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Miner Mario Sepulveda climbs up an iron rebar ladder in a narrow ventilation shaft. He's trying to find a way out of the San Jose mine in northern Chile, which collapsed catastrophically just a few hours ago. He and a group of other miners are trapped more than 2,000 feet underground. The main ramp leading up to the mine's only entrance is blocked behind a slab of fallen rock weighing thousands of tons.
After the collapse, the miners can't tell if there's any way out of the mine that isn't blocked, but Sepulveda is determined to look for one. He hopes this shaft, which doubles as an emergency escape route, might still provide a path to the surface. Hand over hand, he ascends the shaft, with three of his fellow miners climbing right behind him. The iron rungs wiggle loosely in the wall.
Sepulveda silently curses the mine's owners for not properly maintaining these air shafts. They haven't even provided the miners with a map of possible escape routes. This shaft might lead to a way out, or it might lead nowhere. Sepulveda grabs the next rung, but it snaps free from the wall and nails him square in the teeth. The metallic tang of blood fills his mouth.
He clenches his jaw and climbs on, determined not to let the mountain defeat him. Sepulveda's boss, Luis Ursúa, tried to talk him out of climbing up the air shaft. It's a hundred feet straight up, and the mountain is still shifting under the initial collapse. If a falling rock hits him, he would plummet to his death. But in Sepulveda's mind, even if there's one percent chance of making it to the top, he has to take it.
He burns with the desire to be a hero, to save his fellow miners, who are waiting down below to see if he can find a way out. Sepulveda tenses at the sound of rock grinding against rock. He looks down and sees that a boulder the size of a refrigerator has cracked free from the shaft wall. The miner climbing right below him desperately braces himself against the enormous rock to keep it from falling. Sepulveda shouts at the two miners bringing up the rear.
"Go down! Go down!" The last two miners scramble down the iron rungs, back to the tunnel where they started. They jump out of the way, and a split second later, the miner behind Sepulveda shifts his body weight and lets the rock fall. It plummets down the chimney, ricocheting off the walls. Then it lands, crushing smaller rocks beneath it like a mallet smacking walnuts.
Sepulveda peers down the shaft and thanks God that everyone is safe. Then, he resumes his climb. At last, he drags himself up and out of the shaft. He's arrived in another tunnel just off the mine's main ramp, 30 levels up from where he started. From here, he should be able to return to the mine's central ramp that spirals up to the surface. Sepulveda waits for the other miner to climb out of the shaft.
Then, they walk up the curving ramp and around the next bend. Sepulveda stops cold. His path is blocked by a sheer wall of sleek diorite, a dark rock harder than granite. It looks just like the fallen slab blocking the level they just came from. "No. What? No." Sepulveda can't understand what he's seeing. He's 100 feet closer to the surface.
No single rock could be that big. It must be two diorite slabs that look alike. Still, he has to be sure. So he turns and runs down another level, in between the two slabs. And there it is again. The same wall of diorite, blocking his path. A single massive slab that sliced through the many layers of the mine like a stone guillotine. Multiple levels, all cut off from the surface.
All blocked. Sepulveda walks back up the ramp. When he returns, the other miner looks at him, grimly. "I found the next ventilation shaft, but this one has no ladder, so we can't climb it." Sepulveda feels the fight within him wither. Today, he's no hero. In fact, he's the opposite. He's a bearer of bad news.
He trudges back to the ventilation shaft to climb back down and tell the miners the truth. There is no way out. In our fast-paced, screen-filled world, it can be all too easy to lose that sense of imagination and wonder.
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On August 5th, 2010, the San Jose mine in Chile collapsed. A single rock the size of a skyscraper broke loose and sliced through the heart of the mine, blocking off multiple levels and trapping 33 miners deep underground. Now, the miners must contend with their brutal reality. They're stranded deeper in the earth than any rescue effort has ever been able to reach.
