14
The earth underfoot vibrated. A great roaring, like a covey of jet airplanes taking off together, shattered the near-silence and a fat plume of steam shot violently skyward. Instinctively, those in the small group standing on a knoll pressed hands over their ears in self-protection. A few appeared frightened.
Teresa Van Buren, uncovering her own ears momentarily, waved her arms and shouted, urging a return to the chartered bus in which the group arrived. No one heard the shouts but the message was clear. The twenty or so men and women moved hastily toward the bus parked fifty yards away.
Inside the air-conditioned vehicle, with doors closed tightly, the noise from outside was less intense.
“Jesus H. Christ!” one of the men protested. “That was a lousy trick to pull, and if I’ve lost my hearing I’ll sue the goddamned utility.”
Teresa Van Buren asked him, “What did you say?”
“I said if I’ve frigging well gone deaf …”
“I know,” she interrupted, “I heard you the first time. Just wanted to make sure you hadn’t.”
Some of the others laughed.
“I swear to you,” the GSP & L public relations director told the group of reporters on the press tour, “I had no idea that was going to happen. The way it worked out, we just got lucky. Because, folks, what you had the privilege of seeing was a new geothermal well come in.”
She said it with the enthusiasm of a wildcatter who has just brought in a Texas gusher.
Through windows of the still stationary bus, they looked back at the drill rig they had been watching when the unscheduled eruption occurred. In appearance it was the same kind of tower-topped mechanism used in an oil field; it could, in fact, be moved and converted to oil exploration at any time. Like Teresa Van Buren, the hard-hatted crew clustered around the rig was beaming.
Not far away were other geothermal wellheads, their natural pressurized steam deflected into huge insulated pipes. An aboveground network of the pipes, covering several square miles like a plumber’s nightmare, conveyed the steam to turbine generators in a dozen separate buildings, severe and square, perched on ridges and in gullies. Combined output of the generators was, at this moment, better than seven hundred thousand kilowatts, more than enough electricity to sustain a major city. The new well would supplement this power.
Within the bus, Van Buren regarded a TV cameraman who was busy switching film containers. “Did you get pictures when it happened?”
“Damn right!” Unlike the reporter who had complained—a minor league stringer for some small-town papers—the TV man looked pleased. He finished his film changing. “Ask the driver to open the door, Tess. I want a shot from another angle.”
As he went out, a smell of hydrogen sulfide—like rotten eggs—wafted in.
“Migawd, it stinks!” Nancy Molineaux of the California Examiner wrinkled her delicate nose.
“At European health spas,” a middle-aged Los Angeles Times writer told her, “you’d have to pay to breathe that stuff.”
“And if you decide to print that,” Van Buren assured the L.A. Timesman, “we’ll carve it on stone and salute it twice a day.”
The press party had traveled from the city, starting early this morning, and was now in the rugged mountains of California’s Sevilla County, site of Golden State Power’s existing geothermal generating plants. Later they would move on to neighboring Fincastle Valley, where the utility hoped to create a further geothermal power complex. Tomorrow, the same group would visit a hydroelectric plant and the intended site of another.
Both proposed developments were soon to be the subject of public hearings. The two-day excursion was intended as a media preview.
“I’ll tell you something about that smell,” the p.r. direotor continued. “The hydrogen sulfide in the steam is only present in small amounts, not enough to be toxic. But we get complaints—mostly from real estate people who want to sell land in these mountains for resort development. Well, the smell was always here because steam filtered up through the ground, even before we harnessed it to generate electricity. What’s more, old-timers say the smell isn’t any worse now than it was originally.”
“Can you prove that?” a reporter from the San Jose Mercury asked.
Van Buren shook her head. “Unfortunately no one had the foresight to take air samples before drilling began. So we can never compare the ‘before’ and ‘after,’ and we’re stuck with the critics.”
“Who are probably right,” San Jose Mercury said sardonically. “Everybody knows a big outfit like Golden State Power bends the truth now and then.”
“I’ll take that as a joke,” the p.r. director responded. “But one thing is true. We try to meet our critics halfway.”
A new voice said skeptically, “Give one example.”
“There’s one right here. It has to do with the smell. Because of the objections I told you about, we located two recently built power plants on ridges. There are strong air currents there which dissipate all odors quickly.”
