Chernobyl

Chapter 38

The Chernobyl Power Station is not back in operation, will not be for some time, but optimists are beginning to think that that may sooner or later happen, after all. Even from the air, the plant now looks strangely changed.

Much of the debris has been bulldozed away. The great hole where Reactor No. 5 was meant to go is half filled with radioactive wreckage and excavated soil. Earthen ramps have been thrown up to let heavy machinery into the interior of the plant, the turbine room, and everywhere else they are needed. It is an incredible effort. All the resources of the USSR have been thrown into Chernobyl. Fleets of trucks, trains, and planes are bringing supplies — pipes, drilling equipment, repair and construction materials, etc. — from all over the country; at least forty-five hundred trucks and eight hundred buses are in use.

The working areas of the three surviving reactors are now completely air-conditioned, with triple filters (which are checked for radioactive dust and replaced every two hours). Every exposed surface has been repainted with thick radiation-proof lead paint. The workers come in (on short shifts) in armored cars. Most of the plant is still off limits, except for the antiradiation crews. Water for the generators still comes from the cooling pond, but that water is radioactive now. There is an independent supply of water for toilets and drinking. It is piped in from new wells that have been dug three kilometers away, and there isn't much of it. The plant needs workers even more than it needs water, and they, too, have been provided from sources far away; the nearest place for most of them to live is now the town of Chernobyl.

When Sheranchuk reported for his first day's duty back at the plant, he had to ride the thirty kilometers from town to plant, and the vehicle he rode in was an armored personnel carrier.

Sheranchuk had never been in an armored vehicle before. Nor had he ever met the dozen other workers who shared it with him on the long ride to the power station. Inside the armored carrier they had not bothered with their face masks, but none of the faces meant anything to him. They all seemed to know one another, for they chatted in the manner of people who had worked together for a long time, though Sheranchuk was sure not one of them had been employed by the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Station in that long-ago time—

He stopped himself. Long ago? But it was only, he counted, twenty-seven days since the explosion! Not quite that, actually; Saturday morning at 1:23 would be exactly four weeks. It seemed half a lifetime, at least.

"Masks on, if you please," the driver of the APC called. Grinning, everyone pulled up the masks as the personnel carrier bumped through the entrance to the plant and stopped. Sheranchuk rose with the others, but the driver put out a polite hand to stop him. "Not you, Comrade Sheranchuk," he said. "Your appointment is with the Personnel Section and they're in the command post twelve kilometers further." "But I wanted to see the plant!"

The driver hesitated. "Come up and sit beside me," he offered. "It's lead glass in the windscreen; you can see out. Here, I'll take a little run around the plant first so you can get a look; I've got to pick up some others for the command post anyway."

Nobody really "ran" around the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Station anymore. There were too many busy earthmoving machines to avoid, too many areas roped off with signs warning of radiation, too many places in what was left of the roadways, where backhoes and bulldozers had scraped away tainted paving, leaving huge potholes. As the APC bumped and twisted along its obstacle course, Sheranchuk's spirits sank. It didn't look better than the last time he had seen it. It looked far worse. No one had got around to repairing anything yet, it seemed; all the effort was still in demolition. But, of course, Sheranchuk told himself, first the decay had to be cut away before the rebuilding could begin…

And then the armored vehicle turned the corner, and he saw the remains of the ruined reactor itself.

A huge, jointed crane towered over what was left of Reactor No. 4. The remains of its walls had somehow become a blotchy, unhealthy-looking pink — as though it were blushing in shame, Sheranchuk thought wryly. A huge windowless vehicle on caterpillar tracks sat motionless on an earthen ramp, while smaller machines dodged around it. The going was, if anything, worse there than in the relatively undamaged parts of the plant they had just come through, but grimly the driver stepped on the accelerator. They lurched wildly as he sped past the scene, and he seemed to relax when they had the windowless office building between them and the wreck.

"That's all there is to see," he told Sheranchuk. "Now we'll just pick up the next lot, and then we're on our way to the command post."

He blew his horn in front of a sort of canopy of canvas that flapped in the warm afternoon breeze. A moment later six or eight men, unrecognizable in their white or green suits and masks, came hurrying out to board the APC. Sheranchuk looked at them hopefully as the driver closed the door and they began to pull down their masks, but none of these faces were familiar, either.

When they introduced themselves around, shouting over the noise of the armored vehicle, Sheranchuk was surprised to find that the man next to him was an Army general, the one across the aisle one of the trouble-shooters from the Ministry of Nuclear Energy. In the green or white coveralls they all looked alike. The man from the Ministry was quite surprised to find out that Sheranchuk was a senior administrator from pre-explosion times. "Really?" he said. "But I thought they were all — gone," he finished, having rejected either dead or in jail.

