Fallout
Page 24
At the conclusion of Gillibrand’s presidency, Sarah accepted a teaching position at the University of Virginia, but quickly realized her heart wasn’t in academics and returned to the private sector. One evening about two years later, she received a phone call from Marla Hollis. In the intervening years, Marla had written two bestsellers: Over-Reacting: The Nuclear Industry’s Secret Plans to Build as Many Reactors as Possible (Regardless of Public Health) and Particles of Truth: Everything You Need to Know About Nuclear Power (But the Nuke Industry is Afraid You’ll Ask).
The two women soon joined forces as a powerhouse consulting firm, GreenWave LLC. They and their associates exposed thousands of safety violations as well as backroom efforts by the nuclear lobby to smother attempts to make solar and wind solutions more affordable or to sway government officials through favors, bribes, or outright threats. Sarah’s revolutionary idea for a reactor built deep underground so as to greatly reduce the incidence of fallout in the event of a breach gained so much traction that some aging plants adopted it rather than risk being decommissioned.
In 2038, a plant in Idaho that had been penalized for literally hundreds of violations and was on Sarah and Marla’s list of “Ten Most Irresponsibly Run Nuclear Facilities in the U.S.”—which they kept posted in the right-hand margin of the GreenWave Web site at all times—suffered a core meltdown that resulted in the deaths of six employees plus significant injuries to sixty-seven others, and rendered the surrounding area uninhabitable for a radius of thirteen miles. The owner of the plant, a slash-and-burn investor who’d visited the site only once, hung himself in his Santa Barbara townhouse two days later.
Following the Idaho incident, public sentiment toward nuclear energy fell to historic lows, and the pro-nuke lobby found itself persona non grata around Washington’s power corridors. No politician interested in getting reelected would touch the subject, and no investor would pledge a dime. GreenWave further leveraged the tragedy to convince congressional leaders to channel funding toward a variety of experimental methods of fallout sanitization. Additional funding came from private sources—including a huge endowment from the Andrew M. Corwin Foundation. Some of the world’s most noted physicists offered their time and talents free of charge, and the scientific community as a whole enthusiastically praised the initiative. A breakthrough finally came in late 2045, when a multinational team from California and Sweden discovered a way to dramatically curtail the decay rate using a combination of synthesized-isotope bombardment, magnetic waves, and cryogenic freezing. It was a slow and costly procedure, but the final results were thorough and definitive. The technical mumbo jumbo aside, the public was able to grasp the basic concept—all areas rendered uninhabitable by radiation could now be cleaned up completely.
Marla and Sarah were sitting in Martin’s Tavern on Wisconsin Avenue, watching a Nationals game and sharing a bottle of white wine when they received cellphone calls just seconds apart informing them that they had won the Nobel Prize for Peace.
* * *
Sarah’s hair was still mostly chestnut brown, the gray having penetrated surprisingly little. She’d let it grow long since retiring the previous year and usually kept it in a ponytail. She also never remarried. Work had been her life partner since Emilio’s passing, and she had no regrets about it.
As the limo rolled along, she was not surprised to see that the tetrapods, now moved off the road and onto the shoulders, had become stained and pitted in the four decades since she’d been here. She noticed a single rusted-steel whisker sticking out of one barrier’s broken arm. The roadway was smooth; the divots caused by the concrete barricades had been filled in at some point.
They passed the town’s utilities department; ivy covered the walls and windows and weeds had sprouted through cracks in the pavement. A generator chugged away near one of the open bay doors, sprouting a heavy-gauge extension cord that ran into the building. Signs of days gone by and days to come.
They drove through the southern residential grid, past once-proud homes that now sported dangling gutters, waist-high lawns, and furry coatings of mold. Buildings with red X’s spray-painted on the front doors had been declared uninhabitable and would be razed. A few had survived in relatively good condition, particularly those made of brick. Some lawns had recently been mowed, and one had so many cars parked in its long driveway that Sarah got the impression a party was going on.
