Grantville Gazette, Volume X

  The booming noise diminished to an eerie quiet. Then, within seconds, all three of his outside lines lit up. He looked at the phones, started to answer one of them, and stopped. He turned away and triggered the master alarm then looked at the phones, and paused again. What the hell could he tell anyone? He didn't know any more than anyone else.

  He grabbed his radio. "I want information. What the hell was that? April? Do you have any communication? April? Answer me, goddammit . . ."

  * * *

  The Reverend Doctor Al Green was in the shower when he felt the earth shift and rumble. He had soap all over his face and stood in place, knowing what it was, already seeing the events that would probably transpire over the next few days flash in his mind. He turned, slowly and deliberately, and rinsed off. He took his time. He prayed a little. This was going to be the last solitude that he would have for some time. He prayed for strength, prayed that it wouldn't be what he was certain that it was.

  His wife stuck her head into the bathroom. "You hear that?"

  Al paused before he answered. "Yes"

  "Was that . . . ?"

  He sensed that she didn't want to say it any more than he did. As if by not saying it out loud, she would somehow make it not true.

  "Yes."

  "Shall I start making calls?" She was asking if she should call out the troops of church ladies, who would be the support for the next several day's events. His church, no matter what the religion of the miners, had always been the center for families awaiting news. It would be no different this time. A mining accident wasn't just another industrial accident. In a town where almost everyone was related to someone else, it becomes a far-reaching family tragedy.

  "Yes. Please. And give me just a minute, would you?"

  He heard her close the door, softly, and move away. The calls would probably begin on their own. He warmed the shower water a bit and stood with his face in the stream, letting the warm water wash his tears away.

  * * *

  The exact location of the point of ignition was never determined. It was probably near the first explosion, but the damage was too severe to tell. When the air and methane mixture was correct, it ignited explosively and began to propagate a shock wave before it, seeking release. This wave picked up the coal dust that was distributed by the first explosion, and it too became fuel. The flame front followed the shock wave.

  The wave front caught Deitrich and his crew, still far from any refuge, in the main passage. They barely realized the beast had overtaken them before they were all dead. The flames followed, but they were of no consequence to those men.

  Metzinger and Willy were more fortunate. The heavy workbenches protected them somewhat from the massive damage that the others suffered.

  As the explosion progressed, its energy began to dissipate. By the time it got to the lift, the majority of the destructive forces had gone. The flame front had stopped well before the lift. Now came the smoke, lots of smoke, from the multiple fires the flame front had started. Those fires consumed fuel and oxygen, leaving carbon monoxide. So as the echoes of the shock wave were reverberating off the hills, the smoke began to flow through the mine, stealing air from wherever it went. The air in the mine was unbreathable in a matter of moments.

  * * *

  The battered pickup truck raced down the blacktop road on the way out of town. The sun was peeking over the ridgeline now, and Larry Masaniello was trying to get to the mine—his mine—as quickly as possible. He could see a plume of black smoke rising behind the ridge. His coal mine. He was the manager.

  His heart was pumping much harder than it had in a long time and he felt physically sick. He was afraid that he would throw up if he didn't keep focus. He had always considered himself a coal miner first, and the mine manager second. The idea of a major mine accident on his watch had kept him awake nights ever since he had taken over for Quentin Underwood. His hands were shaking.

  He had to be careful. People were on the road, a lot of them, hurrying to get to the mine. He saw miners and their families. Miners carrying gear and women carrying children shuffled out of his way. He kept honking his horn.

  He heard the ambulances coming from town behind him, and the fire department. He could tell the sirens apart by sound alone. He kept the window up, even though he wanted to open it wide to let in the cold air. He couldn't look at anyone in the eye and he felt the stares of those who got out of his way. He swallowed hard once again, and took a deep breath.

  Finally, the mine was in view. The tall transfer tower for the coal was the first thing he spotted, before the other buildings came in sight. The mine sat at the very bottom of the valley, and the blacktop road was above it, about a third of the way up the ridge.

  Originally, the coal had been removed from the mine on conveyors on the other side of the ridge, and came back to this side for processing. Those conveyors had been sliced off by the Ring of Fire, and the coal now came up a different shaft on this side of the ridge. That was where most of the smoke was escaping. The main shaft, which held the elevator, was smoky, but the smoke was not as thick. He felt a little relieved. If that was gone, then the men, and the mine, might be lost entirely. For now, there was hope that some men had escaped the blast.

  When the mine was first constructed, it was surrounded by a large cyclone fence topped with barbed wire, but not now. That resource had long since been redirected.

  He wished the fence were still here, as there was a knot of people around the mine control shed already. Things would get out of control real soon if somebody didn't take charge. He could see hand-waving and arguing going on as he approached. He swallowed hard again.

  He dropped the pickup truck down into second gear and let the engine slow him down. With the busted up exhaust system, the V-8 made an ominous rumbling sound as he rolled up to the small, but rapidly growing, knot of people. It had the effect he desired, as they all turned and looked at him.