"Some of us remain," Sheranchuk said dryly. "Tell me how things are at the plant."

So for the dozen kilometers he was told. Of the seventy tons of lead shot that had been helicopter-dropped to melt a film over the top of the deadly core ("But still there is so much radiation that the cleanup workers on the roofs nearby can stay there only one minute at a time"). Of the great concrete slabs that were being cast to hoist into place, to make new walls around the core. Of the huge steel tanks that had been assembled to catch the wastewater from the cleanup, so that it would not further pollute the already damaged ground waters around the plant. Of the steel doors that were being welded into all the passageways near the exposed core, never to be opened, part of the "sarcophagus" in which the core would ultimately be entombed forever.

"Forever?" Sheranchuk repeated. "What do you mean 'forever'?"

The man from the Ministry said firmly, "What 'forever' means is forever. Through all the rest of your lifetime, and your children's, and your children's children's, for perhaps hundreds of years. Long after the rest of the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Station is decommissioned and torn down and carted away, that sarcophagus will remain."

"And when the other reactors are back in service again, people will be working next to that — sarcophagus?"

"Every day. And watching the instruments inside to make sure that nothing is going wrong. Always. Forever."

The control center had come to a more or less permanent resting place at a Komsomol summer camp. Sheranchuk got out with the others, got the driver's directions, and walked briskly along the graveled paths to what had once been the camp's administration building. He hardly noticed the handsome trees that shaded the barracks and dining halls. He was trying to come to terms with the meaning of the word "forever."

He had not really thought out what was going to be done with the ruined core — dismantled and buried, he had supposed, if he had supposed anything at all. He simply had not realized that it would stay there — still hot, still deadly — forever.

The Personnel and Security offices were on the second floor of the rustic, well constructed building. Double doors and double windows had been added to the original plan, and every other window had a bulky air conditioner with triple filters attached; hot as it was outside, it was perfect within. When Sheranchuk got there, the first person he saw, standing at a window, gazing out at the pretty wooded camp, was the runaway operator — what was his name? Kalychenko? The man was standing with his hands clasped behind his back. When he turned and looked at Sheranchuk there was recognition in his gaze, and a certain defensive hostility.

When Sheranchuk had given his name to the secretary, he said, "Well, hello." And then, for lack of something better to say, "You were on duty that night, weren't you?"

"For a time," Kalychenko admitted cautiously.

Sheranchuk looked at him thoughtfully. "We must get together and compare notes sometime soon, if you don't mind," he said. "There are still a lot of questions in my mind."

"Of course," said Kalychenko politely, wishing the man would drop dead. Questions! As if he had not already answered ten thousand questions — with another ten thousand more no doubt coming up as soon as the new First Section Secretary admitted him.

But when First Section Secretary Ivanov came out of his office, he gave Kalychenko only a quick, disinterested glance. It was Sheranchuk he turned to with a welcoming smile. "Yes, please," he said. "Come right in!"

"Thank you," Sheranchuk said politely, "but I think Shift Operator Kalychenko was here before me—"

"No, no! That's quite all right," Ivanov said. "I'm sure the shift operator won't mind waiting for a bit." He turned to the secretary. "No interruptions," he ordered, and swept Sheranchuk into his office, leaving Kalychenko glowering morosely after them.

There was certainly a difference between Khrenov and the new man, Ivanov; one sly and intimate, the other effusive and jolly, but it was the difference between raspberry ice cream and cherry. The inside of both men was at the same temperature, and that temperature was frigid. The fact that on this day Ivanov was cordial, even effusive, as he escorted Sheranchuk inside meant nothing for the future. It meant only that on this day Ivanov wanted the hydrologist-engineer to think of him as a friend.

So Sheranchuk was not at all surprised when, with a wink, Ivanov produced a bottle from somewhere in his desk, and with a twinkle confessed that it was unfortunately only wine, but at least the best Georgian. "Please, Leonid," he said, filling the glass to the brim, "sit down. No, please, not there in the hard chair. Take that couch by the window, and let me pull my chair over to you." He raised his glass. "I drink to the future of the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Station! Like our nation, it weathers all storms and grows stronger through adversity!"

"Of course," Sheranchuk said warily. He sipped at the wine, noticing that the Personnel man had only dampened the bottom of his own glass.

Something had changed.

