaller man for a second, surprised by the reaction. Angus seemed genuinely happy. The little spelunker is already planning on traversing the caves, Connell thought. Got to keep a close eye on him. Connell wasn't about to let anyone go near the caves until safety had been assured. Especially not Angus Kool.
"You seem in good spirits, Mr. Kool,” Connell said, shaking the hand that was offered. “I assume we've got good news regarding the core sample?"
"It's amazing,” Angus said. “It's even better than what we expected."
Angus reached into his pocket and produced a sealed foil envelope. It resembled a small condom wrapper. He opened it and pulled out a thin dot of metal the size of a watch battery.
"If you could turn around, Mr. Kirkland, I need to attach this."
"What is it?"
"It's a homing device I invented. I call it the Marco/Polo System. Mack asked me to set something up so we wouldn't lose anyone in the tunnels. I programmed this microtranceiver with your name. The finder unit — I call it a ‘Marco'—sends out a signal. Your unit receives the signal and responds with a message containing your name. Your unit is the ‘Polo.’ That way if you're lost or get injured or knocked out, search parties can locate you. The Marco unit detects body temperature, pulse, and Alpha waves along with distance and altitude."
"What's the range on it?"
"In open air it's a couple of miles,” Angus said as he pressed the dot against the base of Connell's skull. “Underground, it depends on how much rock comes between you and the Marco unit. As long as no one tries to go off on his own, it's impossible to become completely lost. Everyone in camp has one, just in case.” Angus removed his hand. Connell turned his head from side to side, but felt nothing.
"Did it fall off?"
"Nope, it's still there. It's attached with artificial skin that breathes just like the real thing. It will stay on until it's removed. Now take a look at this.” Angus turned to a monitor, on which a spiky line showed a mass-spectrometer analysis.
"This whole line is a breakdown of the core sample's mass spec results,” Angus said. “We took periodic samples every hundred feet down to sixteen thousand feet. That distance is, by the way, deeper than anyone has ever drilled in one shot, which gives me yet another world's record. Just thought you'd like to know."