Above ground, the Chilean government springs into action, determined to achieve the impossible. But as police, rescue climbers, and drill operators assemble to search for the miners, they have no idea if they'll find them alive or find them dead. This is Episode 2, No Escape.
Shift supervisor Luis Ursua stands outside the Refuge, the break room that doubles as the San Jose mine's emergency shelter. Most of the miners waited here while Sepulveda led his escape attempt. They don't yet know what Ursua has just learned. They've failed to find a route to the surface. Ursua reaches out to grip the handle of the Refuge's metal door, but hesitates.
Somehow, he must find a way to tell the miners the reality of their situation without breaking their spirits. They really are trapped. Now they must focus not on escape but on survival until a rescue crew can dig or drill its way through. Ursua enters the refuge. It feels more like an actual room than the rest of the mine. It has a white ceramic tile floor and one cinderblock wall with a reinforced ceiling.
There's also a large metal cabinet that contains the mine's emergency provisions, and right now, that cabinet is lying on the floor, pried open and ransacked. Ursua clenches his fists, enraged by this stupid act of selfishness and insubordination. Earlier, he ordered the miners not to eat any of the emergency provisions while they were scouting for escape routes. He needs to take inventory of what they have and decide how best to ration it out.
Still, he holds his tongue. If he lashes out now, the most headstrong miners might turn on him for good. Before Ozuwa can begin counting the remaining rations, he feels someone brush past his shoulder. It's Sepulveda, stepping into the center of the room.
He crouches by Urzua's feet on the refuge floor. He ignores the ransacked cabinet. Instead, in the thick layer of dust on the white tile, he draws a crude map of the blocked escape routes. "Look, I made it up the air shaft, but the next level was blocked in. The ramp is blocked here, and it's blocked here, and maybe on other levels too. There's no way out." Urzua notes that Sepulveda's map isn't remotely accurate, but he's gotten the men's attention.
Sepulveda stands, his voice commanding the room. "So what did you guys do? Eat all the food? Don't you realize we might be stuck down here for weeks? We have to be smart, disciplined. We have to work together until the rescue team can find us." Ursula watches as the miners nod and straighten their postures, bracing for the challenges to come. He can see that Sepulveda's speech has focused them. They're thinking like miners again, not panicked men.
Then, he feels some of the younger miners staring at him, looking confused and disappointed. He can tell what they're thinking: he's supposed to be the leader. That was his speech to make, not Sepulveda's. But Ursua knows the usual chain of command won't work in a crisis like this. Especially when he's only been a shift supervisor at the San Jose for three months.
He is yet to earn the old-timers' trust, and right now, trust matters more than hierarchy. So, acting on instinct, he makes a snap decision. We are all equal now. Going forth, every voice will be heard. Every decision will be called for a vote. We will all stand together. And with that, he raises his hands to his head and removes his white shift supervisor's helmet.
It's a symbolic gesture that says, "I am no longer in charge." The miners stare at him, jaws dropped. What Ursua is doing is a brazen overturning of mining protocol. But he needs all of the men to feel empowered at this moment, to take responsibility. And this is the best way to do it, by declaring that they are no longer a dictatorship, but a democracy.
Mario Sepulveda gawks as Urzúa places his white helmet on the refuge's lone metal table. It's like watching a king willingly remove his crown. A cowardly act, Sepulveda thinks. Just when the miners are most desperate for a boss, Urzúa shirks his duty. Well, if Urzúa won't lead them, Sepulveda will. He starts by approaching the busted-open metal cabinet on the floor.
I'll count the remaining rations." He tallies 18 cans of tuna, 24 liters of condensed milk, 93 packages of cookies, and only 10 bottles of water. It's barely enough to sustain them for a few days, let alone the weeks they may be trapped down here. The paltry total makes Sepulveda burn with fury. It's just another example of how the owners never think about the safety and survival of the miners.
