http://www.oriononline.org/pages/om/04-2om/Burwell.htmlI'VE LOST COUNT of the times I've driven lush, rolling Iowa hills to go to see how the local nuclear power plant responds to terrorist threats or Homeland Security's latest "orange alert." The front entrance has been altered since my first investigation. Now, instead of two lanes of vehicles passing easily through open gates, portable concrete medians channel traffic into a single lane. At a small wooden building in front of the open gates, a middle-aged man checks the identification of plant workers. I wonder if he ever notices me, slowly turning the car around and circling the plant on a county road edged in cornfields. I turn onto gravel, wind past small acreages of retired farmers in their new houses. I turn again, onto a lonely service road. Over and over since September 2001, I've been astonished to find this back entrance to the Duane Arnold Energy Center unguarded. The chain link gates blocking the road are usually padlocked. But all they do is span the road; on either side there's nothing but a farmer's barbed-wire fence.
Today though, construction crews are reworking the road's surface and the gates stand wide open. I drive my rusting Taurus onto the property, twist among the working vehicles, pull over, park, and watch the men work. I stay there for an hour, and no one approaches and asks, "What're you doing sitting alone in that car within firing distance of a nuclear reactor?"
Like most Americans, I hadn't thought much about Chernobyl since the spring of 1986. Slowly the name "Chernobyl" became just another echo of the horrible nuclear events in recent memory, an anniversary sound bite, the subject of an occasional documentary.
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(author visited Chernobyl in 2000)
Some radionuclides find their way from soil to plant to herbivore and carnivore. They accumulate in particular organs. Thousands of Belarusan autopsies already show that cesium settles in heart and optical muscles, speeding their degeneration. Strontium-90 likes teeth and snuggles into bone marrow, irradiating the stem cells responsible for our blood and immune systems.
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I want to make sure I've understood him. "People in Minsk make furniture out of radioactive trees and then sell it to unsuspecting buyers?"
"Da," he says quietly.
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More miles of undulating prairie, and then swamps with trees burned from the top down. "The Swedes said 3,000 curies here," Mikhail explains. "It is not safe for more than five minutes." We're 150 miles from Chernobyl. I don't want to know 3,000 curies of what; I want him to keep driving.
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On a sidewalk in Cherikov, I watch a crying woman plead with Svetlana Vladimirovna, the director of the local kindergarten. The woman wants the nonexistent orphanage opened -- now! Fourteen parentless children have been waiting for months. She's just discovered five more, siblings, the oldest age twelve, in a barn on the edge of town, feeding themselves on stolen eggs and radioactive apples. "Their parents?" I ask.
Lovely Svetlana looks at me sadly. "Dead," she says, "dying."
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"Depends upon what you mean by 'it,'" he said. "It wouldn't be exactly like Chernobyl. But if you mean, would a disaster at an American plant something like the explosion at Chernobyl contaminate as much land, contaminate it with the same kinds of radioactivity -- yeah, it could happen here."
"Let's say," I postulated, "that I disconnect the moderating rods from the source of electricity and blow up the back-up generators?"
He looked at me for a quiet moment. "Yeah," he said, "you could make it happen here."
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homeland security = dragons and gargoyls