Tag: Quaise Energy

  • Mining, Quarries & Oil E&P Robotics in 2026: The Biggest Robot Fleet You’ve Never Heard Of

    In the western Australian region of the Pilbara, an area of red dirt roughly the size of California, three companies — Rio Tinto, BHP, and Fortescue — operate the most heavily automated heavy-industrial complex on the surface of the Earth. Rio Tinto alone runs an autonomous haul truck fleet across five of its 18 Pilbara iron ore mines, with roughly a quarter of the company’s 400-truck fleet operating without drivers in 2025 and a retrofit program adding 48 more Komatsu and Caterpillar trucks to autonomous operations. The Cat 793F and 797F haul trucks involved are 380-ton machines whose tires are 13 feet tall and whose cabs sit 24 feet above the ground; the trucks drive themselves up and down haul roads using GPS, lidar, and a centralized fleet-management system in a control room in Perth, 1,500 kilometers away. Twenty-five percent of all material moved by Rio Tinto across the Pilbara in any given year is moved by a robot.

    The autonomous freight railway that ships the resulting iron ore from those mines to the export ports of Dampier and Cape Lambert — Rio Tinto’s AutoHaul system, fully driverless since 2019 — is, by a substantial margin, the largest autonomous robot on Earth. Each AutoHaul train is up to 2.4 kilometers long, weighs roughly 38,000 tonnes loaded, consists of 240 locomotives and 16,500 ore cars across the fleet, and operates with no human onboard the train itself. The trains move iron ore over 1,700 kilometers of track at speeds up to 80 kilometers per hour. They are monitored from the Perth Operations Centre. Their reliability is higher than the human-operated trains they replaced. None of this gets the coverage that a humanoid robot doing a backflip gets. All of it has been operating commercially since the year before the first Boston Dynamics Spot shipped to its first paying customer.

    This is the part of the robotics industry that the consumer press doesn’t cover, that the venture capital community doesn’t fund, and that the companies generating the humanoid robot headlines are not, with rare exception, the same companies producing. Mining automation is the success story the robotics industry has, almost without exception, refused to tell about itself.

    Surface mining and the autonomous haul truck

    The autonomous haul truck industry is dominated by two manufacturers — Caterpillar and Komatsu — and almost entirely by two customers: Rio Tinto and BHP, with Fortescue Metals Group as a fast-growing third. Caterpillar’s autonomous fleet — operating under the Command for Hauling system — has moved more than 6.6 billion tonnes of material since the system was first commercialized in 1991. The Komatsu FrontRunner Autonomous Haulage System (AHS) has been operating at Rio Tinto’s West Angelas mine in the Pilbara since 2008, making the iron ore industry the longest continuously operating autonomous heavy-vehicle deployment in any industry, anywhere. By comparison, Waymo’s first commercial robotaxi service in Phoenix did not launch until 2018.

    The economic argument for mining automation is brutal in its simplicity. An autonomous haul truck runs roughly 700 more hours per year than a human-operated equivalent because it does not require shift changes, lunch breaks, or rotation between drivers. The unit cost of moving a tonne of iron ore drops by roughly 15 percent. The accident rate drops by more, in an industry where the historical fatality rate is well above the average for industrial work and where the hyper-specialized labor force lives in fly-in-fly-out worker camps with serious mental health and retention problems. Rio Tinto, BHP, and Fortescue did not build these autonomous fleets because robotics is fashionable. They built them because the alternative — manual operations across a multi-billion-tonne-per-year industrial process — is more expensive, more dangerous, and more difficult to staff. The same operational logic that made drone delivery economically rational for medical supplies in rural Rwanda made autonomous haul trucks economically rational for iron ore in the Pilbara. The difference is that the iron ore industry has been deploying the technology for 17 years.