“So what happened?” Nancy Molineaux asked.
“There have been even more complaints than before—from environmentalists who say we’ve ruined the skyline.”
There was mild laughter and one or two people wrote in notebooks.
“We had another no-win situation,” Van Buren said. “GSP & L made a film about our geothermal generating system. When we started, the script had a scene showing how a hunter named William Elliott discovered this place in 1847. He shot a grizzly bear, then looked up from his rifle sights and saw steam gushing from the ground. Well, some wildlife people read the script and said we ought not to show a grizzly being killed because bears are now protected here. So … the script was rewritten. In the film the hunter misses. The bear gets away.”
A radio reporter with a tape machine going asked, “What’s wrong with that?”
“The descendants of William Elliott threatened to sue us. They said their ancestor was a famous hunter and a crack shot. He wouldn’t have missed the grizzly; he’d have shot it. Therefore the film aligned his reputation—and the family’s.”
“I remember that,” the LA. Timesman said.
Van Buren added: “The point I’m making is: In advance of anything we do—as a public utility—we can be certain we’ll be kicked in the butt from one direction or the other, sometimes both.”
“Would you prefer us to weep now?” Nancy Molineaux inquired. “Or later?”
The TV cameraman rapped on the bus door and was readmitted.
“If everyone’s ready we’ll move on to lunch,” Van Buren said. She motioned to the bus driver. “Let’s go.”
A feature writer from New West magazine asked her, “Any booze, Tess?”
“Maybe. If everyone agrees it’s off the record.” As she looked around inquiringly there were calls of “Okay,” “Off the record,” and “That’s a deal.”
“In that case—yes, drinks before lunch.”
Two or three in the bus gave a ragged cheer.
Behind the exchange was a piece of recent history.
Two years earlier GSP & L had been generous in supplying food and liquor during a similar press tour. The press representatives had eaten and imbibed with gusto, then, in published reports, some had sniped at GSP & L for extravagant entertaining at a time of rising utility bills. As a result, food supplied to the press nowadays was deliberately modest and, unless an off-the-record pledge was given, liquor was withheld.
The stratagem worked. Whatever else the press criticized, they now kept silent about their own care and feeding.
The bus traveled about a mile within the geothermal field’s rugged terrain, over narrow roads, uneven in places, winding between wellheads, generator buildings and the ever-present maze of hissing, steaming pipes. There were few other vehicles. Because of danger from scalding steam, the public was banned from the area and all visitors escorted.
At one point the bus passed a huge switching and transformer yard. From here, high voltage transmission lines on towers carried power across the mountains to a pair of substations forty miles away, where it was funneled into the backbone of the Golden State Power & Light electric system.
On a small, asphalted plateau were several house trailers which served as offices, as well as living quarters, for on-site crews. The bus halted beside them. Teresa Van Buren led the way into one trailer where places had been set on trestle tables. Inside she told a white-coated kitchen helper, “Okay, open the tiger cage.” He produced a key and unlocked a wall cabinet to reveal liquor, wine, and mixes. A moment later a bucket of ice was brought in and the p.r. director told the others, “Everybody help yourselves.”
Most were on their second drink when the sound of an aircraft engine overhead became audible, then grew quickly in volume. From the trailer’s windows several people watched a small helicopter descending. It was painted in GSP & L’s orange and white and bore the company insignia. It alighted immediately outside and the rotors slowed and stopped. A door at the front of the fuselage opened. Nim Goldman clambered out.
Moments later Nim joined the group inside the trailer. Teresa Van Buren announced, “I think most of you know Mr. Goldman. He’s here to answer questions.”
“I’ll put the first question,” a TV correspondent said cheerfully. “Can I mix you a drink?”
Nim grinned. “Thanks. A vodka and tonic.”
“My, my!” Nancy Molineaux observed. “Aren’t you the important one, to come by helicopter when the rest of us rated a bus!”
Nim regarded the young, attractive black woman cagily. He remembered their previous encounter and clash; also Teresa Van Buren’s assessment of Ms. Molineaux as an outstanding newspaperwoman. Nim still thought she was a bitch.
“If it’s of any interest,” he said, “I had some other work to do this morning, which is why I left later than you and came the way I did.”
Nancy Molineaux was not deterred. “Do all the utility executives use helicopters when they feel like it?”
