In the wake of the mole came the construction crew, applying an impervious facing to the rough walls of the tunnel with quick-drying liquid ceramic. They were followed by the rail gang, who welded sections of rail into continuous, seamless steel ribbons. Then came the water line, essential for disposal of the rock. Finally came the electricians, who laid the cable that provided the train’s propulsive power. It took hundreds of sweating, cursing, dirt-streaked men, working in relays, to keep up with the mole. The heat and noise were overpowering. The seeming confusion was as carefully orchestrated as a ballet, as each skilled worker hurriedly performed his task, then stood ready to aid the specialist who followed.
Simple in conception, the building of the Houston-Kiev subway presented formidable logistical problems.
Problem one was supply of materials-thousands of tons of rail, ceramic mix, fuel for the mechanical mole, chemicals to scrub the air in the tunnel, oxygen for the men and machines to breathe, and millions of gallons of water. It was all brought in through SD-2, the secret nerve center and supply depot four miles from SD-1, both of which were served by the same elevator complex.
Problem two was disposal of the rock taken from the tunnel. It was hauled back to the closest station, fed into rock crushers, pulverized to the fineness of dust, and mixed with water to form a slurry. Each night the slurry was pumped to the surface into the nearest navigable river, where all traces would be carried downstream by morning. Once the tunnel reached the Atlantic, the slurry was pumped directly into the sea through high-pressure locks.
Problem three was the men’s morale, which as Chief Engineer Schmida made clear, was a lot lower than the tunnel itself. “It’s hot, dirty, and dangerous work,” he said. “Furthermore, for security reasons, not one of the men has seen the light of day since October 20-that’s seven months, Rip. That’s a long, long time.”
“Not as long as ten months, Les,” Forte pointed out. “Everybody who signed up-at triple the standard pay, remember-knew that he was letting himself in for at least 300 days of hard labor. I didn’t twist anybody’s arm.”
“Sure, I know that. But we’ve had six deaths and more than forty serious injuries, and half the crew is down with cabin fever. They’re getting careless, and the accident rate is going up while production is slipping. You may remember that two weeks after we started this tunnel, we were cutting up to twenty-seven miles a day.”
“I remember.”
“Well, at present projections, we’ll drop through the twenty-mile-a-day rate next week. By the time we hit the European mainland beneath Norway, our production will be down to fifteen miles a day. It may take us 350 days or more to finish the tunnel.”
Forte shook his head. “We can’t let that happen, Les. Nor can we give our men leave topside: security would disappear like a thief in the night. Arid security is the reason we’re building this tunnel, don’t forget.”
“So?”
Forte ran a gnarled hand over his wrinkled brow. “I guess a couple of platoons of dancing girls would be the best answer. But I’m afraid that if I did that, the men might forget just what it is they’re paid to tunnel.”
“Well, they sure as hell need a better incentive than their day’s pay. And I might as well tell you, Rip, that the rumor is circulating down here that your offer to share the proceeds, even-steven, of all mineral deposits encountered was a sham. ‘Rip-off,’ they’re calling it. They say that we’re running through valuable mineral strata all the time but that the engineers are getting back fake results on the rock samples submitted hourly for assay.”
“Maybe you’ve got something there, Les.”
“Huh?”
“Fake assays….”
A couple of ex-copper miners from Butte, Montana, noticed it first. They spotted the telltale peacock iridescence of copper ore in the crushed rock carried back by the mole’s conveyor belt. Sure enough, the assays of that day’s production revealed that the mole had penetrated the margins of a lode of copper-silver-lead ore, and exploratory digging by the engineers indicated that the main vein was more than two feet in thickness, an extremely valuable deposit. The engineers marked the area for in-depth exploration once the tunnel was finished, but for those who didn’t want to wait or take shares in the find, Ripley Forte offered $50,000 for the interest of each man willing to sell.
Morale rebounded overnight. The workers, many of them aware that the rich copper mines of Scandinavia were a thousand years old, assumed that their recent find was but the prelude to the discovery of an enormous mother lode. As the tunnel approached the coast of Norway, production soared.
