33 Men (19 page)

After hours of nervous pacing and card playing, many of the men had finally collapsed in sleep. Claudio Bugueño and Pedro Cortés read the newspaper with their lamps, killing time and attempting to stave off nervous anticipation. Victor Zamora cracked jokes and explored the humid
cave.

The habitual music had been turned off. The incessant drilling of the past months was finally gone. For the first time in their entire odyssey, silence was a welcome companion.

With the rescue scheduled to begin within twenty-four hours, the world was quivering with anticipation. At Camp Hope, the only street was cordoned off by barriers in a failed attempt to keep the area clear of journalists.

In addition to the ubiquitous regulars, the press corps was augmented by a bevy of beautiful TV hostesses. They posed like peacocks on the rocky outcroppings, reporting the story to millions of viewers worldwide. Where they came from remained a mystery. Had they parachuted in overnight? For months the Camp Hope press crew had been a grungy, mostly male enclave. With showers scarce and dust abundant, the fashion styles ranged from combat chic to casual mountain climber. Now an entirely new breed had arrived, epitomized by NBC's Natalie Morales, who strutted around with model measurements, gleaming teeth and perfect hair.

An auction began in Camp Hope—which miner would be the first to sell his story to a tabloid? Rumors swirled that a German tabloid had offered $40,000 and that a trapped miner had already signed the contract. Family members began tempting the press with offers of exclusive photographs and footage shot below ground.

For weeks, Luis Urzúa had been complaining about the number of cameras circulating below. “My husband told me in a letter that everything was getting searched in the
palomas
and that I should be careful. So it was my idea to put the camera inside a pair of socks,” one wife told Chilean newspaper
The
Clinic
. “The photographs are going to be useful as evidence in case of any legal settlement for the entrapment. Now every time we send letters and we mention the camera, we speak in code. We call it ‘the
toy.' ”

For Carolina Lobos, the press siege was too much. She had fallen into the press net early in the drama, giving numerous interviews and even appearing on
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.
She won $25,000 on the game show. Now she was fleeing the press.

“My father was famous as a football [soccer] player, but now he is a miner. He knows the double-edgedness of being in the news. He might be a hero but I don't want press. I just want to disappear,” said Lobos, who was planning a low-key escape with her father and family. “He is very upset by the showbiz angle this has all taken. What he lived was traumatic, and all of this is distracting from the real mission—the rescue. . . . My dad never lost his bearings. He always realized it was an accident, not a show.”

Though the rescue was set to begin in less than twelve hours, the Phoenix capsule now lay prone on the floor of a workshop high on the hill. Workers had disemboweled the electronic inner workings and were installing a camera on its roof, after realizing at the last minute that the capsule had no capability to film up the shaft. In the event that rocks started falling or the walls of the hole collapsed, it was critical to have the ability to monitor the situation.

Five technicians, led by Pedro Gallo, were fussing over the capsule's retractable wheels, the audio intercom and the new camera. The capsule looked more like a prototype than ever before. Would it be ready for the 11
pm
rescue launch? No one dared ask.

In the early afternoon, the miners threw a monkey wrench into the rescue plans. Signs of rebellion echoed from below. Los 33 had decided to boycott the helicopter flight to Copiapó. They were arguing for another scenario: all thirty-three would assemble at the field hospital. No one was flying to safety until they had all been reunited at the rescue site. Further rumors swirled. The miners were demanding to walk down the hill together in triumph; having entered the mine together, they would leave the mine together.

Medical and psychological teams hurried to dissuade the miners. While the health of each miner was reasonably stable, too many uncertainties existed to allow the men to simply pop out of the ground after ten weeks and walk off toward the horizon. What if they had lingering health issues that had been misdiagnosed below or never diagnosed? Was it responsible to let the men fulfill this understandable but whimsical desire? The field hospital had been built for a capacity of sixteen men. Thirty-three would not fit.

