It's a story some people compare to Erin Brockovich, but the case so compellingly profiled in that film pales next to the magnitude of what Utah citizens might face. It's a story of people dismissed as a "low-use segment of the population" once again being targeted as a national sacrifice zone. It's a story of a giant corporation paying an impoverished American Indian nation to take what no one else wants. It's a story of a tribe torn apart, with one faction bringing a lawsuit and calling for a congressional investigation. It's about average citizens and power brokers mobilizing for what could be the biggest fight since the late 1970s, when the federal government tried to base the MX Missile in Utah's desert. It's also a story of a government that has failed to create a national policy regarding nuclear waste.
Utahns know about radiation. When the nuclear age began and the United States government exploded atomic bombs aboveground, Utah was blanketed with radioactive fallout. Now, almost 50 years later, Utahns again are threatened with byproducts of the nuclear age. The Goshute Indian Reservation in Skull Valley, just 45 miles southwest of Salt Lake City, has been targeted to receive 40,000 tons of the nation's highest-level nuclear waste for the proposed Goshute Reservation Nuclear Waste Storage Facility.
Private Fuel Storage (PFS), a consortium of eight utility companies whose many nuclear power plants include one on Three Mile Island, wants to send their refuse here. If PFS gets its way, at least one rail shipment of spent nuclear fuel rods will be transported across the country to Utah almost every day for the next 20 years. They will be shipped through more than 30 states, past the homes of at least 50 million Americans. Each rail car will carry 240 times the long-lasting radiation diffused by the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima. This unprecedented volume of radioactive waste will be stored on a concrete slab the size of 845 football fields. An accident at any stage in the transportation or storage could be catastrophic.
PFS assures the shipment and storage would be safe, but the consortium has no track record of being able to transport such vast quantities of nuclear waste, according to the Utah Department of Environmental Quality. Some opponents note that even when contained in metal and concrete casks for shipment, the 10.4 million spent nuclear fuel rods could emit harmful doses of radiation-but just how harmful is unknown.
Critics also fault the proposal for failing to take into account accidents, earthquakes or even terrorist attacks. Geologists have identified two faults in the immediate area of the site, and three other faults that lie within a few thousand feet. Three larger and more active faults run through Skull Valley. While the possibility of terrorist acts might seem remote, the Aug. 26 Deseret News reported the discovery of a terrorist's plan to attack a nuclear reactor in Sydney during the Summer Games. And who would have thought Salt Lake City would ever have a tornado?
Nor does the plan consider the numerous military projects already in the West Desert. Just west of the Goshute Reservation is the Hill Air Force Base Test and Training Range. Locating a high level nuclear waste storage facility so close to Hill Air Force Base could pose huge risks, critics say. Not long ago two F-16s went down in the area, and three cruise missiles have crashed since 1997.
The fact that the spent fuel rods will remain lethally radioactive for about 10,000 years is more difficult to grasp. Consider that this waste will endure far beyond our lifetimes, and the question of whether the waste comes here or not becomes one that will affect Utah forever.
If approved by the Nuclear Regulatory Commission (NRC), some reports say construction of the Goshute facility could begin as early as next year, just as Utah gears up to host the 2002 Winter Olympics. Shipment would begin as soon as the facility is complete. "We hear so much about the Olympics, but they'll only be here a few weeks," says Rosemary Holt of Women Concerned/Utahns United. "Given the half-life of radiation, we'll be living with this waste for generations. When people realize how much is at stake, Utahns and Goshutes alike will be incensed."
Very few people support the PFS plan. In fact, activists most often use the word "insane" to describe it. Utah officials have sworn to do whatever it takes to block the waste. At a Labor Day press conference in Clearfield, Gov. Mike Leavitt forcefully told reporters, "We do not want it here, we did not generate it here, we don't want to store it, and we will oppose it with every means possible, legislatively, politically, environmentally and legally. We're not prepared to be bought out and we won't be sold out."
Salt Lake City Mayor Rocky Anderson calls it a no-brainer. "There is absolutely no upside to this for anyone," he says.
Dr. Martin Resnikoff, an international consultant on radioactive waste management hired by the state, says a single severe accident in a metropolitan area like Salt Lake City could reach $250 billion to $300 billion in clean-up costs. As a limited liability company with no assets of its own, PFS could walk away unscathed from any disaster. Business leaders worry about business interests and the state's reputation being damaged by real and perceived risks. Travel and tourism, which generate $4.4 billion annually, could be dealt a devastating blow. If Hill Air Force Base has to close, it would mean a loss of $2.6 billion to the state economy.
Temporary?
