“Someone must have foreseen this,” the President said. “What about that underground storage facility in Nevada, Yucca Mountain?”
“As you know, sir, it never opened,” van Dyckman said. “After thirty years of construction, some estimates put the total price including setbacks, legal and environmental reviews at over one hundred billion.” He hesitated. “A previous administration completely shut it down.”
“Political pressure,” Whalen said.
Van Dyckman felt the need to hurry, and his voice rose as he rattled on. “Yucca Mountain is the most studied piece of geology on Earth. Even though it’s the most godforsaken wasteland in the entire country, people insisted ‘not in my backyard.’”
The President pressed his lips together. “Well, whose backyard do they want it in? It’s got to go somewhere.”
“But it’s not going anywhere,” van Dyckman said. “Right now, the waste is in everybody’s backyard, stored in casks spread over sixty-one nuclear sites, waiting to be transferred, someday, to a single, consolidated permanent storage area… which doesn’t exist.”
“The casks are extremely safe, sir,” Whalen said, “made of concrete, steel, and other material. But I agree with Dr. van Dyckman’s assessment. This much waste is both a safety and a security risk.”
Van Dyckman sat back on the sofa and sipped his coffee, enjoying the fine bone china, the rich roast. Across from him, the President straightened. “We need to do something.” He looked around the room.
“One option is for you to reopen Yucca Mountain,” van Dyckman said. “An Executive Order. As simple as that.”
“We’ve already looked at that, and it’s not that simple,” Whalen said. “The legal reviews alone would take years, and the public may not allow it despite the reassurances and current uproar over Granite Bay.”
The President looked back and forth between the two men and drew his mouth tight. “We need a place to store it that doesn’t need public approval. If Granite Bay was a wake-up call, we can’t afford to keep the status quo.”
Van Dyckman nodded. “Correct, sir. The whole high-level nuclear waste problem is one of the most maddening examples of bureaucracy and foot-dragging I’ve seen in my entire career. We need to implement a solution now and without interference, even if it’s just a temporary answer while we work through the red tape and get a permanent facility online once and for all.”
“What do other countries do with all their radioactive waste?” the President asked. “We’re not the only ones with nuclear power plants.”
“Some nations are starting to bury their waste underground, sir,” Whalen said.
“Other countries don’t have our political environment,” van Dyckman said. “In order to take care of this emergency while we pursue a longer-term solution, it’ll require some discretion.” He added something he knew would resonate with the President. “And bold action.” He hesitated for effect. “But I have a way to do it.”
“Then I’ll sign an Executive Order.”
Van Dyckman felt giddy. He already had the President convinced, and he hadn’t even offered his proposal yet.
“Where exactly do you propose to put the material?” Colonel Whalen said slowly. “What other facility do we have that’s adequate to hold that much high-level nuclear waste? You’d still need to get all the assessments and environmental approvals for storing it permanently.”
Van Dyckman flipped the page, showed a map of the New Mexico desert along with photos of the rugged terrain south of Albuquerque, around Kirtland Air Force Base. “We already have a perfectly acceptable facility that was designed for long-term storage and protection of our nuclear weapons stockpile. Hydra Mountain. It’s honeycombed with tunnels and shafts, vaults carved out of the granite, but with the stockpile reduction, all the nukes were removed, and the Hydra Mountain facility is just sitting there empty, mothballed. And, best of all, it’s deep inside a secure military base.”
He started speaking faster. “If you call it a temporary site, rather than a permanent one, then by classified Executive Order, sir, you could reopen the doors and start transporting casks of high-level waste almost immediately. You’d start solving the problem before the next accident happens. And you wouldn’t even have to tell anyone about it publicly, much less obtain any legal reviews or hold any hearings, while at the same time you go through the process of openly constructing a permanent site somewhere else.”
The President lifted his head. “Hydra Mountain. Why does that sound familiar? Someone was talking about that just the other day.…” He shook his head. “But I like it.” He glanced over at his military aide. “Shawn?”
Wearing a thoughtful expression, Colonel Whalen pulled the binder toward him, flipping through the printouts van Dyckman had brought. “It is a possibility, sir, but I’d have to study it further. It may be on an Air Force base, but I don’t know enough about Hydra Mountain off the top of my head.”
“Look into it,” the President said, “and get back to me quickly. I want to move on this if it’s an acceptable solution. Granite Bay was a real wake-up call.”
Whalen said, “The need is great, sir, but after all this time we shouldn’t take precipitous and ill-considered actions either. There could be unintended consequences, cascading effects. After all, Yucca Mountain was studied for over thirty years, and it still didn’t open.”
“Granite Bay,” the President repeated, as if that answered everything. “I don’t ever want to have another Granite Bay, or anything like it — not under my administration. Make it happen.”
His heart racing, van Dyckman closed his binder and saw that their half hour was up. He hadn’t even needed the extra time he’d hoped for.
Smiling, he picked up his materials and casually swept up a pen from the coffee table, one with the Seal of the President of the United States, and pocketed it.
4
Armed military police. Razor wire. Fences. Locked gates.
Adonia was surprised to encounter so many defenses, even though she was already well inside the security perimeter of Kirtland Air Force Base. A nice welcoming way to start the day.
She wished she knew why she’d been called here.
One of the MPs came forward from the security gate and opened the back door of the escort car. The uniformed man peered inside, squinting. His face looked very sunburned, which was not surprising, considering the New Mexico heat. “This way, Ms. Rojas. You’ll be processed into the Mountain through the intake office over there. Lieutenant Peters will meet you momentarily.”
Mystified, Adonia swung out of the backseat, taking her briefcase and purse. Her heels crunched against gravel as she stepped out into the brilliant sunlight; a gust of hot wind blew dust into her eyes. Judging from the scenery around here, she had overdressed for the occasion. Her black pumps and red business suit were more appropriate for her usual meetings in Washington, D.C., than the desert Southwest.
Out of habit before rushing to catch the red-eye out of LaGuardia, she had dressed for a formal meeting, but it was now apparent that Hydra Mountain was no typical government office building — and quite different from Granite Bay back in New York.
Only eight hours ago she’d received a phone call requesting her immediate presence in New Mexico for a vital, high-level review. Nothing like planning ahead, she thought. Her old boss, Assistant Secretary van Dyckman, had made it clear the invitation was mandatory, and as a contractor, Adonia didn’t want to burn any bridges.