Had the euphoric sandhogs consulted a geologist, they might have learned that the composition of the copper ore was radically different from that found in Scandinavia. As a matter of fact, the assay was identical to that of ores from the mines of Pioche, Nevada. But that interesting fact would probably not have impressed them, anyway. It was only copper, but to the sandhogs their “find” blinded them with the irresistible glitter of pure gold.
11. VANISHING ACT
15 JUNE 2009
“Oh, it’s you, David,” said Jennifer Red Cloud.
“It is indeed, calling to say how much I’ve missed you,” Vice-President Castle replied unctuously.
“I admire your capacity to conceal your longing,” Mrs. Red Cloud said dryly, “considering it’s been something like four months since I heard from you. What’s the occasion this time?”
“Nothing so earth-shaking, I’m sorry to say. But I thought you’d like to know that the classified project we were conducting at El Centro has been brought to a successful conclusion. Just yesterday, as a matter of fact. You are now free to use the base for regular Raynes Oceanic Resources activities, if you wish. Or you’re free to sell it. Of course, the fact that government research has been carried on there must remain our secret.”
“Well, I guess we are entitled to one. What a shame it isn’t the kind that people gossip about….”
Livia dos Santos packed her two bags with a wistful sigh. Now that it was all over, she regretted that such a stimulating group was breaking up. They had ransacked the data banks of North America, argued lustily over outlandish hypotheses, drawn up meticulous scenarios that were promptly shot down by their colleagues, spent many a beery midnight hour proving the unprovable, and walked hundreds of miles along the perimeter fence by twos and threes framing strategies that the Soviets would, if they were smart enough, one day evolve-by which time the Americans would have airtight defenses against them already in place.
Some aspects of their stay at El Centro, it was true, had raised questions in her mind. This Dr. Oswaldo Edwards, for example. He was supposed to be supervising their work, yet he had appeared only three or four times during the three months, to collect the results of their researches. This absence of bureaucratic regulation was unlike any government operation she’d ever heard of. On the other hand, security restrictions were as tight as if they’d been working on the Manhattan Project, rather than merely brainstorming potential Soviet strategies.
However, in her handbag was the promised check for $125,000. Reading the figures, she felt it small recompense for the long separation from Anthony, left in the custody of her Mexican housekeeper. She promised herself she’d never leave him again.
“All set?” said von Williams, sticking his head into the room.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Let me take your bags,” he offered. “You’d think they could have afforded a little service, considering the money they’re paying us.”
“Security, you know,” Livia dos Santos said. “That’s the answer for everything around here-why we do our own laundry, make our own beds, clean our own rooms.”
“We’re probably the highest paid dishwashers and laundrymen in history. I figured it out-$150,000 for 101 days’ work comes to $1,485 a day-damned near as much as a second-rate lawyer makes.”
“You were paid $150,000?”
“Sure. Weren’t you?”
She laughed nervously. “Yes, of course. It’s just that I-oh, that must be our bus.”
Livia dos Santos and von Williams were the last to arrive, and when their bags were stowed they climbed into the bus, a large streamlined vehicle with dark-tinted glass. “Where’s Dr. Edwards?” she asked the driver, a stocky red-haired man who sat in his little compartment cut off from the passengers by a black plastic curtain. “He said he’d be here to see us off.”
“He had to go ahead to San Diego to make last-minute changes in the travel arrangements. It seems that a couple of your carriers overbooked for the Memorial Day weekend.”
“Good Lord!” said von Williams. “Is it Memorial Day already?”
“Next Monday it will be.” He climbed into his seat, and the door whooshed shut. Cool air from the air-conditioning system was welcome after the searing heat of the desert. In the back of the bus the bar was opened, with Waldo Finnegan, the meteorologist, acting as bartender. The bus rolled down the sticky asphalt road toward the inner perimeter gate and stopped while the bus driver himself unlocked it, drove through, and stopped to lock it after him. A quarter of a mile on, armed guards waved the vehicle through. It turned west and picked up speed. In the west, the sun had just been swallowed by the mountains, beyond which lay San Diego.