  He hopped out of the cab and began to give orders. He looked for the biggest men there. "You four men, I need some crowd control now. Keep everyone back from this shed. If they're cold, have them go into the locker rooms or the old guard trailer. You two, keep everyone away from the lift. I don't want anybody trying to do something stupid. Nobody goes into the lift until rescue is here. You women, get inside before you freeze to death. Go to the locker rooms or the trailer." He didn't stop to see if his orders were followed, but strode to the control shed.

  Shackelton met him at the door. "I'm damn glad you're here, Boss."

  As he closed the door behind him, Larry felt himself shrink, as the bravado of his entrance wore off. He rested his back against the closed door. Shackelton, along with a much older retired miner whose name he couldn't quite remember looked a little surprised.

  Larry took a breath. "What do we know, for sure?"

  "For sure? Not too damn much. The mine phones quit working right after that big ass boom."

  "Who's on the phones today?

  "April Lafferty. I heard from the guys before, and there was a roof fall of some sort. Deitrich somehow heard about it and he was headed for the workface when we powered everything up. Then there was just that big boom."

  "Have you heard from anybody since the explosion?"

  "No, sir" Stacks looked at the ground.

  "Could anyone have survived? I mean, the goddamn furniture moved in my house, and I'm over two miles from here."

  "Anything's possible, Boss"

  Larry needed good news. He hung on to the hope that some men had survived the blast. It gave him a focus. He straightened and noticed the other man. Skinny to the point of bony, bald, with a wisp of gray hair on the sides. He looked vaguely familiar, probably from a union meeting somewhere. He wore a work coat of brown canvas, boots, and work pants. "How did you get here so fast?" Larry asked.

  The old man smiled a toothless smile. "I only lives 'bout a quarter mile up the blacktop." He waved up the road, beyond the mine. "I was up'n'bout when she went. Took me
only coupla minutes or so."

  Larry nodded. "Thanks, old timer."

  "My pleasure, son. What c'n I do?" Once again he flashed Larry the gummy smile.

  "How well do you remember the lift system?"

  "I 'magine I kin help. Y'all wan' me to take a look?"

  "Yes, sir. I think I'd like that. Who's on the phone system today?"

  Shackelton looked a Larry a little funny. "I told ya'. April Lafferty."

  Larry's stomach took another flop. "Yeah. You did tell me."

  The old man looked at Larry. "You can do it, Boss. Hell, after all of the assholes I seen run mines over the years, you got it all covered. Y'all will be jus' fine." He looked Larry in the eyes, shuffled to the door, and was gone. Larry saw that more people had gathered outside. He turned to Shackelton. "Did you call the cops?"

  The sixty-plus good ol' boy from Kentucky, who would be down there with the men except for his bad knees, simply nodded. "We're gonna need more crowd control." Larry stopped. He could still feel that sick feeling in his stomach. He fought it back. He heard the first ambulance roll up, followed by the fire trucks. He stood up straight once again. "Emergency Response Team?"

  Stacks nodded again.

  Larry sighed. "Has anyone called Reverend Green? We should get a couple of busses running between here and the church. This may be a while."

  * * *

  "Prime Minister Sterns?" The lieutenant interrupted the meeting in the Prime Minister's office, causing all of the heads to turn toward him. This was the weekly morning briefing, and everyone who was there was supposed to have all the pertinent information they needed before the meeting started. If it was important enough to interrupt, it was going to be a surprise. And the men in the room didn't like surprises.

  "What is it?" Mike's voice was level, his look clear and relaxed.

  "Thought you should know, sir. Telegraph report from Grantville says that a very large explosion has occurred."

  All of the heads in the room swiveled and focused on Mike Stearns. A dark cloud seemed to come over his face.

  There was a pause.

  To the men in the room who knew and understood Mike Stearns, his pause spoke volumes. The lieutenant knew that the pause, the—dare he think it—the hesitation, meant the Prime Minister was caught up in thoughts about Grantville for a moment.

  "Do we know a how big? What kind? Where in the town was it located?" The questions came hard and fast, a little harder and faster than normal.

  The lieutenant swallowed. "We don't have any of that information at this time, sir. The telegraph operator was an up-timer. He said he thought it might be the mine, but he wanted to be clear that this was unconfirmed, and more information would be coming as soon as he had it. I thought you would like to know sir."

  "Lieutenant. This information . . ." Mike cut off his statement, then started again. "Thank you for bringing this to our attention. We can deal with this in a few minutes."

  Warner Barnes, an up-timer sitting alongside Duke Hermann of Hessen-Rotenberg, the Secretary of State, cleared his voice. "Umm, Mike. This is Grantville. Why don't we take a few moments and . . ."

  "Thank you, Warner. Right now there are more pressing things. More pressing places. Places and people that need our full attention." Mike paused and took a breath, and looked around the room. There was a mix of government leaders, mostly down-timers, and the handful of up-timers supporting them with whatever education and experience they had. The Prime Minister's face grew grave. The lieutenant started to close the door, when Stearns looked at him. "Wait. You need to hear this too." He stood.

