Memoir describes growing up next to Rocky Flats

When Bill and Stan arrive on the east side of the plutonium processing building, it looks quiet and clean, at least outside. There's a loading dock with doors on each side, and a set of double doors that leads into an interior hallway. The men pull on their masks and strap on their air tanks.

They open the door, move into the hallway, and enter the main production area.

"Holy cow." Stan stops in his tracks. Usually as bright as a supermarket, the room is nearly pitch black. A few emergency lights glow dully. The only noise comes from the fans, feeding a fire he can feel more than see.

"I can't even see my hand in front of my face," he mutters.

Smoke rolls toward them in waves. Bill sees the orange glow and moves closer. It looks like the flames are shooting up over the glove boxes, where plutonium pits are made. One, two, three glove boxes — no, all of them. He knows the look of this kind of fire. It reminds him of forest fires he's seen in films — high, fast-moving flames — but the color is different. It's the distinct, unearthly brilliance of burning metal.

"What is that?" Stan yells.

"Plutonium. Probably the magnesium carriers, too."

The heat is intense. Stan feels it through his mask. "It's not just plutonium," he yells. "It's the plastic. The shielding. It's the Benelex around these glove boxes."

"Benelex doesn't burn."

"It's burning! Why is it burning?"

"The Plexiglas, too," Bill shouts. "The Plexiglas is on fire." Burning globes crash from the ceiling. It's hard to tell whether they're just light fixtures or pendants, the baskets that carry plutonium nuggets down the production line.

"Come on," Stan says. Time is short. He knows this building. Both men have walked it hundreds of times, upstairs and down. The two buildings are connected. The 776 side has two floors; 777 has one. Protecting the roof of 777 is crucial. The plenums — the filters — stretch across the entire roof area. If the fire burns through the plenums and the 777 roof, massive amounts of plutonium — as well as other contaminants and radioactive material — will spread over the Denver area and beyond.

Stan opens a cabinet and finds a stack of hard hats. He hands one to Bill and straps one on himself. The men inch into the room until they find the buckets of sand set in corners for extinguishing small fires. They move toward the edge of the fire and throw sand on the flames. It's like throwing grains of rice in the face of an oncoming locomotive. The fire continues to grow.

Bill grabs a CO2 canister and hands another to Stan. They fire them into the glove boxes. It has little effect. They empty another canister. The air in the room is unbearably hot and the men are breathing heavily — already they're almost out of air. The fire gallops through the line.

"We'll take turns going forward," Bill says. "I spray you, then you spray me. We need to keep each other cooled down."

"Let's head toward the center," Stan says. "Get under the center beams and see how the plenum looks."

"Okay." Bill turns his hose on Stan, and Stan moves forward into the smoke, trying to follow the emergency lighting on the floor.