companies and renamed by a team of marketers to Energy Northwest, kind of like putting a picture of a friendly cow on a bucket of bullshit; but what the hell; the plant provided 14% of the power to the city of Seattle.
All of which was irrelevant to Andy Everett as the chair he tried to grab scooted in the opposite direction, then did a neat flip, backside up fifteen feet away.
Then the subway trains went further down their respective tunnels. Oh, yeah, we’re not shakin’ as much. It’s stoppin’. We’re OK. We’re going to be OK. Wide-eyed, neither Andy nor his other graveyard partner, Leon Holt had a word to say. Dry-mouthed, they slowly climbed to knees, and stood up.
The noise of the trains, however, continued to rumble; even though each of them knew they were working in a secure Federal location in the middle of the desert of central Washington State. There shouldn’t be any noise.
The power went out. Locked inside a secure lead-shielded control room, neither Andy nor Leon heard the other yell for momma. Did I yell? Shit no I didn’t yell. All the lights on the three-sided control panel were out. A long ten seconds passed, then like turning the tree on Christmas Eve, the panels all came back to life, and were they ever screaming! Annoying Klaxons, penetrating whiny shrieking bells, lights and whistles, everything came back on at once; including the phones, which had been silenced for the last two minutes.
The NRC direct line was ringing as was the line to Bonneville Power in Portland.
While the Columbia Generating Plant #2 was a DOE facility, the electrical power it generated was controlled by a quasi-public corporation, the Bonneville Power Administration, whose job it was to generate, buy and trade electricity generated from hydroelectric, nuclear and coal plants throughout the Northwest United States to other needy locations, primarily Southern California—Los Angeles and San Diego.
Lights flashing, horns blazing, the BPA phone began to ring.
“Auto correction in process,” shouted Leon Holt, 42, balding and single from the opposite side of the room. Leon was on the downside of a long and undistinguished career, still a power control specialist, but moved to third shift—the graveyard. “The system’s shutting down.” He added, nervously.
Pre-programmed, the NP-2’s computers instructed the fail-safe system to begin inserting boron rods into the main core; like jake-brakes on an 18-wheeler designed to slow a heavy truck, the rods slowly entered into the core, immediately absorbing neutrons from fission process of creating steam from hot water, fully intending to bring the nuclear plant to a halt. The further the rods were inserted, the slower the fission process proceeded.
Unsure, Andy stumbled to his feet. Just as he reached for the BPA phone the power in the room went out again, scaring the shit out of them both. Leave it to Big Al to call in sick yesterday afternoon. What timing . The control panels were dark. There was no residual light from the overhead and no window in the heavy steel door that led to the core containment. It was pitch fucking dark. Silence. Nothing. The trains had left the station; nothing but heavy breathing and an occasional fart.
Shit
The only source of light in the room came from a single white button, the direct connection to BPA. Andy quickly answered. “Yes?”
“Are you all right?” asked Jake Beatty, Power Control Manager for Bonneville Power Administration a hundred miles away in Portland.
“That depends,” Andy started slowly. “I think we’re all right, replied Andy, his BO index rising.
“The A/C is out,” Leon added from across the room. “There’s no circulation.”
“The plant?” asked Jake, hearing Leon’s voice.
“Unknown,” answered Andy, truthfully. “We have no power in the control room. I can’t open the door to get outside. We have no lights. I have no
All of which was irrelevant to Andy Everett as the chair he tried to grab scooted in the opposite direction, then did a neat flip, backside up fifteen feet away.
Then the subway trains went further down their respective tunnels. Oh, yeah, we’re not shakin’ as much. It’s stoppin’. We’re OK. We’re going to be OK. Wide-eyed, neither Andy nor his other graveyard partner, Leon Holt had a word to say. Dry-mouthed, they slowly climbed to knees, and stood up.
The noise of the trains, however, continued to rumble; even though each of them knew they were working in a secure Federal location in the middle of the desert of central Washington State. There shouldn’t be any noise.
The power went out. Locked inside a secure lead-shielded control room, neither Andy nor Leon heard the other yell for momma. Did I yell? Shit no I didn’t yell. All the lights on the three-sided control panel were out. A long ten seconds passed, then like turning the tree on Christmas Eve, the panels all came back to life, and were they ever screaming! Annoying Klaxons, penetrating whiny shrieking bells, lights and whistles, everything came back on at once; including the phones, which had been silenced for the last two minutes.
The NRC direct line was ringing as was the line to Bonneville Power in Portland.
While the Columbia Generating Plant #2 was a DOE facility, the electrical power it generated was controlled by a quasi-public corporation, the Bonneville Power Administration, whose job it was to generate, buy and trade electricity generated from hydroelectric, nuclear and coal plants throughout the Northwest United States to other needy locations, primarily Southern California—Los Angeles and San Diego.
Lights flashing, horns blazing, the BPA phone began to ring.
“Auto correction in process,” shouted Leon Holt, 42, balding and single from the opposite side of the room. Leon was on the downside of a long and undistinguished career, still a power control specialist, but moved to third shift—the graveyard. “The system’s shutting down.” He added, nervously.
Pre-programmed, the NP-2’s computers instructed the fail-safe system to begin inserting boron rods into the main core; like jake-brakes on an 18-wheeler designed to slow a heavy truck, the rods slowly entered into the core, immediately absorbing neutrons from fission process of creating steam from hot water, fully intending to bring the nuclear plant to a halt. The further the rods were inserted, the slower the fission process proceeded.
Unsure, Andy stumbled to his feet. Just as he reached for the BPA phone the power in the room went out again, scaring the shit out of them both. Leave it to Big Al to call in sick yesterday afternoon. What timing . The control panels were dark. There was no residual light from the overhead and no window in the heavy steel door that led to the core containment. It was pitch fucking dark. Silence. Nothing. The trains had left the station; nothing but heavy breathing and an occasional fart.
Shit
The only source of light in the room came from a single white button, the direct connection to BPA. Andy quickly answered. “Yes?”
“Are you all right?” asked Jake Beatty, Power Control Manager for Bonneville Power Administration a hundred miles away in Portland.
“That depends,” Andy started slowly. “I think we’re all right, replied Andy, his BO index rising.
“The A/C is out,” Leon added from across the room. “There’s no circulation.”
“The plant?” asked Jake, hearing Leon’s voice.
“Unknown,” answered Andy, truthfully. “We have no power in the control room. I can’t open the door to get outside. We have no lights. I have no
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