Urzúa approaches. Sepulveda waits for him to speak, but the former supervisor simply begins to place supplies back inside the metal box. Sepulveda joins him and they work side by side as equals. Urzúa fastens the lock and hands Sepulveda the key. Sepulveda's face flushes with pride. He tells his now former boss: "I will figure out the rationing system to make the food last as long as possible.
First, you'll need to know how many mouths we have to feed. Ursua does a head count. 30, 31, 32. With me, that's 33. Sepulveda is a religious man, so when he hears the number, he gasps. That's the age of Jesus when he died. A wave of unease ripples through the miners. They're a superstitious bunch, and getting Jesus' death age for their head count feels like a bad omen.
But once again, Sepulveda pushes his own fear aside and pipes up. "It's a sign from God. It means there's something greater waiting for us outside. It will take more than a rock to keep us inside this cave." The miners calm down, comforted by his words. Sepulveda smiles. He's never been a leader like this before, and he's getting the hang of it quickly. But this is just day one to really prove himself.
He will have to keep the men's spirit up for days or even weeks. It's 2:00 AM on August 7th, 36 hours since the collapse. Lawrence Goldborn, Chile's Minister of Mining, sits in the back of a chauffeured SUV as it rolls through the desolate Atacama Desert towards the San Jose mine. He looks up from his nose to see the bright floodlights of police rescue teams and TV news crews getting closer in the darkness.
The minister's vehicle rolls past Camp Esperanza, the Spanish word for hope. It's a pop-up community of minors families who flock to the San Jose. Once they got word of the collapse, wives, children, brothers and sisters have pitched tents and lit bonfires to stay warm in the desert chill. Through the SUV's tinted windows, Goldburn can hear them strumming guitars and singing. No doubt they're trying to keep their spirits up.
Goldburn emerges from the SUV, and his handlers escort him towards the mine entrance. The smooth soles of his wingtips slip on the gravel path. He feels awkward walking through this remote, rugged place in his tailored suit and $200 haircut. Before he became the Minister of Mining, he was the CEO of a grocery store chain, but now he's in charge of the rescue effort.
Fortunately, he's surrounded by experts, starting with the regional police, who are leading the first rescue attempt. Near the entrance of the mine, they're gearing up to make their descent. Goldborn approaches and shakes the team leader's hand. "Gentlemen, what's the plan? There are no ladders in the ventilation shafts, so we'll build some platforms, descend on ropes, build some more platforms, and descend some more." Goldborn senses their scorn. He should know this is standard operating procedure.
Suddenly, he hears voices behind him, shouting, Minister, tell us the truth. Goldborn turns to see the miners' families swarming his way from their campsite. Are they alive? Quit hiding behind your suit and tell us. But Goldborn has no answers. He's just arrived, and there's been no communication with anybody below ground. He doesn't know. I'll report back to you as soon as I can.
His handlers usher him away from the crowd, hurrying him back to the tent that serves as the operational command hub. Goldburn cranes his neck to look over his shoulder at the rescue team toting their gear into the mine. The entrance's black mouth swallows them up whole. A year ago, his primary concern was raising the stock price of a supermarket chain. Now, he finds himself praying for police rescuers to find the trapped miners still alive.
Inside the command tent, Goldborn gets to work. He pulls out a cell phone and dials a number given to him by the president of Chile. Yes, is this Terra Service Drilling Company? This is mining minister Lawrence Goldborn. How quickly can you get the SRAM T685W8 to the San Jose mine? He may not know anything about mining, but logistics and risk management are right in his wheelhouse.
So while the police use their platforms and ropes to try to get the miners out, Goldborn's going to get a drill here on the double. If the rescue team can't reach the miners, they'll have to drill them out. Luis Ursua watches as two miners unspool a detonation cord. They hope to use the cord not to blow something up, but to send a message to the surface. And the message is, we're still alive.
