“So I told nobody the Cuyahoga was turning into some sort of high-density suds. Suppose I had told everyone I met that morning before ten o’clock? What salvation for Cleveland would have come about? None. A few inspectors would have been routed out of bed to poke around. The low men on the Health Department totem pole, young chemists, would have taken samples from beneath the film—to analyze in the morning, or next week. I did not, could not know the stuff would blow the heart out of the city. And I will add this, which I doubt you’ll print. The present holocaust in Cleveland might and should make all America wake up to the fact that it’s on a powder keg. But my guess is that our tragedy won’t teach much to the other folks.”
Dr. George Cotton, Chief Chemist of the Red Badge Company’s riverside complex offered the following suggestion:
“Many outfits on or near the Cuyahoga made a practice of storing their more corrosive, toxic and otherwise dangerous wastes over the work week and dumping them on Sunday. This is simply because Sunday was the day when most of the plants weren’t in operation, and so weren’t running their effluents into the river. This meant, at least theoretically, these exotic materials would be diluted faster in the less sluggish water and would get into the lake sooner. It is therefore at least possible that some unusual combination of
(Turn to page 36)
. . . And so, to the Unique, Never-before-witnessed spectacle of a river bursting into flames, one fateful decade ended and another began. . . .
III
The Eighties
1. Documentary
NOTE: The following is taken from a TV documentary. The interviewer was Donald Cason of IBC-3-D-TV. A “narrator” is unidentified. The filming was done on Thursday, June 30, 1983, two days after the event it records. First shown was a series of shots of the Argie Beeley Fish and Fun Camp and the woodland charm along Little Dwain River on which it is located.
The camp, surrounded by pines, consists of twelve motel-like cottages and a main building housing the office, dining room and “bait ’n’ tackle” shop. The accommodations are modest but clean and attractive. These scenes include vistas of the Little Dwain River, a clear and generally fast-running tributary of the Kentucky. Its many wide and quite deep pools make it a paradise for trout fishermen. Owing to Beeley’s energy and competence, two creeks entering the Little Dwain have been dammed to make lakes of fair size which yield bass, bluegills and bullheads. It is upland mountain country, Daniel Boone country, in truth, and a village named “Booneville” is nearby.
Argie Beeley has lost a leg in the Vietnam war. But he is agile in using an artificial limb, though when fishing or guiding in a boat, he “goes it one-legged” by choice. His wife, Drolan, was the “prettiest senior” in her high school class, a dark-haired, dark-eyed and now alluringly plump mother of five children, the oldest, eleven, the two youngest, five and six, just deceased.
COMMENTATOR: It happened for the first time in this rolling, wooden region of Kentucky, southeast of Lexington and, so, near the blue grass country. It happened to these happy, ordinary, innocent, hard-working American folks. Argie Beeley is a war veteran who lost a leg fighting for his country. Drolan, his wife, was a beauty queen and, as you see, still is. They had five children—until last Tuesday.
Starting from scratch, Argie Beeley developed this fishing camp. It began as a rickety dock with a few rental boats and a shack where he sold snacks and bait. It became the handsome spread we’re looking at, worth at least one hundred thousand dollars, and it was all the Beeleys had—or needed. It’s been open year round, now, because hunters fill the Beeley cabins when angling is suspended. And it’s a living, a very comfortable living. Rather, it was. No one’s going to make a living here now, however. Something went wrong.
(Here the scene shifted to a shot of Cason standing outside the main building of the camp with Argie Beeley, a rather thin-faced man with sun-squinted eyes and a harsh voice, but a man who talked easily and seemed to have a natural philosophy that made him warm to people and, so, liked.)
CASON: When did you learn about the new power plant upstream?
BEELEY: Five years ago; least that.
CARSON: A nuclear reactor?
BEELEY: Yes, sir.
CASON: Were you told it would affect the river?
BEELEY: Wasn’t told anythin’. Hadda ask.
CASON: And then?
BEELEY: They said they weren’t even sure they’d ever touch the Little Dwain. Planned to cool the powerhouse with water from Licking River. Lot of hoo-hoo about that but they went ahead. Never bothered us none.
CASON: Other factories were built nearby, right? And used the Licking or Kentucky for cooling?
BEELEY: Sure. But nobody told us they mostly could all hook into the Little Dwain if they had to. Kinda set up on the q.t. They built reservoirs for times when the water’s low so it never occurred to me they’d use our stream. Without even a warnin’—
(Mrs. Beeley appeared in camera and the three walked toward the river, away from the fishing camp.)
CASON: The older children were in school?
MRS. BEELEY (she is trying not to weep): Yes. The two tykes wasn’t. Ronnie had a cold and stayed home. They pushed out on the river in a rowboat—just playing—both tykes born water rats—they’ve lived with rowboats and skiffs—they kin—could—swim, o’ course. If I hadn’t kept my Ronnie outa school. . .
CASON: When did you know—
MRS. BEELEY: I heard—heard—the—screams—
BEELEY: Let me, Mother. (Angrily.) Shame to torment her so!
CASON: I’m very sorry. But your story is important. It should help prevent this sort of thing and save others.
