Nik Kane Alaska Mystery - 01 - Lost Angel by Mike Doogan Page A

bulldozers, and water.” Photo. “But the big mines, like the Pitchfork, are much more sophisticated.” Photo. “Explosives are used to loosen up the dirt and rock.” Photo. “Huge loaders that can lift more than twenty cubic yards of rock and earth load it into one-hundred-fifty-ton dump trucks.” Photo. “The trucks haul it to the crusher, where the dirt is separated and the ore crushed small enough to send along.” Photo. “From there it goes by conveyor belt to the sag mill.” Photo. “Which breaks it into smaller pieces.” Photo. “Then to the ball mills that make it smaller still.” Photo. “The ore in the mills wears out the ball bearings, so it costs us about fifteen thousand dollars a month to replace them.” Photo. “The ore is dumped into a big pond, where a whirlpool spins the ore to separate it by size.” Photo. “The ore goes through a series of processes.” Photo. Photo. Photo. Chart. “To draw out the gold and purify it.” Photo. “The final result is a gold bar worth between two hundred thousand and four hundred thousand dollars, depending on the price of gold.”
    From there, Richardson expounded on the overall economics of mining, stressing the profits when the price of gold was high, the difficulties of keeping equipment operating in such a harsh climate, and the logistics of feeding and housing about 150 workers at peak production. It was all very professional and, as nearly as Kane could tell, had absolutely no value to him.
    Richardson gave a big smile when he’d finished.
    “Do you have any questions?” he asked.
    The youngest-looking of the men launched into a detailed series of questions about the mine’s finances. Richardson spoke in response, but none of his words added up to an answer. When this completely uninformative exchange was finished, Richardson said, “Now, let’s see the mine firsthand.”
    Kane and Simms exchanged looks and began to fade out.
    “No, no,” Richardson said, “you two, too. In fact, Charlie, if you wouldn’t mind, you can drive one of the vehicles.”
    The two of them went back to Simms’s office to get their coats.
    “What the hell is this all about?” Kane asked.
    “How should I know?” Simms said. “Maybe he just wants some white men with him. But what’s it hurt? You’re not in a big hurry.”
    The Asian men all came filing out of the building in identical cocoa-colored parkas and white hard hats. Half of them climbed into the new Ford Explorer that Simms drove, the other half into an identical vehicle driven by the manager. Then the group proceeded to visit for themselves everything they’d seen on the PowerPoint.
    The visitors seemed to enjoy the tour. There was a lot of whispering, and a couple were taking notes. Kane reckoned they’d have the place mapped down to the last square foot before they left.
    Richardson took their picture standing in the bucket of a front-end loader, another dwarfed by one of the dump trucks, still another next to the stockpile near the mill house. The visitors insisted that Simms and Kane pose in every photo with them. Kane could feel the cold working on his legs. I should have worn the padded overalls, he thought.
    Fortunately, the tour turned indoors. The whole group put on big ear protectors, like the ones worn by the people who service jet airplanes, and went into the mill house. The thrumming of the sag and ball mills rose through Kane’s boots and shook him to the top of his head.
    The mill house was warmer than the outdoors, and a lot noisier. As the group walked around, the mine manager made gestures, and the visitors gestured back. Kane had no idea what they might have been trying to convey. When the party stepped out of the mill house again, it was a great relief.
    “I think my liver is somewhere up around my eyeballs,” Kane said to Simms.
    From there, they walked through a big building harboring the gold-removal processes. At the end, the Asian men, Simms, and Kane had their