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Authors: Erin Brockovich
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radiation detectors,” he continued. “Three perimeters in total—the last at the entrance to the facility.”
I nodded appreciatively. It wasn’t often you saw security and beauty so nicely interwoven.
“Beyond the glass, the containment area is built to withstand a major earthquake, a direct hit by a jet, or even an F-5 tornado.” The driver parked the car and opened the back door for us.
“What about hurricanes?” I asked, remembering something on the news that morning about a storm meandering across the Atlantic, defying all efforts by the meteorologists to predict its course or landfall. They’d made a joke about the fallibility of weather forecasting even in this day and age of computer models, but now that I was here near the coast, it didn’t seem quite so funny anymore.
“If it wasn’t for security issues, we’d be designated a storm shelter,” Grandel said. “Safest place to be would be here.”
If I lived here and a storm hit, I think my first instinct would be to run away from the four nuclear reactors in my backyard, not toward them. Which gave me some insight into how to approach the community. “Have you told people about that? Is there a way to give them a tour of the safety features?”
“Not without compromising security.”
“Maybe just a few select community leaders who could help spread the word?”
He frowned. “Maybe. It would take some arranging, clearances and extra security.”
I understood that security was a hot topic these days, but he couldn’t expect public support without giving them some glimpse behind the scenes. “Think about it.”
We turned toward the entrance when a man came running through the doors. He was gaunt, as if he regularly forgot to eat, with the same chiseled features Grandel had except accompanied by an unruly shock of dusty brown hair and a tan that appeared genuine. He wore rumpled khaki pants and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he clutched a leather messenger bag slung across his chest.
“Is this her? Is this her?” he asked, beaming first at Grandel, then at the driver and security guard, and finally at me.
“Yes, Morris. This is her.” Grandel managed to sigh twice in as many sentences.
“AJ Palladino.” Morris pumped my right hand in both of his. “I am most pleased to meet you.” His voice was tinged with a definite southern accent, unlike his brother’s. “Welcome to Colleton Landing.”
“Thank you.” I rescued my hand before he could mangle it. Gaunt but strong.
“I can’t wait to show you everything.” His face clouded as excitement and confusion warred. “What first? The control room or isotope retrieval or maybe the turbines, everyone always loves seeing the turbines—”
“Morris, calm down. AJ isn’t interested in the technical aspects of the plant. She just needs—”
“Oh, but I am interested,” I said—mainly to contradict Grandel. I didn’t like how he treated his brother, and Morris’s enthusiasm was definitely catching. “I’d like to see it all.”
The driver hustled around the car, holding a radio to his ear. “There’s a disturbance at the front gate,” he reported to Grandel. “A woman’s down.”
We piled back into the SUV—Morris as well. The driver didn’t take us back along the road, though; instead the guard raised a barrier blocking the path that came directly from the parking lot, without curving around beside the river. I spotted a small jitney tram sitting behind the guard shack and realized that employees must be shuttled from their cars along this path. It was as wide as a single lane of road, but not meant to be driven at the speeds our driver was using.
We bumped past the middle gate and into the parking area, then out to the first gate. The crowd of protestors had contracted into one writhing mass of humanity, their signs forgotten on the ground, an occasional head or hand raised high as they bent over someone on the ground, hidden from sight
I nodded appreciatively. It wasn’t often you saw security and beauty so nicely interwoven.
“Beyond the glass, the containment area is built to withstand a major earthquake, a direct hit by a jet, or even an F-5 tornado.” The driver parked the car and opened the back door for us.
“What about hurricanes?” I asked, remembering something on the news that morning about a storm meandering across the Atlantic, defying all efforts by the meteorologists to predict its course or landfall. They’d made a joke about the fallibility of weather forecasting even in this day and age of computer models, but now that I was here near the coast, it didn’t seem quite so funny anymore.
“If it wasn’t for security issues, we’d be designated a storm shelter,” Grandel said. “Safest place to be would be here.”
If I lived here and a storm hit, I think my first instinct would be to run away from the four nuclear reactors in my backyard, not toward them. Which gave me some insight into how to approach the community. “Have you told people about that? Is there a way to give them a tour of the safety features?”
“Not without compromising security.”
“Maybe just a few select community leaders who could help spread the word?”
He frowned. “Maybe. It would take some arranging, clearances and extra security.”
I understood that security was a hot topic these days, but he couldn’t expect public support without giving them some glimpse behind the scenes. “Think about it.”
We turned toward the entrance when a man came running through the doors. He was gaunt, as if he regularly forgot to eat, with the same chiseled features Grandel had except accompanied by an unruly shock of dusty brown hair and a tan that appeared genuine. He wore rumpled khaki pants and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he clutched a leather messenger bag slung across his chest.
“Is this her? Is this her?” he asked, beaming first at Grandel, then at the driver and security guard, and finally at me.
“Yes, Morris. This is her.” Grandel managed to sigh twice in as many sentences.
“AJ Palladino.” Morris pumped my right hand in both of his. “I am most pleased to meet you.” His voice was tinged with a definite southern accent, unlike his brother’s. “Welcome to Colleton Landing.”
“Thank you.” I rescued my hand before he could mangle it. Gaunt but strong.
“I can’t wait to show you everything.” His face clouded as excitement and confusion warred. “What first? The control room or isotope retrieval or maybe the turbines, everyone always loves seeing the turbines—”
“Morris, calm down. AJ isn’t interested in the technical aspects of the plant. She just needs—”
“Oh, but I am interested,” I said—mainly to contradict Grandel. I didn’t like how he treated his brother, and Morris’s enthusiasm was definitely catching. “I’d like to see it all.”
The driver hustled around the car, holding a radio to his ear. “There’s a disturbance at the front gate,” he reported to Grandel. “A woman’s down.”
We piled back into the SUV—Morris as well. The driver didn’t take us back along the road, though; instead the guard raised a barrier blocking the path that came directly from the parking lot, without curving around beside the river. I spotted a small jitney tram sitting behind the guard shack and realized that employees must be shuttled from their cars along this path. It was as wide as a single lane of road, but not meant to be driven at the speeds our driver was using.
We bumped past the middle gate and into the parking area, then out to the first gate. The crowd of protestors had contracted into one writhing mass of humanity, their signs forgotten on the ground, an occasional head or hand raised high as they bent over someone on the ground, hidden from sight
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