We shake. His hand is strong, and he squeezes like hell, almost grunting. The months in bed have weakened me, and I draw my hand away.
Kane Jr. seems satisfied. “Glad you’ve finally come, Pierce. I’ve been after Papa to find me a new miner for months; this damn war’s held me up long enough.” He sits and crosses his legs. “Gertrude!” He looks over his shoulder as the secretary reaches the door. “Bring coffee. Do you take coffee, Pierce?”
I ignore him, directing my flat statement at Craig. “My conditions were clear. I’m in charge in the mines — if, I take the job.”
Craig holds both his hands up, cutting Rutger off, and speaks quickly, hoping to placate both of us. “Nothing’s changed, Mr. Pierce. Rutger here has worked on the project going on a decade, practically grew up in those mines! You all probably have a lot in common, I imagine, ah, from what I hear. No, you all will work together. He’ll offer invaluable advice, and with his knowledge and your skill in mining, we’ll be through, or making smart progress, in no time.” He stops the secretary as she creeps in carefully with the tray. “Ah Gertrude, could you put the coffee in a Thermos? We’ll take it with us. Uh, and some tea for Mr. Pierce.”
The entrance to the mines is almost a mile from the Immari office — inside a warehouse along the harbor next to the Rock. Two warehouses to be exact, joined on the interior with two separate facades to make them look like two warehouses from the street. A warehouse this large would stick out and inspire curiosity. Two common-sized warehouse fronts, however, could easily go unnoticed.
Inside the oversized warehouse, four lighterskinned black men are waiting for us. Moroccans would be my guess. Upon seeing us, the four men silently set about removing a tarp from a structure in the middle of the warehouse. When it’s revealed, I realize it’s not a structure at all — it’s the opening to the mine. A giant mouth spreading out at each side. I had expected a vertical shaft, but that’s the least of the surprises to come.
There’s a car, an electric one. And two large rails leading down into the mine. Clearly they’re moving a lot of dirt out.
Craig points to an empty rail car and then toward the harbor and the sea beyond the warehouse door. “We dig by day and load out by night, Mr. Pierce.”
“You dump the dirt—”
“In the bay if we can. If the moon is full, we sail farther out.” Craig says.
It makes sense. It’s about their only option to get rid of so much dirt.
I walk closer and inspect the mine shaft. It’s supported by large timbers, just like our mines in West Virginia, but there’s a thick black cord running from timber to timber, stretching as far as I can see. There are two cords actually, one on each side of the mine shaft. At the far side of the opening to the mine, the left cord attaches to… A telephone. The right-side cord simply runs into a box attached to a post. It has a metal lever, like a switch box. Power? Surely not.
When the Moroccans throw the last of the tarps aside, Rutger strides over and chastises the men in German. I understand a bit, one word in particular: “feuer.” Fire. My skin crawls at the sound of it. He points at the car, then the rails. The men look confused. This is no doubt for my benefit, and I turn away, refusing to watch the show and their humiliation. I hear Rutger retrieving something, and there’s clanging on the rails. I turn to see him lighting a wick inside a round paper bag atop a mini railcar, no bigger than a plate. Rutger attaches it to a single rail, and several of the Moroccans help him with a slingshot device that sends the plate and flame whizzing into the dark mine. The paper protects the flame from instantly blowing out.
A minute later we hear the distant poof of an explosion. Firedamp. Probably a methane pocket. Rutger motions for the Moroccans to send another volley, and they rush to the rail with another plate-car carrying a paper bag full of flame. I’m impressed. In West Virginia, I’m sorry to say, we use donkeys. On a good day, you strap the flame to the donkey’s back, slap him on the ass, and find him at the end of the mine — alive and wandering in the dark. On bad days you smell the barbecued flesh as you enter the mine, a sick smell of hair and organs fried with muscle and fat. I could never bring myself to eat the animal once we reached it, but I was almost alone in that. The mines are deep and the wages are paltry. Good meat is hard to come by. Every now and then a donkey would charge out alive and on fire, like some bad omen from a Biblical tale. But that was rare; hitting a methane pocket is like finding a live grenade — the explosion is instant and total. If the flame doesn’t kill you, the cave-in will.
This is a dangerous mine.
We hear the poof of the second volley, deeper this time.