Charles Frenzel » Fiction

Failure

charles frenzel — Mon, 09 Mar 2009 21:09:52 +0000

They paid CTA for the list of chemical ingredients, the precise solvent information, and the data specifying reaction temperatures. Cassell received a list of relatively simple instructions: put a condenser on the reactor; don’t get the reaction too hot. CTA also proposed to design a scaled up reactor and do the testing for additional funding.
Then the troubles started. She remembered when Blain had insisted on hiring a certain Dr. Fuchs, a German manufacturing consultant who, or so it seemed to Nancy, came so highly recommended but with suspiciously faint praise. Nancy flushed with anger at the memory of the way she and her husband had been manipulated by the smooth talking consultant. She had been amazed when Blain was taken in by the thick spread of flattery concerning the genius of American entrepreneurs such as Cassell that Fuchs delivered in a heavy accent during drinks after an expensive dinner—the astronomical charges for which the consultant paid and later added to his billing. Nancy Cassell was also skeptical of the way the man retreated into heavily accented German when she tried to pin him down on the finer points of the design.
Fuchs, whose name translated as Fox, was to design the reaction vessel for large production batches. Nancy had felt a strong sense of unease when Cassell decided not to inform CTA that he was building the reaction vessel with Fuch’s help, citing delays on the project when CTA made friendly inquiries. Hadn’t the CTA people always been helpful and honest with them?
Nancy gritted her teeth when Blain Cassell hired an expensive patent lawyer to work with Dr. Fuchs. Without telling Fuchs or her husband, she had sent the patent draft to CTA for review. CTA replied, commenting that the claims were too broad—something she had thought all along. They were particularly critical of Dr. Fuchs for adding language to cover a large number of metals and other organometalic compounds. CTA felt that a more specific patent would be acceptable. In time, CTA as well as Nancy were proven right when Blain, who by that time had spent more money than their business cold afford on patent lawyers and consultants, had the patent thrown out.
Acting on an angry impulse, she turned left and walked down the overgrown path. She paused to study a horned toad blinking sleepily atop a mound of sun bleached shells—the fascinating little creatures would soon disappear as fire ants from Mexico moved into the area. She remembered the skeletons of dead beetles and insects that used to litter the path. At least the evidence of their folly had now returned to Mother Earth. How could Blain not have known that Fuch’s design of the reactor was terribly wrong?
The rusted remains of Blain’s Folly squatted on ugly steel supports on a cracked concrete pad in front of her. The steel ramp that led to the control panel had fallen away on one side leaving scars across the side of the main tank. Old gauges were half filled with water, missing switches and valve controls were open holes gaping in panels, and once-shiny stainless piping was now covered in the white veneer of corrosion. How stupid the whole thing seemed, now.
As she recalled, the Cassell lab crew just couldn’t seem to get the temperature up to the right range in the reaction vessel. The exterior oil bath that heated the tank would get so hot that the whole reactor was in danger of burning up. No matter what the heater temperature, the interior mix never seemed to reach the temperature that CTA had specified. Nancy wanted to get CTA over to look at the large scale reactor, but every time she mentioned the possibility to her husband he would send in Fuchs who would explain to her how near they were to a solution. Finally, with the rejection of the patent, the company abandoned the project.
Bitterly, Nancy remembered CTA’s recent site visit to discuss procedural improvements necessary for Cassell’s entry into the nuclear coating business. CTA saw the old reactor, wondered aloud why they weren’t told of it, and with Nancy’s permission, looked over the installation. Within five minutes they had the solution. It seemed that the thermometer probe was near the top of the vessel in the vapor, not down at the liquid level. Blain couldn’t make it work because he was measuring the temperature of a cooler condensate, not the liquid product. Consequently, the whole thing was overheated and the reaction spoiled. Also, because of the severe overheating and the vapor leaks, the toxic materials from the overheated reactor had contaminated the surrounding area and caused some of the plants and most of the insects to die off.
Nancy couldn’t help remembering that another paint company that was much larger that Cassell filed for a similar patent about two years later. The patent claims didn’t have the excess baggage of broad claims, and the patent was granted. CTA had warned her that when Cassell abandoned the patent someone else would be right on the spot to follow up.
So now, even if Cassell Coatings wanted to make the material, they would have either an expensive “prior art” case to fight or they would have to pay royalties for a material process that they invented. The irony was that CTA had a trial formula applied to the hull of a sailboat in the New Orleans yacht harbor. Sam Friendly—the Friendly Lady–had made many voyages along the Gulf coast. After five years, Nancy understood the coating was performing perfectly.