The two miners carefully slide the detonation cord up a tube that carries phone lines and electrical wires from the refuge to the surface. The phones and electricity are dead, so the tube is clearly blocked. Still, they hope it might reach far enough that the rescuers will see smoke when they light the cord. Ursua watches it go, calculating how far up they've reached. When he thinks it's high enough, he gives the command.
"Okay, fire!" A miner holds a match to the end of the cord, setting it alight. The flame sizzles up the cord, into the tube, and out of sight. They watch it go, but they have no way of knowing if the smoke will be visible to anyone on the surface. Urzua knows they have to try something else, and he already has another idea in mind. "Now, let's make some noise!"
Ursua leads a small group of miners up the ramp to the diorite wall blocking their escape, where another miner waits them in the cab of a jumbo lifter. It's one of the biggest vehicles in the mine, with a hydraulic crane like the kind electric companies use to fix power lines. The lift operator starts his engine. Ursua gives him a thumbs up. "Smash it! Honk!" The lift operator swings his vehicle's crane against the wall and jabs his horn, raising a ruckus.
Urzua holds up his hands. "Now, quiet, my friends!" But there's no response. No return honk. No rescuer shouts. No loud clanking of metal tools. The miners turn to Urzua, awaiting orders. Even though he declared their democracy, old habits die hard. "Good work, men. We'll try again in a couple hours."
As the men walk back down to the refuge, Ursua is pleased to see that they still seem to be in good spirits. It's good to keep everyone busy, it keeps them feeling optimistic. But Ursua himself is not feeling optimistic. He knows the chances are close to zero, that anyone will see or hear their sounds and smoke signals. And if they can't alert anyone to their presence, the rescue effort could be called off after just a few days.
The collapse was so big, he knows no one above ground would expect anyone to survive. If they don't get a signal to the surface, there's no doubt they will be left for dead.
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Head over to Symbiotica.com and use code ODDS for 20% off and free shipping on your subscription order. Lawrence Goldborn stands outside his command tent, staring at the entrance to the San Jose mine. He checks his watch. It's 3 p.m., 13 hours since the police rescue team descended into the mine. About an hour later, Goldborn lost radio communication with them. Radio signals can't penetrate the mine's thick diorite walls.
He walks over to where the first drill is already grinding away, digging a new tunnel that they hope can reach the miners if the mine itself is completely blocked. The drill is huge, about 40 feet long, mounted on the back of a diesel truck. Goldborn was pleased with how quickly he got it here. Then he got a call from the president of Chile demanding that they source eight more.
At first, Goldborn thought it was overkill, political theater to indicate how serious the government was taking the rescue. But now, after talking to the miners' families in Camp Esperanza, he wishes he had a thousand drills. Suddenly, cheers erupt from Camp Esperanza. Goldborn turns back to the entrance to the mine and sees that the police rescuers have returned. Just as quickly, the celebration dies down.
The rescuers are slouched in defeat, their faces grim. Goldborn hustles over. What happened? The mind kept shifting. More rockfalls almost crushed us, and the blockage, it's huge. Thousands of tons, maybe even millions. It's impossible they're alive. Goldborn's heart sinks. The news is devastating. The police rescuers trudge to their tent to repack their gear.
Wash and head home. Suddenly, there's a commotion. Goldborn turns and sees a swarm of photographers and camera crews in hot pursuit of the police team. Goldborn doesn't want a rescuer telling some reporter that the miners are probably dead. He needs to create a distraction. Improvising, he sets up a chair outside his command tent as a makeshift stage, then stands on top of it. Attention!
Attention, please. I'm about to make an official statement regarding the rescue efforts. His ploy works. The media flows away from the rescuers and towards him. Soon, he's surrounded by a sea of faces. Reporters, family members. Goldborn sees TV cameras and knows some of them will be transmitting this as a live feed. All of Chile will be tuning in. He steals himself and begins. The news continues.
is not promising. The initial rescue attempt was not successful, but we're trying to find other techniques to reach them. His eyes settle on the adult daughter of one of the miners. Her face is streaked with tears. The minister turns, unable to bear the sight of her grief. His hand trembles as he continues. We will try to keep you informed. Excuse me.