What it was Sheranchuk could not guess, but there was definitely something in the air that had not been there in his brief meeting with Ivanov in Moscow. The man was not merely welcoming, he was positively beaming. "As I told you, my dear Leonid," Ivanov said, "you are very much needed here. I think I should tell you — it is not official yet, but there is no reason you shouldn't know — the preliminary investigations of the accident show no fault to be laid at your door."

"Investigations?" Sheranchuk repeated warily.

"Very preliminary ones, of course," Ivanov assured him. "And what a rotten mess they are uncovering, as I am sure you can guess! But as to you personally, your actions are beyond reproach. It is clear that you continually warned of deficiencies and worked to correct them when you could. So there is no accusation of any kind against you. Indeed, I think you will wind up with some commendations, at least. There is even talk of a medal."

"I don't want any medals," Sheranchuk growled.

"My dear man! I quite understand. None of us wants such things, really, but nevertheless you behaved admirably, and if the state desires to make its approval public, it will, at least, be an example to many others."

Sheranchuk shook his head. "The man who should be getting the medals is dead."

"Oh? Really? And which man is that, may I ask?" Ivanov asked politely.

"Is there any doubt? Deputy Director Smin, of course."

"Ah," said Ivanov, pursing his lips. "I see. Smin, eh?"

"Of course Smin! You were not here then, Ivanov. You have no idea what Smin did for this plant. There has been talk of inferior materials and poor labor discipline — not untrue, all of it; but it would have been far worse if Smin had not been here. And far better if he had been in complete charge, as he deserved to be!"

"Ah," said Ivanov noncommittally, reaching for the bot-de. "Here, let me refill your glass." And when, over Sheranchuk's attempts at polite withdrawal, he had it full to the brim again, he said, "It is interesting that you should mention Smin at this time because, to be truthful, I have much curiosity about him. I never met him while he was alive, you know. I can form an opinion of him only from what the record shows, and from what people like yourself can tell me."

Ivanov paused, smiling at Sheranchuk over his glass as he waited for a response. Ah, thought Sheranchuk, there it was. The subject of the questioning was to be Smin.

He said cautiously, "Deputy Director Smin was a great man."

"Indeed." The Personnel man pursed his lips. "Well, you see, I must rely on your perceptions. Would you mind if I helped make my own estimate of him by asking you some questions?"

"What kind of questions?"

"Oh, various ones. Just to help me form a picture. For example, I understand you shared Smin's room for a time in Hospital Number Six in Moscow. I wonder — what sort of things did you talk about?"

And then the questions stopped being about what Sheranchuk had talked about, becoming about who Smin had seen. Sheranchuk, on his third glass of wine, realized that it was quite clear Ivanov already knew a great deal about Smin's visitors, no doubt from friendly voices among the hospital staff. Still he wanted to know more — for example, if Sheranchuk, as Smin's roommate, had heard anything of Smin's conversations?

Sheranchuk's answers became more and more cautious. There was no doubt that Ivanov had all the official records available to him, so Sheranchuk skated around what he heard, or guessed, of the elder son's drug arrest. Visitors other than

Smin's family? Well, yes, one or two. And two in particular in quite high places, wasn't that right? Ivanov asked with a smile.

Sheranchuk hesitated, suspicious. Still, what was there to worry about? Certainly the fact that he had friends in the highest of places could do Smin no harm. So Sheranchuk was perfectly willing to talk about the two men from the Central Committee — he confessed that he had been very impressed to see them there — but, as a matter of courtesy, he did not eavesdrop and in fact was tactfully out of the room most of the time when Smin had private visitors.

"Of course," said Ivanov courteously. "All the same, there are other ways of communicating with people. Letters, for example. Perhaps a journal? Do you recall seeing Smin writing anything in the hospital?"

Sheranchuk hesitated. He did not like the direction the questions were taking. "Well, yes," he conceded reluctantly, "but I don't know what he wrote. He never showed me any of it. I assumed they were letters to his family, perhaps a will — I don't know, since I had never seen any of it at close range."

"And Comrade Smin's reading? Did you see him reading anything?"

"Reading? No. Hardly ever. You see, it was painful for him to read. I think I saw him with Pravda now and then, perhaps once or twice with a book, but never for long."

"I see," said Ivanov. "Only a newspaper, and perhaps now and then a book. Well, there is no harm in that, is there? But, you see, I am thinking in particular of a document that he might have been reading. A sheaf of perhaps typewritten pages, seventeen or so. And you saw nothing like that?"

Sheranchuk shook his head. Ivanov gazed pensively at the wall for a moment. Then he asked, "And have you ever met either Comrade Mishko or Comrade Milaktiev, the two men from the Central Committee?"

"Only in the hospital room — and, oh, yes, at the funeral, but only for a moment."

