Practice: Radiation

One of my practice writings written a year ago; again, tried to make a full story but stuck at prologue. Running out of stuff to post. Hope I can finish translating my short story tomorrow.

Radiation
By Nathan Hartanto

The Urals, December 19, 2020.

The cold winter breezes have reached the Urals much earlier the year. It had been constantly snowing, day after day, for five months, as of now. As the winds picked up through the setting sun, it sent the billions of passing snowflakes into a blizzard, with the clouds covering what would have been the last little rays of the sun for the day, which ended much quicker, as this was very near the Winter Solstice. Another frigid night had finally fallen, in silence, other than the monotonic whoosh of the winds.

Every animal, let it be a winter wolf, or a ferret, now climbed back in their respective homes in the lush pine forests inside the valleys between the immensely tall, snowy mountains that form the range. Even bats, though wide awake, dared not to go out their caves to risk their lives on the thick blizzard. Only several snow owls flew away from their nests, sounds of their hoots drowned by the fast winds.

But further inside the valleys, a lone truck slowly passed the only stretch of asphalt road in miles, heading westward. The Russian truck was very old, just barely functioning, by the looks from the outside. Though its dimming headlights still flooded the snow-covered road, almost nothing could be seen over the blizzard, save for the passing snowflakes, that is, until barely a meter ahead.

The driver, a middle-aged Russian, sporting a winter cloak that covered half his wrinkled face, and a matching fur hat, had nothing as a lead on where he should be heading, now that the blizzard is getting nowhere but thicker. Only his feelings and memory turned his steering wheel left, then right, and then left again, following the narrow icy road, and dodging the old, tall evergreens that bordered each side of the lane.

He drove without rest for an hour into the night, into the thickening snowstorm, which seemingly turned even the dark night skies to white. Still under the dim headlights, he proceeded. He could even barely hear the rev and several backfires from the truck’s engine, as the blizzard beats the hum of the engine.

Further down the winding road, the man finally stopped the truck, in front of a tall metal lattice gate at the end of the road, which joined two halves of fencing, made of the same material, everything topped with barbed wire. The gate just barely peeked over the haze of the storm, for nothing could be seen clearly, though if one really tries, it could be seen that the gate is covered in signs in Russian, in all of them are written different ways to say “Keep out.”

On the left side of the metal gate, just behind the fence, there stood a low watchtower of concrete, though even its low height, only the base of it could be seen in the currently gloomy air. Any watching guards on the top will be rendered useless in a blizzard like this one, so chances are that there were no eyes watching from the top of the unseen platform. On the right, was a small guardhouse, with warm yellow lights peeking through the frost-covered front windows, also dimming the farther it passed through the harsh wind and snow. That smooth yellow light also carried the silhouette of a guardsman, sitting snugly in a seat inside, apparently reading the latest Russian newspaper.

That guard, though, was startled by the nearby bark of a dog, to which he responded by looking out the front window, across which he saw the dim headlights of the truck and a silhouette of the rest of the vehicle. He stood up, dropping the newspaper, still sprawled open on the “Sports” section, unleashed the dog that was also inside, and both went out of the door at the back, approaching the stopped truck.

The guard and dog, both still taking the form of silhouette, slowly shuffled along, as their walking was rendered quite difficult in a five-inch thick snow cover. After around half a minute, nearer the driver’s window, it could now be seen that this guard was still young, had a tall stature, and wore the same attire as the driver: a cloak and fur cap. He stopped just beside the truck, and then commanded the dog, apparently a siberian husky, to sit. He then leaned to the driver’s window, motioning for it to be opened.

The older man complied. Slowly, he lowered the windows on a push of a button beside him, revealing his uncovered face to the mighty winds from the outside, its cold stinging. He barely managed to hear the words uttered by the guard outside in Russian, saying, “Your papers, please, sir.”

The driver simply nodded, reaching for the seat beside him, which was seating a jumbled mess of papers and military standard-issue handgun, and searched for his appropriate papers. Cursing under his breath after a minute, he finally pulled some documents in a file, passed it to the guard, who, after drawing a flashlight from his pocket for only a quick look and skim through the pages, returned it to the driver. He then rushed to the metal gates, and after a great deal of time he managed to free the locks of the gate, and opened both of it inwards. The guard went to the right side of the gate, and straightened himself as best as possible to toss a salute.

The truck moved forward just a meter or so, and stopped again halfway through the entrance. The driver looked back through the still-open window, and returned the salute before saying, also in Russian, “Thank you, Private. Dosvidaniya.”