BEELEY: Mebbe. Hope so. Anyhow—I was behind the main house, and Mother came for me—
CASON: Yes?
BEELEY: I run around and down t’ th’ docks. I could hear ’em but not see ’em. Whole river was boilin’ and steam thicker’n fog ever was.
CASON: The river was boiling? Literally?
BEELEY: I mean, boiling. I know, now, they had a situation at the reactor where they couldn’t help using the Little Dwain. And some other plants had to, on that account. But, Lord Gawd! who’d think a river could be set to boiling, mile after mile!
(The trio walked out on a pier and the TV camera showed the river, and the dock area. The river, about a hundred feet across at that point, deep and slow-flowing, was steaming faintly.)
CASON: So the two youngsters were out on the water when the change came. The surge—the emergency?
BEELEY: That’s it. They couldn’t see to row back. Come on ’em too fast. We couldn’t go out to ’em. Not even stay on the pier. They was screaming—bein’ steamed to death, o’ course. Cooked alive. Took ten minutes, maybe more, before they even began t’ quieten down.
COMMENTATOR (as Beeley choked up and the scene faded):
It has been predicted, almost jokingly, for years. But now it has happened. The sudden cooling requirements of industry have actually made one river boil. We can say that it was a small river where few persons lived. Only two lives were lost. Little kids steamed to death like puddings. And only one business was ruined. Because there aren’t any more trout in the Little Dwain River and there never will be any. Why? From now on the power plant and some other factories upstream will draw on the Little Dwain steadily, keeping it warm. Of course, an unanticipated, emergency demand for power by the east coast grid forced the Boone Reactor Plant to run up its load to capacity. And then a little jam in one atomic pile required a lot of cold water right off. A small accident. But when that water left the plant it was boiling hot and partly superheated steam. They had planned that grab of cool flow from the Little Dwain as “insurance.” But they took more than expected for the jam. And they got the trouble fixed, even started up the pile without much trouble. The only damage was to the Beeley family.
(There followed shots of other rivers to match the Commentator’s final words.)
COMMENTATOR:
All over America, rivers are getting warmer. Thermal “surges” of the kind we just saw are not common—yet. But fish kills are common. Here’s one in an Ohio river—a solid mile of dead bass, bluegills, pickerel, pike, catfish and so on. In this reeking mass, everything from miles upriver lies dead. The power people tried to call this sort of horror scene “acceptable.” Not any more!
Here’s Villadonna, Illinois, where the water supply from the Francis branch of the Kayo became heated to the point where the cold-water faucets in every home ran too hot to drink. There just wasn’t any cold or cool water for the town until wells were drilled. Approximately a third of our lakes are warming up, also.
This concludes the third installment of IBC featured documentaries, a new program called, “Think About It.” If you live near a river, pond, lake or a brook, even, remember the Beeley family and—think about it!
2. The Saturday Slaughter
Miles sat halfway down from the mayor, that Friday. There were twenty-one men and two women at the conference table. The mayor had insisted the meeting be kept secret. There had been protests, by Miles and others, but to no effect.
Miles and some of the others present, a minority, listened to Mayor Tabley’s opening statement with guarded hope at first:
“As all of you know, the five boroughs of New York are in the fourth day of a weather condition, an inversion layer, which is widespread in the East but has been peculiarly intense, if that’s the word, here. Up to this noon only voluntary efforts have been requested in pollution abatement; obviously, if the present situation continues for much longer, more drastic measures must be considered.
“I would recommend the application of Condition Red measures at once, were it not for two factors. Others can perhaps explain them better than I. This is a crisis that cannot be met by normal response. That is why we have a special envoy here. Let me introduce Lieutenant General Thompson, who comes to us from the Defense Department.”
The general, like the mayor, did not stand to speak. Desk microphones were arranged at each place. In the red-draped new City Hall’s private dining room, at the black table, faces turned. There were two uniformed police at each of its tall, black double doors at the room’s end, and dozens of plain-clothesmen in the halls and lobbies, beyond, in case some reporter or other smart representative of the media had cleverly tagged the mayor on his way from Gracie Park or learned through a hotel minion bribed to call in about covert arrivals of VIPs. Such security made Miles doubly wary. The general was large and commanding. His hair was sparse and brown-addled-with-gray. He had small brown eyes and thick fingers, a battered, small nose and fat cheeks. He opened a dispatch case with two keys, making of the act a threat. He produced papers stamped in red capitals, SECRET. Miles had known him, slightly, and mostly from rancorous public debates.
General Thompson cleared his throat. He looked like a man with a growling bass voice. His thin tenor surprised the few who had never heard it. But the voice was not wholly a handicap. It penetrated, stung, whipped, rather than bludgeoned.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “I have been authorized by the Chiefs of Staff to give you the gist of these secret reports. Such an order and act is, of course, unprecedented. The military data I shall capsulize are to be regarded as absolutely confidential, top secret. Not to be leaked, not to be mentioned even to one’s intimates, one’s husbands, wives. I hope I am clear?”