As she stood there in the heat, tears mingled with sweat on her face, a fierce deterimination to survive gripped her. How could Cassell get so close to a new product and not get it produced, accepted, and on the market? These were questions she would not let slip, this time. They could have sold the material or the process to all of the major marine coatings manufacturers and made millions. Nancy was more than a little frustrated with her son and her husband. Because of Blain Jr. and his meddling, she was behind on the payments to Nightwing Labs. The investment in a new product line only to abandon it wasn’t going to happen with the nuclear coatings. They would survive or fail as a company on the success this venture.
Even Blain realized that Nightwing labs and their Design Basis Accident tests were crucial to the success of their coatings. The anger inside of her overwhelmed her; she ran back along the path, feeling faint and nauseated.
She didn’t remember quite how she got to the laboratory building behind the old house. The cold air startled her as she gasped and staggered back against the wall inside the door. Except for the offices in the house up front, the lab building was the only place air conditioned at the plant. No one was at the front desk—probably back in the quality control lab where things like viscosity and color for each batch of paint was measured against the standard for that particular product. She walked in to Blain Jr.’s office where she overheard him talking on the phone.
“I’d like to speak with Mary Mouton,” he was saying. “No, it’s not personal, it’s about the coatings tests you’re doing for us. I’d like to know if I can substitute a new batch of samples for the ones we submitted. We’ve got a new formulation that I think will pass the tests.”
Her son saw her.” Look, just have her call me later if you can do the substitution,” he placed the receiver back on its cradle. “What can I do for you, Mom?” he asked.
Nancy took time to look over her son’s face. He was his father in almost every way. His was the same squared face and jaw line that she’d liked when she’d met his father. There was that air of vision and toughness that dissolved into such a charming and compassionate smile that had captured her heart. After the terrible accident that scarred one side of her husbands face, it was a blessing to be able to see the younger, untouched version, again.