Main Street was still ghostly. Decades of frost and thaw had unzipped the pavement in countless places, and vines crawled across every storefront. Some sidewalk slabs rose at sharp angles, lifted by the trunks of now-mature trees that had taken root through the years. Off to one side, Sarah spotted the antique-but-functional stoplight that had once hung at the intersection by the community theater, the glass lenses either shattered or altogether gone.
As they passed the municipal building that bore her father’s name, she noticed the driver’s eyes shift to her own in the rearview mirror. Checking on me, she thought. She had become too good at concealing her emotions to let anything show in public, even on a day like today, when her feelings were roiling.
The refurbished park came into view. It was an oasis in every way—new landscaping, new walkways, new fixtures, new pavilion. Under the bright blue sky and boundless sunshine, it would be easy to look at this bit of paradise and disregard the devastation that lay just a few hundred yards away in any direction.
When the limo rumbled to a stop behind the temporary reviewing stand, Sarah stepped out and briefly embraced Marla, who was waiting for her. The former journalist was still fit and trim, though she wore glasses now, and her hair, which she kept very short, had gone fully gray.
Their embrace was only perfunctory, as they saw each other several times a week and connected by phone or text every day. When Marla announced her from the podium fifteen minutes later, the applause continued without pause for almost fifteen minutes. Sarah recognized few faces, but the sight of those who were familiar—those who had resolved to come back to Silver Lake and try to make it their home once again—nearly caused her granite resolve to crumble.
Once everyone was reseated, Marla stepped to the microphone again.
“Friends, I am so very pleased to be here with you today, for this is a very special day indeed. As you all know, today marks the official reopening of the town of Silver Lake. It is a moment that has taken us decades to reach, and a moment that many thought would never come. The road back has been long and difficult, fraught with challenges and spotted with tears.
“This place is not merely another park in another American town, but rather the symbolic first piece to the larger puzzle that will become our new community. In gratitude to one of the heroes who fell during the unspeakable tragedy that threatened to eradicate Silver Lake all those years ago, it is my great honor to announce that this is now the Andrew Michael Corwin Memorial Park.”
The audience responded with another riotous ovation, this one nearly as long as the first.
“As many of you know,” Marla went on. “Andrew Corwin sacrificed his life in order to bring that crisis to a halt. And as you probably also know, he gave me information that enabled me and others to expose many of the corrupt people and dangerous practices in his industry, to the benefit of the general public.”
She removed a sheet of paper from the inside pocket of her blazer and carefully unfolded it. It was still crisp after more than four decades.
“This is the letter Andrew handed me on the day of the accident, before he walked off to his death. Some of you may remember that I posted it online, word for word, at the end of that unforgettable day. But I think it’s important for everyone, and especially important for the young people present, who will soon be making the decisions that shape this world in the years ahead, to hear what he wrote.
Dear Marla,
No words can express the sorrow I feel for the events that have unfolded on this day, or the suffering that will no doubt occur in the weeks, months, and years to follow.
As Leo Corwin’s son, I have lived in the shadow of nuclear power for as long as I can remember—and I always feared that something ugly would step out of that shadow. Now, that nightmare has become reality. Part of me can hardly believe it, yet a larger part is not surprised at all.
My father was driven only by an insatiable hunger for profit. I remember him sitting at our dinner table reading spreadsheets, and in his office making deals on the phone late into the night. But I have no memory of him teaching me how to tie my shoes or ride a bicycle. I cannot remember a single joke he shared with me, or an occasion when he came to watch me play baseball or football. If there wasn’t money to be earned in the endeavor, he simply did not wish to invest the time.
People like my father are the last ones on earth who should be in a position to manipulate the awesome power of nuclear fission. It unleashes one of the elemental forces of the universe, capable of incredible destruction. One only needs to consider the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki to see this. Then there are incidents such as Chernobyl, Three Mile Island, Fukushima Daiichi, and, now, the tragedy that has occurred here in Silver Lake. These and countless other accidents are somehow either overlooked, underreported, or masterfully spun by PR professionals. Consider the many statements made by industry hawks eager to point out that no deaths occurred due to radioactive fallout as a result of the Fukushima debacle. I’m sure this information did little to buoy the spirits of all the people who were told they would be unable to return to their homes in the Okuma area for at least forty years.
