the liquidation of New York from Buchanan down through White Plains to the Statue of Liberty. One hundred and fifty warning sirens would howl over a ten-mile radius. There would be an emergency shutdown, a SCRAM. She planned the assault on Indian Point to force the Final SCRAM, to protect the world from the false promises of a lethal technology.
America had seen this before, but was forgetting . . .
1979. The old man stared into the camera, his voice low and measured:
âThe world has never known a day quite like today. It faced the considerable uncertainties and dangers of the worst nuclear power plant accident of the atomic age. And the horror tonight is that it could get much worse. The potential is there for the ultimate risk of meltdown at Three Mile Island . . .â
Walter Cronkite spoke into the cameras of CBS News on the evening of March 30, twelve days after the release of the nuclear power plant disaster movie The China Syndrome . Then Cronkite stood before a rudimentary map of Pennsylvania: âEarlier on this incredible third day of the accident, confusion, contradiction, and questions clouded the atmosphere like atomic particles. Plant officials predicted radiation will continue to leak at leastfive more days. Governor Thornburgh considered then rejected the evacuation of a million residents in four counties surrounding the plant: York, Dauphin, Lancaster, and Cumberland. But the governor urged that pregnant women and young children within a five-mile radius leave the area.â A profound sense of doubt and distrust snaked along the Susquehanna River, as the huge hydrogen bubble in Reactor 2 continued to swell, blasting grotesque plumes of radioactive xenon gas across the hollowing town, a decade of exposure in moments. Middletown officials declared a curfew. Cash had researched what followed: six months after the near-meltdown and the smothering of the streets, homes, farms, and fields of Dauphin County by the gas cloud, catastrophic increases in infant mortality and instances of cancers within a ten-mile zone of the plant. The site of Three Mile Island Reactor 2 was still dirty, and would never be clean . . .
In Madrid, a light snow began to fall as Varyushka Cash descended from the slag heaps, surfing on low waves of black silt as the pain in her skull threatened to wipe her out. Below her, she could see the dark locomotive fused with rust to the broken iron railway that extended 100 yards behind the Coalmine Tavern before disappearing into the weeds. She knew all the problems with coal, but if it burned, you could extinguish it, and it would not kill you if you ate it. As she slid sideways down the face of minerals and stray grass, her fingers trailed in it. At the foot of the hill, she brushed her black hands on her jeans, smelling the carbon. She vaulted the guardrail and walked along the road beneath the garlands of lights toward her cabin. Wind chimes toned from leafless trees. Her neighborâs house was in darkness and her car was not in the unpaved drive. Cash ran her fingers over the cold tank of her motorcycle before opening her own front door.
Cashâs mining cabin consisted of three rooms. The front door opened onto a small kitchen where a yellow-and-green-tiled Mexican table was arranged at the center of the floorboards she had painted with thick gloss. The livingroom was defined at the point where the bare red floor gave way to a series of rugs, a small couch, and bookshelves improvised from crates. On the wall was a large banner, an orange background with the black silhouette of a seven-headed cobra. An antique wood-burning stove and the black chimney cans that rose into the ceiling and out of the roof heated the house. She checked it and found the embers strong. Otherwise, the only other spaces were her bedroom and cramped bathroom. Cash opened her refrigerator and reached for a bottle of filtered water. The tap water in Madrid was full of sulfur and mostly non-potable.
America had seen this before, but was forgetting . . .
1979. The old man stared into the camera, his voice low and measured:
âThe world has never known a day quite like today. It faced the considerable uncertainties and dangers of the worst nuclear power plant accident of the atomic age. And the horror tonight is that it could get much worse. The potential is there for the ultimate risk of meltdown at Three Mile Island . . .â
Walter Cronkite spoke into the cameras of CBS News on the evening of March 30, twelve days after the release of the nuclear power plant disaster movie The China Syndrome . Then Cronkite stood before a rudimentary map of Pennsylvania: âEarlier on this incredible third day of the accident, confusion, contradiction, and questions clouded the atmosphere like atomic particles. Plant officials predicted radiation will continue to leak at leastfive more days. Governor Thornburgh considered then rejected the evacuation of a million residents in four counties surrounding the plant: York, Dauphin, Lancaster, and Cumberland. But the governor urged that pregnant women and young children within a five-mile radius leave the area.â A profound sense of doubt and distrust snaked along the Susquehanna River, as the huge hydrogen bubble in Reactor 2 continued to swell, blasting grotesque plumes of radioactive xenon gas across the hollowing town, a decade of exposure in moments. Middletown officials declared a curfew. Cash had researched what followed: six months after the near-meltdown and the smothering of the streets, homes, farms, and fields of Dauphin County by the gas cloud, catastrophic increases in infant mortality and instances of cancers within a ten-mile zone of the plant. The site of Three Mile Island Reactor 2 was still dirty, and would never be clean . . .
In Madrid, a light snow began to fall as Varyushka Cash descended from the slag heaps, surfing on low waves of black silt as the pain in her skull threatened to wipe her out. Below her, she could see the dark locomotive fused with rust to the broken iron railway that extended 100 yards behind the Coalmine Tavern before disappearing into the weeds. She knew all the problems with coal, but if it burned, you could extinguish it, and it would not kill you if you ate it. As she slid sideways down the face of minerals and stray grass, her fingers trailed in it. At the foot of the hill, she brushed her black hands on her jeans, smelling the carbon. She vaulted the guardrail and walked along the road beneath the garlands of lights toward her cabin. Wind chimes toned from leafless trees. Her neighborâs house was in darkness and her car was not in the unpaved drive. Cash ran her fingers over the cold tank of her motorcycle before opening her own front door.
Cashâs mining cabin consisted of three rooms. The front door opened onto a small kitchen where a yellow-and-green-tiled Mexican table was arranged at the center of the floorboards she had painted with thick gloss. The livingroom was defined at the point where the bare red floor gave way to a series of rugs, a small couch, and bookshelves improvised from crates. On the wall was a large banner, an orange background with the black silhouette of a seven-headed cobra. An antique wood-burning stove and the black chimney cans that rose into the ceiling and out of the roof heated the house. She checked it and found the embers strong. Otherwise, the only other spaces were her bedroom and cramped bathroom. Cash opened her refrigerator and reached for a bottle of filtered water. The tap water in Madrid was full of sulfur and mostly non-potable.
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