  "Some of you are not going to like what I have to say, so I'll say it and be blunt. Right now, Grantville isn't all that important."

  All of the down-timer's faces showed surprise.

  "It's not that important, not compared to what is going to happen in the spring. Because if what happens this spring fails, and we get our asses kicked, then Grantville is irrelevant. There's a lot that's more important than what might be happening in our—" He motioned to the down-timers. "—old home town. And if there's one thing this group has to do—we must understand what's important."

  Mike paused and straightened. "When it comes to what we're doing now, it's simply not that important. If any of us are thinking about only Grantville, or for that matter, only Sweden—" He looked at Tortenssen. "—or only Hessen-Rotenberg—" He set his gaze on the duke. "—then you don't understand what we're doing here."

  Mike placed his hands flat on the table and leaned forward to gaze at everyone. "Thank you, Lieutenant. That will be all for now. Please prepare a report when you have some facts."

  The lieutenant stood at the door for a moment, and then quietly closed it.

  * * *

  Reverend Green stood in front of the open door of his church, looking out onto the street. The cold morning air stung his face. It felt good. He breathed deeply and surveyed the block. The church was an old one, built in the Grantville's heyday, near the turn of the twentieth century. The massive red brick structure sat next to the rectory. The first of the busses from the mine would be along soon. He stood on the steps of the church, in front of the door, watching and waiting.

  The church ladies had already set up the meeting hall in the back of the church with food and more was arriving. He could smell some of it all the way up here. Hot casseroles and rolls, pies, dried fruit, someone had heated a ham and brought it. Plenty of water, maybe even some tea and coffee. The smell of coffee in the church made him think back to the time that it wasn't unusual to have coffee. Now it was almost a special occasion. He looked at the ground.

  "Some occasion," he thought, "we could live without more of these . . ."

  He didn't have to wait long. The first bus was full of down-timers, some he knew and some he had never seen before. It was escorted by a Grantville police car, the officers bundled up against the cold. As people left the bus, he began to welcome them. It was mostly women and children, a few old men. They came to him with vacant stares, glazed and shocked eyes, red with tears and worry.

  He silently prayed for more strength and ushered them through the front doors, to the meeting room. Most had not been in his church and stared in amazement at the high ceiling, the organ, and the serene color of the walls. It was warm inside and soon the place would be warm and humid, like too many people in a house at Thanksgiving, when the windows would fog over on the inside. Warm and safe.

  "Welcome, welcome, please come in, welcome, go all the way to the back, there's food and drink, welcome, welcome, you'll be safe here, this is for families of all faiths, welcome, there's food in the back . . ."

  There were at least forty people. Reverend Green turned to the police officers. "How many are we to expect? How many are in the mine?"

  The smaller policeman spoke first. "Father, there are at least three more busloads of people at the mine. Some won't leave, but you should expect at least another one hundred twenty or more. We're making it clear that we're only allowing families of the miners on the busses."

  "How many were in the mine? Do we know?"

  The second officer answered. "They think twenty-eight. They're putting together the rescue team now; they should go later in the afternoon."

  Reverend Green sighed and bowed his head. "Are you going to stay here?"

  "Yes, Father," replied the smaller one.

  "Good." He looked up at the man. "We're not Catholic here, so please don't call me Father. I'm a Reverend. We're Baptists here."

  "Okay, Reverend. You got it." The policeman tossed a small salute his way, and smiled.

  Reverend Green went back inside and headed toward the meeting room. They were going to overflow, so he approached one of the senior church ladies. "We'll need more blankets, and we'll need to open up the sanctuary for people. There will be more. How are we set for food?"

  "Could use more," said the woman. "We'll do what we can."

  "Talk to my wife. She knows who to call at the other churches.
We all need to get involved in this one. Twenty-eight is what they say are in the mine. I pray to God some of them make it out." He looked at the clock on the wall. Eleven thirty in the morning and the first rescue team had not yet gone in for a search. This was going to be a long, long day. He prayed a little, looked up, and then purposefully stepped into the throng of people, arms outstretched, comforting and welcoming.

  Soon another bus arrived, then a second, and then a third. The building was nearly to capacity and the food was running low. Within an hour, a group of Catholic ladies, all of them down-timers, a mixed group of Methodists, and a down-timer group of Lutherans had arrived to help out. There were up-timers in the mix, but most of the crowd were down-timers.

  It wasn't too much longer before the reporters started to arrive. There were five or six of them out in the street, kept there by the police officers' watchful eyes. One of them managed to talk his way in, but was soon discovered and tossed out unceremoniously by two very large and angry Methodist women, with support from a pair of Catholic church ladies. Pastors, preachers and priests showed up to comfort the waiting families. Social services were there. The place was filled to capacity. All they could do now was wait.