The shaft was complete.
Being with them in camp and seeing the effects of stress and lack of sleep wasn't the same as calling the shots from far away. On paper, people were statistics. In person, they were… well… people. It was beginning to dawn on Connell just what a mega-prick he'd become since his wife's death.
AC/DC's “Highway to Hell” blasted from the boom box as light spilled from the mess building windows and onto the sand. Shadows bobbed as people moved about, making the light that hit the ground shimmer as if alive. Connell walked through the patches and into the shadows of the camp without slowing down or looking inside.
He'd instructed Mack to give the crew the alcohol and the boom box and throw a party (something that Mack apparently didn't need to hear twice). Success of a difficult job merited a reward. For the first night since the camp's construction, the crew had a chance to relax. The following morning they would dig the short horizontal adit to the tunnel complex. Barring any unforeseen problems like underground water or poison gas — neither of which they'd seen traces of during the shaft's construction — they would reach the Dense Mass in one more day. Maybe two.
The music and the laughter spilled into the night as he reached the Porta Johns outside the mess Quonset. He'd been in his office for six straight hours, going over reports, making plans, breaking the news to Barbara. He hadn't even left for dinner. It didn't matter; it wasn't as if he'd never skipped a meal before.
Just as Connell reached for the Porta John door, it opened from the inside. Veronica Reeves stepped out. She gave an “oh” of surprise and automatically put a hand on Connell's chest to keep from bumping into him. She removed the hand as if he were somehow repulsive to the touch. The Porta John's door swung shut behind her.
"Good evening, Connell,” she said in a professional tone.
He nodded. “Dr. Reeves."
"Call me Veronica, remember?"
"Is the GPR equipment working out for you, Veronica?"
She looked off in the distance, toward the plateau that held her discovery, then nodded. “Yes, it's exceptional,” she said. “Very impressive."
"Good,” Connell said. “EarthCore wants to take care of your needs."
She looked him in the eye, briefly, before her gaze wandered back up to the plateau. It had been so long since he'd talked to a woman about anything other than business, but Veronica seemed troubled.
"Is everything okay? All these bodies getting to you or something? I know that would get to me."
She looked at him again, and nodded. “Yes, everything's fine. I'm just a little distracted, that's all. The discovery and everything.” She forced a smile.
He returned her forced smile with one of his own. “Well, if you'll excuse me…” he gestured to the Porta John door. She gave a quick look back, then laughed and scooted out of the way.
"Sorry about that,” she said, this time with a genuine smile. “Next time we talk we'll have to do it in less awkward surroundings. You going to join the party?"
"No,” Connell said a little too abruptly. “I've got work to do."
She gave a quick nod, then walked off toward the party. He watched her go for a few seconds. Her smile — the real one — stuck in his mind. Connell shook his head, as if to chase away abstract thoughts.
He relieved himself, then headed back to his office. A little more work to do, then he'd crash on the couch. Even at night the desert was too hot for his tastes. He genuinely hated Utah. His office felt comfortable, and the sound of the constantly running air-conditioner would drown out the music and the laughter.
Book Three: Funeral Mountain
Chapter Seventeen
Mack made an early start of it. Some of the men hadn't partied all that hard the night before and they'd turned in early, exhausted from yet another double shift. Those men he awoke at 6:30 a.m. He hadn't made it to bed himself until just after 4 a.m. He had the satisfaction, however, of being the last one drinking.
A grade-A bitch of a hangover pounded at Mack's skull. Not that anyone could tell from looking at him. He was bright and chipper as he woke the early shift. He was about to embark on the defining moment of his career — even if he'd been decapitated, his head would still be smiling.
He had finished a staggering 2.3-mile deep shaft. A new world's record, a feat of engineering that — in his humble opinion, at least — rivaled anything on Earth. It wasn't just digging the shaft, which was surprisingly easy with Angus's laser drill head, it was all the support structures that went along with it. Miles of air ducting, miles of electrical, miles of temperature control, an elevator system capable of traversing the entire distance — the list went on and on. And it was all by his design.
It was a masterpiece.
As he accompanied the men down the monotonous twenty-minute elevator ride to the shaft floor, he could hardly wait for the ultimate triumph — breaking into the massive tunnel complex.
He checked his handheld air sampler, complete with thermometer (another of Angus's handy inventions). The digital readout reported 102 degrees Fahrenheit.
"If we had some beer and some women we could call this a sauna,” said Brian Jansson. “Get us a big party cooking, eh?"
Mack laughed. Out of all the men in the mining crew, he liked Jansson the most. The Finlander was a skilled and careful worker, and the only time he bitched was to be funny.
"As long as I never have to see you naked, Jansson,” Mack said. The crew laughed as the elevator touched down on the shaft bottom. They set about their work.
They drilled long burn holes into the wall, setting them in a pattern to blow rock downward and clear a ten-foot-high tunnel. They loaded the burn holes with explosives and a remote-activated detonator, then took the elevator up three hundred feet. Mack made sure each man donned air masks connected to a central tank, then detonated the charge. Limestone dust billowed up the shaft like a plume of tan volcanic ash, blinding them for a few minutes.
Large, noisy air-filtration units spaced up the length of the shaft removed the dust within minutes. Those same filtration units helped keep the shaft's temperature at a tolerable level.
The blast had cleared a good thirty feet of new tunnel but failed to punch through to the existing complex. They were close, though — he felt it. Excitement pulsed through his muscles and tickled the inside of his stomach, making him forget his throbbing head.
The men set to hauling the tons of loose rock back to the elevator platform. The heavily laden elevator rose to where men at the top waited to clear away the debris. Mack and his crew had to repeat the process four times to clear the loose rock. Three hours after the first blast, the men relaxed as the elevator platform ascended with the last debris pile. While it rose, Mack guided another series of burn holes. Men at the top cleared the platform and the elevator returned. Once again Mack took his crew up to three hundred feet, then detonated the second charge.
Again they heard the cacophonous rumbling, but this time there was more — a billowing wave of heat roiled up the shaft along with the suffocating dust. Mack felt his skin prickle and burn in sudden, shocked complaint. A paralyzing wave of terror gripped him as the blast-furnace cloud soared upward with scorching temperatures. Behind him on the platform first one man screamed in alarm, then another, and another. Mack knew with sudden horrifying certainty that he was cooking alive. He held his breath and shuddered, waiting helplessly to burst into flames.