Sunday, August 18, early evening— The eye of the hurricane slammed the coast of Rhode Island. On Plum Island, B Crew was physically exhausted and mentally defeated after doing everything humanly possible to maintain Lab 257 for eighteen consecutive hours, a period that seemed an eternity. Ravenous with hunger, after witnessing sewage spills, melting freezers, and the failure of the biocontainment system, no one was foolish enough to pick at the food in the lunchroom refrigerator, fearing they might be ingesting contamination. Then their radios chirped. It was a worker from the power plant. The sump pump that normally flushes out leaks was overwhelmed by gushing floodwaters. There was heavy flooding, and they needed help fast. Phillip agreed to brave the storm and lend a hand. He figured he could also pick up food for the crew, since the power plant's provisions were presumably safe. Preparing for the trek, he religiously followed the normal laboratory decontamination procedures. At this point it was a laughably futile exercise.
Upon entering a change room with his flashlight, Phillip stripped naked in the dark. He removed his wedding band and his crucifix. He entered the shower room, felt around for the knobs and the soap, and showered for about three minutes. "I took the standard shower," Phillip says, "but the water wasn't nearly up to temperature — it was barely lukewarm. Remember, we had no power and no steam." He scrubbed his skin vigorously, spat, and squeezed his nose and blew air through his ears. He cleansed his fingernails with a special nail file, then donned "clean" clothes in the change room on the other side.
"I was allowed to leave by the duty officer, who gave me permission," says Phillip. "He was in charge of the whole operation — he said go and eat and try to bring 'clean' food back to the men in 257. By that time, we had been in there for eighteen hours." That duty officer was Dr. William Lagreid. Only recently hired to join the island's scientific research staff, Dr. Lagreid was stationed in the duty officer's quarters, on the east side of the island, far from Lab 257. His new position put him first in command of the island with full responsibility over any laboratory accidents or mishaps. During Hurricane Bob, Dr. Lagreid was the only scientist on Plum Island. It is certainly puzzling that director Dr. Breeze appointed this rookie solely in charge after receiving a hurricane warning. A more experienced duty officer might have evacuated Lab 257 prior to the hurricane.
Outside 257, Phillip was thrust into the tail of the hurricane. Somehow, he clawed his way along the road through the island's forest to the power plant. The journey, which usually takes a few minutes, now required considerable time and effort. He threw his full body weight against the 100 mph winds and shielded himself from driving rains, which pelted his face. He hurled himself over large trees and debris strewn across the dirt path; the trail looked like a battle zone, a winding maze he navigated in the rainy dark. Phillip drew a deep sigh of relief upon reaching the power plant. Though he was soaked to the bone, he shook himself dry and got to work. Phillip and the others barricaded the east door to impede the water rushing into the electrical gear room. They bailed out the water, using small buckets, which prevented the generator from shorting out and avoided a power outage to Lab 101 and the rest of the island. Mission accomplished, Phillip moved on to his second task. In the power plant's well-lit kitchen, he prepared an uninfected feast of sandwiches, brewed a pot of coffee, and wrapped up the rations securely. Without wasting a moment, he made his way back to deliver the provisions to the B Crew. As he reentered the Lab 257 air-lock door, his co-workers cheered Phillip's triumphant return.
Monday, August 19,12:00 a.m. — Hurricane Bob lost much of its strength after it left Plum Island and made landfall on Rhode Island. It continued on a northeastern path, past Boston, and up the coast of Maine. Eventually it spun across the Atlantic Ocean and broke apart off the coast of England.
Back on the island, the alarms died out. The frazzled men of B Crew heroically weathered twenty-four hours working inside Lab 257; it was now sixteen hours after their normal shift ended. Amazingly, they were not relieved. It would be another eight hours before they were. Ferry transportation was still impossible, as the Plum Isle could not brave the violent waters without risk of capsizing. High crosswinds prevented helicopters from flying safely. A tired and dazed B Crew spent the next eight hours repairing leaking steam pipes. "We're going around, making sure doors were closed, looking for water from contracting pipes after we lost our steam. Water is all over the place, we're tightening every pump packing and every flange." The utterly exhausted men, with weary eyes slogged about the cavernous hallways, armed with their now-dimmed flashlights and thick adjustable pipe wrenches. The sounds of the storm gradually dwindled. Except for a sporadic groan, the animals quieted down, and the building systems remained down. "We were in complete silence," remembers Phillip. "When the building runs normally, you never seem to notice the sounds of leaks — and then, with everything quiet, you can hear water dripping—drip, drop, drip… drip…."
Monday, August 19, 8:00 a.m. — B Crew was finally relieved and the next crew, A Crew, took over. Shine remembers the scene. "When we left, there was no need for decon [decontamination]. The water in Lab 257 was ice cold. What would be the point? We took our outside clothes, put them on, went down to the guardhouse, took a cold shower there to be safe, and went home."
"We brought contaminated clothes off the island," says Phillip. It hardly mattered after the collapse of Lab 257's biological containment systems. After this harrowing work shift on Plum Island, the safety regulations were utterly pointless to the men of B Crew.
Tuesday, August 20, 12:00 a.m. — Management refused to offer the crew, held virtual prisoners for thirty-two hours in the chaos of Lab 257, any respite. The fatigued men reported to work for another graveyard shift. "Management didn't exactly say, 'Guys, you really broke your hump in there — great job,' " says Phillip. "They didn't offer to send us to a doctor to be checked."
B Crew's valiant efforts were belatedly praised in a letter dated September 17, 1991, by R. D. Plowman, head of Agricultural Research Service, the arm of the USDA that ran Plum Island. It commended the B Crew for its "quick and decisive action taken…to prevent damage — possibly even a blackout — at PIADC [Plum Island Animal Disease Center] during Hurricane Bob." Possibly even a blackout? They had been using flashlights in the dark for thirty-two hours. Dr. Plowman then concluded, "I want to personally thank you for your hard work and courage in the face of such a dangerous situation."
That same day, the men received another letter.
"As a result of the A-76 [federal government privatization] process, it has become necessary to conduct a Reduction In Force. Your position has been specifically identified for abolishment, and you [are] to be released…. "
As part of the USDA's efforts to cut costs, Plum Island laid off the men of B Crew.
Great job, men. You're fired.
13
The Aftermath
They won't need a boat to remember me by.
Hurricane Bob's devastating effects ranged far beyond Plum Island. During its run up the East Coast, over seven inches of rain fell for twelve hours straight. A total of eighteen people, from South Carolina to Maine, perished in the storm, which left almost $2 billion in damage in its wake. Like a sports team retires player numbers, the National Hurricane Center retires hurricane names; when they cause enough death and destruction their names are never repeated. The name "Bob" was retired, and it went into the annals of history as the eighth costliest Atlantic storm in United States history.