Chapter Nine
Zlapenza, Russia:
Now that Andy Douglas was safely back in his hotel room, he realized that he had to report to his employer what he had observed and discovered today, a Sunday, as he and his two colleagues had inspected the nearby plutonium processing plant where workers once turned plutonium buttons the size of hockey pucks weighing one pound into triggers or detonators for H-bombs. Production had decreased substantially since the start of the disposition program, but there was still a considerable amount of plutonium stored in many of the plant’s ninety buildings. Andy had been apprised of the metal’s combustibility, so he was anxious to check out the safety measures.
“Sean” the report began, “at first glance, I realized that the plant had been laid out in a wrong pattern. The prevailing winds blew toward the large city located just a few miles away. Any emission from the plant was sure to render the city uninhabitable. I muttered something about the bright engineers or planners who had planned so egregiously. The two Russian scientists shrugged their shoulders in agreement. I had come to trust and to like them—Vladimir Chuikov a short, balding, chunky physicist from Moscow and Nadia Petukhova a handsome, tall, imposing woman from somewhere in Siberia. Both scientists are Mansfield employees in Russian subsidiaries, and both know enough English to make me understand the problems they faced in their thankless work.
The target for today’s inspection was building 206 that had been the machining factory for the triggers. I observed few guards or fire wardens in the area as we three inspectors entered the building and donned special overalls, boots, and hard hats. My instinct bit a nerve, made me reach for a clipboard. I began to take notes which I later expanded into my report.
As we entered the structure, I realized immediately that it was a firetrap. The first thing that I noticed were four lines of stainless-steel glove boxes. There were hundreds of contraptions stacked three high like laundromat washing machines. The boxes had Plexiglas windows for viewing purposes. Out of two portholes hung heavy rubber gloves that the workers used to handle the plutonium as the material reached the boxes by means of a conveyor system above the boxes. In front of the conveyor hung plates made of magnesium. That metal is extracted from the sea and reacts quite violently with water. The deadly plutonium came from two lines of glove boxes that held eight furnaces where workers melted the stuff and cast it into buttons weighing between 15 and 18 pounds. After an isotope analysis the ingots were re-melted, blended and cast into flat, rectangular packages that moved through an enclosed line to the fabrication glove box line.
Sean, if I may digress for a moment, you must bear with me as I give you some background personal opinions. I am appalled at the thought that so-called rational men of science could build or even think of building such combination Devil’s Island and Doctor Frankenstein chambers of terror. It was one thing for world leaders to engage in Cold War rhetoric for political reasons, it was another thing for scientists to build these devilish installations that kept the world in turmoil for forty years while threatening mutual genocide. You must use your considerable influence to do away with nuclear bombs once and for all. Place the genie in the bottle and bury the damned thing.
Workers rolled out the plutonium into cookie-like dough and cut them into pieces so the special presses could form them into thin half balls which were machined to specified sizes, welded together, attached to other elements to make up the nuclear bomb pits or detonators. Beautiful, eh what?
The only problem arising from that efficient process was that waste from machining operations was considerable. The fabrication left chips of various sizes, still oily from the machining lubricants, laying around for workers to gather up for recycling. That went back to the original room where presses compressed the chips into 3 square inch bricks that were then placed in stainless steel cans and held in glove box storage called a vault. The workers closed the lids for safety reasons. I must mention one other thing. The recycled scrap was supposed to be dipped in carbon tetrachloride solutions to remove the oil. Since the process was dangerous because the plutonium sometimes ignited, the people in charge gave orders to bypass it. As a result, the presses extracted droplets of oil and tiny chips in the squeezing operations which fell onto the glove box floor. The workers wiped up the stuff and then tossed the rags into the glove boxes. This is important for you to remember and understand.
As far as I can report, the fire started shortly before noon when a chip and oil-covered rag spontaneously ignited, then spread to the other rags. The ventilation fans, which sucked air into filters on the floor above, pulled air into a storage box that lit up a brick. It began to burn.
There was a large amount of plutonium in various stages of production; ingots and pits lay on the assembly line where they had been left by the assemblers. The only workers I could see were two maintenance men observing the ventilation system. By the time my colleagues and I reached the southwest side of the building, the brick had burned a hole through the glove box. The plastic front did not burn but it emitted certain combustible gases that in turn lit up other chunks of plutonium. It had a chain reaction effect. The gases ignited the plutonium bricks that then melted the plastic fronts that then ignited—. I’m sure you have the idea. By this time the assembly line fire detectors should have gone off, but they had been replaced by new anti-radiation safety boxes.
The smoke clogged the filters as the fire spread quickly. Flames shot out when the Plexiglas windows melted. Fortunately, the fire followed the north-south assembly line that contained a second floor; the other two lines did not have a second floor. Flames would have soared to the building roof causing a predictable catastrophe.