I arranged for you to see my father’s sins as part of a larger objective. My hope was that you would expose them to the public, which in turn would result in the rapid termination of my father’s plans to build yet another plant. From there, and in the wake of his recent health problems, I would be able to begin investing in safer forms of energy production—solar, hydro, wind—with the ultimate dream of shutting down the nuclear aspects of the facility for good. Alternative energies are evolving at a greater pace than ever before, as well they should. When was the last time someone died because a water wheel malfunctioned? What terrorist group has ever attempted to sabotage a wind turbine? And where is there a town that’s been rendered uninhabitable due to a broken solar panel?
There are improvements being made in the nuclear industry as well, I don’t deny that. Better reactor designs, safer fuels, etc. Nevertheless, with so much tragic history as a precedent, we should be moving away from nuclear and closer to energy sources that pose little or no threat to anyone. They are a more plausible option than ever before, so it is unforgivable that we are not embracing them to a greater degree. Someday, perhaps, we will be able to revisit the idea of using nuclear fission to power our world. But for now, we have all the proof we need that we as a race are simply not ready for it. Instead of working to improve the illusion that we can control such power, we first need to improve ourselves. Once that happens, all good things will quickly follow.
Stay hopeful, Marla—and keep fighting the good fight.
Your Friend,
Andrew Corwin”
* * *
Hours later, the two women sat together on the gently sloping hill where the former Corwin plant was visible in the distance. Marla had removed her sandals and blazer, which lay nearby on the grass. Sarah’s knees were up, her arms wrapped around them.
“Now that it’s been fully decontaminated,” Marla said, nodding at the facility, “they’re going to try to repurpose it.”
“Hydro? From the river behind it?”
Marla nodded. “That’s what I hear. It won’t solve all of the local electricity problems, but it’s a start.”
“It’s a good idea if they can pull it off. Cost-effective. No sense wasting all that hardware. And the grid’s already in place.”
“Yeah.”
Sarah closed her eyes and took in a long breath through her nose.
“Ahh … smell that?”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Marla gave her a puzzled look.
“Nothing weird, anyway,” Sarah said. “Remember the smell that day?”
“The metallic, ozone smell? Like laser printers?”
“Yeah. I thought I’d never get rid of it. Even when I moved down to D.C., I kept smelling it. Maybe just in my mind, but I could never shake it. Not until now, that is.” She inhaled again. “That’s fantastic. Nothing but warmth and dirt and honeysuckle, exactly as it should be. Nothing says fresh air like the scent of honeysuckle.”
A tern soared above the river, following its course for a time before dipping sharply and snatching something from the water. Then it turned east and disappeared.
“So what now?” Marla asked.
“Now? Hell, I don’t know.” Sarah turned to her. “I think we’ve saved the world enough for one lifetime, don’t you?”
“Maybe … maybe not.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’ve been asked to pass along a message.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah—now that this town is getting back on its feet again, it’s going to need a mayor.”
The tiniest of smiles touched upon one corner of Sarah’s mouth. “Are you serious?”
“I am—and so are they. Think about it, because these people need you. Really think about it.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
There was more silence, then Sarah said, “Can I assume you’ll be writing for the local rag again?”
“I will.”
“Can I count on your full support?”
“That depends on what you plan to do about our energy situation.”
Sarah turned back to the plant, studying the high ridge beyond the river.
“Maybe a few wind turbines, up there. And an array of solar panels. Big ones. How does that sound?”
Marla smiled.
“Like progress.”
TOR/FORGE BOOKS BY WIL MARA
Wave
The Gemini Virus
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WIL MARA is the author of Frame 232, a thriller about the John F. Kennedy assassination; The Gemini Virus, a disease thriller; and a tsunami novel, Wave, which won the New Jersey Notable Book Award. He has also written many books, both fiction and nonfiction, for young readers. Mara lives in New Jersey. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Tor / Forge Books by Wil Mara
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the aut
hor’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
FALLOUT
Copyright © 2017 by Wil Mara
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Faceout Studio, Charles Brock
Cover art by Alamy / Thinkstock
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
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New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Forge® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-3731-3 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-3335-7 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466833357
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First Edition: April 2017