The China Syndrome, page 2
“You were born a blood donor,” she’d told Richard at the time of their parting.
“And you’re a corporate management commando,” he’d thrust back.
Both were partly right, both partly wrong. And neither had ever quite forgotten that—if only for a short time—something had happened between them something that had given both an inner warmth.
“Hi, guys,” Kimberly greeted them, “how much time do we have to get there?”
“Hey, wha’ you say, mama,” Hector grinned, “you lookin’ pretty good, like you bought your clo’s from Anita Bryant.”
“We’ve been poisoning ourselves eating junk food, waiting for you,” Adams said grumpily. “I mean, imagine getting past Lester Maddox and his axe handles, only to be done in by a Big Mac or an Egg McMuffin.”
“You’re looking chipper as usual, Richard,” Kimberly said good-naturedly. “Your dialogue hasn’t improved but the shirt is reasonably clean. I’m glad at least that you thought to wear a shirt.”
“Shirt,” Richard growled, slamming the Bronco in gear and screaming backward out of the parking lot, “we ought to be wearing shrouds. Morning costumes. Do you know what this whole thing is about? Have you any idea what’s going down?”
Kimberly swallowed a couple of times before answering. It didn’t do to rise directly to Richard’s bait because he always had something in his sock, something to club you with when you engaged his first premise.
“What’s going down,” she said, trying to shout into the slip-stream, “is that we’re going to do a standard interview with the PR honcho of a nuclear generating plant. Now this whole thing could just turn out to be white bread or it could come out interesting, depending on what we get into.”
“What we get into!” Richard snorted and jabbed Salas with his elbow. “Did you hear that? What do you think we’re going to get into, chickie? What do you think the front office man is going to let us get into? You think they’re going to take us down into the pickle works, where we can photograph the whole scam? You think they’re going to let us really see anything? Like where they bury the shit they can’t burn off?”
“Goddam it, Richard!” Kimberly lost her temper despite herself. “It’s an assignment, not a cause. Okay? You take the gig, you shut up and do the job. I’ll ask the questions. And if I don’t ask the questions you want answered, mail them in. You got that?”
Richard answered by slumping down in his seat and blowing air out of puffed cheeks. Even an activist needs to live and he was, as usual, behind in his rent, behind in just about everything else. It even occurred to him that Hector Salas had to spring for the garbage they’d been eating. It also occurred to him that he’d better shut up and drive.
“Isn’t there someway you can load up this jeep so that I don’t get a camera case in my neck?” Kimberly shouted at him.
Richard didn’t answer. A buck is a buck is a buck, he told himself, and kept right on driving.
Even before they got into a slow-speed area, the Ventana Nuclear Power Plant was impressive enough to lift Richard’s foot off the accelerator. A large, bullet-shaped dome rose up over a huge block structure, towering some fifteen stories above the surrounding sand and chaparral. All of the connecting buildings were massive and windowless, so that the initial impression of this huge establishment was one of silence. Eerie, mysterious silence. A few parked cars were baking out in the lot. There were no guards visible, no traffic, no vehicles moving back and forth’ inside the barbed-wire-topped fences. It was both awesome and spooky to come upon something so vast, so potent, and to encounter nothing but the sighing of wind from the surrounding desert, a sigh which only emphasized the deep, even ominous silence.
Richard pulled to a stop and reached under Kimberly’s legs for his camera, even as she was trying to scramble out of the jeep.
A few minutes later, with almost no exchange among the three of them, Kimberly was facing Richard’s camera, her back to the huge nuclear generating plant, Hector Salas’s recorder turning over silently in the back of the jeep.
“Hello,” Kimberly said, looking into the camera. “This is Kimberly Wells and I’m standing just outside the grounds of the Ventana Nuclear Power Plant, owned and operated by California Gas and Electric. The plant is just behind me. That huge dome you see is called the Containment, and houses the nuclear fuel. In this section of our continuing look at Energy in California, Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow, we will focus on nuclear energy, that almost magical transformation of matter into energy that, the experts tell us, is our best shot at energy selfish sufficience—oh, shit!”