The site is supposed to be temporary. PFS is seeking a 20-year renewable permit to store the waste in Skull Valley until the federal government designates a permanent site-meaning that all 40,000 metric tons will eventually need to be transported again to another facility elsewhere. The federal government, charged with finding a permanent storage site by 1998, has stumbled badly in creating a permanent solution for dealing with the nation's nuclear waste. Opponents fear that without a permanent site in place, that which is temporary stands a very good chance of becoming permanent.
Chip Ward, author of Canaries on the Rim: Living Downwind in the West, says once Utah opens the door to PFS, the state could very easily be saddled with more of the nation's nuclear waste. "After PFS, there is no end in sight," he says.
So Utah, a state eager to welcome the world to the 2002 Winter Olympics, could also be the home to the nation's largest repository of deadly atomic garbage. Foremost in the minds of many is why this waste, which was generated by other states, is coming to Utah. PFS claims its nuclear reactors are running out of storage space. But, says Steve Ericksen, spokesman for the organization Utah Downwinders, that's not true. Ericksen's contention is backed by the federal General Accounting Office, which reported that despite PFS claims, there is adequate storage at the nuclear reactors. "This is being driven by politics," Ericksen says. "It's a lot of scare tactics by the industry to say they're running out of space."
According to the state Department of Environmental Quality, communities near the reactor sites don't want the waste stored onsite, and utility executives have committed not to ask for more space. That's why they began casting about for states willing to take the waste. When no takers came forward, they went to American Indian tribes, which, as sovereign nations, are outside state jurisdiction. Other tribes turned the offer down.
PFS finally found the Goshutes, a tiny Utah tribe of 120 members, only 69 of whom are adults, whose 44-year-old chief, Leon Bear, was desperate to find economic stability for his impoverished people. They eke out a hardscrabble existence. Some homes don't have indoor plumbing. Others have cardboard windows.
PFS has plenty of money to make its case to the tribe and the people of surrounding Tooele County. A color brochure with a smiling young couple looking toward a shipment of casks promises "more jobs, more money and a better future for your children are coming to Tooele County with a safe, clean and temporary storage facility for spent nuclear fuel." It also promises "economic security for tribal members for many years to come."
Chief Bear, who three years ago signed a 25-year lease of his tribe's ancestral land with PFS, believes that promise. In a PFS newsletter he said, "We need economic development to survive. ... We've sacrificed enough, and it's time for us to move ahead into the mainstream."
If the nation's radioactive waste has to go somewhere, what better place than a state with little political clout on an American Indian reservation with no representation? The PFS plan is actually a clever one. Find an impoverished American Indian tribe with sovereign-nation status and cut a multimillion-dollar deal with them to take the waste, thereby bypassing political and legal constraints.
Tearing the Tribe Apart
Many people don't understand that not all of the Goshutes are in favor of the plan. Chief Bear signed the agreement without consulting the tribe's governing body, and so far has refused to share specific details of the agreement, including exactly what kind of financial compensation was promised. "No one on the governing board has seen the agreement but Leon Bear and his two ponies," says Duncan Steadman, one of the attorneys representing the Goshutes opposed to the plan.
"Our tribal sovereignty has been waived without our vote," says Sammy Blackbear, a member of the Goshute Tribal General Council, some of whom question Leon Bear's tribal chairmanship. "We have never seen the lease or voted on it. We have never been told how much money the tribe is being paid. I feel that everyone, especially Goshute Indians, should have a right to decide if having a nuclear waste dump next door is what we want to have happen. We are the ones who should be in charge of our tribe and our destiny."
About one-third of the Goshute governing body has filed a lawsuit alleging tribal corruption, as well as negligence by the Bureau of Indian Affairs. The bureau approved the lease with PFS just three days after Bear signed it. Sammy Blackbear says the lawsuit is the only thing standing in the way of the facility being built. "It would be under construction today if it weren't for this lawsuit," he says. While he can't comment on the details, he calls the lawsuit massive. "We couldn't be in a better position right now. Everything is extremely promising. We're in the mode to end this quickly."
Blackbear's outspoken opposition has put him and his family at risk. In April, someone shot at him as he was horseback riding with his son and nephew. Blackbear's car has also been tampered with, but he refuses to be run off his land. "He's a very courageous person," says Steadman, who along with others has urged Blackbear to move.
Blackbear worries about the land and about his children's safety. He also worries about what is happening to his tribe. "Ever since PFS came along, we seem to be losing our tribe," he says. "Even now my tribal membership is being threatened simply because I'm asking questions. As a Goshute Indian, I love and respect the land. ... It means everything to us. It's not for sale and neither are we."
But to many observers, that's precisely what Chief Bear has done-sold the land to the highest bidder. "Our chairman has been telling us this is safe ... and you can't say that it's safer than the microwave ovens in our homes," Goshute activist Margene Bullcreek said at a July NRC hearing. "That's a sellout that our chairman is giving our people."
