Kill Zone

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.

“The state of Nevada has no nuclear power plants of its own. Why should you be forced to store someone else’s dangerous waste?” Garibaldi continued. “Is your state just a dumping ground?”

“It’s not fair!” shouted someone. “Nevada was screwed.”

“We’re all being screwed if we keep nuclear power,” Garibaldi said. “It’s an addiction, and it’s time we go cold turkey. We will suffer from withdrawal, but in the end we’ll be strong and we’ll be healed.”

Some of the volunteer protesters were members of the Western Shoshone tribe in full traditional costume. The Shoshone tribe had objected strenuously to Yucca Mountain being turned into a waste storage facility, claiming that the site was on sacred lands that held great cultural importance.

The Walker River Paiute tribe had also added their voices to the dispute, because their reservation lands were directly on the transport route for any nuclear waste to be delivered to Yucca Mountain. By a large margin, the people of Nevada were opposed to the facility, although the seven counties immediately surrounding the designated land were in favor of it. They just weren’t seeing the big picture.

Because his scheduled protest had drawn so much publicity, he wasn’t surprised that a group of counterprotesters came to cause trouble. Local ranchers and miners, construction workers and government employees. Like an opposing team, they stood in a group, angry and shouting, waving handmade signs in sharp contrast with the professionally designed placards Sanergy had produced. Yucca Mountain now! said one of the signs. Save Our Jobs and Store It Here!

“It’s perfectly safe,” yelled one gruff, broad-shouldered man in a plaid shirt. “I’ve read the reports.”

“Reports can be doctored,” Garibaldi said. “No one can be certain there won’t be a quake or a fracture or a leak. They can’t guarantee the waste won’t be disturbed for a hundred thousand years.”

The man shouted back, “That’s bullshit. Scientists can’t predict anything for a tenth that long.” The two groups remained separated, but the TV cameras approached, closing the gap.

One of the other locals stood beside the first man. “Opening that facility will create hundreds of jobs. If it isn’t here, they’ll put the stuff somewhere else, in Texas or New Mexico.”

“If the government tries that, we’ll protest it there, too,” Garibaldi said. “It’s a fundamental problem, and we have to stop it.”

A young woman on the opposing side sounded shrill and frustrated. “But it exists. The nuclear waste exists. You can’t ignore it. We have to do something about it.”

“And the nuclear power plants will keep producing more and more,” Garibaldi said. “If we find a simple and easy solution to store the waste, then what’s their incentive to shut down the plants? We need to get off this addiction! The only way for us to wean ourselves from nuclear power is to force the development of alternative energy.”

“What are we going to do in the meantime?”

“We may have some tough years, I won’t lie.” Garibaldi was prepared for that. He’d used the same argument when he advocated for dramatically increasing gasoline prices, even though it would hurt consumers in the short run, because then people would demand greater fuel efficiency and get themselves off dependence on gas and oil. People would not voluntarily change when they thought the system was working. They were like a frog sitting complacently in the pot of water as the temperature increased one degree at a time until the water boiled.…

Someone threw a rock. Garibaldi didn’t see where it had come from, but it struck the sign held by a protester next to him. Suddenly, a howl of outrage erupted from his own followers, mirrored by a chorus of mocking jeers from the locals.

“You aren’t even from around here!” said the man in the plaid shirt.

Garibaldi knew that many of his volunteers did come from Las Vegas, but the difference between the city of Las Vegas and rural Nevada couldn’t be more dramatic.

The MPs at the gate edged forward, sensing violence — as did the TV cameras.

“This is America,” said one of the local supporters waving a Store It Now sign.

Garibaldi seized on that. “Yes, this is America, and Americans can achieve great things. America created the Manhattan Project. America created the Apollo program. We can solve this, not sweep it under the rug. But we all have to work together.”

“Yucca Mountain does solve the problem, you idiot — but you hate nuclear power so much you just can’t see it!”

One of his own volunteers picked up a rock and hurled it at the man, and that was just the start. Like a chain reaction gone critical, the two sides began shouting, hurling rocks, and then they rushed together in a brawl. The Air Force MPs hesitated just a few seconds, then they emerged from the gate, charging into the fray to break up the violence, but not before both sides of the debate suffered cracked skulls, multiple bruises, and lacerations.

The TV news had covered it all, and Garibaldi became even more of a celebrity. Thanks to the publicity from the Yucca Mountain incident, he had booked dozens more talk-show appearances, and he had also learned how to make his point. He would be calm and reasonable as he presented his case, not just fearmongering but genuinely looking at the big picture. Simon Garibaldi could be very convincing.

Even with his successful actions, he couldn’t take full credit for shutting down the Yucca Mountain project, but the protests continued. The grassroots opposition persisted, and the next administration had made sure that Yucca Mountain would never open.…

Now, Garibaldi blinked, bringing himself back to the present, and Mrs. Garcia and the dry waste storage chamber swam into focus. He drew in a breath, remembering where he was. Yes, it had been like stopping a giant oil tanker, but he, along with countless other like-minded people, had succeeded. So he knew it could be done.

But now Hydra Mountain! An astonishing solution accomplished by fiat. No, he couldn’t support this. Not at all.