“Cut!” Hector called.
“Whatsa matter?” Richard wanted to know.
“She said selfish,” Hector said. “Selfish sufficiency instead of self-sufficiency.”
“So who’s listening?”
“Just a minute,” Kimberly dug into her bag and pulled out a script. “Give me a cigarette, will you, Richard. I know, I know, I gave it up. But this is show biz and it makes me nervous.” Her features softened briefly as he lighted a cigarette and handed it to her. Then she frowned over her script again.
“Self-sufficiency, there it is. Self—self—self. Self sufish. Self suffish. Self suffishin. Self suffishincy. Self sufficiency. Okay, let’s roll ’em one more time.”
Hector Salas muttered into his mike. “Kimberly Wells, Energy special, Ventana Nuclear Plant, take two....”
“Hello,” Kimberly said, smiling once more into the camera. “I’m Kimberly Wells and I’m here at the...”
This time it went off without a hitch.
While they were returning their equipment to the jeep, a little white Pinto came out of the chain link gate in front of the plant and drove swiftly to where they stood. A pleasant-looking man in his early forties, with a practiced smile and a professionally laid-back manner, greeted them from the driver’s seat.
“Hi, KXLA news team? Kimberly Wells? I’m Bill Gibson, public information director for Ventana.”
“Public information!” Richard snorted under his breath to Hector. “El flack-o. PR guys, the pits!”
“Shut up, Richard,” Kimberly warned in an undertone.
Gibson ambled over, smiling, smoothing his hair. “Looks like you’ve got a perfect day for your outdoor stuff.”
“I hope you didn’t mind,” Kimberly said. “I thought we’d pick up a master shot out here before going into the plant. The light’s awfully good now and we might not have enough light for a good daytime shot when we come out.”
“Good thinking. We’d prefer people to get a good clear look in bright sunshine. Makes it all seem more real, less sci-fi-ish.”
Richaid guffawed. “Sy Fyish! Say, does he work here? I haven’t seen him—”
Kimberly broke in quickly. “Uh, this is Richard Adams, camera and stand-up comic, and Hector Salas, audio.”
“Hiya, fellas,” Gibson said easily. “Glad you could make it out here. Why don’t you put all your gear in the back of my car and I’ll drive you into the plant.”
“Whatsamatter, my car bad for the neighborhood?” Adams said. He was smiling. Mirthlessly.
“Hell, no.” Gibson gestured. “Just that we’ve got pretty tight security—I’m sure you can appreciate that, Kimberly—and my car has been checked and re-checked. It’ll just save time if they don’t have to search your car.”
“Oh, okay, man, no sweat. I’ve got a ki of hash in the tool box and I’d just as soon the guards didn’t flash on that. And Hector here never travels without his mayonnaise jar full of reds. I try to tell him—”
“Uh, Richard—” Kimberly’s voice carried a warning note.
“I thought we’d talk for a little bit,” Bill Gibson said. “You tell me what you’d like to get. I’ll tell you some things you might want to shoot that you probably don’t even know about and also some stuff that you can’t shoot. O.K.?”
“Sounds good to me,” Kimberly said. “We’re green. You fill us in and then we’ll see what we can put together.”
“Fine,” Gibson said, opening the doors of his car. “Uh, Adams, why don’t you sit up front so that the guard can take a look at your camera and Kimberly, if you and Salas would sit in back...”
Sharp, Kimberly thought. Not only did he get the names right the first time, he put her a touch off-balance by stashing her in the back seat. This dude, she told herself, was no glad-handing Lions Club publicity chairman.
At the gate, a smartly uniformed, smiling, but no-nonsense guard firmly insisted on examining the camera.
“Hey, don’t even think about opening that box, man,” Adams said.
“Just need to X-ray it, sir. Won’t take a moment.”
“But there’s raw film in there. Jesus Christ!” Adams wheeled to face Gibson.