With that, the driver closed the window, and continued driving inside the complex. Behind him, the guard released his salute, closed the gates, locking it again with equal hardship, before returning to his post, the guard dog following behind him.

After just five more minutes of driving in the snowy tarmac, the driver had already have his truck parked in the complex’s garage, which was a small military building, made of metal and shaped as a half-tube on its side, which could take on, at most, four vehicles, but currently empty, save for the truck, which stopped right at the end of the concrete flooring.

Now shielded away from the harsh winds outside as the gates had already closed behind him, the driver jumped down from his seat, threw his coat and hat to the driver’s seat, revealing his thick beard and jet-black short hair which he covered again with a dark green military beret, straightened his green military jacket and motioned to a couple of guards the far edge to meet him.

The two guards, both about the same age and stature as the guard in the guard post outside, sported a military jacket and a beret, same as the first man, approached him, running. After that, they straightened themselves and saluted, saying, “Colonel, Sir!”

The man, apparently a Russian Colonel, responded by returning their salute and lowered it after a short while. The two guards followed quickly. Right then the Colonel said, “Privates, lower the contents of this truck and bring them to the storage area number six. Meanwhile my presence is requested in the briefing room.”

Afterwards, The Colonel rushed to the door at the garage’s far side, and entered the passage to the main structure of the complex. Meanwhile, the two guards retrieved two carriages from one side of the garage, opened the snowy tarp covering the contents of the truck, and lowered the contents inside, the several reasonably-sized metal tubes, to the carriages.

One of the guards said to the other, “What are these things, anyway?”

The other one scoffed and answered, “You know they never tell us. Besides, I do think we do not want to know. After all, they are heading for Storage Six.”

“Ah, just great. Storage Six, made especially for hazardous materials. God help us.”

-o-

“Your goggles ready, please.”

The Russian Colonel that had brought the truck over two days earlier now stood, in a white biohazard suit, behind the thick bulletproof Perspex panel that covered the end of the dim control room. The cramped space full of glowing panels overlooked the vast, circular test area, which was made of reinforced concrete and vertically ringed with two dozen titanium concrete bracings. Several robotic arms held a small test reactor at the very center of the room, with only a steel catwalk, extending from below the control room, connecting it with the silvery walls.

The Colonel and four men beside him put on their protective goggles. Three of them then strolled over to their designated panels, each controlling a different system of the reactor. One other man, tall and thin, went over beside the Colonel and talked to the Colonel in a low voice.

“Are you sure about this, Colonel?” He asked.

The Colonel turned his head to face the other man. “I am quite sure, General.”

“’Quite’ is not reassuring.”

“I am sure.” The Colonel now turned to fully face the General. “Please do trust me, Sir.”

“I trust you do know that the fate of the world is in your hands now. If you do succeed, we shall have free power at mankind’s disposal. If we fail… well, we would not want to know what await us, then.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Shall we begin, then?”

The Colonel curtly nodded and turned to a microphone in front of him. “Insert the fuel.”

The airlock door that connects to the catwalk opened, and for several seconds, brilliant white light shone through the opening, enlightening the reactor room until the door closes behind the two Russian men in a white pressurized biohazard suit, as the reactor room is kept in vacuum. They walked in a line, guiding a man-sized, white container toward the reactor.

In front of the reactor, the two knelt, carefully opening the container, revealing one of the steel tubes retrieved from the truck two days earlier, which they even more carefully picked up and pushed in a slot on the reactor. Then they closed the slot, locked it, and primed the reactor.

Afterward, they closed the container, gave a thumbs-up to the control room, and quickly scurried back to the airlock. Once again the place flooded with light as the airlock opened, and darkened once more as the door closed.

The General said, “Do it.”

Again, the Colonel nodded and announced to the whole complex through the microphone, “Attention. Reactor test imminent.” Then he spoke again to the room, “You may begin.”

The three men that were given the order complied, busily working on each of their touch screen panels for some minutes. Nobody was talking, as each was either focused, or nervously waiting for the fate of their first test.

Finally, they were done. Three thumbs are up, releasing the built-up tension.

“Do confirm,” requested the Colonel, to which all three workers replied, “Confirmed.”

“Finally,” said the General, “after thirty years of strenuous preparation, this is it. This is it, gentlemen. Colonel, do it.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the Colonel. “Engage reactors!”

Thus the worker that stood behind the foremost panel turned the key and pushed the button.

Finished on 23 December, 2014