    The decarbonization wave nobody saw coming

    The 2025-2026 inflection in mining automation is that the same autonomous fleets are now electrifying. On December 5, 2025, BHP and Rio Tinto jointly welcomed the first Cat 793 XE Early Learner battery-electric haul trucks to BHP’s Jimblebar iron ore mine in the Pilbara. The 793 XE is a 290-tonne payload battery-electric haul truck — the largest battery-electric vehicle ever commercially deployed in any industry. Two units arrived at Jimblebar for joint on-site testing between BHP, Rio Tinto, and Caterpillar, with operations expected to ramp to a scaled trial across multiple Pilbara mines through 2026. Six weeks earlier, on October 27, 2025, Rio Tinto launched a separate battery-electric trial at its Oyu Tolgoi copper mine in Mongolia — eight 91-tonne Tonly trucks built by China’s State Power Investment Corporation Qiyuan, paired with 13 800-kWh batteries that can be swapped in less than seven minutes at a dedicated swap station. The Oyu Tolgoi fleet is Rio Tinto’s first commercial battery-electric mining deployment, and it is built on Chinese battery-swap technology rather than American or European designs.

    Mining haulage accounts for roughly 30 to 50 percent of the diesel consumption at a major iron ore or copper operation, and is the largest single source of Scope 1 and Scope 2 emissions at the average mine. The electrification of haul trucks is therefore both the largest decarbonization lever available to the mining industry and the most operationally consequential — replacing a fleet that runs 24 hours per day, 365 days per year, in some of the most remote operating environments on Earth. The fact that the world’s three largest iron ore producers and the largest copper producer are simultaneously deploying battery-electric haul trucks in 2026, on two continents, with vehicle platforms supplied by both American and Chinese manufacturers, is the kind of structural industry shift that mining trade publications cover and that the general business press largely ignores. The trucks themselves are essentially the same battery-electric heavy-duty platform that the freight industry has been promising for a decade — except that the mining industry has actually deployed them, at commercial scale, under operating conditions that would destroy a standard highway truck.

    Underground mining and the operator in the surface office

    Underground mining is where the case for robotics is most acute. The accident rate in deep underground mining — copper, gold, nickel, uranium — is higher than in surface operations by every measurable category. Heat, dust, rock fall, ventilation failures, and methane buildup combine to make the underground environment one of the worst occupational settings in any industry. Removing humans from that environment is the single largest safety improvement available to the mining sector — and the operational obstacle is not whether the technology exists but whether the existing workforce can be persuaded to accept it.

    Sandvik and Epiroc are the two manufacturers that dominate the underground autonomous equipment market. Sandvik’s AutoMine system has been operating since 2004 and currently runs autonomous load-haul-dump (LHD) machines, drill rigs, and truck fleets across more than 70 underground mines worldwide. Epiroc’s AutoNav system performs the equivalent function on its own LHDs and drill rigs. At Westgold Resources’ Big Bell mine in Western Australia, Epiroc AutoNav LHDs are being managed by operators sitting in an automation center on the surface of the mine, with Multiple Machine Control allowing a single operator to supervise multiple loaders simultaneously — moving roughly 30 additional buckets of material per 24-hour shift compared to manual operation, because the autonomous machines continue working during the cross-shift change and re-entry times when humans are required to evacuate. The mine doesn’t need to stop for shift changes. The robots don’t go home.

    The supervisory model in underground mining — one operator, multiple autonomous machines, surface-based control room — is structurally identical to the supervisory model that healthcare robots have begun enabling in American hospitals, to the Norwegian aquaculture model where two technicians in Trondheim oversee 17 sea-cage installations, and to the autonomous haulage operations centers in Perth that monitor hundreds of Pilbara haul trucks across multiple mine sites. The work is no longer happening at the location of the work. The work is happening in a control room, and the location of the work is staffed by machines.

    Robot dogs on the offshore rig

    The oil and gas industry has, since roughly 2020, become the largest non-military commercial customer for quadruped robots. BP’s Mad Dog platform in the deepwater Gulf of Mexico has been operating Boston Dynamics’ Spot since 2020 — reading gauges, identifying corrosion, scanning for thermal anomalies, and carrying methane-detection payloads on autonomous patrol rounds that previously required a human technician to walk the same route in full PPE. Shell’s Energy and Chemicals Park Pernis in Rotterdam — the largest oil refinery in the European Union — operates a mixed fleet of Spot, ANYbotics ANYmal X, tracked inspection robots, and aerial drones that conduct continuous autonomous inspections across the entire facility, with the data feeding into Shell’s enterprise asset-management software and the fleet supervised by technicians who can remotely control any single robot from a gamepad. Petrobras has deployed ANYmal robots at its onshore refineries and on its FPSO production vessels off the Brazilian coast. Petronas — Malaysia’s state-owned oil company — has run ANYmal trials at both onshore and offshore facilities since 2022, validating the platform’s performance under saltwater corrosion, tropical storms, and slippery offshore deck conditions.