“Uh, Chuck,” Gibson said, “okay if I personally vouch for the camera? These people are a TV news team and were approved by upstairs.”
“Okay, Mr. Gibson, if you’ll just sign this form, I’ll let the camera inside in your custody.”
“Thanks. Uh—excuse me, Kimberly? Adams? Salas? You do have some form of ID?”
“Of course,” Kimberly said, “but you don’t think we’d come out here in this heat with audio and video equipment unless we—”
“Mind showing me your ID?”
Kimberly’s smile faded., The man was serious. “Oh—well, sure. Here’s my—” she hunted around in her purse “—um, here it is. Studio pass.”
“Good,” Gibson sinned, handing it back to her.
He turned to face Adams and Salas, both of whom gave Kimberly a questioning look. “Go ahead,” she said.
Then, dutifully, they came up with their ID cards.
“Thanks folks,” Gibson said, after he’d seen all their cards. He casually saluted the guard and drove slowly toward a parking area near the administration building. “I’m sorry about the red tape,” he added, “but on the other hand, I wouldn’t think you’d want it any other way. We’re super-cautious, about security, engineering, everything. We have to be. Since I’m signing as responsible party for the camera equipment, I want to be darned sure I know who I’m dealing with.”
“I think you make a good point, Mr. Gibson, and I may want to cover that in our show.”
“You can call me Bill—it’ll be easier in the long run.”
“And you can call me Richard. Not Dick, Promise?”
“Promise,” Gibson grinned. It was clear that no amount of needling was going to wear down his even temper and Adams found this depressing. There was nothing that frustrated him more than losing an arm-wrestling match because his opposite number wouldn’t take his hands out of his pockets.
“Now, first we have to go through the security gate—through those glass doors. The guards will check you out, just the way they do in airports.”
“Boy, Hector, I hope you didn’t bring those dumb grenades with you again.”
“Hey, no way, man. Just a couple molotovs—the machine don’t groove on glass, you know.”
“They’re always a handful,” Kimberly said, “until they get through the third grade. Once they’re really good at sight-reading—”
Gibson laughed and then dumped all of his change, keys and other metal objects into a plastic tray. The armed and uniformed guard took the tray, scrutinized it briefly, then motioned Gibson to pass by the metal detector. Once past that, another guard carefully patted Gibson’s body down.
“Uh, Kimberly, if you’d go through that aisle...” Gibson motioned to an adjacent aisle where a uniformed female guard waited at the other end, “A body search is mandatory.”
“Fine with me, but couldn’t I have a drink first?”
“Now who’s being smart-ass,” Adams growled. “Go through the gate, lady, and let Butchy there cop a feel. Hector, what do you say we forget the whole gig and go search each other. I mean really search and probe and—”
“Down, man, they’re waiting for you.”
Kimberly started to pass the metal detector but was stopped by a high-pitched whine. “Now, what the—I took off just about everything I could—”
“Any metal will do it,” the female guard said pleasantly. “Bracelet, garters, safety pins.”
“Safety pins! I promised my mother I’d never go—I know! I’ve got a spare dime in my pocket.”
“If you’ll just step in here, Miss, so we can have a look.”
“But it’s just a thin dime. See?”
“In here,” the guard repeated, holding open a door to a little brightly lighted cubicle. “Won’t take a second.”
“Richard,” Kimberly said, “if anything happens, be sure to put the cover on my terrarium.”
Adams was too busy to reply. One by one, the guards were going over the bits and pieces of his equipment. And while they were examining his gear, another guard was giving him a professional body search.
“Boy, you guys don’t leave anything to chance, do you?” Adams remarked, obviously impressed by their thoroughness.
“That’s our business, sir, security.”