The minister steps down from the chair and ducks behind the tent, hiding the tears welling up in his eyes. It's not the TV cameras he's hiding from. It's that crying young woman and all the miners' families. He doesn't want them to lose hope, even though that's exactly how the situation feels to him: hopeless. Mario Sepulveda dishes out lunch inside the refuge.
The miners stand in a single file line that extends out the door, since the shelter is too small to fit them all. The mood is somber, but Sepulveda tries his best to sound upbeat. "There you go. Two cookies and a spoonful of tuna for you. Bon appetit." The stench of tuna mingles with the acrid stink of sweaty, unwashed miners.
This far below ground, the air temperature is a constant 98 degrees, and everyone is rank. Despite the revolting odor, the miners ravenously gobble down their 300-calorie meal. It's the only one they'll have until noon tomorrow.
These meals are the only time all 33 miners come together. They have already broken into distinct factions. Heist up on level 135, the mechanics reside in their workshop with Luis Ursua. Further down, on level 90, the old-timers hole up in the refuge. And deeper still, the youngest miners have built a makeshift campsite right on the ramp.
Sepulveda is one of the few who travels among all three groups. He feels an obligation to keep tabs on everyone in the mine. After all, as far as he's concerned, he is now their leader. He's distracted by his rumbling stomach. He crosses the refuge to refill his empty water bottle.
It only took one day for the miners to guzzle the emergency water supply. So Sepulveda took two men and drove down to the industrial water tanks in the bottom of the mine. There, they filled up a 16-gallon plastic barrel, then brought it back to the refuge. The industrial water is filthy. It's used to cool down the drilling machines, and it's tainted with motor oil and other chemicals.
but as the miner's last defense against dehydration. Sepulveda reaches his crinkled plastic bottle into the barrel, but it's empty. Stress twinges in his shoulder blades. He filled up the barrel just one day ago. The hungry miners are trying to fill their empty stomachs by guzzling down water, faster than he can haul it up from the tanks.
Sepulveda's mind races with a thousand negative thoughts all at once. Either they'll die of thirst or the foul water will make them sick. His bloody lip will get infected. The rescuers will give up and abandon them. Sepulveda's heart pounds in his chest. He feels the walls of the refuge closing in on him. He barges out the door and ascends up the ramp. Miners poke their head out of the refuge, confused by his sudden agitation.
He sucks in a ragged breath and screams. His hoarse voice echoes back to him off the mine's thick walls. Trying to calm himself, he drops to his knees, closes his eyes, and clasps his hands to pray. When he opens them, he sees one of the miners standing over him. It's the balding old-timer mechanic, Jose Enriquez.
Just four days ago, before the collapse, he scolded Sepulveda for grinding the gears on his front loader. Now, he's looking at Sepulveda with a face full of compassion. Sepulveda remembers that Enriquez is an evangelical Christian, the most devout of all the minors. Jose, you are a man of God, yes? Will you pray with me? Enriquez kneels beside Sepulveda, takes his hand, and invites others to join them.
He closes his eyes and begins, "We are not the best of men, but Lord, have pity on us. We are sinners and we need you. Take charge of this situation. Please, Lord, please." Sepulveda feels his heart rate slowing as he listens to the prayer. When Enriquez is done, Sepulveda looks at him and smiles. "Thank you, Pastor. Same time tomorrow?"
He squeezes the hand of Enriquez and rises to his feet, ready to lead once again. André Sugaret rides in the back of a government-issued SUV in a long motorcade. His helmet bounces in his lap from the bumpy roads as they approach the San Jose mine. Sugaret is the chief engineer of El Teniente, Chile's largest state-owned mine.