    The Swiss-based ANYbotics, spun out of ETH Zürich in 2016, has built its commercial business around oil and gas inspection in a way Boston Dynamics has not. The company’s ANYmal X is, as of 2025, the only quadruped robot certified for Zone 1 hazardous areas — environments where explosive gas mixtures are present continuously enough to require equipment certification under the ATEX and IECEx standards that govern offshore oil platforms. The 2026 release of the ANYmal XD — a larger, more rugged successor — is being timed to coincide with the renewable-energy industry’s push into offshore floating wind, where the same kind of platform inspection will be required at scale. Equinor has trialled ANYmal X at its Kårstø gas processing facility in Norway. Aker BP, Cognite, and ANYbotics have partnered on the Valhall platform in the North Sea — the world’s first attempt at fully remote inspection of an offshore production platform using autonomous quadrupeds. The structural argument for offshore robotic inspection is identical to the argument for autonomous haul trucks: the work is dangerous, the labor is expensive, the platforms operate 24/7, and the alternative is a human in a survival suit walking across a wet steel deck in 40-knot winds.

    The methane detection drone and the regulatory inflection

    In October 2025, the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency formally approved a category of autonomous methane-detection drones for OOOOa and OOOOb compliance — the EPA regulations that require oil and gas operators to detect and repair methane leaks across their production, gathering, and storage operations. The October 29, 2025 decision was the first time the agency authorized drone-based remote inspections as a substitute for manual leak detection and repair (LDAR) walking surveys. The approval shifts the economics of methane regulation: an autonomous drone equipped with a TDLAS (tunable diode laser absorption spectroscopy) sensor like the BLV Tech BL-CH4 can survey a pipeline corridor or compressor station at a small fraction of the cost of a human technician with a handheld sensor, and can do it weekly rather than annually.

    The midstream pipeline industry — the long-distance natural gas and oil transportation network that runs across the rural United States — is the next frontier. The economics of drone-based pipeline inspection only work if a single operator can fly a drone hundreds of miles beyond visual line of sight (BVLOS) without continuously moving, which requires the FAA Part 108 BVLOS rulemaking that has been promised for the drone delivery industry since 2023. The Federal Aviation Administration’s BVLOS regulatory framework — published in proposed form in 2024 and expected to be finalized in 2026 — will simultaneously open commercial drone delivery, agricultural drone swarms, and oil and gas pipeline inspection to the kind of long-range autonomous flight that is currently allowed only under restricted experimental waivers. The same rulemaking that enables Zipline to drop a package at a Walmart cul-de-sac is the rulemaking that allows an oil and gas operator to fly a methane drone 200 miles along a buried pipeline without launching a chase vehicle. The economic logic is identical across industries. The regulatory bottleneck is identical. The technology is identical. The application labels are different.

    Tailings dam monitoring and the Brumadinho effect

    On January 25, 2019, a tailings storage dam at Vale’s Córrego do Feijão iron ore mine in Brumadinho, Brazil — a 720-meter-long, 86-meter-tall structure storing 12.37 million cubic meters of mining waste — collapsed without warning. The released slurry killed 272 people, including most of Vale’s on-site administrative workforce who were in the mine’s cafeteria at the time. The collapse remains the worst industrial accident in Brazilian history and the worst tailings dam failure on a measured-deaths basis since the Romans started building dams.

