On Monday afternoon, I pulled into the parking area at the Prairie River Personnel Training Center. There were already about a dozen cars parked in the lot. The Training Center is outside the ‘critical zone,’ so I could just drive up to the front door. No security at all.
I looked past the parking lot pavement at the chainlink fences with coiled razor wire on top, and at the nuclear generating station beyond. Even the look of the place close up was awe-inspiring.
As the result of a security-related traffic snafu on the only road into the plant, and despite my usual preparedness in allowing extra travel time, I arrived a couple minutes late for the meeting. So when I entered the Training Center and knocked on the open conference room door, everybody stopped talking and looked at me.
"Hey, Gunner! Going to introduce me to your friends?" I asked. It was lame, but the best I could come up with at the time.
I had seen some of the faces at the table before. There was a City of Red Wing cop, a private security guy from the generating plant, the NRC onsite inspector, the Plant Manager, and an officer from the Prairie River Tribal Police. (The Rez is right next door to the plant.) Gunner was there from the Sheriff’s Office. The other two guys had to be BCA and FBI special agents. I couldn’t tell which was which.
Gunderson stood.
"Gentlemen, this is James Becker. He is a local attorney who expressed a concern to me this past weekend. I thought it prudent that you all hear for yourselves what Mr. Becker has to say."
He sat down.
Thanks a bunch for the rousing intro, Gunner!
The Red Wing cop was at the head of the table. Of course. The plant was within the city limits. The city would have primary jurisdiction. Cops are big on protecting their turf. The cop didn’t invite me to sit… not that there was an empty chair anyway.
Red Wing Cop: "Okay, Mr. Becker. What is it that you’d like us to hear?"
Once again, I told my story.
When I was done, there were several comments.
Plant Security: "It’s ridiculous to think that any private aircraft could successfully attack our facility. We have laser-guided guns and a rotating cannon that is capable of projecting more than 4500 rounds per minute of 20 mm lead. Not to mention numerous, more classified defensive countermeasures. Any small craft would be ripped to shreds before it even got near our fence."
"There was the case of that one guy who landed his plane on the White House lawn," I offered. "Sometimes it’s hard to make that decision to pull the trigger. And as I have said, it may be only three seconds from legal flight to impact."
Plant Manager: "Even if a small plane managed to penetrate air defenses and crash into the spent fuel building, the roof and sides of that structure are plenty tough to repel a light craft. We reinforced them after 9/11. It’s just not a realistic threat."
FBI: "And there’s no way anybody’s gettin’ close to the plant with a commercial plane. Any commercial aircraft that far out of its airspace would set off buzzers and bells all over the place. Hell, we could probably get military defenses down here pronto. After 9/11, the National Guard is ready to do whatever it takes."
I doubted his statement about timing, but agreed it couldn’t be a commercial plane for other reasons, so I didn’t argue.
Prairie River Tribal Cop: "What about this potassium stuff? If someone gets that in the pool, are we in trouble?"
A concern from the man who lived next door to the plant. Good.
Plant Manager: "Of course not. No need to worry at all. We have multiple backup systems, redundancies, manual overrides. You know I can’t discuss details without compromising security. But rest assured, potassium in that pool would not be a problem."
He was talking through his hat. He had never thought of potassium getting into the spent fuel pool.
I knew a little about the Plant Manager’s history. A number of years ago he had been ‘promoted’ from plant maintenance to management. In the power generation industry, it is a well known axiom that if you damage enough expensive equipment working your maintenance job, rather than fire you and risk a union challenge, the company will give you a spot behind a desk — just so you can’t wreck stuff.
It had been a freakish mangling of bureaucracy when company ownership changed hands and the erstwhile maintenance man ended up as Assistant Plant Manager. After the former Plant Manager retired last year, the company just moved the Assistant on up into the vacant spot. It was my opinion that this particular gentleman had passed his Peter Principle Point several promotions ago. Nevertheless, he controlled operations at the plant and I would have to put up with him.
"Some folks are concerned about a zirconium fire in the pool and a massive release of poisonous iodine — not to mention a radioactive plume of cesium 137," I pointed out.
Plant Manager: "Who the hell made you the nuclear expert? I am not aware of any such concerns. And you have no idea what you’re talking about."
"I could give you websites that explain it to you if you wish?" I couldn’t tell for sure if his density was intentional, or innate.
Plant Manager: "I don’t need any fuckin’ websites from any fuckin’ asshole know-it-all to tell me my own business. I know damn well this plant is safe!"
He was clearly getting worked up. When you know very little, you have to yell it really loud. I held my tongue.
NRC Guy: "I assure you, Mr. Becker, we take your concerns very seriously and will make certain that the scenario you have laid out is absolutely impossible."
The nuclear watchdog for the public at work. He undoubtedly knew that the spent fuel pool was a weak link. But plant design was not under his control. And he had to trust the security team regarding possible attacks. He would probably do what he could. But I doubted it would matter.
The BCA guy wasn’t going to have to deal with any of this business unless someone pointed him at a location he could swim to with a SWAT team. He just watched the proceedings with interest.
Deputy Chief Gunderson was notably silent.
Red Wing City Cop: "So if you have nothing further, we’ll just thank you for bringing us your concerns and you may be on your way."
That was all I had to say. But it clearly had not been enough.
"Please review your security plans with my scenario in mind. Please." I was actually begging. Sometimes that works with bureaucrats.
Red Wing City Cop: "Thank you again for your input. We will certainly take matters under advisement."
I’d tried the polite approach. I now spoke calmly, but with deadly conviction.
"Gentlemen. You sit here in this room, insulated from reality, comfortable in your delusions that you are safe from international terrorism. In your imaginary world, your families are safe. Your neighbors are safe. We are all totally safe.
"Your delusions have led you to the conclusion that the nuclear catastrophe waiting to happen inside that fence across the parking lot is a fiction. Of course, you all know how extreme the consequences of a successful terrorist attack on the nuclear plant would be. But because of your fantasies, you discount the dangers — not only to yourselves and your loved ones, but to everyone in the eastern half of the United States, and possibly beyond.
But what if the worst possible scenario proves not to be a fantasy at all, but a deadly fact?
I’m telling you all right now that we are not safe! You no longer have the luxury of remaining comfortable in your delusions.
"Gentlemen," I said, eyeing each committee member in turn, "the wolf is at your door. It’s time for you to step into the real world. Millions of Americans are depending on you for protection from a nuclear nightmare.
"Wake up and do your jobs!"