“Nancy,” Van Buren said sharply, “you know damn well they don’t.”
“Our company,” Nim volunteered, “owns and operates a half-dozen small aircraft, including two helicopters. Mainly they are used for patrolling transmission lines, checking mountain snow levels, conveying urgent supplies, and in other emergencies. Occasionally—very occasionally—one will convey a company executive if the reason is important. I was told this session was.”
“Are you implying that now you’re not so sure?”
“Since you ask, Miss Molineaux,” Nim said coldly, “I’ll admit to having doubts.”
“Hey, knock it off, Nancy!” a voice called from the rear. “The rest of us are not interested in this.”
Ms. Molineaux wheeled on her colleagues. “Well, I am. I’m concerned about how the public’s money is squandered, and if you aren’t, you should be.”
“The purpose of being here,” Van Buren reminded them all, “is to view our geothermal operations and talk about …”
“No!” Ms. Molineaux interrupted. “That’s your purpose. The press decides its own purposes, which may include some of yours, but also anything else we happen to see or hear and choose to write about.”
“She’s right, of course.” The comment came from a mild-mannered man in rimless glasses, representing the Sacramento Bee.
“Tess,” Nim told Van Buren as he sipped his vodka and tonic, “I just decided I prefer my job to yours.”
Several people laughed as the p.r. director shrugged.
“If all the horseshit’s finished,” Nancy Molineaux said, “I’d like to know the purchase price of that fancy egg-beater outside, and how much an hour it costs to operate.”
“I’ll inquire,” Van Buren told her, “and if the figures are available, and if we decide to make them public, I’ll make an announcement tomorrow. On the other hand, if we decide it’s internal company business, and none of yours, I’ll report that.”
“In which case,” Ms. Molineaux said, unperturbed, “I’ll find out some other way.”
Food had been brought in while they talked—a capacious platter of hot meat pies and, in large earthenware dishes, mashed potatoes and zucchini. Two china jugs held steaming gravy.
“Pile in!” Teresa Van Buren commanded. “It’s bunk-house food, but good for gourmands.”
As the group began helping itself, appetites sharpened by the mountain air, the tensions of a moment earlier eased. When the first course was eaten, a half-dozen freshly baked apple pies appeared, accompanied by a gallon of ice cream and several pots of strong coffee.
“I’m sated,” Los Angeles Times announced at length. He leaned back from the table, patted his belly and sighed. “Better talk some shop, Tess, while we’re still awake.”
The TV man who had mixed Nim’s drink now asked him, “How many years are these geysers good for?”
Nim, who had eaten sparingly, took a final sip of black, unsweetened coffee, then pushed his cup away. “I’ll answer that, but let’s clear up something first. What we’re sitting over are fumaroles, not geysers. Geysers send up boiling water with steam; fumaroles, steam only—much better for driving turbines. As to how long the steam will last, the truth is: no one knows. We can only guess.”
“So guess,” Nancy Molineaux said.
“Thirty years minimum. Maybe twice that. Maybe more.”
New West said, “Tell us what the hell’s going on down there in that crazy teakettle.”
Nim nodded. “The earth was once a molten mass—gaseous and liquid. When it cooled, a crust formed which is why we’re living here and now and not frying. Down inside, though—twenty miles down—it’s as damned hot as ever and that residual heat sends up steam through thin places in the crust. Like here.”
Sacramento Bee asked, “How thin is thin?”
“We’re probably five miles above the hot mass now. In that five miles are surface fractures where the bulk of the steam has collected. When we drill a well we try to hit such a fracture.”
“How many other places like this produce electricity?”
“Only a handful. The oldest geothermal generating plant is in Italy, near Florence. There’s another in New Zealand at Wairakei, and others in Japan, Iceland, Russia. None is as big as California’s.”
“There’s a lot more potential, though,” Van Buren interjected. “Especially in this country.”
Oakland Tribune asked, “Just where?”
“Across the entire western United States,” Nim answered. “From the Rocky Mountains to the Pacific.”
“It’s also one of the cleanest, non-polluting, safest forms of energy,” Van Buren added. “And—as costs go nowadays—cheap.”
“You two should do a soft-shoe routine,” Nancy Molineaux said. “All right—two questions. Number one: Tess used the word ‘safe.’ But there have been accidents here. Right?”