But as of this morning, he has a different job title, tactical head of the San Jose Mine Rescue. In his long career, he's led dozens of mine rescues. So he got the call from the president of Chile himself. Now he's arriving on the scene with the president and his motorcade. Up ahead, under the hot desert sun, he can just begin to make out the chaos of the mine. He rolls down his window to get a better look.
Police check the credentials of anyone trying to get past the security fencing. Mournful families continue their vigil at Camp Esperanza. Scattered around the entrance to the mine, nine drills form a loose circle several hundred yards wide, boring away in their search for the trapped miners. The motorcade stops at the main tent serving as the rescue command center.
Sugaret steps out of his SUV. He watches as President Sebastian Piñera joins Minister of Mining Lawrence Goldborn for a press conference. Reporters and TV cameras swarm the president. I am proud to announce that we have brought the country's top mining expert to lead the rescue, Andrei Sugaret. Sugaret winces as the president mispronounces his name. The reporters pivot towards him, but he hustles away.
From past experience, he knows they love to twist a rescue into a drama. And he's not going to let them sink their claws in. Goldborn ducks away from the press conference to follow him. "Lawrence Goldborn. Pleasure to meet you face to face." Sugerit forms a snap judgment of the minister. Cosmopolitan, cleanly shaven, the antithesis of a minor.
Still, he managed to get nine drills on site in just four days. So maybe there's more to him than meets the eye. Sugaret strides to the mine's entrance. He feels a slight breeze stirring his arm hair, air flowing into the mine. At least the miners won't suffocate.
From there, he marches over to the command center tent, where Goldborn introduces him to some of the police, mining experts, and emergency medical teams who have been leading the rescue effort. One doctor shares a survival fact that even Sugaret didn't know. Men can live up to 40 days without food. Sugaret files that away in the back of his mind, then requests a report from the on-site geologist.
If they're alive, the miners are at least 2,000 feet underground. They're likely to be in the refuge, a reinforced shelter, which is approximately the size of a swimming pool. So that's where we're aiming our drills. But the diorite's density can set the drills off course at least five degrees from their intended target.
Sugaret nods. Diorite is twice as hard as granite. To drill through even 200 feet of it is a challenge, and they've got to clear 10 times that. He jots down some notes, and then looks out at the drills. Let's go see what we're working with. Sugaret marches through puddles formed by the wastewater runoff used to cool the drill bits.
A thin hail of dust cascades from tall pressurized chimneys that suck debris out of the boreholes. Finally, here arrives the mighty Schramm T685WS, the first drill Goldborn had delivered on site. The towering red drill is mounted on the back of a big rig, firmly secured in place by hydraulic jacks. 40 feet long, turned by a 760 horsepower engine.
It juts into the blue desert sky like a missile launcher, except instead of aiming for the skies, the SRAM's force is aimed into the earth. Sugaret hears a commotion nearby and turns to see the president posing in front of the news cameras. The nine drills behind him make for the perfect PR shot. Sugaret jots down another note, then heads off to inspect drill number two.
Earlier, President Piñera asked him what the probability was that they could get the miners out alive. Sugaret is not one to mince words. He told the president the truth, that no one can predict if a mining rescue will work, and most don't. But he's prepared to do whatever it takes to reach the trapped miners. He just hopes that whenever they do finally reach them, they're all still alive.
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He's turned the pickup truck into his own private sanctuary where he can concentrate on this important task. He knows the owner's maps of the San Jose are hopelessly outdated. He hopes that once the rescuers reach him and his men, his more accurate map will help them get the miners out to safety. Urzúa has heard grumblings from the men that he abdicated his responsibility when he removed his white helmet.
But he can live with that. He wasn't going to get into a war of wills with Sepulveda or any of the other miners. His job now is to do whatever it takes to optimize their odds of survival. Boss, I think they're coming. A miner shouts up the ramp at Ursua. He tucks his map in the glove compartment, climbs out of his truck, and follows the voice down the mine. That's when he hears it.