He waited as if administering an oath. People mumbled assent, acceptance. The general riffled his papers and spoke as if with great reluctance. “The Arabian United Nations police action, the so-called Desert War, was followed by an economic slowdown of disastrous magnitude in this nation. The recrudescence of Communist pressure and outlawry in South Asia is far more hazardous than we at the Pentagon, pardon, the new Decagon, have been permitted to say publicly. The State Department and the White House feel that to reveal the many and shocking facts of enemy intrusion and subversion would lead to such national rage as to make a next war certain. This new threat has been growing since the Middle East Agreement of 1985. The federal effort to prepare for any further action of the Korean, Vietnam or Arabian type began postwar and was a major factor in the nation’s swift recovery.
“This rearmament and resupply activity has reached a scale far greater than is publicly known.” Someone muttered an ironic, “No!” The general stared. “I prefer no interruptions. Now. In and around Greater New York fourteen hundred and seven major industrial plants are contributing to this absolutely vital and very hush-hush effort. Some seven hundred of these factories have been listed by your pollution people as serious threats in an inversion crisis. We of the military, however, think less than a quarter of the number are properly defined as significant contaminant producers. It is a matter that should have been arbitrated with the military at high levels.”
“I object!” Dr. Bill Clemment, pale, haggard, his eyes bloodshot, had spoken with force.
The general stared at him. “Objection noted. And tabled for later—consideration.” He made the word menacing. The Pollution Control Commissioner met his eye, shrugged and buried his thin face in long-fingered hands, stained by cigarettes which he smoked almost constantly.
Mayor Tabley scowled. He had been in office only ten months after his landslide victory in an election that had wiped out the previous, liberal administration. Tabley was a businessman and his platform had been simple. The do-gooders must go ahead before the “good” they do destroys New York. The retired head of a supercorporation, Tabley was beginning to find out that the chronic and ever growing “problems” of New York could never be solved by managerial skills or, perhaps, by any other combination of skills. “Problems” had been his campaign term for what in fact were a series of city calamities, always greater, more alarming, odder and less expectable than had been anticipated.
Now, however, the tight face of the mayor and the glare in his pale eyes was directed at the general. “Briefly, General,” he said in a strained tone. He did so to remind the group that he, not Thompson, was boss.
“Very well.” The general’s fleshy face turned red. “In that case, Mister Mayor, I shall skip giving the details I felt were necessary to show the why of our conclusion. If you wish them later, very well.” He looked around the room. “Ladies and gentlemen. In view of the actual, confidential and secret scope of industrial effort in this period of crisis—and I refer to the threat of war, not to a merely smoky city—it is imperative that all defense-involved plants continue on round-the-clock shifts. Am I clear?” He smiled nastily as he looked with disdain from face to face.
There was a lengthy silence. Miles broke it. “You have the authority?”
The general remained red and angry. “Not here and now. It would, however, be forthcoming, I am sure, if you local people tried to put in effect any scheme that would interfere with defense production.”
“A stoppage,” Miles continued, quietly and with a faintly amused look, “of a couple of days, say, would wreck your entire military buildup? Your margins are that meager?”
“I said, Smythe, we would not have the work shut down.”
“If you can bully us to comply.”
The general’s wrath was great and largely because he had been sent for precisely that purpose: to bully the city officials, civilian experts and local leaders present into holding off Condition Red control measures. He rose and said rather shrilly, “I shall, with the mayor’s consent, call my superiors on this matter.”
He went out.
Several of those present grinned or winked at Miles.
“Mr. Mayor!” That was Reginald Lacey, the elegant, Harvard-educated merchant. Miles was often confounded by Lacey: in his tailored, blue-gray and draped suit, with its carnation, he seemed a complete fop, not dissipated or debauched—just limp, languid, concerned with his own elegance and style. Yet he was one of the most ruthless men in America, which, Miles reflected, wasn’t saying very much in view of the numbers of such men.
The mayor had relaxed noticeably. “Yes, Reggie. Go ahead.”
Reggie nodded, smiled vaguely, fitted a small cigar into a golden holder, lighted it with a gold briquet, said, “Ahhh—” and stopped. Restarted. “Let me put it this way.” He stopped again and gracefully inspected his cigar, held at arm’s length. “The merchants of New York had their first hope of an excellent year in a long time. Today there remain but—ahh—fifteen—yes, I think—fifteen days, business days, for Christmas shopping. I hardly need add that November was—a disaster, for us. Christmas business, in fact, is off, for Manhattan, and in other boroughs too, thirty-eight per centum. If, in the few shopping days remaining, any event, any Act of God, of weather, if—ahhh—anything should lead to a further diminishing of the shopping crowds, I can guarantee you that thousands—yes, thousands—of business enterprises will be ruined. Manhattan, other boroughs, will see a catastrophic collapse, a new depression, a tax receipts drop of unthinkable consequences, a—total calamity. So—while we endangered merchants do regret that if this present and truly repellent—ahh—meteorological phenomenon—continues—and causes distress, yes, even some slightly advanced dates of death—amongst already doomed elderly persons—the effort to delay their—ahh—passing, and to allay the general—discomforts—would not amount to a hundredth of one per cent of what would be lost by any—ahh—quixotic—act.”
End of the Dream Page 15