    The Brumadinho disaster — combined with the 2015 Samarco Fundão failure that killed 19, the 2014 Mount Polley failure in Canada, and the 2022 Jagersfontein collapse in South Africa — restructured the global mining industry’s approach to tailings storage facility monitoring. The technology that did the restructuring was, in operational terms, drone-based ground-penetrating radar. Chilean mining companies now fly DJI M600 Pro platforms equipped with RadarTeam SE70 GPR sensors over their tailings dams on a monthly basis, generating high-resolution subsurface images that can detect humidity buildup inside the dam wall before it becomes structural liquefaction — the failure mode that destroyed the Brumadinho dam. Brazilian operators run continuous drone-based monitoring on every active tailings facility. Australian and Canadian operators have integrated tailings dam monitoring into the same fleet-management systems that operate the autonomous haul trucks. The technology is functionally similar to the variable-rate spraying drones now mapping every commercial soybean field in Brazil, and to the civil engineering monitoring drones covered in the Pipe Dreams cluster, and on every dam covered by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers — but it took 272 deaths to make the case at scale.

    The deep drilling and the resource frontier

    Mining and oil and gas exploration are, structurally, the same engineering problem — get an industrial process into the ground, extract a valuable commodity, and bring it to the surface — separated by the temperature, depth, and chemistry of the target. The deepest current oil wells extend to roughly 12,289 meters of measured length, set by the Al Shaheen Oil Field’s BD-04A well in Qatar in May 2008. The deepest current scientific borehole is the Kola Superdeep at 12,262 meters of vertical depth, set in 1990 and unmatched since. The deepest current mining operation is the Mponeng gold mine in South Africa at approximately 4 kilometers below the surface, which is roughly a third of the Kola depth, and where temperatures at the working face reach 60 degrees Celsius and rock pressure measures in the hundreds of megapascals. Every deeper extraction operation — and the global mining industry has been pushing deeper as surface deposits deplete — requires the same family of autonomy, sensor, and remote-control technology that the petroleum industry has been developing for decades.

    The 2026 inflection on the resource side is that the critical-minerals supply chain — copper, lithium, nickel, cobalt, the rare-earth metals, gallium, germanium, the uranium feedstock for the AI-data-center nuclear renaissance — is suddenly economically interesting to the same hyperscalers, sovereign-wealth funds, and federal industrial-policy programs that ignored mining for the last 30 years. The ethical questions around cobalt and the Congolese supply chain, around lithium and Argentine indigenous communities, around Chinese refining dominance in gallium and germanium — none of these get easier when the mining industry electrifies and automates. They get more economically consequential, because the volumes required to support a chip-driven AI economy and a fully electrified industrial base are larger than the volumes the mining industry has historically produced. The robotics is the means by which mining will respond to the volume demand. It is not the means by which mining will get less politically contested.

    The Quaise option, and the bet that drilling cost can collapse

    One last piece. Quaise Energy — the Houston-based MIT spin-out that has been developing millimeter-wave drilling technology that ablates rock using a gyrotron rather than a conventional drill bit — drilled 100 meters of Texas granite in a July 2025 field test, a record for the technology. Quaise’s bet is that the same gyrotron-based system that could potentially make deep geothermal drilling economically viable at depths of 20 kilometers will, by extension, make deep mining and deep oil exploration economically viable at depths and temperatures that conventional drilling cannot reach. If the technology works at commercial scale — and the engineering risk on that “if” is enormous — the global resource frontier will move from the depths the existing drilling industry can reach to the depths the next-generation drilling industry can reach, which is roughly twice as deep at twice the temperature. That is the same family of bet the autonomous-haulage industry made in 1991, and that the early offshore-platform-inspection robotics industry made in 2018. The technology took a decade to scale, but the case was built on the same logic: dangerous environment, expensive labor, continuous operation, and the alternative was getting worse every year.

    What 2026 actually looks like across the mining and oil patch

    Twenty-five percent of all iron ore moved across Rio Tinto’s Pilbara operations is being moved by an autonomous haul truck in 2026. The trucks are watched by a control room in Perth. The first 290-tonne battery-electric haul trucks have arrived at BHP’s Jimblebar mine. Eight Chinese battery-swap electric trucks are running at Rio Tinto’s Mongolian copper mine on 800-kilowatt-hour battery packs that swap in seven minutes. Underground autonomous LHDs at Westgold Resources’ Big Bell mine are being supervised from a surface office by a single operator managing multiple machines. BP’s Spot platforms are walking the deck of an offshore rig in the Gulf of Mexico, ANYbotics ANYmal X is the only quadruped certified for Zone 1 hazardous areas at Equinor and Aker BP’s North Sea facilities, and the ANYmal XD is set to ship in 2026 to expand the installed base of industrial quadrupeds beyond the few hundred currently in commercial service. The EPA has approved autonomous methane-detection drones for OOOOa and OOOOb compliance. Tailings dams across Brazil, Chile, Australia, and Canada are being monitored by drone-mounted ground-penetrating radar systems that did not exist before Brumadinho killed 272 people in January 2019. And the Pentagon, the AI hyperscalers, and the European Union’s industrial-policy apparatus are simultaneously realizing that the critical minerals required to power any of this — the lithium, the copper, the rare earths, the cobalt, the gallium, the germanium, the uranium — require an additional decade of investment in extraction infrastructure that has barely been started.