The unmistakable percussive rumble of a drill. The yellow-toothed miner turns to Ursua, beaming ear to ear. How fast can they dig with a drill like that? 100 meters a day. So then that means they'll find us in less than a week. The miner whoops for joy. Soon the sound of the drilling fills the mine, reverberating through the walls.
From further down the ramp, around the refuge, Urzuwa hears more cheers. He's tempted to join in the celebrating, but instead, he heads back to his truck to resume work on his map. He knows their elation may be premature. The acoustics of a mine can carry sound in all directions. The drill needs to be much louder before they can get a good bearing on its location.
And there's still no way to tell how far off it is, or whether it's even headed in the right direction. Lawrence Goldborn stands beside André Sugaret to watch one of the drills retract from the ground. Goldborn has traded in his suit jacket for an orange vest, a helmet mats down his salon haircut, and he's swapped out his wingtips for boots.
The minister has been a quick study, soaking up Sugaret's expertise, and already that expertise is paying off. After just three days of drilling, the crew of the Shram drill has already reached a depth of 1,200 feet, more than half the distance to the refuge. They're making incredible time. Now it's time to check if they're on target.
Goldborn watches as a geologist lowers a strange device into the hole. It looks like some kind of gyroscope. He leans over the geologist's shoulder, craning his neck to see the readout on the device's handheld display. He doesn't have the foggiest idea what the numbers mean. He turns to observe Sugaret's expression, but the veteran miner's face is locked with its usual scowl. Finally, the geologist announces his findings.
"We're at three hundred and seventy meters, but the hole is bent the wrong direction. We're going to miss the refuge." Goldborn can't believe his ears. "Can't you bend it back on target?" Sugaret pats his arm gently, as if comforting a preschooler. "No, this kind of drilling doesn't work that way. Men, start over and check your course every hundred meters." Goldborn catches himself thinking about the demise of his political career, and pushes the thought aside.
This isn't about him. This is about saving the lives of 33 men trapped underground. But he knows that with each false start and each lost day up here on the surface, the miners' chances of survival are shrinking. In the refuge, Luis Ursúa steps forward to accept his lunch from Mario Sepúlveda. And one cookie for you. It's their tenth day underground.
and everyone's agreed to cut their rations. They're down to one cookie and a spoonful of tuna every 48 hours. Tempers are starting to flare. Yesterday, Sepulveda had one of his violent mood swings and picked a fight with an old-timer. They cooled off before coming to blows, but Ursua thinks next time they might not be so lucky. Ursua heads for the door.
On the ramp, he walks past young miners lying half-naked on the ground, sweating in the mine's 98-degree heat. Their sullen, sunken eyes stare back at him. Runoff water from the rescue drills drips through the mine, turning the ramp's floor to mud. The skinniest miners are starting to waste away, ribs poking through their torsos. Ursua can see that the weakest ones are losing hope.
Feeling helpless, he proceeds down the ramp to the makeshift toilet, an empty oil drum. Water drips from above onto his shirt. Urzua looks up. A thin layer of fungus coats the mine's craggy ceiling. He's sure by now it's begun to grow on some of the men's flesh as well. As he approaches the bathroom area, he overhears two miners who have just finished doing their business. Man, these cookies are killing me.
If we don't get out soon, we're gonna start eating each other like that Uruguayan rugby team that crashed in the mountains. Who do you think will taste best? Urzúa knows they're joking, but that conversation still makes his blood run cold. He decides the toilet can wait and turns to head back to his truck.
Andres Sugaret stands in the command center tent, looking out as Chilean police block distraught families from surging towards the mine's entrance. Get back! No one is allowed in! Hey, my dad's in there! If you can't save him, let us try! Reporters and TV crews press forward to capture the heartbreaking scene. Day 14, and the situation is unraveling.