Adams Agrees

charles frenzel — Thu, 05 Mar 2009 16:25:23 +0000

“So, we share mutual culpabilities,” Costanza commented dryly.
Adams returned to his point, “Our sources tell us that the pouring schedules in the concrete foundations at the Chernobyl site are faulty.”
“And this means,” she prompted.
“The critical supports under the reactor pile will probably fail within a short period of time—probably not until after the reactor is brought on line.”
“The outcome of this failure?”
He shrugged. “The alignment of the fuel rods and core controls may suffer increasing the likelihood of an accident. Perhaps, if they’re lucky, they will be able to shut down the reactor without suffering political liability. After that, the fuel could be recovered and another reactor constructed—they plan another one, anyway. You can’t really repair something like that.”
“And worst case?” she wanted to know.
“Break down in controls, possibly a meltdown if they’re unlucky along with a major release of radioactive materials into the air very likely. There’s no containment building, so it’s conceivable that the contamination of the area could constitute a major accident. The fuel would never be recovered and would continue to require cooling unless some more drastic measures could be introduced.”
“How much could contamination spread,” she prodded him on.
“Some calculate that the possibilities include a small but general rise in the background levels in Europe. Radioactive substances will show up in the food chain, in the milk for instance. The possibilities are endless and our models aren’t really very reliable.”
“And you subscribe to the worst case scenario,” she ventured.
“Actually, yes,” he admitted, “given the general nature of Soviet secretiveness—but that’s certainly not an official position.”
“No, of course not. Your own development program would suffer setbacks.” Costanza leaned forward, focusing more intently on a sheet in her folder. “I believe you had something you wanted to say about Three Mile Island?”
“The safety factors,” Adams began. “We’ve made some costly mistakes of our own, you know.”
Costanza nodded. In front of her was a list of the reported nuclear accidents that had occurred to date in Great Britain—a sizeable number, in fact. She knew that was where the President was focused, and she was worried that the President wasn’t getting the best information from his own sources inside the administration.
“That’s part of the reason for our creation of the Department of Energy,” she said. “The DOE was authorized by Congress in August, so now we can formulate a national energy policy as well as address safety at nuclear facilities.”
“That may be,” Adams said skeptically, “but your Three Mile Island project already contains a potentially fatal flaw.”
“One of your sources?” Costanza raised an eyebrow.
“No, a section of the specifications that we obtained as part of the bid procedure,” he said. “In engineering terms, there is insufficient provision for positive control feedback within the system automation.”
“Meaning?” she resumed tapping her finger on the table top. “I’m not an engineer, Mr. Adams. In fact, Washington thinks I’m just here as the President’s token social activist. You may even find that talking with me will brand you as a homosexual.” Adams shrugged as if to signal that he was unconcerned about what people in Washington thought
. “Meaning, in simple engineering terms,” he continued with his explanation of positive control feedback, “if you send a signal to a valve telling the valve to close, you need an independent indication that the valve actually closes. Reliance on the automation system without monitoring the physical performance is a critical mistake.”
Costanza hovered over her notes for a moment, scribbled something down that Adams couldn’t read upside down, “Plainly said. I’ll make a note of that and pass it along.”
She badgered and prodded Adams for about fifty minutes longer; asking questions about current levels of security in the U.K., wanting to know about any unofficial results of studies after the large scale release of radioactive Iodine-131 at Windscale in 1957, and also expressing curiosity concerning the public’s reaction to a proposed nuclear fuel reprocessing plant at Sellafield in Cumbria that would handle spent fuels from both the U.K. and other countries. To Adams, it was plain that Costanza was following a script prepared by someone else. He wondered who—the President, himself, perhaps?