    The autonomous mining truck is not a humanoid robot. It does not have a face. It does not pass the uncanny valley test because nobody designed it to. The autonomous ROV inspecting a subsea pipeline is not a humanoid robot. It does not interact with humans because there are no humans within 4,000 meters of its operating depth. The autonomous Spot patrol on the BP Mad Dog platform is, technically, a quadruped, and it is doing the work that the civilian humanoid manufacturers have been promising will be the killer application of their product for the last decade, except that Spot was already doing it in 2020. The work of mining, drilling, hauling, inspecting, and moving roughly 90 billion tonnes of material per year across the global resource economy is being done — quietly, in volume, in operating environments that no consumer will ever see — by a robot population that nobody in the consumer technology press covers, that the defense robotics community treats as adjacent technology rather than the main event, and that is, by every measurable metric, the most operationally mature deployment of industrial robotics on the planet. The Pilbara haul trucks moved more material in 2025 than the entire combined output of every humanoid robot factory on Earth, and they did it on hardware platforms that have been in continuous operation for longer than most of the consumer robotics companies have existed. The robots that matter most are, once again, the ones that do not look like robots — and the industry that built them was, once again, doing the work while the press was watching somebody else’s demo.

  • The Kola Superdeep Borehole in 2026: Still the Deepest Hole on Earth

    On a remote stretch of tundra near the Norwegian border, in the Pechengsky District of Russia’s Kola Peninsula, there is a rusted steel manhole cover bolted into a slab of concrete. The cover is roughly the size of a small dinner table. The dozen large bolts holding it down have not been removed in more than three decades. Underneath is a pipe nine inches across that descends 12,262 meters — 40,230 feet, 7.6 miles — into the continental crust of the Earth. That is deeper than the Mariana Trench. It is the height of Mount Everest plus the height of Mount Fuji, stacked. It is the deepest artificial point ever made on the surface of the planet, and it has held that record continuously since June of 1990, which means that on the day Tim Berners-Lee proposed the World Wide Web, no one in the human species had ever drilled deeper than this hole, and on the day OpenAI released GPT-4, the same thing was still true.

    The hole is called the Kola Superdeep Borehole, and it is the kind of infrastructure project that only happens when a country has a lot of money, no shareholders, an active geopolitical rivalry, and a willingness to spend twenty years drilling toward an answer it never actually got. The Soviets started it in 1970, drilled until 1992 when the rock got too hot and the country that was paying for it stopped existing, mothballed it through the rest of the decade, formally closed it in 2005, and abandoned the surface compound by 2008. The wooden derrick that once stood over the wellhead was dismantled. The buildings around it collapsed into the permafrost. In 2026, the site is a ruin in the Arctic, accessed via deteriorating roads in a closed military district about 150 miles from Murmansk. The hole itself is almost certainly deformed and partially collapsed in its deepest sections, which is what happens to a 23-centimeter-wide pipe when active circulation stops and the rock around it keeps cooking at 180 degrees Celsius. Nobody has been down there to check. Nobody has been to the surface compound in any organized way since the Russian invasion of Ukraine made foreign scientific exchange with Murmansk a non-starter.

    And nobody — anywhere in the world, in 36 years of trying — has drilled a deeper vertical hole.