The ACHS insurance company began to frantically consult lawyers. Could the miners be threatened with the suspension of health and workers' compensation insurance? The answer was no. Alejandro Pino, the ACHS lead logistical coordinator, began to gather a fleet of ambulances. In case the men successfully boycotted the helicopter flights, he wanted to have his own Plan B up and running.

Iturra, the psychologist, had his last placid conversation with the men. He spoke to shift leaders and encouraged them to keep the men busy. He suggested the men take a nap. It was the final time they would ignore his advice.

Once the last adjustments to the Phoenix were completed, the capsule was loaded with 176 pounds of sand and then lowered all the way up and down the shaft. Down in ten minutes. Up in ten. The Phoenix operation was so smooth that instead of forty-eight hours, it now seemed possible to complete the entire rescue in half that time.

At 7
pm
, Chilean rescue leader André Sougarret sent a Twitter message that the men “have spent their last night underground.” Chilean president Sebastián Piñera could hardly contain his enthusiasm as he announced the rescue of the thirty-three trapped miners. Nearly two months earlier a miner had pleaded with President Piñera over a makeshift phone line, “Get us out of this hell.” Now the president had ridden the drama to worldwide fame and higher poll ratings.

The worldwide audience began a collective countdown to a never before seen rescue attempt—lowering the Phoenix nearly a half mile deep, strapping the men in one by one, then using a high-tech Austrian winch—with the finest German cable—to hoist the men to freedom.

After nearly ten weeks at the bottom of a collapsed copper and gold mine, the men were now awaiting a single, final challenge—to board the bullet-shaped rescue capsule and careen up a series of curves and slants to escape from the underground prison.

“There are people in favor of having Mario Sepúlveda be first,” the psychologist Iturra had told the press days earlier. “They suggest that Mario Sepúlveda narrate the ascent of each of his companions, or at least some of them. But I told Mario to remember that he is going to arrive very tired, and if he comes out too much in the press, the price he can charge as a celebrity will go down.”

The Chilean government decided to make Mario the second to arrive. He was clearly the most famous, but just in case any problems arose, the excitable Sepúlveda was not the best candidate to go first. Instead, assistant foreman Florencio
Á
valos, who exhibited a rare combination of street intelligence, physical endurance and mining experience, would be the first of the thirty-three trapped miners to be hauled
up.

Rescue workers, led by hyperkinetic President Piñera, chose Ávalos because if anything went wrong, Ávalos was expected to maintain his cool and feed information to the control center organizing the hundreds of men and women involved in this complex rescue operation.

Political considerations also led the Chileans to put Bolivian miner Carlos Mamani in the first group. “We can't put him first because then they would accuse us of using ‘the Bolivian' as a guinea pig. And if he went too late, then we would be called racist, so the government has decided he will go in the first five,” said a doctor on the rescue team who asked not to be named.

Evo Morales, the Bolivian president, had asked to be present to receive Mamani, and the Chileans eagerly agreed. With a century-old dispute over Bolivian access to the Pacific Ocean now at a critical negotiation stage, any opportunity to foster mutual understanding was cherished. Piñera warmly welcomed President Morales, to the chagrin of Mamani, who despised the political scene and Morales in particular.

When Dr. Mañalich spoke to the miners, several of the men expressed the desire to be the last man out in what he called “a completely admirable show of solidarity.” On further questioning, however, the men's real motivation was revealed: a guaranteed place in Guinness World Records for the longest time a miner had ever been trapped underground. Given the complexities of the current situation, it would be a record that many expected to be unbreakable. The situation was resolved when Guinness accorded the record to the group as a whole, not to one individual miner.

At 8
pm,
a group of five rescue workers crowded into a small white container on the hill. The men gossiped about the imminent journey and chatted about how a trial run had left one rescue worker so dizzy he vomited inside the capsule. “It is far wetter than you'd think,” said one uniformed man, describing a trial run halfway down the shaft. “My clothes were soaked.”

