is so hot, so immediate, that his soaked coveralls dry instantly. His face feels scorched beneath his mask.
Stan is right behind him. They spray the fire until their air runs low—a few short minutes. Then they drop their hoses, wade through the sheep dip again, and fight their way back to the door.
A radiation monitor is waiting when they burst from the building and yank off their masks. He checks their hands.
“You’re hot, man,” he barks. “Coated.” His sharpness can’t hide his fear. “You can’t go back in.”
“We’re all right,” Bill says.
“No. You’re off the chart.”
“We gotta go back.”
Stan reaches for a fresh tank. “The plenum’s about to go. You gonna keep us out here so we can all watch the roof melt?”
“I’m serious. You guys are not going back in that building.”
“Who else is there?” Bill asks.
“We’re waiting on more guys,” another monitor yells. “We don’t have anyone else yet. We don’t even have enough gear. We’re waiting for Boulder and Broomfield to bring more tanks.” The only manager on duty that the men are aware of is the guard captain, who’s on the phone.
“Is that you, George?” Stan peers into the man’s mask. He recognizes him from the lunchroom. They’re both model railroad hobbyists.
“I can’t let you back in, Stan,” George says. “Come on. What the hell are you guys thinking?” He looks toward the road. A van is on the way to take workers to Building 559 for decontamination.
“George,” Stan says, “we let the fire get into the plenums and Denver is screwed.”
“Give us the tanks.” Bill’s voice is furious.
“Can’t do that.”
“Then we’ll just take ’em,” Stan says. They strap on the tanks and pull on their masks as George, arms folded, blocks their way. Bill shoves past him. Stan follows.
The men duck back into the building. “I’ll go first this time,” Stan shouts. He runs, crouching, into the production line. He darts back and forth, spraying anything that doesn’t look like plutonium.
That man is as quick as a monkey
, Bill thinks. After a few minutes he sprays him down and they switch. Bill can’t move quite as quickly as Stan, but it feels like they’re making progress. They’re both thinking about the roof.
“I’m out!” Bill shouts, and gestures toward his tank. Stan nods. Hewonders if the heat and exertion are causing them to go through their air tanks more quickly than usual, or if the tanks are only partially filled.
Abruptly Stan is knocked to the floor. Flat on his back, covered with debris, he can’t see anything. He doesn’t lose consciousness but it takes him a moment to realize that his body is covered with a heavy material. Ceiling material. His heart pounds. The roof. This is it, he thinks. The roof is gone. It’s over.
But nothing happens. He looks up to see Bill still standing. He finds he can move his arms and legs, so he sits up and looks around. He’s covered with gunk—messy, sticky gunk—and he pulls a soggy piece off his arm. Bill points to a gap in the ceiling—a false ceiling made of fiber material in two-foot by three-foot sections. They’ve sprayed it repeatedly with their hoses and the tiles have collapsed from the weight of the water. Stan is covered with nothing more than soaked ceiling tiles. The roof is still intact.
He stands up and Bill cleans him off. He can’t read Bill’s face.
Outside, they explode with laughter. “I hate to admit it,” Stan says, “but I think that’s the closest I’ve ever come to shitting my pants.” The statement strikes them both as hilarious and they switch to new tanks. George stands back, watching.
M EANWHILE , J ESSER orders several workers up on the roof where fluted steel sheets are fastened to steel ceiling girders and covered by three-quarter-inch Styrofoam, plywood, and a layer of thick rubber. One of the first men on the roof is Jim Kelly, who’s been called in for the emergency from a holiday
Stan is right behind him. They spray the fire until their air runs low—a few short minutes. Then they drop their hoses, wade through the sheep dip again, and fight their way back to the door.
A radiation monitor is waiting when they burst from the building and yank off their masks. He checks their hands.
“You’re hot, man,” he barks. “Coated.” His sharpness can’t hide his fear. “You can’t go back in.”
“We’re all right,” Bill says.
“No. You’re off the chart.”
“We gotta go back.”
Stan reaches for a fresh tank. “The plenum’s about to go. You gonna keep us out here so we can all watch the roof melt?”
“I’m serious. You guys are not going back in that building.”
“Who else is there?” Bill asks.
“We’re waiting on more guys,” another monitor yells. “We don’t have anyone else yet. We don’t even have enough gear. We’re waiting for Boulder and Broomfield to bring more tanks.” The only manager on duty that the men are aware of is the guard captain, who’s on the phone.
“Is that you, George?” Stan peers into the man’s mask. He recognizes him from the lunchroom. They’re both model railroad hobbyists.
“I can’t let you back in, Stan,” George says. “Come on. What the hell are you guys thinking?” He looks toward the road. A van is on the way to take workers to Building 559 for decontamination.
“George,” Stan says, “we let the fire get into the plenums and Denver is screwed.”
“Give us the tanks.” Bill’s voice is furious.
“Can’t do that.”
“Then we’ll just take ’em,” Stan says. They strap on the tanks and pull on their masks as George, arms folded, blocks their way. Bill shoves past him. Stan follows.
The men duck back into the building. “I’ll go first this time,” Stan shouts. He runs, crouching, into the production line. He darts back and forth, spraying anything that doesn’t look like plutonium.
That man is as quick as a monkey
, Bill thinks. After a few minutes he sprays him down and they switch. Bill can’t move quite as quickly as Stan, but it feels like they’re making progress. They’re both thinking about the roof.
“I’m out!” Bill shouts, and gestures toward his tank. Stan nods. Hewonders if the heat and exertion are causing them to go through their air tanks more quickly than usual, or if the tanks are only partially filled.
Abruptly Stan is knocked to the floor. Flat on his back, covered with debris, he can’t see anything. He doesn’t lose consciousness but it takes him a moment to realize that his body is covered with a heavy material. Ceiling material. His heart pounds. The roof. This is it, he thinks. The roof is gone. It’s over.
But nothing happens. He looks up to see Bill still standing. He finds he can move his arms and legs, so he sits up and looks around. He’s covered with gunk—messy, sticky gunk—and he pulls a soggy piece off his arm. Bill points to a gap in the ceiling—a false ceiling made of fiber material in two-foot by three-foot sections. They’ve sprayed it repeatedly with their hoses and the tiles have collapsed from the weight of the water. Stan is covered with nothing more than soaked ceiling tiles. The roof is still intact.
He stands up and Bill cleans him off. He can’t read Bill’s face.
Outside, they explode with laughter. “I hate to admit it,” Stan says, “but I think that’s the closest I’ve ever come to shitting my pants.” The statement strikes them both as hilarious and they switch to new tanks. George stands back, watching.
M EANWHILE , J ESSER orders several workers up on the roof where fluted steel sheets are fastened to steel ceiling girders and covered by three-quarter-inch Styrofoam, plywood, and a layer of thick rubber. One of the first men on the roof is Jim Kelly, who’s been called in for the emergency from a holiday
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