Copy Mine Control

It’s one o’clock in the morning. The glow of twelve screens lights the room in blues and reds and whites and every three or so minutes the radio beside me comes to life with ‘copy control’s’ or ‘truck down the portals’.

I look up from my desk to the three large screens mounted on the far wall. The left shows the portal cameras and a handful of underground feeds, each in its own box. The centre displays the seismic monitoring system and weather maps around site. The right holds another grid of cameras, these ones looking inside the twelve refuge chambers scattered through the underground.

On the left screen, a truck is stopped at the portal entrance. I watch it for a good thirty seconds before enlarging the feed, looking for some sign the image has frozen. The green lights on the primary ventilation board flicker and clouds move above the portal — it’s live.

I glance back down at Pitram on my main screen. According to the mine control system, the same truck is already underground, halfway to the loader.

I reach across to the radio console screen and tap the blue Decline channel. It turns yellow.

“Truck three-thirty, Control, please.”

I tap it again to mute myself and wait. Nothing. 

I give it five minutes before trying again, and repeat this twice more. 

After the third attempt the truck pulls away. It u-turns in the boxcut, lines up with the portal again and heads back underground.

I tap the channel again. 

“Copy truck three thirty, Control, please. Copy shift boss, Control, please.”

The shift boss comes to channel almost instantly. 

“Copy control. Shift boss on channel.”

“Is there a reason truck three thirty stoped for almost fifteen minutes at the portal entrance before u-turning in the boxcut to head back down?”

There’s a pause. 

“Truck three thirty is currently getting loaded at stockpile four.” 

This time I pause. “Are you sure? I just saw it sitting at the portal. And I’m tracking it on the system heading down the decline now.”

“No. Can’t have been three thirty stoped I’m watching a big red truck with three thirty painted on the doors get loaded as we speak. Must have been a different truck.”

‘Huh…’ I stare at the screen, watching truck three thirty creep closer and closer to its destination. “Copy… that.”

“Whoever it was shouldn’t be pulling a U-turn in the box cut though. Let me know when you work out who it was.”

“Copy that. Will do.” 

I spend the next ten minutes going back through footage and checking the movements of all ten trucks underground before the door flies open.

“G’day, Control.”

A lanky operator walks in, reeking of body odour and that raw, stony smell of underground.

“Pete? I thought you were still underground.”

“Nah. Truck shit itself again. Workshop’s got it. I put it in the tablet, didn’t I?”

“What truck are you in?”

“Three-thirty.”

I look back at the screen.

Truck three-thirty is still hauling. Ten minutes into a fifty-minute cycle. I scratch my head as the wind picks up outside, rattling the tin frame of the little smokers’ hut nearby.

“What the hell is going on tonight?”

Pete smiles and heads back out the way he came.

“Time for a coffee,” he says as he goes.

Beside me, the radio comes to life.

“Copy, Control.”

“Control receiving.”

“It’s Pete Dallas here in Truck three-thirty. My tablet says I got loaded at Stockpile Four, but I actually got loaded at Stockpile Six. Could you clear that up for me?”

“What?”

“My tablet says—”

“No.” I cut him off. “I mean, I thought you were on the surface.”

“What do you mean? I’m underground hauling.”

“But I just—”

I stop.

“Copy. I’ll fix that up for you.”

I don’t. I grab the emergency phone and handheld radios as I hurry out the door toward the crib room. He’s having a laugh. He has to be. Sitting in there calling me up because he’s bored on a slow nightshift. When I get to the crib room, it’s empty.

As I step back into the office, the air feels colder. I sit down with a fresh coffee, then look to my right at one of the larger screens. Large red letters flash across the underground ventilation control panel.

WARNING: FIRE IN MINE CONTROL OFFICE

Immediately I jerk my head around. I sniff the air and search frantically for smoke. Nothing. I stand and walk from one end of the office to the other. Still nothing. I reach for the phone, ready to call the Emergency Services Officer, and look back at the screen. The warning has been replaced.

WARNING: PRIMARY VENTILATION FAILURE

I put the phone down and tap the Decline radio channel, ready to call the Shift Boss. I glance up at the screen again. The warning is gone. In its place is a giant, wide-toothed grin. I look down as I key the microphone.

“Copy, Sh—” I stop.

I release the button. I look back up to my right. The ventilation control panel has returned. No warnings. No flashing lights.

No teeth.

My face feels hot and I’m light-headed. I look at my main controller screen. Truck three-thirty is still on its way up. 

I look to the wall screens above my desk. There’s a truck sitting at the portal entrance. Three-thirty painted in black on the door. Below the screen on my right is a window. Outside, Pete Dallas is sitting in the smokers’ hut. On the screen above the window, the grin flashes on and off, trading places with the ventilation page.

I look at the mounted screens beyond my desk again. On the screen to the right, someone is inside Refuge Chamber Nine. I watch him pace back and forth. I assume it’s a routine refuge chamber check, so I wait for the call.

None comes.

He sits. Ten minutes pass. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t call.

I lose patience. “Copy, Refuge Chamber Nine. Control, please.”

He turns his head toward the radio. Something about him is familiar. Same haircut. Same build. Same dirty helmet. It can’t be.

He looks up. I enlarge the camera.

Peter Dallas.

He stares straight into the lens. Then he smiles. A crash sounds outside, followed by a bellowing alarm. Red emergency lights pulse through the office.

Bright red.

Dark.

Bright red.

Dark.

I look back at the refuge chamber screen. Peter Dallas is still sitting there. The ventilation screen flashes. 

The grin returns. 

Then Peter Dallas.

The grin.

Peter Dallas.

I look through the window. Pete is outside in the smokers’ hut, puffing on his vape while another operator talks to him. In the distance, Truck three-thirty rolls toward the workshop. It stops. The driver’s door opens and Peter Dallas climbs out.

I look back toward the smokers’ hut. There are two of him standing there now. Both are looking at me.

I stand and step back from the window. “Fuck this.” I reach for the emergency phone. The Pitram screen refreshes and one by one, operator names disappear. Truck drivers. Loader operators. Charge-up. Drills. Every line changes to the same name.

DALLAS, PETER

I stare at the list. Twenty-three Peter Dallases underground — Twenty-four — Thirty-one.

The radio comes alive. “Copy, Control.”

Another voice overlaps it. “Copy, Control.”

Then another. “Copy, Control.”

All the same. I unplug the speaker and microphone. Across the wall, every camera feed shows Peter Dallas. In the decline — the portal — the refuge chambers — walking through workshops — standing beside parked trucks — sitting in light vehicles. None of them move. They all look toward the camera. Then the tracking system updates. Every Peter Dallas underground begins moving. Toward the surface.

Toward me.

I turn. Five are now standing by the smokers hut. Smiling at me. 

I lock the door. 

“Control, please. Copy control.”

Over and over, through the handhelds that I thought I’d turned off. The emergency phone rings. 

“Answer the radio.”

I throw it at the wall. It bursts into shards of glass and plastic. I scroll through camera feeds. Change the refuge chambers to the crib huts, the halls and walkways around the office. I watch the screen to my right hanging alone on the wall go from thirty seven Peters underground to twenty, then twelve, then seven. Then zero. 

When I look forward again. A dozen Peters are standing in front of me, cramped in my small office. I didn’t hear the door open. The room flashes red again. 

Black

Red.

Black. 

“Copy Mine Control.” A hand settles on my shoulder.