A few more days like this and Sugaret fears the rescue will be called off. Sugaret has led enough rescues to know that loved ones go through a familiar emotional cycle: disbelief, fear, outrage. If the rescue isn't successful, their final stage is grief. It's hard enough during a normal rescue, let alone a media circus like this one. He needs to check on his various drilling operations.
He exits the tent, passing by the standoff between families and police. Nearby, he sees Lawrence Goldborn. He's being cornered by some wild-eyed crackpot, holding what appears to be a divining rod. Sugaret shakes his head. He wonders what Goldborn is thinking, letting these con artists into a mind compound. Then again, he recognizes that Goldborn is under even more stress than he is.
The press have christened the rescue effort Operation San Lorenzo after the patron saint of mining. Goldborn's first name, Lawrence, is close enough to Lorenzo that the mining minister has now become synonymous with the entire rescue. If they fail, Goldborn will shoulder most of the blame. Sugaret reaches the first of the drills. Already 12 holes have missed their targets.
But according to the San Jose mind maps, one hydraulic drill still seems like it's on the right track. Sugaret waves to the operator. The man cranks down the engine to communicate. "What's the update?" "We're approaching 600 meters." Sugaret can hear the guarded optimism in the operator's voice. At that depth, they're no more than 100 feet away from the refuge. It could be only a matter of minutes until they break through.
Okay, slowly now. Don't break the bit. Sugarek gives the operator the sign to power on, and then he makes the sign of the cross. Maybe this time, they'll finally break through to the miners. If they don't, he's not sure how many more chances they'll get. Sepulveda stands bare-chested with his fellow miners in the dank, sweaty refuge, listening intently.
For the past several days, the sounds of the drills have tortured them, starting and stopping, getting close and then fading away. But this one sounds like it's on target. The rumble of its drill bit churning through rock grows louder by the minute. Sepulveda's ribs have begun to show through his starved flesh. But he's more energized than ever, itching to spring into action as soon as the drill punches through.
The miners have assembled materials to communicate with those on the surface. A can of red spray paint to mark the drill bit, a seven-word message scrawled on graph paper that they'll attach to the bit with electrical tape, and wrenches to smack against the drill, which they hope will send sound and vibrations up to the surface so the rescuers know they're still alive.
Sepulveda hugs the wall with joy. "Here it comes!" His heart races. Soon he'll be holding his wife, sleeping in his bed, watching Braveheart for the hundredth time with his son. But then, instead of getting louder, the sound of the drill gets quieter. It's missed the refuge and passed them by. The drill is now somewhere below them and going deeper.
The miners groan, but Sepulveda won't be that easily discouraged. He bounds for the refuge door. "Come on! Follow it!" Sepulveda traces the drilling sounds down the ramp. As he goes deeper, the level numbers stenciled on the walls get smaller. Level 90, level 80, level 60, 50. "No, no, no!" He reaches the lowest level of the mine, level 40.
His boots splash into a shallow, swampy pool formed by all the runoff water from the drills. The sound of the drill passes beneath him and fades. It missed. Sepulveda hurls his wrench to the muddy ground. He falls to his knees once again, but this time he can't even muster the strength to pray. He's weak from hunger and nauseous from drinking dirty water.
He's tried so hard to be a leader, a source of strength for his fellow miners. But now, he has no strength left. He already knew he was in hell. But now, it feels like the hand of the devil is working to keep him there. He wonders if this mine will now become his tomb. This is episode two of our four-part series, Chilean Mine Collapse.
A quick note about our scenes. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but everything is based on historical research. If you'd like to learn more about this event, we highly recommend the books Deep Down Dark by Hector Tobar and 33 Men by Jonathan Franklin.
I'm your host, Mike Corey. Brendan Joyce wrote this story. Our editor is Maura Walls. Additional editing by Matt Wise. Our associate producer is Brian White. Our audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Sound design is by Rob Schieliga. Our senior producer is Andy Herman. Our executive producers are Stephanie Jentz and Marshall Louis for Wondery. Wondery.
The missiles are coming.
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