    What it was actually for

    The Kola project was the Soviet entry in a Cold War scientific contest that almost nobody remembers, because the other side lost interest and called it off. In 1957, the United States announced Project Mohole, an attempt to drill through the oceanic crust to reach the Mohorovičić discontinuity — the “Moho,” the boundary between the Earth’s crust and the underlying mantle. The Moho was the prize. Drilling to it would have produced direct samples of mantle rock for the first time in human history, settled decades of arguments about Earth’s deep structure, and demonstrated that humanity could reach the other side of the same kind of hard-rock boundary that defeats every other industrial process. Project Mohole drilled into the seafloor off Mexico to a grand total of 183 meters in 1961 and was canceled in 1966 by Congress for cost overruns. The Soviets, watching this, decided to do it from land — where the crust is thicker but the engineering is cheaper — and announced the Kola Superdeep Borehole as a national prestige project on May 24, 1970. The target was 15,000 meters. The rationale was scientific. The motivation was that the Americans had quit.

    The project ran for 22 years and never reached the mantle. The Kola crust at that location is around 35 kilometers thick — roughly the thickness of the entire Baltic Shield — and at the bottom of the drilled hole the borehole had penetrated about a third of the way down. The original 1970 target depth of 15,000 meters was, in hindsight, geophysically arbitrary. The Soviets picked it because it sounded ambitious. The drilling team, led by geologist David Guberman and the team at the Kola Scientific Center, hit 11,662 meters in October 1982 — already a world record — drilled a side branch off the main hole, hit 12,262 meters in 1990, broke equipment, started a fifth hole from 8,278 meters, drilled a few hundred more meters, and stopped in 1994 because the country was out of money. The official cause of project failure depends on who you ask. The temperatures at the bottom were 180°C instead of the predicted 100°C, which meant the drilling fluid kept flashing into vapor and the steel kept softening. The rock at depth had started behaving plastically, oozing back into the borehole faster than the drill could clear it. The Soviet Union had stopped paying salaries. All three things were true at once.

    What they actually found

    The Kola Borehole was a scientific disappointment in exactly the sense that the first fusion reactor experiments were a scientific disappointment — it did not deliver the headline goal, and what it did deliver was so unexpected that almost everyone forgot how disappointed they were. The pre-drilling consensus was that beneath about seven kilometers of granite, the team would find a layer of basalt — the Conrad discontinuity — which had been inferred from 1923 seismic data and treated as textbook geology for half a century. They never found it. The granite kept going. What had looked like a basalt boundary in seismic data turned out to be a metamorphic transition inside the granite itself — the same rock, denser and more crystalline below a certain depth, and just dense enough to bounce seismic waves the way basalt would. Fifty years of geophysical models had to be quietly revised.

    At 6.7 kilometers down, in rocks dated to roughly 2 billion years old, the team found microscopic fossils of single-celled marine organisms — 24 species of preserved plankton, sealed in carbon and nitrogen compounds inside the metamorphosed rock, still recognizable. The Archean ocean had left fossils a third of the way through the continental crust, and they were still there. At nearly the same depth, the borehole encountered free water — liquid water inside fractures in crystalline rock — at depths where existing theory said no water could possibly exist. The drilling mud at depth bubbled with hydrogen, helium, nitrogen, and carbon dioxide. Soviet scientists described it as “boiling.” The hydrogen was probably the product of serpentinization — water reacting with deep iron-rich minerals to produce hydrogen gas — and it changed the field’s understanding of where hydrogen and abiotic methane come from in the deep crust. Three findings that should each have generated entire research programs were, instead, footnotes in textbooks because the country that ran the experiment fell apart in 1991 and no Western institution was set up to inherit the results.

    Then there was the heat. The Soviet team had budgeted for about 100°C at 12 kilometers. They got 180°C. That extra heat was the immediate engineering constraint that stopped the drill — but it was also, in retrospect, the most commercially valuable thing the Kola Borehole ever discovered. The Earth was hotter at depth than anyone had modeled. The implication was that if you could reach those depths in commercial quantities, you would have access to a thermal reservoir vastly larger than any conventional geothermal field. The Soviets noted this and moved on, because their economy collapsed before they could capitalize on it. Thirty-six years later, three American startups are trying to build the entire next generation of carbon-free baseload power on the implication.

