Doyle seemed to roll her eyes. “This is a huge place, Stanley—”
The technician held up a hand, then glanced at her watch. “I came in on a Sunday for this. Before we enter, I need to disengage the internal sensors.” She turned to controls at the side of the vault and looked up at a camera installed in the metal ducts along the ceiling. After making a cryptic motion to some unseen observer, she turned to another inset panel and ran her fingers over an LED display.
“As you saw, I had to give the authentication code before I could switch off the motion detectors. Otherwise, alarms would go off and initiate all sorts of old, nasty countermeasures specifically designed for the military — sticky foam, knockout gas, that sort of thing. During the Cold War days, they weren’t messing around.” She entered the Disable code and motioned for everyone to follow her inside the large storage chamber. “Don’t touch anything, or you might trigger one of the other sensors. Nobody wants that.”
As the visitors crowded into the vault, Garibaldi hung back outside the chamber. Mrs. Garcia urged him to join them. “Come on in. There’s plenty of room.” She stepped back and motioned with her arm.
Garibaldi drew in a breath. “No… thank you. I can hear you fine.”
“But you can’t see,” van Dyckman said, annoyed. “How are you going to give an unbiased assessment if you can’t even see what she’s showing us?”
“I’m fine staying here.”
“Not an option.” With a huff, van Dyckman grasped Garibaldi by the elbow, steered him into the vault, and brought him to the front of the group. “Here.” He turned to Mrs. Garcia. “Go ahead, please.”
The technician nodded curtly, then started explaining the packing, transportation, and storage procedures for the dry containers. From her experience at Granite Bay, Adonia could have given the tutorial herself.
Garibaldi barely paid attention; he fidgeted and appeared to be trying to find something that didn’t make sense, or uncover a bad procedure. He was clearly uncomfortable in the chamber.
In contrast, Senator Pulaski showed little understanding of the technical details, although he tried to look intent and even nodded once in a while. He glanced around the chamber. “I don’t see any fuel rods. Where are they?”
When Harris and van Dyckman hesitated, Adonia explained, “After they’ve been removed from a reactor, spent fuel rods are submerged in pools for up to five years so the water can absorb the radiation they emit. Once they’ve cooled sufficiently, the rods can be broken down and sealed inside these dry containers, which are much safer to handle and store.”
Mrs. Garcia motioned them closer. “Here, take a look.”
As the visitors crowded closer to the alcoves, a young man in tan pants, short-sleeved blue shirt, and yellow tie hurried down the corridor and stuck his head into the chamber. Adonia remembered seeing him at one of the stations in the operations center, but now he looked alarmed. “Mr. Harris, you’re needed in ops.” He swallowed visibly, but tried to hide it. “It’ll take only a few minutes of your time.”
Harris did not like to have the routine interrupted. “What is it, Mr. Drexler? Can it wait?”
“No, sir. It’s… important. The Operations Officer requires your presence.”
Harris kept his expression carefully neutral as he turned to the group. “I apologize. Hopefully, I’ll be back before we go to the next vault. Ms. Rojas, since you’re the only site manager present, will you accept temporary transfer of safety responsibility for this committee in my absence? I don’t have a handover-of-liability form for you to sign, but we can do this verbally if you agree.”
Regulation Rob. She had not forgotten that Harris was such a by-the-book person. “Of course.”
“Thank you, I relinquish my responsibility.” Without waiting for their reply, he hurried after Drexler down the tunnel, leaving the committee to wonder about the emergency.
10
After Harris rushed off, Mrs. Garcia continued explaining the systems in the vault, but as she droned on, her words went right through Garibaldi’s head, unprocessed, though no one could tell he wasn’t fully engaged.
He’d perfected the look years ago, as a simple psychological defense after being locked in that… place in Oakridge, a look he used when he needed to retreat. It didn’t matter what topic was being discussed, or who else was in the room. If the dark memory clawed back, he knew how to put his mind in neutral, adopt a knowing expression, and nod once in a while.
And then he’d wall away that horrible past and find himself in a much better place. His thoughts often returned to the highlight of his time after he’d been enlightened about the hidden dangers of the entire nuclear industry. And, yes, he had achieved some enormous successes.
Shutting down Yucca Mountain was like stopping a giant oil tanker, a huge and bloated project moving under the momentum of decades of time and billions of dollars. But Simon Garibaldi had done it, he and his powerful lobbying and public awareness group. Sanergy had taken advantage of a groundswell of public opinion, people who didn’t like the idea of filling Yucca Mountain with countless tons of radioactive waste, spent fuel rods from nuclear power plants, and who knew what other kind of nuclear poison.
If the nation had thought ahead rather than ignoring the problem, the waste never would have been generated in the first place. The very idea of relying on nuclear power forever was a dangerous dead end. Had no one paid attention to Chernobyl? Or Three Mile Island? Or Fukushima? It was like a five-year-old still sucking his thumb because no one made him grow up.…
Glory days. He and fifty Sanergy volunteers had gathered at the southern tip of Nevada just outside the well-patrolled boundary of Nellis Air Force Base. The gates were heavily guarded by MPs. The protesters would have been arrested if they forced their way inside, and Garibaldi’s followers would have done that if he’d demanded it, but such a sacrifice would have served no purpose. They could make their point outside, where the TV crews could watch them wave their signs decrying nuclear power, demanding that this storage facility never be opened.
Inside the sprawling military base, distant Yucca Mountain was visible on the wrinkled landscape, a long line of rock that towered above the surrounding desert. So pristine.
Garibaldi had given many impassioned speeches and written numerous op-ed pieces in major publications. He was a perfect spokesman, not a wild-eyed radical but a former DOE employee, well educated and well spoken. He had played for the other team for so many years, he knew how to play the game… but after his own personal ordeal in that vault in Oakridge, he had seen the error of his ways. Now, Dr. Simon Garibaldi gave voice to the concerns of a large part of the population.
Out under the baking Nevada sun, he stood in a light tan dress shirt, khaki pants, and comfortable shoes. His fifty protesters wore all sorts of clothes, T-shirts and cutoffs, even two in Grim Reaper costumes. Their signs were imaginative, their angry chants loud even in the great emptiness.
The news cameras had captured it all, particularly the Las Vegas TV stations. “This doesn’t just affect Nevada. It affects the entire nation,” Garibaldi shouted as he stood on the gravel in front of the fenced entry gate to the base, and his people cheered.
From behind the base gates, the MPs stood wary and ready to act. The base had tripled security, aware of the protest. Several jeeps as well as armored vehicles had pulled up near the fence and the entry portal in a threatening posture. Now, the MPs stood with their rifles shouldered but obvious, making sure Garibaldi’s volunteers didn’t try to charge the base. The intimidation didn’t work.