Adams dutifully recited chapter and verse in answering or expounding on each of her queries, wondering all the time when Costanza would get to the real reasons why he had been summoned to the meeting.
“Among several facilities currently being considered or beginning the construction phase, we decided we needed to take a closer look at one project near the border between Texas and Louisiana,” Costanza slipped in just after she surprised Adams with a question about whether Manchester United was going to win the Cup this year after losing to Southampton in the finals the year before.
“Don’t know, but we’ve had a long dry spell since ’63,” he replied, wondering why she’d bother knowing his club membership. An eccentricity? Costanza’s smile reminded him of the crocodile who took an ibis from under his feet two years ago near Darwin, Australia.
“Maybe sacking Tommy Docherty will improve the situation,” she added before she switched subjects back to the business at hand.
“Several of the smaller utility companies in east Texas and western Louisiana are worried about the competition coming out of Houston. They formed a consortium to build a nuclear facility near the Sabine River. The permitting phase was a little rough, smoothed out a bit by a Senator named Jack Sharp, and made easier because we didn’t have the Department of Energy in place,” she explained. “Abreact is the construction company.”
Suddenly Adams knew why he was talking to Midge Costanza. Abreact had been involved in several faulty construction jobs in the U.K… They’d failed to satisfactorily answer questions about their quality control, and a certain representative of the company, Jack Sharp, who was now a Democratic Senator from Texas had been behind the team of lawyers who had tried to avoid settling for the cost of upgrading the reactor safety systems.
“We intend to make it easier for you to win a bid on the monitoring systems of this new plant by relaxing certain restrictions,” she went on, bringing his attention back to the present. “On the other hand, we expect you to be competitive enough to win the bid on your own. We won’t be handing out any special favors, you understand.”
“I wouldn’t expect any.”
Costanza snorted like a mule and rolled her chair backwards quite suddenly, as if she’d just blundered into something unpleasant. “Frankly, Mr. Adams, I’m uncomfortable doing business this way.”
“You prefer to be more direct?”
“Everyone tells me that my directness is a political liability,” she looks at him warily.
“Let me make the suggestion, then,” Adams stared at the windows, the evening shadows growing deeper and softer now with the sun dropping behind a line of sycamores that edged the campus.
“Don’t make any concessions on the Federal regulations; we have no trouble meeting all of your guidelines. Add some additional language concerning redundant safety systems that make the bid process even tougher. If the evaluation is at all fair, we’ll get that bid and in return your President will have what he wants.”
“Whatever that is,” she said.
“Whatever that is,” he agreed.
Adams watched Costanza make up her mind about something, suddenly. He’d been briefed on her sudden mood swings. She stood up and leaned over the desk. “I’m sure you know how to proceed. We will appreciate your cooperation.” Costanza offered her hand.
Even as he offered his hand, he found himself looking forward to New Orleans as well as renewing a contact with an old acquaintance, Sam Friendly. Friendly’s contacts, especially one Walter Onley, were absolutely essential if he were going to operate in the Louisiana area.
Adams, trying not to engulf her smaller hand in his larger one, was uncertain how hard to squeeze. How did one gauge the correct pressure with women? “I wish you good luck,” he said sincerely, meaning her political career and the rockiness of Washington politics that he knew she was experiencing.
Costanza’s fingers pressed against his grip with considerable strength, asserting a force to be reckoned with. She smiled as if she detected his surprise directly through his finger tips. “I’ve spent years holding the hands of abused women,” she said. “It builds strength.”