Ivanov was silent for a while. Then he smiled and poured another glass of wine. "And now," he said gaily, "before you hurry off to your good wife, who is certainly eager to see how you are after your first day back on the job, let us talk about your own future. You have taken a good deal of radiation, you know."

"The hospital released me completely," Sheranchuk said defensively.

"But you have surely exceeded the limits for a worker in a nuclear power plant. Usually anyone with twenty-five rads is sent away. You have at least eighty. You can never enter a reactor room again, I'm sorry to say."

"But that's impossible," Sheranchuk cried in alarm. "How am I supposed to do my job?"

"Simply in another place," Ivanov said kindly. "And in a different job. No, no, we're not sending you away. We need you here for some time, to advise the crews as they complete the job of controlling the damage. Then you will go away for a time, if you're willing, but only to take some courses in nuclear safety. The Ministry has ordered this for all senior administrators. And when you come back to Chernobyl, you will be in charge of training and enforcing the new safety standards on all the operating personnel. It's a very serious job, Leonid. Please accept it."

Sheranchuk stared at his glass of wine for a moment. "I could request a transfer to another power plant. Not nuclear."

"Of course you could. I would not prevent you. But we want you very much to stay."

And there really was no choice, for how could he leave Deputy Director Simyon Smin's plant? "All right," Sheranchuk said at last.

"Very good! Wonderful! Let's see, this is Thursday — no sense in your coming in tomorrow — take the long weekend to get acquainted with your good wife again, eh? Have I told you how pleased I am that she is still with you, after all?" And, as Sheranchuk stiffened, Ivanov added, "And, oh, yes, Comrade Sheranchuk, if you should happen to run into either Comrade Mishko or Comrade Milaktiev again, please be sure to let me know."

When, five minutes later, the secretary told Kalychenko he could go in, his reception was far less amiable. There was certainly no wine; there was, at first, not even an indication that Ivanov knew the shift operator was there standing on one foot before him.

Kalychenko waited patiendy enough. He had not expected anything better. The interview with the GehBehs in Yuzhevin had told him what was before him, and Ivanov no more than confirmed it. The circumstances of his running away were permanently on his record. He would be watched carefully. One more misstep would be his last.

Kalychenko stood humble and penitent throughout. He denied nothing. He excused nothing. He acknowledged cowardice, lack of discipline, desertion of his post, unauthorized absence — however many different ways Ivanov discovered to describe the same unforgivable but also undeniable lapse, Kalychenko accepted them all.

It was only at the very end of the conversation that Ivanov said anything that Kalychenko had not expected.

Even that was, when you thought about it, no surprise. It was the logically inevitable next step.

There was no friendly fireman to give him a bunk while he waited to begin his first midnight shift under the new regime, but Kalychenko found a comfortable corner of the canteen not in use. He drowsed over a can of kvass until it was time to report to the main control for the sleeping Reactor No. 3.

He was quite aware that only a few walls separated him from the exploded ruin of No. 4. All of his shift mates seemed a little edgy, as Kalychenko himself was at first. But the monotony of the work was calming.. and, too, he needed to think over the things Ivanov had said to him.

There was not really much to do, with three of the reactors in stand-down mode and the other permanently out of action. The little that had to be done, however, had to be done most urgently; the temperatures of the slumbering cores needed to be monitored all the time, the pumps and rod mechanisms and circulating water systems checked every day — everything had to be perfectly normal and operational, because no one dared face the consequences if there should be another runaway reactor at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Station.

Still, the work did not take much of Kalychenko's attention. That was good, because he needed to think of what Ivanov had said at the end. Kalychenko tried to remember the exact words: "There are only two ways you can wipe your record clean, Kalychenko. One is to lead a perfectly blameless existence for the rest of your days. Unfortunately, you can't live long enough for that to work. The other is to perform a great service for the Soviet Union. There are bad elements here, Kalychenko. Not all Ukrainians are as loyal as you — as, at least, I hope you will learn to be. There are rumors of nationalist agitation. Eternal vigilance is needed to unmask them. You can help. See that you do."

Kalychenko winced. It was bad enough to face his comrades as a runaway; what would it be like if they found him to be an informer as well?

When he heard the other people on his shift cry out sharply, it took him a while to realize that a distant alarm bell was ringing loudly, and even longer to recognize that, for some time now, he had been smelling smoke.

Another fire!

It was impossible, Kalychenko thought despairingly. How could it happen that the Chernobyl plant was wrecking itself again? Once more he found himself running in panic.. but this time, without any conscious decision to do so, he was not running away from the new disaster but straight toward it.