    Nobody has beaten the record, but somebody is trying

    The vertical record set at Kola in 1990 has stood for 36 years. Two projects have come close. In May 2008, the BD-04A well at Qatar’s Al Shaheen Oil Field reached 12,289 meters of total drilled length — 27 meters longer than Kola — but the BD-04A is an extended-reach lateral well, mostly horizontal, with a 10,902-meter horizontal section. It is the longest measured well, not the deepest vertical one. In February 2025, China National Petroleum Corporation completed Shenditake 1 in the Taklimakan Desert of the Tarim Basin in Xinjiang, drilling vertically to 10,910 meters — the deepest onshore well in Asia, the world’s second-deepest vertical well — and ending drilling 90 meters short of the planned 11,100-meter target when active oil and gas indications gave them an excuse to stop. The Shenditake 1 took 580 days to drill, 300 of those days for the last 910 meters. At 10,000 meters down, the temperature in the borehole exceeded 210°C — hot enough to vaporize cooking oil — and the pressure exceeded 130 megapascals, higher than the crushing force at the deepest point of the Mariana Trench. The CNPC engineer who led the project said drilling was “as difficult as the lunar exploration programs,” which is the kind of comparison a country makes when it is competing simultaneously for moonshot technology bragging rights and strategic energy reserves and doesn’t see a meaningful distinction between the two.

    Shenditake 1 is the first serious vertical challenge to Kola since 1990, and it still came up 1,352 meters short — roughly the height of the Burj Khalifa, plus the height of the Empire State Building. The structural reason no one has matched Kola is the same reason Kola itself stopped: the deeper you go, the hotter the rock gets, the more the drill string deforms under its own weight, the more the borehole walls try to close in on the equipment, and the less any of the tools of conventional rotary drilling — the same drill bits and mud-pumping rigs that the oil and gas industry has refined over a century — actually work. Drill bits made of tungsten carbide and synthetic diamond can chew through granite, but they wear out, they need to be replaced, they require pulling thousands of meters of pipe out of the ground, swapping the bit, and lowering everything back down — a process that takes days each time and that gets worse the deeper the bit has gone. At 7.5 miles down, every meter of additional drilling consumes more equipment, more time, and more money than the meter above it. The marginal cost is going up at the same time that the engineering envelope is collapsing.

    This is the engineering problem that Quaise Energy, a Houston-based startup spun out of MIT’s Plasma Science and Fusion Center in 2018, is attempting to render obsolete. Quaise’s drilling system uses a gyrotron — a high-power millimeter-wave generator originally developed for plasma heating in fusion reactors — to ablate rock instead of grinding it. The gyrotron beams a focused electromagnetic wave down a waveguide into the rock face, vaporizing the rock at the bottom of the hole; the vapor is then carried up the hole by a purge gas. There is no drill bit. There is nothing to wear out. The technology is, in principle, indifferent to depth, indifferent to rock temperature, indifferent to the hardness of the granite that defeated the Soviets at Kola. In July 2025, Quaise drilled 100 meters of Texas granite in a field test — a record for millimeter-wave drilling, and the first time the technology has produced a hole more than a few centimeters deep outside the MIT laboratory. The company has announced plans for a 10x more powerful gyrotron and a pilot superhot geothermal plant in the western United States by 2028, targeting commercial drilling to depths of 20 kilometers and rock temperatures of 400°C.

    If Quaise works at commercial scale — and that “if” is doing a lot of structural load — the Kola record will be obsolete by the end of the decade, the entire deep-geothermal industry will become a direct competitor to the alternative carbon-free baseload technologies that hyperscalers are currently signing power purchase agreements with, and the Earth’s interior heat will become accessible at depths and temperatures the Soviets reached once, painfully, by accident, in 1990. The proof of concept for the commercial opportunity is buried in a Russian field report from 1985 that almost nobody has read since the Cold War ended.

