chalked off a square area. “Don’t step outside these lines,” he barks. “Keep the contamination inside these lines,” as if plutonium could possibly recognize a line of chalk.
“Water?” Bill looks to Stan for confirmation.
“Water.”
What the hell
, Stan thinks. He’s not a firefighter. He’s a guard. He’s lived in the country and nearly all he knows about firefighting is how to beat a prairie grass fire with a burlap sack. “You good with these things?” he asks Bill.
“More or less,” Bill replies. They wrestle with the nozzle. “Use the fine spray.”
“Got it.”
“Soft. Gentle-like,” Bill says. “Hit the gases from the melting plastic first. See what happens.”
“Okay.”
They reenter the building, this time with water hoses.
“We’ll take turns going forward,” Bill says. “I spray you, then you spray me. We need to keep each other cooled down.”
“Let’s head toward the center,” Stan says. “Get under the center beams and see how the plenum looks.”
“Okay.” Bill turns his hose on Stan, and Stan moves forward into the smoke, trying to follow the emergency lighting on the floor.
“Hey!” Bill yells. Stan looks back.
“Don’t blow any of those plutonium pieces together. Keep ’em separated.”
“I know.” Blue flash. He knows.
F IGHTING THE fire from the other side of the building—two football fields away—Captain Jesser reaches the same decision. Despite the risk, his men decide to use water, too.
Like Bill Dennison, Wayne Jesser fought the 1957 fire. He knows the danger of a criticality. Everyone fears that blue flash. And it’s not just about what could happen to him and his crew. If the fire burns through the roof, powdery plutonium ash—toxic radiation—will descend on people living in the Denver area and beyond.
At 2:34 p.m., just five minutes after entering the building with Sweet, Jesser orders his team to bring in fire hoses. They drive a tanker to the north end and hook up a hose to a hydrant.
W ORKING IN tandem, Bill and Stan move along the glove-box line, directing a spray of water around the flames and then on each other. They’ve gone only a few feet when they see where the real fire lies: in the foundry area, where plutonium is melted and cast into pieces that arecarried to the production line. The foundry line is one hundred feet long and contains eight furnaces, all held inside glove boxes. The entire line is ablaze.
Bill curses. The men glance at each other. The production area is tight. There’s only one way to get to the foundry area: through the underpasses. Some glove boxes have steps beneath them, tiny stairs going down to a miniature basement with steps leading up the other side. This allows workers to get from one side of the production line to the other. The underpasses have no drains. Anything that spills under a glove box is contaminated and has to be cleaned up, not flushed out.
There’s no place for the water to go, and the underpasses are filled with water. The water is rising.
“It’s like a sheep dip,” Bill says, and laughs. He thinks back to all the ranches he worked on as a kid. “One hell of a sheep dip.”
“There’s our criticality, Bill,” Stan says. “We’re looking right at it.”
“Who’s going in?”
Both men stand silent. Bill looks up and sees an elevator flipped upside down, the supporting metal scorched and twisted. People are going to get killed tonight, and he guesses it might be him and Stan. He thinks of his wife, who’s pregnant, and his two other kids. Both men were trained for the battlefield, but it didn’t prepare them for this. One thing it did teach them was to keep their feelings to themselves—and move.
Bill wades in. The water is up to his knees. He thinks he’s moving fast, but it feels slow. He prays they haven’t knocked any plutonium pits or pieces into the water, which could lead to the criticality they fear. Then he’s up the other side and the foundry fire
“Water?” Bill looks to Stan for confirmation.
“Water.”
What the hell
, Stan thinks. He’s not a firefighter. He’s a guard. He’s lived in the country and nearly all he knows about firefighting is how to beat a prairie grass fire with a burlap sack. “You good with these things?” he asks Bill.
“More or less,” Bill replies. They wrestle with the nozzle. “Use the fine spray.”
“Got it.”
“Soft. Gentle-like,” Bill says. “Hit the gases from the melting plastic first. See what happens.”
“Okay.”
They reenter the building, this time with water hoses.
“We’ll take turns going forward,” Bill says. “I spray you, then you spray me. We need to keep each other cooled down.”
“Let’s head toward the center,” Stan says. “Get under the center beams and see how the plenum looks.”
“Okay.” Bill turns his hose on Stan, and Stan moves forward into the smoke, trying to follow the emergency lighting on the floor.
“Hey!” Bill yells. Stan looks back.
“Don’t blow any of those plutonium pieces together. Keep ’em separated.”
“I know.” Blue flash. He knows.
F IGHTING THE fire from the other side of the building—two football fields away—Captain Jesser reaches the same decision. Despite the risk, his men decide to use water, too.
Like Bill Dennison, Wayne Jesser fought the 1957 fire. He knows the danger of a criticality. Everyone fears that blue flash. And it’s not just about what could happen to him and his crew. If the fire burns through the roof, powdery plutonium ash—toxic radiation—will descend on people living in the Denver area and beyond.
At 2:34 p.m., just five minutes after entering the building with Sweet, Jesser orders his team to bring in fire hoses. They drive a tanker to the north end and hook up a hose to a hydrant.
W ORKING IN tandem, Bill and Stan move along the glove-box line, directing a spray of water around the flames and then on each other. They’ve gone only a few feet when they see where the real fire lies: in the foundry area, where plutonium is melted and cast into pieces that arecarried to the production line. The foundry line is one hundred feet long and contains eight furnaces, all held inside glove boxes. The entire line is ablaze.
Bill curses. The men glance at each other. The production area is tight. There’s only one way to get to the foundry area: through the underpasses. Some glove boxes have steps beneath them, tiny stairs going down to a miniature basement with steps leading up the other side. This allows workers to get from one side of the production line to the other. The underpasses have no drains. Anything that spills under a glove box is contaminated and has to be cleaned up, not flushed out.
There’s no place for the water to go, and the underpasses are filled with water. The water is rising.
“It’s like a sheep dip,” Bill says, and laughs. He thinks back to all the ranches he worked on as a kid. “One hell of a sheep dip.”
“There’s our criticality, Bill,” Stan says. “We’re looking right at it.”
“Who’s going in?”
Both men stand silent. Bill looks up and sees an elevator flipped upside down, the supporting metal scorched and twisted. People are going to get killed tonight, and he guesses it might be him and Stan. He thinks of his wife, who’s pregnant, and his two other kids. Both men were trained for the battlefield, but it didn’t prepare them for this. One thing it did teach them was to keep their feelings to themselves—and move.
Bill wades in. The water is up to his knees. He thinks he’s moving fast, but it feels slow. He prays they haven’t knocked any plutonium pits or pieces into the water, which could lead to the criticality they fear. Then he’s up the other side and the foundry fire
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