At 1:00 P.M. the building’s fire detectors finally rang the alarm at the plant’s fire station. One of the workers smelled smoke and pulled the hand alarm. We reacted by looking for the blaze. The south foundry line was on fire. Smoke and flames two feet high shot out above the boxes. We looked for extinguishers. I found a small one that I discharged on the flames. It had no effect. By that time three firemen had arrived. The leader pushed a cart holding a big extinguisher to the other end of the line. He pushed the nozzle into the line and pressed the trigger. The carbon dioxide was useless, The fire was out of control!
I realized that the firemen now faced a dilemma. If they used water, they faced the risk of a plutonium explosion. If they did not use water, the firemen faced the risk of a chain-reaction that would destroy the building and the city. My fellow scientists and I retreated to the entrance since we realized we could do nothing at the moment.
The head fireman made a brave decision. He signaled his men. They brought in the fire hoses.
As we headed out the door, a police official intercepted us and asked a question in Russian.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?”
Vladimir replied, “We are inspectors checking on security measures for the disposition program. Here are our credentials.”
He signaled me to hand over our papers.
The man looked the documents over very carefully before returning them to us.
“I suggest you get into the protective gear as I intend to do. Stay out of the firemen’s way. Do me a favor, please. When you send in your final report, stress the missing safety measures that have turned these buildings into fire traps. You might also suggest the dismantling of all such plants the world over. We never did need them.”
We all put on special suits along with oxygen tanks since the building was now full of smoke. Suddenly, two fireballs shot up toward the ceiling. Along the two sides thick plastic walls that served as radiation shields began to burn. I suspected that the glue holding the sheets together was not fireproof. We watched in horror as ceiling lights crashed to the floor as the intense heat melted their steel fasteners. The overhead conveyors caught fire and sent lead from their shields falling like murderous rain onto the floor. By this time more firemen were arriving, dressed in their protective suits and hard hats while lugging oxygen tanks on their backs.
The men directed fine sprays of water onto the ceiling, being very careful not to send water directly against the plutonium. It was now as bright inside the building as it was outside. The temperature was extremely high. I could see a brilliant fire shine through the black smoke. I assumed the fire came from burning plutonium and magnesium. Then a new problem developed.
The big ventilator fans designed to pull plutonium dust into paper filters now sucked in the flames which quickly burned out two lines of filters. The third line had just caught fire when Vladimir rushed outside. A short time later the fans stopped turning. I then realized that the man had shut off the power.
I glanced down at the glove box line and froze. The foundry line containing cast and raw plutonium bricks was on fire. If the theory about exploding plutonium was correct, the building should have been moving skyward along with every fool in it. The only way the firemen could get to the fire was to cross under the assembly line by moving through pits now half covered by water. I could feel the intense heat from one hundred feet away. The firefighters did not hesitate. They shouldered heavy hoses and waded across. I breathed a sigh of relief as water poured on the fire.
It was time for us to evacuate. So, we moved outside in time to see thick, black smoke pour out of the vents. Some firefighters got on the cherry picker and were lifted to the roof as a precautionary measure. They flooded the roof with water to keep it cool. There was enough light for me to examine the roof, if only from a distance.
Steel plates were anchored to steel girders and covered by various materials that I could not identify. The fire had not penetrated the roof, thanks to the constant flow of thousands of gallons of water upon it. By this time workers had reached the plant and were helping the exhausted firemen who moved in and out of the building to be checked for radiation exposure. There was a constant stream of men going to or coming from building 75, the decontamination area where the men showered and rested. Finally, at 4:00 P.M. the firemen contained the blaze and a short time later had extinguished the fire.
We looked for the police official and indicated to him that we wanted to check the storage vault to check on the plutonium.
“Why do you want to risk your lives to do that?”
Nadia replied, “We must make sure the material is still there because we must report every stockpile of disposable plutonium.”
“Do you suspect something, theft maybe?”
“We must make sure. Do you understand?”
The man nodded yes. “Let me check with the fire captain.”
As I waited, I reflected on the bravery of the workers and firefighters, and I felt sadness. All that exposure to danger could have been made unnecessary if the major powers—. I shrugged at the thought of international trust. It was a first-class oxymoron best left alone.
An hour later the plant had cooled down enough for the four of us to make our way carefully past twisted glove boxes, melted furnaces and still smoldering metals to the storage vault located in the northwest corner. The door was open. I immediately suspected the worst. I was not disappointed. The containers were empty. The tomato cans were gone! Someone had pulled the heist of the century.
Sean, read my report carefully. We could not return to Moscow until Wednesday because of the chaotic situation. I went to the Embassy and persuaded the ambassador to send the report through diplomatic mail for security reasons. I believe that our job is impossible; you need more firepower so you must involve our government. I have no idea who pilfered the stuff, nor do I have a clue as to its whereabouts. I fear for our lives.
We are holed up in our hotel rooms at the Metropole, afraid to move out. We could use a few Marines. I am waiting for orders. Give my regards to my son.”
Sincerely,
Andy Douglas.
P.S. Do you happen to know where you know who is right now? I’d give my right arm to see him strolling through the lobby.