“We have divided the men into two groups: GOLF—the healthy miners—and FOXTROT—the potential problems,” explained Dr. Liliana Devia, as she began the final briefing on the health and welfare of the miners. Dr. Devia warned the rescuers that several of the men were in far worse condition than the press or even their families realized. One of the men was described as bipolar. Another was said to have attempted suicide years before. A third had told the psychologists and nurses that he had seven lovers awaiting him.

As she described the nine unhealthy miners in the FOXTROT group, Dr. Devia noted that two miners would immediately be sent for dental surgery. Several others were so nervous and fragile there was concern that they might turn aggressive. Sedation medicines were primed. “The needle is ready,” said Dr. Devia, who briefed the rescuers on how to administer drugs that “will leave them ironed flat to the bed.”

Devia, who was in charge of briefing the rescue workers on the latest health and mental conditions of each miner, outlined the rescue protocol. The first rescuer was designated as both doctor and policeman. He was to monitor the miners' health and keep them in line. Multiple video cameras at the bottom of the mine would provide a live feed, allowing psychologists, doctors and mining engineers to monitor the operation in real time.

Should tensions erupt or an accident shatter protocol, the rescuers were authorized to maintain order, even to sedate the miners. If nothing went wrong, rescuers would brief the miners about the operation of the Phoenix and instruct the men to strap a girdle to their stomach and to put on long stretch socks that came up to their upper thighs. Prolonged standing was not a problem for the men, but the panty hose–like socks were to help with blood circulation. The girdle was instrumental in shrinking the diameter of the men enough so they would fit into the tight confines of the Phoenix. Once they were strapped in, the door would be latched shut and a signal given, and the men would embark on their journey to freedom. For fifteen minutes they would swoosh and bank as the capsule careened skyward.

Upon arrival topside, each miner would be immediately helped from the capsule and met by President Pi
ñ
era, then taken to greet their families for a brief hug and kiss. Then they would be placed on a stretcher and wheeled into a fully staffed triage field hospital organized by the Asociación Chilena de Seguridad (ACHS), which had been built just 65 feet from the rescue hole. The men would be wheeled into the hospital, briefly examined and then given a simple yet profound pleasure: their first decent shower in ten weeks.

In case the men were harboring more serious ailments—either physical or mental—the medical team would keep them several hours for observation, then send them to a second set of modular buildings (also assembled in a record time of less than a week) where they could have a longer visit with family. The final stage was a short drive to the highest point of the rescue operation where a helicopter landing pad had been built. Instead of the hour-long land journey, which was bound to be flooded with paparazzi, the men would board helicopters from the Chilean Air Force and be shuttled to an army regiment near the public hospital in Copiapó. Again the men would be interned, this time for more serious blood tests, lab work and longer sessions with psychologists.

Throughout the planning of the rescue, the health officials were aware that they had no legal power to force the men to accept medical help. If a miner became feisty and demanded to exit the Phoenix and walk home, the authorities had no legal grounds to prevent him. Psychologically, however, the men were expected to be not only grateful but dependent to the point of obsequiousness. Having been saved from certain death, the amount of gratitude that continually flowed from below was sufficient to imagine there would be no difficulty in leading the men through the now extensively rehearsed protocol.

Down below, the men were now in a party mood. Music blasted from the mini speakers set up by the rescue spot. Video cameras filmed every last detail. The men posed for final pictures, and a sense of nervous anticipation filled the humid air.

The miners gathered to hear the final review of the escape protocol. The capsule had been designed with a floor that opened up to allow the miners to drop out the bottom. In the worst-case scenario, if the Phoenix got stuck, the occupant was expected to lower himself back down to the bottom of the mine while engineers reconfigured the capsule.

At 8
pm
, President Piñera set up shop at a tent halfway up the hill. Like a venue for a low-budget wedding, the mountainside had been decked out with portable tables, long blue tablecloths, soft drinks, juices and snacks and a pair of flat-screen TVs. Here the family members would spend their last agonizing hours watching and waiting. Piñera, his wife, Cecilia Morel, and top aides were set to greet the families here and, if necessary, monitor developments from a live video feed that provided shots of the underground scene.