All the reporters were now paying attention, most of them writing in notebooks or with tape recorders switched on.
“Right,” Nim conceded. “There were two serious accidents, three years apart, each when wellheads blew. That is, the steam got out of control. One well we managed to cap. The other—‘Old Desperado’ it’s known as—we never have entirely. There it is, over there.”
He crossed to a window of the trailer and pointed to a fenced-in area a quarter mile away. Inside the fence, steam rose sporadically at a dozen points through bubbling mud. Outside, large red signs warned: EXTREME DANGER—KEEP AWAY. The others craned to see, then returned to their seats.
“When Old Desperado blew,” Nim said, “for a mile around it was raining hot mud, with rocks cascading down like hail. It did a lot of damage. Muck settled on power lines and transformers, shorting everything, putting us out of action for a week. Fortunately, it happened at night when few people were at work and there were only two injuries, no deaths. The second blowout, of another well, was less severe. No casualties.”
“Could Old Desperado ever blow again?” the stringer for small-town papers inquired.
“We believe not. But, like everything else to do with nature, there’s no guarantee.”
“The point is,” Nancy Molineaux insisted, “there are accidents.”
“Accidents happen everywhere,” Nim said tersely. “The point Tess was making, correctly, is that the incidence is low. What’s your second question?
“It’s this: Assuming everything the two of you have said is true, why isn’t geothermal more developed?”
“That’s easy,” New West offered. “They’ll blame environmentalists.”
Nim countered sharply, “Wrong! Okay, Golden State Power has had its differences with environmentalists, and will probably have more. But the reason geothermal resources haven’t been developed faster is—politicians. Specifically, the U. S. Congress.”
Van Buren shot Nim a warning look which he ignored.
“Hold it!” one of the TV correspondents said. “I’d like some of this on film. If I make notes now, will you do it again outside?”
“Yes,” Nim agreed. “I will.”
“Christ!” Oakland Tribune protested. “Us real reporters will settle for once around. Let’s cut the crap and get on!”
Nim nodded. “Most of the land which should have been explored, long ago, for geothermal potential is federal government property.”
“In which states?” someone asked.
“Oregon, Idaho, Montana, Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Arizona, New Mexico. And lots more sites in California.”
Another voice urged, “Keep going!” Heads were down, ball-points racing.
“Well,” Nim said, “it took a full ten years of Congressional do-nothing, double-talk and politics before legislation was passed which authorized geothermal leasing on public lands. After that were three more years of delay while environmental standards and regulations got written. And even now only a few leases have been granted, with ninety percent of applications lost in bureaucratic limbo.”
“Would you say,” San Jose Mercury prompted, “that during all this time our patriotic politicians were urging people to conserve power, pay higher fuel costs and taxes, and be less dependent on imported oil?”
Los Angeles Times growled, “Let him say it. I want a direct quote.”
“You have one,” Nim acknowledged. “I accept the words just used.”
Teresa Van Buren broke in firmly. “That’s enough! Let’s talk about Fincastle Valley. We’ll all be driving there as soon as we’re finished here.”
Nim grinned. “Tess tries to keep me out of trouble, not always succeeding. Incidentally, the helicopter’s going back shortly; I’m staying with you through tomorrow. Okay—Fincastle.” He produced a map from a briefcase and pinned it to a bulletin board.
“Fincastle—you can see it on the map—is two valleys over to the east. It’s unoccupied land and we know it’s a geothermal area. Geologists have advised us there are spectacular possibilities—for perhaps twice the electric power being generated here. Public hearings on our Fincastle plans are, of course, to begin soon.”
Van Buren asked, “May I.…?”
Nim stepped back and waited.
“Let’s spell out something loud and clear,” the p.r. director told the group. “In advance of the hearings we aren’t trying to convert you, or to undercut the opposition. We simply want you to understand what’s involved, and where. Thanks, Nim.”
“A piece of gut information,” Nim continued, “about Fincastle—and also Devil’s Gate which we’ll visit tomorrow—is this: They represent a Niagara of Arab oil which America will not have to import. Right now our geothermal setup saves ten million barrels of oil a year. We can triple that if …”
The briefing, with its information and cross-examination, leavened by badinage, rolled on.