Kill Zone

3

The Oval Office was exactly what Stanley van Dyckman expected. He had seen it countless times on TV and the movies, but it was different to be here in person and on official business.

Throughout his career as a senator’s Chief of Staff and at DOE, van Dyckman had attended many high-level meetings, had rubbed shoulders with four-star generals and Nobel Prize — winning scientists — that was par for the course — but now he had the opportunity to meet with the President himself. And not merely for a photo op either; he would not be an anonymous person in a large crowd of officials and representatives. This was a real meeting, and the President genuinely wanted to hear what van Dyckman had to say.

The country was in crisis after the near disaster at Granite Bay, and van Dyckman held the solution the nation had desperately needed for more than half a century. Thank goodness the DOE Secretary was out of the country; otherwise, van Dyckman would have been relegated to holding the young Secretary’s briefcase while the neophyte political appointee was the center of attention and would probably take credit for the whole idea.

Van Dyckman wore his best pinstriped suit, and he had shaved an hour before the meeting so there wouldn’t be even a hint of a shadow on his face. The President’s calendar allotted only half an hour for the meeting, but if everything went well, maybe he’d be in the Oval Office for a lot longer than that. The President was famous for throwing the schedule out the window and spending whatever time he felt a subject required.

He mentally ran over his talking points. The answer he proposed seemed so obvious, the decision clear, even though the nation had avoided action for decades. This President, at least, had a “damn the torpedoes!” mindset, and he could make a real decision to solve a difficult problem.

Van Dyckman was so eager he barely noticed the surroundings of the outer anteroom, and when he finally entered the Oval Office, he was ready. He had been waiting for the right opportunity, and this was it.

Smiling, he shook the President’s hand, trying to convince himself this was just like any other high-level meeting. The man was smaller in stature than he had expected after seeing numerous raised-voice speeches and rallies on TV, but van Dyckman could sense his larger-than-life presence. It reminded him a little of a buried land mine. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. President. I’ll try to be direct, so as not to waste your time.”

“Sounds like this nation’s been wasting a lot of time,” the President said. Blunt, aggressive — and that was good, as far as van Dyckman was concerned. “Wait a minute before we get started.” The President stepped back to his desk and picked up the phone. “Stephanie, is Colonel Whalen on his way?”

“Just arrived, sir,” said the intercom.

The door opened again and a military officer stood there in Air Force blues, a full colonel but obviously young for his rank. He was sandy haired and handsome with blue-green eyes, and van Dyckman couldn’t help but make an unkind comparison to a Ken doll.

The President said, “Dr. van Dyckman, meet my military aide, Colonel Shawn Whalen. He’s an expert on nuclear matters, and I trust his advice.”

The officer shook the President’s hand, then turned to van Dyckman. “We’ve met before at several DOE functions.”

“Of course.” Van Dyckman squeezed Whalen’s hand as if competing with his grip. He had no memory of meeting the man previously — Whalen was only a colonel, after all, and he met so many more important people in his duties.

A White House steward brought in a coffee service tray. Van Dyckman had imagined holding a cut-crystal rocks glass and sipping fine Scotch with the President as they discussed matters of national importance. But it was only mid-morning, which was a little early to drink even by Washington standards.

It didn’t matter. He expected to be coming to the Oval Office many more times. This proposal was the only real near-term solution for the nuclear storage crisis.

The three men sat on the sofas, leaning forward as van Dyckman removed his portfolio from his briefcase. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, brushed away imaginary lint. “Let me start off by saying, sir, that the attack on Granite Bay could have been worse — much worse. Fortunately, through fast thinking and decisive action, we managed to avert a widespread dispersal of radiation from the spent rods. Good thing I was managing the situation from Washington so I could employ the correct emergency procedures without red tape or delays.”

Colonel Whalen raised an eyebrow. “We’ve studied the transcripts of the phone conversations, and I believe Adonia Rojas was the person instrumental in saving the facility — as well as having the foresight to fortify her own buildings ahead of time, without help from DOE. If she hadn’t done so, the plane crash would have caused a far greater disaster.”

Van Dyckman opened the binder as a distraction to cover his frown. He didn’t need to hit a conversational speed bump just when he was about to present his main points. “Ms. Rojas and I work very closely, Colonel, and I admit, funds are scarce. But we dodged only one bullet at Granite Bay. Over the years, other incidents occurred that were nearly as bad, but they were quietly covered up. Right now, our entire nuclear industry is under heavy fire, and Granite Bay only exacerbated the problem. More nuclear disasters are just waiting to happen, and we can only put on so many layers of Band-Aids to solve a problem that needs a tourniquet.”

The President frowned, already growing impatient. He looked down at the presentation folder, waiting to see the report. “Enough with the metaphors, Dr. van Dyckman. Tell me how to fix this. I want a real solution, something we can implement right away.”

Van Dyckman tried not to show his relief. “And I have a solution, sir, but first let me give a quick overview. We currently have ninety-nine commercial nuclear reactors spread over thirty states. They’re all vital to our economy and our power grid, but short-sighted protesters would have us shut down all the nuclear plants — which would be a disaster, since the U.S. derives about twenty percent of our total energy output from nuclear power.”

Colonel Whalen thumbed through the charts. “Yes, the people at Sanergy are having a field day after Granite Bay.” He looked up. “In a way I don’t blame them for their concern, but do they really believe our nuclear power plants are that fragile?”

Annoyed, van Dyckman twisted his mouth, but he kept his voice steady. “You would rather we tell everyone the truth? That the majority of our temporary storage facilities aren’t hardened against wackos flying kamikaze planes? We’re lucky this was a lone-wolf event. A Sanergy extremist, not a larger-scale assault.”

“It’s not clear that Sanergy was really involved, or if it was just a single fanatic,” Whalen said. “In any case, Sanergy wants to use the incident as a lever to force their own goals, to move away from nuclear power and embrace green energy, but that’s simply not realistic in the near term. No matter how optimistic Sanergy might be, we can’t just shut down a fifth of our nation’s electrical capacity overnight because of wishful thinking.”

“Right,” van Dyckman said, glad that the young colonel wasn’t arguing with him. Maybe they were on the same page after all.

Whalen continued, “And the plane that hit Granite Bay shows that our current stopgap practice of storing so much high-level radioactive waste in local holding areas is not only a safety issue, but a security concern as well. A big one. Now, no one could make nuclear weapons out of even high-level waste, but a terrorist could easily create a dirty bomb with the material. And that, fueled by public hysteria, would dwarf any threat we’ve seen.”

Van Dyckman felt a warm glow. The colonel was making his case for him! He turned the page in his binder to show another chart and continued, “The problem is that our nuclear power plants generate two thousand tons of high-level radioactive waste each year in the form of spent fuel rods and other hazardous materials. We need a safe and secure place to store it, preferably out of public view, and right now we’ve got nothing.” He paused to let the words sink in.

The President’s brow furrowed as he concentrated. “So it’s just sitting around? How much waste are we talking about, total?”

“Over one hundred thousand metric tons across the nation. Currently, as we just saw at Granite Bay, most of those spent fuel rods are in temporary storage areas at each site, either in cooling ponds or dry-storage casks. They’re safe, but Sanergy argues they have the potential to leak into groundwater, streams, or even the air.”

Van Dyckman leaned forward. “We’ve had commercial power plants since 1958, when President Eisenhower launched the Shippingport Atomic Power Station in Pennsylvania. And they’ve been generating nuclear waste ever since. One hundred thousand tons of it.”

“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.