The executive officers of West State followed quietly in the entourage, making occasional light remarks that neither added to, nor detracted from, Ben’s elaboration. The supervisor suspected that their contributions were so meager because they, themselves, had no thorough understanding of what was before them.
“Shall we enter for an inspection of the interior?” he invited, training his eyes directly on Senator McCauley.
Sensing that the most concern was with the reactor, Ben led the way into the huge, ball-shaped building that housed the core of the reactor. The area was a maze of catwalks, cranes, generating units, and the tall, cylindrical steel vessel containing the core.
“This gentlemen, is the container that surrounds the reactor core. The core is, of course, the center region with its thousands of fuel rods, and fortunately,” Ben smiled benignly at them, “the control rods.”
“Ah yes,” said Senator Jackson, “the control rods govern the speed of the reaction. Right, Dr. Harrington?”
“Yes. That’s correct. They are the means by which the reaction is controlled. It can be slowed down, by inserting additional rods, or speeded up, by withdrawing rods. You might say that the rods are the insurance that a nuclear reaction never proceeds uncontrolled.” He smiled easily as he finished.
“Dr. Harrington,” said Senator McCauley, “I was under the impression that an uncontrolled reaction would cause an enormous explosion—not with the ferocity of an atomic bomb, but an explosion, nonetheless. Could that happen in one of these things?”
“Absolutely not, sir! That bit about an explosion is a myth perpetuated by....our opponents. Oh, theoretically, whenever the proper amount of fissionable material comes together in the right place, a critical mass could form and an explosion could ensue. But there is positively no means by which this could occur in a nuclear power plant. None, sir!” Ben was smug with the certainty that what he said was true. “In fact, the very beauty of this system is that it’s not only a clean and efficient method of producing electrical energy, but it is also fool-proof.”
The men paused beside the reactor vessel. Aware that the fissionable fuel was deep within the steel container and hidden from view, they were comforted by the knowledge that as they stood there, near enough to reach out and touch the container, they were well protected and shielded from its inner core. A certain degree of awe and reverence is reserved in every man for those forces too great for his comprehension, and Ben never failed to recognize this on the faces of those few important persons who were treated to the grand tour of White Water.
“Without belaboring the virtues of our establishment, gentlemen,” Ben continued, “I should mention that while initial loading of the fuel assembly tends to be very expensive, the overall cost is minute when compared with the vast amounts of fossil fuel used in conventional processes. The estimate is made that one pound, a mere sixteen ounces, of uranium fuel, yields the equivalent of several million pounds of coal. That in itself is the crux of this new industry.”
Senator McCauley had drifted away, and was now climbing a metal staircase, leading to a catwalk overhead.
By the time Ben noticed him, he was carefully examining a fuel chute. Although wanting to yell out to the inquisitive little politician, and tell him to stay with the group, Ben instead collected the remaining people and hastily ascended the steps behind the senator.
Bringing up the last of the column, Ben found himself shoulder to shoulder with the vice-president of the utility company. “Mr. Pettengill,” he said in a low, worried voice, “the senator....”
He wasn’t given the chance to finish his statement before Pettengill clapped him on the arm and replied in an equally whispered tone, “You’re doing fine, my boy. Fine. Just keep it up.” An expression of pride was registered on his plump face.
Hurriedly Ben pushed up to the front of the group and again started to explain, only to have the senior senator interrupt him and move away. Suddenly the inspection was assuming an awkward trend. As they toured the remainder of the plant the jaunty, inquisitive Senator McCauley was charting the course the group followed. Pausing at points of interest, he asked for explanations from the supervisor, then, often as not, began to stroll off before Ben had completed the more lengthy responses—a habit that the nuclear physicist found particularly annoying.
When at last every nook and cranny had been presented to the visitors, Ben gladly returned them to the small conference room off the main office. A bright, cheery young lady served the men beverages, then subtly withdrew.
Leaning forward over the long table, Ben endeavored to firmly resume his leadership role. “You no doubt know that West State has requested authorization from the A.E.C. for an expansion of these facilities. Our intent is to develop—over the next few years—three more nuclear units at this site. The need for the extra reactors is obvious. It lies just beyond us—metropolitan Los Angeles.”
“Dr. Harrington, White Water is a fairly recent addition to southern California. How large is it?” asked the senior senator.
“This plant has an eight-hundred megawatt capacity, Senator McCauley.”
“And those that are on the drawing boards for future development?” asked the senator.
“The same size. Eight hundred megawatts,” Ben said flatly.
“Would those four, the combined total, be sufficient to supply a substantial amount of the electricity required by L.A.?”
“Substantial, yes sir, but not all of the power needed. There are plans, being developed at this moment, which will involve the construction of a fourteen billion dollar nuclear power complex to the north of Los Angeles—for the exclusive provision of power to that city.”
Senator McCauley seemed surprised by this. “Is that right? Well, before too many more years have passed your fair city will be the center of a huge circle of nuclear power plants.”
Ben shoved his black horn rims a little farther back on the bridge of his nose, then smiled at his guest. “That’s right, sir, all to meet the demands of one of the world’s most rapidly expanding cities. And, of course, in a broader spectrum of terms, it is nuclear energy which will allow the industrial nations of the world to avert a major energy crisis.”