Malcolm Adams

charles frenzel — Thu, 05 Mar 2009 16:24:27 +0000

For Malcolm Adams, the flight from Mobile, Alabama back to Washington, D.C. had seemed almost as long as his earlier flight from London Heathrow to the States. By now, he hoped, the replacement diesel generator would be fitted out below deck and his freshly painted yacht would be on its way from Mobile Bay to a dock he maintained not far south of New Orleans near Houma, Louisiana. He found himself anxious about the captain he had hired—competent enough, surely, but he would have preferred to have sailed with “Red Dawn” himself. There was a lesson in the name: red sky at night, sailor’s delight; red sky at dawn, sailors be warned. The Red Dawn had certainly served him well through troubled passages of many different kinds.
“Please be seated, Mr. Adams.”
The man recognized this as an order framed as a polite request. The small, or perhaps compact, woman studied him from across the teacher’s desk. They were meeting in an empty classroom at a private school in Georgetown. She was cool, but not unfriendly; perhaps reserved would be the correct description that came to his mind. She was Midge Costanza, an assistant to President Carter, and he was meeting with her so that certain information could be exchanged privately at the President’s request.
The man understood this. He took the oak chair without arms that occupied the space between the desk and the first row of small student desks. He had observed that the miniature desks were bolted to the floor in the old fashioned way of miniature wooden benches and scarred table tops, each slanting top bored with a hole for an inkwell that in recent years had evolved into a holder for ball point pens and pencils. Adams recalled that inkwells were still used back in the U.K.. A classroom clock on the wall behind Costanza clicked past four thirty. The red dot on its face indicated that the power had been off, recently, and that the system hadn’t been reset. He resisted the impulse to check the chronometer on his wrist.
Sunlight, cooled from a long passage through a brisk September afternoon, fell in orange pools across polished oak floors, across the desk separating him from the woman, and was absorbed into the folds of a United States flag hanging next to the door to the inside hallway. These old school designs were more secure than the modern “campus” models that had students entering and leaving by outside doors that could never be properly monitored. Adams could see the shadow of a security guard motionless on the other side of the frosted glass. His chair scraped across the floor as he pulled it under him nearer the edge of the desk. The woman settled into the padded, rounded office chair and rolled herself closer so that everything below her waist was hidden. She pressed forward with her elbows braced; her small breasts barely touching the wood surface, and let her hands hover over a folder spread out in front of her.
He reflected on the convenience that Miss Costanza was considered by many to be a mere social secretary that was out of the Washington policy loop. And his identity as a British businessman with a vague diplomatic status provided by credentials supplied by the British Embassy was also helpful. Their meeting simply reflected an effort at coordinating an upcoming cultural event that the President planned to attend. Something else came to mind as Malcolm faced this woman. Costanza’s position as the President’s lightening rod for the women’s Equal Rights Amendment and other social issues made her a safe liaison where misdirection was required.
For her part, Midge Costanza brought out her eyeglasses and fiddled with the thin folder in front of her, trying to decide what she thought of Malcolm Adams. On the surface he was an ordinary British business man who owned some minor oil interests in Nigeria as well as a small firm outside of London that manufactured radiation measurement devices for monitoring reactor safety. Contradicting her experience of male British reserve, Malcolm’s gray eyes were bold in their appraisal of her and betrayed a healthy sense of humor. His weathered appearance and sun bleached hair confirmed the information in her file that he was an experienced sailor who spent much of his spare time on the water. He even held a winning trophy as the skipper of a forty footer in the Melbourne to Hobart sailing event.
As far as his professional life, a few published papers in reputable technical journals supported an in-depth understanding of civil and electrical engineering. The President had assured Midge that Adams was far more than he seemed, and given the President’s expertise in nuclear engineering, she was inclined to believe what he had told her.
But Costanza was suspicious by nature and the recent clash and adverse publicity over a request for information about UFO’s within the President’s inner group had left her with practical considerations concerning the President’s public image.
“Mr. Adams,” she shuffled the papers in the file in front of her, dropped them in order to twist a ring on her right hand, readjusted her glasses, and pursed her lips. “I’ve been tasked to ask your opinion concerning certain sensitive information in our possession. Your government has assured us that you will be able to cooperate in these matters, although, of course, we don’t desire to delve into security matters outside of our mutual interest.”
Adams nodded his head. “That’s as I understand it,” he replied. “I didn’t bring documentation with me, but everything I say can be confirmed by my superiors if necessary.”
He added, after a pause, “I should mention that we rely on your discretion. I’m sure that you are aware that until the relevant investigations are concluded, matters pertaining to a series of accidents in our nuclear power plants have to be kept from the public.” The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “I think you may have had some of the same necessities in the interest of promoting practical public nuclear policy.”
Costanza gazed sourly back at him. “I’m not here to discuss our public policies with you, Mr. Adams.” She used her middle finger to poke her glasses higher on her nose.
“Of course,” the man apologized with a faint smile. “You’ll have your questions?”
Costanza’s eye’s narrowed as she glanced down to consult one of the pages in front of her. “You’re no doubt aware that we’ve started construction on several power reactors in various configurations,” she began. “There’s the Houston Light and Power facility that was begun last year, and the Three Mile Island Facility is in development. Now there’s the new facility near the Sabine River in Texas.”
Adams nodded, “Yes, I’ve been following developments. In fact, my company has submitted bids to provide specialized safety systems in each of these facilities, although,” a slight irritation crept into his voice, “your government has seen fit to make the bidding process considerably harder for companies outside of the States.”
The woman tapped her right index finger briefly against the table surface and fiddled with the frames of her glasses, a habit that might be bad for playing poker, Adams thought, but served here to emphasize her impatience.
“We’re simply being security conscious,” she spoke coolly.
“We could be helpful with that security if you’d consider easing things a little on our side,” he seemed to be questioning her.
“Ah, the negotiating point?”
He thought he detected amusement flicker in her eyes. “A minor consideration, perhaps.”
“Probably not,” she stated, “but duly noted.” She leaned back in the chair and waited.
He knew he’d have to be satisfied with her concession to the point. “So, how may I help you?” he broke into the silence.
Costanza decided to approach matters directly. “Tell me what you know about what the Russians are doing at Chernobyl.” If Adams were surprised, he didn’t show it.
Adams spread the fingers of his hands flat on the table. “You know how the Russians are. They make sophisticated plans but their execution is sometimes crude. They’re so sure of themselves that they are constructing their series of reactors without a containment facility.”
“We know,” Costanza referred to some notes in front of her. “Do you think it’s a cost saving measure?”
“Not really,” he replied. “I think it’s the Russian psyche. Containment would be a policy that recognized potential flaws. Their technical management structure insulates itself within political correctness which is the major danger to safe operation. Containment in our culture is a necessary reassurance and makes it seem like we’re catering to the human factor.”
“But we’re not,” Costanza looked curious, “actually concerned about the public?”
“We have had our problems like dumping radioactive waste into the Irish Sea,” he said, “and you have your Hanford facility, among others. Everyone is a lot less than perfect.”