“That’s good,” Adams circled his thumb and forefinger in a sign of approval. “Because when you’ve got this kind of a store, somebody had better be watching it”
The briefing with Gibson took place in his pleasant, well-lighted but windowless office and was straightforward and business-like. He briefly outlined the main features of the plant, told them what they could see and what they could not. “For safety reasons, primarily,” he explained. “Our insurance policy doesn’t cover non-authorized personnel in certain areas. Not so much a matter of radiation, although there are areas where that is naturally a hazard, but because of heavy equipment, excess heat, or just the simple danger of slipping and falling off a metal ladder. A good deal of our operation is no different from any other heavy industry and presupposes the usual safeguards.”
“Well,” Kimberly said, “in checking over my notes, I’d say you’re doing right well by us. I didn’t think we’d get to shoot the reactor core. For goodness sake, who’d want to?”
“Me, I’d want to,” Richard said. “Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve wanted to see one of those things.”
“And get turned into a taco? Who needs it?” Kimberly said.
“Hector. Hector turns into a taco. Me, I turn into an Egg McMuffin. Seriously, folks—”
“Yeah, I sure wish—”
“O.K.,” Richard said, swinging his camera up on his shoulder. “Why don’t we do a little footage on this plant model, with you and Gibson talking, Kimberly. It’ll give us a sort of a lead-in, we might want to edit it down later, but—”
“I think you’re right. This model is really very visual and we’ve got a lot of explaining to do. The general public doesn’t know beans about all this stuff.”
“Our number-one job,” Gibson said. “Educating the public. Education is the only way through all the fear and hysteria’
“Maybe the more we know, the more we ought to be afraid, Mr. Gibson,” Adams said.
“And maybe you will just start unwinding film and let me do the interview, huh, Richard, bubbie?” Kimberly cut in.
“Yeah, go. Take one.” Adams switched on a powerful light mounted on a tripod, handed Kimberly a microphone and put his eye to the view-finder.
“Kimberly Wells. I’m sitting here in the conference room of the Ventana Nuclear Power Plant with William Gibson, public relations director for California Gas and Electric.”
“I’d prefer public information director, Kimberly, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, sure. Let’s do that over, Richard.” She repeated her opening remarks exactly and corrected his title. “And now, Mr. Gibson—”
“Please call me Bill, Kimberly.”
Kimberly smiled and continued smoothly. “Bill Gibson is going to tell us just how this amazing plant works.”
“I’ll try to make it simple because it really is simple—in principle, that is. The technology is complicated, of course, but the basic operation is really no different from any other power plant. This is a nuclear plant designed to manufacture electricity. That’s been done for many years in this country, using coal or oil, natural gas, water power. But here, in order to make electricity we use uranium for our fuel. Now, this model that I’m standing next to will show you how we do it. Uh—” Gibson paused and looked up.
“Do you want to come in closer on this model, or is it all right from where you’re standing?”
“No, no, that’s fine. I’m still rolling and I’ve got it all in the picture. Just keep on doing what you were doing.”
“How about me, Richard?” Kimberly asked. “Am I in the shot or is it a single?”
“Single on Gibson. I’ll swing back to you in a minute for a reverse. Go on, kids, the camera’s wailing.”
“This,” Gibson said, taking a small pellet out of his pocket, “is a pellet of simulated uranium, the same size, color and weight of the actual uranium pellet that is placed in our fuel rods. Naturally, this is plastic, one doesn’t carry highly radioactive material around in his trousers pocket. Now, there are exactly 20,000,000 of these uranium pellets inside stainless steel rods which make up the reactor vessel or core. That’s this object here on the model. The core is totally covered by water which is used to cool it. In addition to these fuel rods, there is also another set of stainless steel rods called control rods. And these rods do actually control the nuclear reaction. They speed it up or slow it down. What happens is, when the core is activated, put on line, as we call it, the nuclear fuel begins a chain reaction, resulting in a tremendous amount of heat. As the heat builds, the temperature is controlled by the movement of the control rods. But the object is: to use the heat to boil the water to make the steam which turns the turbine, which turns the electric generator, which makes the electricity—to power your TV or make your toast or whatever. And it’s all as simple as that.” Gibson smiled and looked up.