The younger senator, who had been largely silent through these last hours, spoke up, “You aren’t giving much credit to the potential in solar, or geothermal methods of capturing energy, Doctor.”
“No, I’m not, am I?” asked Ben. “It is my feeling that those forms you have mentioned are nothing more than remote possibilities for yielding the tremendous quantities of energy required by this country. In my opinion, research need look no further for the solution to the increasing problem of energy shortages. We have it,” he said adamantly.
Without warning Senator McCauley began getting to his feet. “Dr. Harrington, we appreciate your kindness and your patience. We know we must have torn you away from very serious duties to guide us through this facility. We thank you.”
Ben breathed a quick sigh of relief and protested weakly at terminating the session. “Oh, we have a film which traces the history of White Water from its inception to present day, Senators. Wouldn’t you like to view it before departing?”
“No, no. Time doesn’t permit our presence here any longer, Doctor. Besides, with the exemplary facility you have, and the dedication of its personnel, we feel sure that we will be hearing of White Water again,” said the senior senator.
Chapter Two
Tuesday
The day began like any of a thousand others, with Sara’s voice summoning him from bed, while she went about the preparation of breakfast.
Slowly, Ben slung his feet onto the floor, and walked across to the bathroom. His movements were sluggish, for the events at the plant on the previous day had drained his stamina. Bloodshot eyes stared back at him as he leaned toward the mirror and began the daily routine of shaving off the dark, thick bristles.
A mourning dove cooed to its mate in the canyon below the house. It was a
soft, pleasing sound, one that was rapidly becoming an oddity in the heavily congested stretch of land that bordered on the Pacific, extending southward from Los Angeles. The gentle, sweet cooing had become such an integral part of the beginning of each morning that Ben had wondered about the eventual time when houses would be thrown up on the sides of the canyon, driving the birds away. When they moved, he and Sara would search for another quiet spot still near a natural habitat, unspoiled by giant earth-moving machines and the strange glass and wood affairs that were designed by eager, far-seeing architects.
A strong aroma of coffee drifted into his nostrils, luring him into the kitchen. “Ah, good morning, sweetheart.” He placed a kiss on his wife’s neck, lifting her long blond hair away.
The tall, lovely woman returned his show of affection by brushing his chin with her lips, while never taking her eyes off the omelet. She flashed him a tender look of concern. “You’re tired, dear. But, then, you didn’t rest well.”
“No. I had trouble unwinding after the staff meeting last night,” he said as he ambled toward the table.
“I’d wanted to wait up for you, but as it got closer to midnight, I finally had to go to bed. Suddenly I need so much sleep.”
“You shouldn’t have waited at all. I told you I’d be late.” He picked up his glass of juice and quickly drained it. Then he noticed the glass by her plate, and its burgundy colored liquid. With his back to her, and wondering about the unusual breakfast drink, he asked, “Did you go in for your examination yesterday?”
“Yes. I had a one o’clock appointment, remember?”
He vaguely recalled she had told him that, but the previous day was such a jumble of events that his wife’s visit to the physician had been pushed far aside in his mind. “Well?” he asked, as he turned to her. “What did he say?”
She lifted the omelet onto a dish and moved toward the table. “He said I shouldn’t have any trouble carrying this one if I’m careful.”
“Careful?” he asked quizzically. “What does that mean?”
“Follow his advice, I think,” she answered as she took a seat. He was still standing, absorbed in what she would say. “Did he have any advice about why you had the miscarriage?”
She shrugged, “He couldn’t know, Ben. He wasn’t the attending physician. Besides, he says there are dozens of reasons why pregnancies are naturally aborted.”
Ben lifted the glass of deep red fluid to his nostrils. The scent of wine wafted through the air. Puzzled, he asked, “Is this what you’re drinking for breakfast?”
She looked at him out of huge brown eyes, and smiled warmly, “Is there something wrong with it?”
Ben scrutinized the high cheek bones and the rich full lips of his wife. Her head was regally tilted to the side, letting the shining blond hair fall like a curtain behind her as she awaited his answer. “It doesn’t seem to me that drinking this stuff in the morning is going to help you with the baby one bit, Sara.”
That she had poured it at all was a shock to him. Sara was familiar with the best wines, the gourmet drinks, but she had never cultivated a taste for them. Ben recalled his first visit to the home of her parents. Her father possessed a lavishly-equipped wine cellar, the pride of the older man. Yet, Sara was totally unconcerned with its stock. “Is this a fetish or something—a craving that you suddenly have?” he asked as he set the glass down.
She took the glass and lifted it toward her mouth, paused, then returned it to the table. “It’s a foul-smelling substance,” she said. “No, Ben, as strange as it may sound, the doctor prescribed an alcoholic drink three times a day, so I thought wine would be the easiest to take this early in the morning.”
“He prescribed it for a woman during pregnancy? He must be insane, Sara. You’ll have to find another obstetrician,” Ben said. “You’ll never have a child if you listen to some nut like that.”
