Chapter 12 - What Only Dorothy Knew How to Make
Engineer Martin Cole did not like Dorothy’s idea.
That was why she trusted his answer.
Men who liked ideas too quickly usually had not found what could kill them.
Cole spent forty minutes measuring.
The ventilation pipe ran through a bore originally drilled into the chamber wall.
If they removed the upper section and widened the bore from the surface side, they might create a larger supply channel.
Not large enough for a person.
Maybe six inches.
Seven.
Enough for larger water containers.
Blankets.
Medical supplies.
Perhaps a telephone wire.
But drilling around the existing air line carried risk.
Collapse the bore, and they could lose the miners’ safest airflow.
Crowley asked the question everyone feared.
“Worth it?”
Cole looked toward Dorothy.
“Depends how long rescue takes.”
Old shaft progress had nearly stopped.
Main passage remained unstable.
Samuel deteriorated.
“Do it,” Crowley said.
Vale objected.
“You could bury the line.”
Crowley turned on him.
“Then suggest something useful.”
Vale fell silent.
The drill had to be hand-guided at first.
Slow.
Careful.
Dorothy returned to cooking.
There was nothing she could contribute to drilling.
That, too, was something she had learned.
Competence included knowing when to get out of the way.
She focused on what she knew.
Food.
The miners needed more calories without increased volume.
Dorothy experimented.
Fat had the highest energy density available.
But loose grease could leak.
Meat took space.
Sugar could help.
Bellamy’s molasses barrel became precious.
Dorothy combined toasted flour, rendered fat, molasses, salt, finely crushed dried beef, and a small amount of oat meal into dense baked ration bars.
The first tasted awful.
The second worse.
The third held together.
Bellamy sampled one.
His face tightened.
“This is terrible.”
“Good.”
“How is that good?”
“You’re still chewing.”
He swallowed.
“I may stop.”
“You won’t.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re hungry.”
Bellamy looked offended by the accuracy.
The ration contained more energy than the original biscuits in less space.
That was what mattered.
Dorothy sent twenty-eight.
The underground response arrived half an hour later.
MUD PIE HAS IMPROVED. STILL BAD. SEND MORE.
Tom laughed until he cried.
Dorothy prepared more.
At noon, drillers widened the bore to four inches.
At two, four and a half.
Then rock fractured.
Everyone evacuated the upper drift.
Dust burst from the hole.
The airflow stopped.
Tom shouted.
Cole returned as soon as safe.
He cleared fragments manually.
Air resumed.
Nobody spoke for a long time afterward.
The danger had become too clear.
At 4:30, they reached five inches.
Enough for a larger water vessel.
The blacksmith produced a narrow cylinder.
Two quarts.
They filled it.
Lowered it.
The miners received it.
A cheer went through Copper Jack.
Water had been their greatest limitation.
Now they could send nearly eight times more per delivery.
Dorothy prepared broth.
“How?”
Bellamy asked.
“Same cylinder.”
“You’re sending soup underground?”
“Yes.”
“Through mine pipe?”
“Yes.”
Bellamy stared.
“My life has become ridiculous.”
“Hold this funnel.”
He did.
Dorothy made strong beef broth with salt.
Warm, but not hot enough to burn if spilled.
The cylinder descended.
Twenty-eight men shared it.
Then another.
The doctor requested sugar in the next.
Dorothy added molasses.
By evening Samuel’s fever remained high, but his confusion had improved.
Caleb’s hip pain worsened.
Owen had developed a deep cut on his forearm.
None were dying yet.
Not yet.
At 6:00, a rider from Silver Ridge arrived.
Behind him came six horses hauling drill components.
The machine was smaller than Dorothy imagined.
Portable steam drilling equipment with sections of rod.
The crew chief, August Fenner, studied the maps.
“Where do you want the hole?”
Crowley pointed at the old shaft rescue face.
“If we drill horizontal from there, can we reach chamber?”
Fenner calculated.
“Twenty-four feet of hard rock.”
“How long?”
“Eight hours if lucky.”
Tom groaned.
“If unlucky?”
“Twelve.”
Still better than hand digging.
They hauled equipment into the old shaft.
Work began.
Steam hissed.
Metal screamed against stone.
Every strike vibrated through the mountain.
Below, miners were warned.
They tapped back.
Ready.
Dorothy sent food every three hours.
At 10:00, a note returned from Caleb.
You were right.
Dorothy stared at it.
That was all.
Three words.
She should have felt satisfied.
Instead she became angry.
She wrote:
About what? I am right frequently. Be specific.
His response came later.
About pride deciding things. I knew Section Four was wrong. Went anyway.
Dorothy sat alone in the kitchen after reading it.
She understood that confession.
She had done the same thing differently.
Stayed in jobs because leaving felt like admitting failure.
Accepted mistreatment because endurance looked like strength.
Pride could masquerade as courage.
So could fear.
She wrote back:
Survive first. Learn afterward.
She sent another ration with it.
At 2:00 a.m., the Silver Ridge drill had advanced nine feet.
At 4:00, twelve.
Halfway.
At 5:30, the bit struck a pocket.
Air pressure changed.
Fenner stopped.
“What?”
Crowley asked.
“Void.”
“The chamber?”
“Too soon.”
Everyone stared at the map.
Fenner pulled the rod slightly.
Cold damp air flowed around it.
Cole examined the old survey.
His face changed.
“Old water tunnel.”
Dorothy’s stomach sank.
They had drilled into the abandoned reservoir.
Water began seeping through the hole.
Then faster.
“Seal it!” Crowley shouted.
Men scrambled.
If the hole widened, the reservoir could drain directly toward the trapped miners.
Fenner reversed the drill.
A gasket tore.
Water sprayed across the shaft.
Below, tapping erupted frantically through the ventilation line.
The miners’ chamber water was rising again.
Tom looked at Dorothy.
“We just made it worse.”
Nobody answered.
Fenner fought the seal.
Water became a steady stream.
And then a crack sounded inside the mountain.
A crack deep enough to feel through boots.
Dorothy gripped the wall.
The rescue drill had found water.
But something else had found the miners.
Something moving through the rock.
And this time, Copper Jack Mountain was not groaning.
May you like
It was breaking.
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