    The site today

    You cannot, in 2026, simply drive to the Kola Superdeep Borehole. The site is inside the closed Pechengsky District near the Russian-Norwegian border, in a region that has become significantly less accessible since 2022. The international scientific cooperation that brought German, Finnish, and American geophysicists to the wellhead in the 1980s and 1990s has been on indefinite hiatus since the invasion of Ukraine, and the larger Cold War-era research apparatus that produced the project no longer has a Russian institutional successor that anyone in the West is talking to. The handful of journalists and explorers who have visited in the last several years describe a derelict compound: collapsing pre-fabricated barracks, rusted-out machinery half-buried in tundra, the wooden tower long gone, and at the center of it all the sealed steel cap and its dozen bolts. The Pechengsky District is in permafrost. The structures sink, the buildings warp, the windows go missing, and the surrounding scrap metal slowly disappears as locals haul off anything that can be sold. The hole itself is still there. It is just no longer obviously a hole — it is a manhole cover in a clearing, surrounded by the bones of the infrastructure that once supported it.

    This is the rare Pipe Dreams subject that did not survive its own success. The Manhattan steam grid is 144 years old and still heating skyscrapers because the buildings above it were designed around it. The Iranian qanats are 2,500 years old and still flowing because the engineering is too simple to break. The Wuppertal Schwebebahn has been carrying commuters since 1901 because the valley below it has no other transit option. The Berlin Rohrpost outlasted five regimes because the pipes were already in the ground. The Mumbai dabbawalas have been running their lunchbox delivery network for more than a century because the system requires no infrastructure beyond human labor and the Mumbai rail timetable. The Kola Superdeep Borehole survived its drilling phase, set the deepest-vertical-hole record, made fundamental scientific discoveries, and was then abandoned because the discoveries themselves did not generate a commercial follow-up. Nobody was buying mantle samples. Nobody was selling 180°C steam. The infrastructure existed to do something — drill to the Moho — that did not happen, and once the drilling stopped, there was no second use for the site, the way Manhattan’s steam grid found a second use heating hospitals or the Falkirk Wheel found a second use connecting two canals that had been derelict for decades. Kola was a single-purpose machine. Its purpose ended. The machine stopped.

    What 2026 actually looks like at Kola, and underneath it

    The deepest hole on Earth, in 2026, is a record holder by default — held by a sealed Soviet artifact in an Arctic ruin that no Western scientist has visited in years, surrounded by the rusting metal that was once the support infrastructure of one of the most ambitious scientific drilling projects ever attempted, in a closed Russian military district that is, geopolitically, more isolated than it has been at any point since the project began. The record itself has stood for 36 years not because the engineering is impossible — China demonstrated in February 2025 that 10,910 meters of vertical drilling can be done with modern equipment in 580 days — but because the economic and scientific motivation that drove the original project has not reassembled. The Cold War rivalry that funded Kola is gone. The Moho is still out of reach. The mantle samples are still hypothetical. The geothermal opportunity that the heat readings hinted at in 1985 is being pursued not by re-entering Kola but by drilling new holes elsewhere using fundamentally different technology, with drill bits replaced by gyrotrons and conventional drilling replaced by ablation.

    If Quaise works, or Fervo’s enhanced geothermal systems work, or Sage Geosystems’ pressure-geothermal pilots work, then sometime before 2030 some American startup will drill a hole somewhere in Utah or Texas or Nevada that quietly surpasses Kola’s depth — not as a national prestige project, not as a Cold War statement, not even as a scientific endeavor, but as a power-generation project meant to sell round-the-clock carbon-free electricity to a hyperscale data center running a language model trained on every text humans have ever written. The record will fall. It will fall in service of a use case nobody at the Kola Scientific Center could have anticipated in 1970, on the back of microwave technology that did not exist when the Soviets were drilling, to power computational systems that did not exist when the Soviet Union itself existed. And when it does fall, the Kola Superdeep Borehole will become exactly what it has been trying not to become for 36 years: the second-deepest hole on Earth, sealed under a rusted manhole cover in a closed Russian district, at the bottom of a tundra clearing that nobody visits, in a country that is no longer on speaking terms with the people building the holes that will eventually go deeper. Twelve thousand two hundred and sixty-two meters down, in the dark and the 180-degree heat, the granite is still there. The microfossils are still there. The water is still there. The hydrogen is still bubbling out of the rock the way it has been for 2 billion years. The hole at the surface is nine inches wide, the cover is bolted down, the bolts are rusting, the permafrost is creeping, the wood is gone, the country is unrecognizable, the science is settled, the record is held, the drill is gone, and the only thing the deepest hole in the world is doing in 2026 is waiting to be made shallow by comparison.