Sara reached out for his arm and pulled him toward his chair. “But you don’t understand, Ben. The doctor says that small amounts of alcohol will slow contractions of the uterus. He thinks premature contractions could be the reason why I lost the first one.”
“You’re only three months along—that seems pretty early to worry about contractions,” he said as he watched her pour the coffee. She did it gracefully, as she did everything.
Smiling, she pushed the toast toward him. “You wouldn’t allow the doctor to tell you how to run White Water, dear. I would imagine that your qualifications in medicine are as limited as his in nuclear energy. So perhaps it would be best if we did this his way.” Shifting the conversation, she asked, “What were your visitors like yesterday?”
“Who? The senators? They were all right, I suppose. One, the older fellow, a short, snoopy little guy, was kind of irritating. He came on fast—interrupting to ask something, then switching off to another interest of his—without waiting for the rest of the group. For a while I thought that he was being too curious, like he had some ulterior purpose for being there. But then I decided it was my imagination. The other one was a nice guy.”
“Did you find out why they were there?” she asked.
“Visiting—or at least that’s what I was told. You know how politicians are, always trying to get a finger in the pot.” He was reluctant to tell her about the flare up over the shutdown report, and about his earlier suspicion that the senators were inspecting the facility as a result of a request from the Southern California Society of Environmentalists.
“They must have been there quite a long while,” she said.
Ben knew that she had obliquely referred to his arriving home at a very late hour. “Actually, they weren’t. I had anticipated them spending much longer in the plant, but Senator McCauley seemed anxious to be on the way.”
She was silent, apparently waiting for him to explain his delay more fully.
“After the politicians left, Pettengill decided we should have one of his infamous meet and confer sessions. On the spur of the moment he decided on it. When I phoned you I had no idea of being as late as I was.”
Raising her eyes to his, she replied, “It must have been a very important meeting.”
He had no wish to assuage her curiosity by explaining that the S.C.S.E. letter had filtered down to Pettengill, and the long hours spent in conference were in regard to that. “Routine business, just routine,” he said off-handedly. “What are your plans for the day?” he asked. “A meeting of your sorority alumni club, isn’t it?”
“No, I’m not going to those gatherings anymore. Didn’t I tell you about the last one I attended?” she asked.
He shook his head, “I don’t recall. But you didn’t say you weren’t going back.”
“Well, no matter. I’m not. It’s the same thing all the time. Vacationing.’’
“Videos?”
“Yes, camcorder home made videos. Sue Anna’s vacation to Hawaii, and Joan’s last trip to Europe, and Debbie’s three children in their pool—and those because they haven’t been able to afford to go anywhere since they built it. It’s just all so inane.”
“You’re bored with them.”
“Yes, I suppose. But what I really would like is to find them on some subjects that are meaningful, instead of discussing the color of tea napkins. Just once.”
“Whatever you think, Hon. I’m sure you have every right to be bored with that group.” Having other things on his mind, he glanced at the clock above the sink. “I’ve got to go. Must get a backlog of paperwork done before this day ends.”
“So soon?” she asked wistfully.
“Maybe I’ll manage to be home early this evening. How about it?”
“I’d like that,” she answered softly.
For the briefest second they-stood close with their arms around each other. His very tall, lank frame dwarfed her as he held her to him. Her wan, porcelain skin was in marked contrast to his dark complexion. Releasing her, he turned and walked out the door.
It was a beautiful morning. Later, there would be smog creepi
ng in to blanket the sky; but as yet, it was a day free of the troublesome, tainted air. Out to the right the ocean was clearly visible, a sailboat bobbed gently up and down on the calm blue water.
Edging the German-made sports car deftly into the parking slot, Ben grabbed his briefcase, and with a dozen long strides, stepped into his office in the front of the control room.
At 8:28 a.m. the huge reactor was already underway, splitting the U235 atoms and producing tremendous amounts of heat. Ben smiled to himself, the self-satisfied smile of a man who had complete understanding of the complex working of this monstrous unit. It gave him a comfortable feeling to be in this dust-free room, with computerized control boards and buttons, and with the ocean less than six hundred feet away.
Donning his lab coat, he picked up a clipboard and began making his rounds as he routinely did each working day. This would be the last round he’d make for a month. His vacation began at the end of the day. He casually nodded to his colleagues as he checked his readings against previous records and dutifully noted them in the proper spaces. The main control center was a sterile, ultra-modern room, its control consoles in white and the men in white lab uniforms. All screens, indicators, buttons, and levers for the normal and emergency operations of both the reactor and the generating plants were contained within these four, heavily-insulated walls. The plant represented the finest in engineering design, the ultimate in construction. The facility was built on the beach because of the need for vast amounts of cooling water for the reactor. No other spot had been feasible in arid southern California. The area was laced with old fault zones, the San Andreas fault itself being nearby, but the structures were created to withstand the most violent earthquake.
The reactor was housed apart from the control center. Dome covered, the reactor building was equally well constructed to take the shakings from the earth without being split or damaged. Inside, the reactor core and its thousands of fuel rods were protected from the incoming coolant by metal jackets within their steel reactor vessel, which was completely encased by a thick, steel drywell.
The Nuclear Catastrophe (a fiction novel of survival) Page 2
