brunch with his family. He doesn’t see smoke or detect radiation, and reports that the filters seem to be holding.
I can get back to my family soon
, he thinks. But twenty long hours will pass before he can go home. Soon firemen see smoke trailing along the roof’s fluted edge, and then suddenly it begins pouring from the exhaust vents.
A few miles away, drivers on the Denver-Boulder turnpike can see the smoke, but no one understands its significance. The temperature is close to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. The Styrofoam is melting. One areaof the roof is soft and beginning to rise like a big bubble. If the bubble bursts, they’re in trouble. The entire city is in trouble.
“Water,” Jesser shouts. It’s against his training, against everything he knows about fighting a plutonium fire. “Get up there with that water!” A couple of firemen climb up with hoses and begin to spray water, cautiously and then more vigorously, thousands of gallons, across the rubber material. It helps slightly. “Keep at it,” Jesser orders. He notes that the wind has picked up, not only making it more difficult to fight the fire but dispersing smoke and debris all over the place.
A quick assessment determines that two of the three banks of filters are completely burned out. The third is on fire.
B ILL D ENNISON ’ S arms and legs are heavy with exhaustion. Stan, too, is tired. A relief crew of firefighters has arrived at the west side of the building, where Jesser and his crew are working, but there’s no one to relieve the two guards. They both figure they had the last of their bad luck when the ceiling fell. They survived wading through the sheep dips. The fire, if not diminishing, at least is not growing. The worst is over—must be over—if they can just hang on a little longer.
It’s Stan’s turn to go ahead. Their tanks are getting low and Bill is misting Stan, keeping him cool. Stan stoops down to pick up his hose. It looks like it’s charred on one side but still usable. He turns it on. But it’s too hard, too fast, and it shoots out on full stream. No good, he thinks. He wants to wet down the material, not blow it around. He tries to turn the valve and slow it down. But it’s still too much. He shuts it all the way off and the hose goes from full pressure to no pressure. Suddenly the backed-up water bursts through the side of the hose. It catches his mask and pulls it off. The burning air hits his face full force. The hose flails around him like a wild snake.
Stan tries to think clearly.
Get the mask back on
, he thinks.
Don’t breathe. Where is the strap?
The strap catches on his nose. Everything is out of place. Thirty seconds pass and he’s still holding his breath. His fingers fumble through the heavy gloves. Another thirty seconds. Hethinks of all the crud they use in there. Plastics, vinyl, rubber, paints. Carbon tetrachloride. Cleaning chemicals. Benelex and Plexiglas. Oh, and plutonium.
He needs air. He can’t help it. He knows he shouldn’t breathe but he has to. He takes one big gulp and holds it. He keeps holding it, another minute at least, until he gets the mask pulled back on.
Bill pulls him around. “You okay?”
Stan exhales into his mask and nods. “I’m okay.”
They go back for new tanks.
One more run
, they think. They can do at least one more. But Bill’s bad luck isn’t over yet, either. The men finish their air and head for the door. As they’re crossing the floor, a blazing fluorescent light fixture crashes from the ceiling, nearly knocking off Bill’s hard hat. He staggers, dazed. His oxygen tank is empty. He can’t breathe, and he’s lost Stan in the smoke and the dark.
A man—another guard—appears. Bill recognizes him. Charlie Perrisi. He’s come off the roof to help relieve Stan and Bill. Charlie’s a small man, shorter than Bill, but he pulls Bill up on his shoulders and brings him out into the air.
They’re all contaminated. Charlie has kept his mask on, but he
I can get back to my family soon
, he thinks. But twenty long hours will pass before he can go home. Soon firemen see smoke trailing along the roof’s fluted edge, and then suddenly it begins pouring from the exhaust vents.
A few miles away, drivers on the Denver-Boulder turnpike can see the smoke, but no one understands its significance. The temperature is close to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. The Styrofoam is melting. One areaof the roof is soft and beginning to rise like a big bubble. If the bubble bursts, they’re in trouble. The entire city is in trouble.
“Water,” Jesser shouts. It’s against his training, against everything he knows about fighting a plutonium fire. “Get up there with that water!” A couple of firemen climb up with hoses and begin to spray water, cautiously and then more vigorously, thousands of gallons, across the rubber material. It helps slightly. “Keep at it,” Jesser orders. He notes that the wind has picked up, not only making it more difficult to fight the fire but dispersing smoke and debris all over the place.
A quick assessment determines that two of the three banks of filters are completely burned out. The third is on fire.
B ILL D ENNISON ’ S arms and legs are heavy with exhaustion. Stan, too, is tired. A relief crew of firefighters has arrived at the west side of the building, where Jesser and his crew are working, but there’s no one to relieve the two guards. They both figure they had the last of their bad luck when the ceiling fell. They survived wading through the sheep dips. The fire, if not diminishing, at least is not growing. The worst is over—must be over—if they can just hang on a little longer.
It’s Stan’s turn to go ahead. Their tanks are getting low and Bill is misting Stan, keeping him cool. Stan stoops down to pick up his hose. It looks like it’s charred on one side but still usable. He turns it on. But it’s too hard, too fast, and it shoots out on full stream. No good, he thinks. He wants to wet down the material, not blow it around. He tries to turn the valve and slow it down. But it’s still too much. He shuts it all the way off and the hose goes from full pressure to no pressure. Suddenly the backed-up water bursts through the side of the hose. It catches his mask and pulls it off. The burning air hits his face full force. The hose flails around him like a wild snake.
Stan tries to think clearly.
Get the mask back on
, he thinks.
Don’t breathe. Where is the strap?
The strap catches on his nose. Everything is out of place. Thirty seconds pass and he’s still holding his breath. His fingers fumble through the heavy gloves. Another thirty seconds. Hethinks of all the crud they use in there. Plastics, vinyl, rubber, paints. Carbon tetrachloride. Cleaning chemicals. Benelex and Plexiglas. Oh, and plutonium.
He needs air. He can’t help it. He knows he shouldn’t breathe but he has to. He takes one big gulp and holds it. He keeps holding it, another minute at least, until he gets the mask pulled back on.
Bill pulls him around. “You okay?”
Stan exhales into his mask and nods. “I’m okay.”
They go back for new tanks.
One more run
, they think. They can do at least one more. But Bill’s bad luck isn’t over yet, either. The men finish their air and head for the door. As they’re crossing the floor, a blazing fluorescent light fixture crashes from the ceiling, nearly knocking off Bill’s hard hat. He staggers, dazed. His oxygen tank is empty. He can’t breathe, and he’s lost Stan in the smoke and the dark.
A man—another guard—appears. Bill recognizes him. Charlie Perrisi. He’s come off the roof to help relieve Stan and Bill. Charlie’s a small man, shorter than Bill, but he pulls Bill up on his shoulders and brings him out into the air.
They’re all contaminated. Charlie has kept his mask on, but he
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