There did not seem to be anything coming in from abroad in Russian, and most of the other foreign stations, of course, were jammed. All they could find was the broadcast from France. That, for reasons no one had ever explained, was almost never jammed; but it was also in French, and none of the Didchuks spoke that language.
But even they were able to pick a few phrases out of the rapid-fire announcements, and those included
'But the Chernobyl power plant is more than a hundred kilometers away,' Oksana protested, her face pale.
'Yes, that's true,' her husband agreed somberly. 'We are very fortunate to be so far. They say that radiation can be very dangerous, not only at once but over a period of many years. Cancers. Birth defects. In children, leukemia…'
And they looked at each other, and then into the hall, where Lia lay peacefully asleep, with her head on her fist and her lips gently smiling.
Chapter 20
The control point for fighting the disaster at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Station is no longer at the collective farm. There are far too many people now to be held in a farm village, and so it has been moved to the town of Chernobyl itself, thirty kilometers away. The evacuation of the town of Pripyat has been expanded to include every community within that thirty-kilometer ring. Where more than a hundred thousand people lived seventy-two hours earlier, there is now no living person except firefighters, emergency workers, and medics. Two squadrons of heavy- lift Soviet Air Force helicopters have joined the damage-control forces, and day and night they load up sandbags and nets filled with bars of metal, take them on the five-minute flight to the reactor, dump them into the white-hot glow, and return for another load. The helicopter cabins have been lined with sheets of lead, which seriously cuts down the loads they can carry, and their pilots are working twelve-hour days. The crews battling the accident on tne ground are allowed only three two-hour shifts out of the twenty-four. Even so, each man is stuck twice a day to yield a blood sample so his white corpuscles can be counted, and when the count is down, he is out of business entirely.
Sheranchuk understood the reason for the two-hour shifts
perfectly, but no one told him what to do in the six-hour
stretches when he was forbidden entry to the zone. What he did, mosdy, was try to sleep. When that failed, he ate, and smoked feverishly, and made a nuisance of himself.
He knew that he was being a nuisance, because he had been told so when he visited the Chernobyl town hospital to see how his wife was getting along ('Well enough, my dear,' she told him, 'but really, we're very busy here.'), and when he tried to call the hospital in far-off Moscow to check on Deputy Director Smin. ('His condition is being carefully monitored; he is conscious; and, please, don't tie up our telephone lines at this time!') He couldn't help it. He missed Smin. All these new experts and volunteers from all over the USSR were well enough, but after all, the graphite core was still burning, was it not?
He was pacing back and forth, scowling at the distant smoke on the horizon, when the armored personnel carrier pulled up outside the Chernobyl town bus station. He jumped in to join the fourteen others ready to take their turns.
It was a half-hour ride to the plant, and none of them spoke much. On the way they all pulled on their radiation coveralls, checked one another's dosimeters, made sure the hoods were fastened. As soon as the personnel carrier came to a stop, Sheranchuk trotted right to the closed-circuit water system to check the Bourdon-gauge pressure readings.
Overhead he heard the choppers flutter in and swoop away. One came in just overhead. It looked like an airborne whale, with a rotor on top and the revolving flukes of the tail assembly. He could see someone kicking a bag of something— sand, no doubt — out of the door.
Then he was at the pipes, and he didn't look up at the helicopters again, not even when he felt a rusdy patter of dust on his helmet and knew that one of the bags had come apart as it was dropped. It was only loose sand, after all. If he had been hit by one of the bags, or by one of the falling sacks of lead shot, he would not need to look up. He would be dead — as had happened already to at least one of the firemen whose work kept them closer to the drop point.
That was the good part of Sheranchuk's immediate task, which was to free the great water valves to the steam system. They were in a sheltered location that kept him out of the direct range of the helicopter dumps. The bad part of the job was that the valves didn't want to be freed. The electric motors that were meant to drive them had shorted and burned themselves out when applied, because something inside the valves was jammed. The control wheels outside failed to move the giant leaves within. When Sheranchuk reached the scene, he saw that his relief crews had tried a different tack. They had drained the system of cooling water from the pond in order to attack the valves with crowbars; but that hadn't worked, either, because the steam system had run so hot that there was little liquid water in the pipes. It was now nearly steam all the way through; no one could work in that heat, and so they had to open the dikes and let the cooling water in again. By the time Sheranchuk got back with the new crew, the action had shifted to the external valve wheels again.
Sheranchuk saw that the previous shift chief had rigged up a system of crowbars interlocked in the wheels, and the crew was trying doggedly to move the valves with the added leverage.
Sheranchuk saw at once that it was risky. The great danger was not only that it probably wouldn't work, but that if too much force were applied, it might merely snap the shaft, sturdy forged steel though it was. So when Sheranchuk took over, he urged the crew to be gentle: 'No battering-ram stuff, now! A steady push — go! Keep it going! All your weight—' And when that effort accomplished nothing, he tried backing the wheel off a little for another attempt. It almost worked. The wheel moved, grudgingly, a few centimeters of a revolution; and back and forth, back and forth, they kept up the hard work, sweating inside their coveralls, in the noise of the helicopters overhead and the rattle of dropped sand and metal bars, and the rumble of fire pumps and the hoarse cries of the men.
Sheranchuk was astonished when someone laid a hand on his shoulder. He blinked up at his relief. Had two hours gone by already? And what had been accomplished?
He knew the answer to that one, anyway.
At least now they were no longer alone. It wasn't just the forces of the Chernobyl Power Station that were fighting the accident, not even just those of the region or of the whole Ukraine. Help came in from everywhere, by every means possible. By road, convoys of trucks pounded toward Chernobyl from every quarter of the compass. By air, there were planes to the little field outside the town of Chernobyl and helicopters besides. Barges came into the port at Chernobyl town, trains chugged into the Yanov railroad station — and these were not just ordinary goods trains, with a packet or two for the firefighters; they were dedicated trains, their cargoes reloaded into expendable flatcars at the edge of the evacuated zone and pulled back to the plant itself by locomotives that would never leave. Doctors, firemen, engineers, militiamen, soldiers — half the Soviet Union seemed to be descending on the Chernobyl Power Station in its agony.
It was a truly impressive effort. The only question in Sheranchuk's mind was whether it was going to be enough.
They were ordered to shower without fail every time they came in off duty, and as often as possible in between times, just to make sure. As soon as Sheranchuk was out of his protective clothing and had allowed another few drops of his blood to be siphoned out, he headed for the showers, rubbing the inside of his elbow. The medics were finding it harder and harder to pick a spot on his arm not already sore from taking the blood samples. They looked tired too. So was Sheranchuk. He pushed his way through the other tired, naked men waiting their turn and let the cold water pour over him. He soaped well, wondering what load of radioactive poison was in the water itself. But that was a useless worry. They had to shower, anyway. And besides, those moments under the shower were the only ones he had to relax and think about his wife and his son. The last word from Tamara was that Boris