"Leon may have started out with the best interest of his tribe, but money corrupts," says Steadman, who claims that most of the PFS money is not going to the tribe, but to Leon himself. In fact, when KSL Channel 5 reporter John Hollenhorst went to Bear's home, he found seven or eight new vehicles in his driveway. Bear said they weren't his.
When five tribal members turned 18, Bear reportedly promised them $20,000 to $100,000 of PFS cash if they signed a resolution supporting the waste storage facility. A newsletter printed by the Environmental Justice Foundation highlights the story of Sammy Blackbear's daughter and niece, who rejected the "signing bonus."
At the July hearing, Bullcreek complained that everyone who supports the facility has a new truck. "If you don't support Leon," she said, "you don't have anything." Bullcreek's electricity has been cut off and her children aren't getting federal money distributed by Leon's tribal government.
Blackbear calls the flow of cash "outright bribery."
"It's basically I'll pay you for your support," he says. "I really think they swindled him [Leon]. Tooele and Leon are not aware of what they've signed away."
PFS and Bear have denied any wrongdoing, and have called allegations of misconduct "outrageous."
Tooele County commissioners also believe the promise of economic development, and have struck their own deal with PFS. Their agreement states that in exchange for not opposing the facility, they will receive $90 million to $200 million over 40 years. The agreement also stipulates that the county will provide any necessary police and emergency services. In a released statement, PFS said that even though the storage facility would be built on the reservation, and thus exempt from county taxes, "both PFS and the Skull Valley Goshutes believe that as good corporate citizens we should compensate the county for services that will or may be needed."
Mounting Opposition
Although PFS first proposed the Skull Valley site in 1993, public awareness has been slow to build. As the NRC's Sept. 21 cutoff for public comment approaches, opposition is gaining momentum. It's creating strange bedfellows indeed, galvanizing a cross-section of Utahns that extends well beyond the expected environmental groups-like Rep. Jim Hansen and Hill Air Force Base, which worries about potential closure of the base. Hill is in Hansen's district, and has been the meat-and-potatoes of the congressman's 20-year political career.
At a hastily called Labor Day press conference, Hansen and Leavitt announced legislation to prohibit a limited liability company from moving high-level nuclear waste through military zones unless the individual member companies assume full liability for accidents. The bill also increases liability for accidents from $9 billion to $200 billion. Hansen and Leavitt say it's just one of many tactics they're using to block the nuclear waste site. "There are a lot of ways to skin this cat," says Hansen, who last June called for a congressional investigation of PFS, as well as an inquiry into federal agencies involved for failing to provide adequate oversight of the process. "We'll exhaust every remedy we've got."
Leavitt also announced the formation of a council that will coordinate the efforts of the many organizations and citizens, including members of the Goshute tribe, fighting high-level-waste storage in Utah. Led by prominent attorneys Frank Suitter, former chairman of the Utah Republican Party, and Dan Berman, a former Democratic candidate for Congress, the council hopes it can maximize impact through better coordination.
It's the same motive that prompted Salt Lake attorney and state legislative candidate Jim McConkie to organize prominent Utahns. Working with Anne Sward Hansen, he formed Citizens Against Radioactive Waste in Utah. Its non-partisan honorary board includes Norm Bangerter, Wayne Owens, Ted Moss, Jake Garn, Ted Wilson and other state political luminaries. In addition to circulating petitions, Sward Hansen, the group's executive director, is feverishly contacting industry, business and civic organizations, urging them to sign a petition opposing the waste storage facility. "We're making headway," she says.
Grassroots Efforts
The League of Women Voters, the Lupus Foundation and 22 other groups have signed a letter to the NRC demanding the agency extend the public-comment period another six months. The groups also requested that agencies involved in granting the facility a permit hold question-and-answer sessions throughout Utah and along the transportation corridor. Utah Sen. Bob Bennett has also requested the six-month extension period.
"We need time to educate the citizens," says Sward Hansen, who feels an acute sense of urgency. Hansen is outraged not only by PFS' lack of accountability, but also by its disregard for citizen input. "Where's the due process?" she asks. "Because of a lack of federal policy, we are receiving this by default. This shouldn't only be in the realm of the NRC. This should be a public decision. The waste is already licensed where it is now. Let it remain where it was produced."
At the final public hearing held by the NRC Aug. 21, everyone from Congressman Merrill Cook and the Utah Defense Council to legislators, realtors, geologists, teachers, attorneys and other concerned citizens objected to the radioactive waste storage. At a press conference before the hearing, Salt Lake City Mayor Anderson, former Gov. Norm Bangerter and former U.S. Attorney Brent Ward voiced their opposition. Anderson has taken the lead in sending letters to mayors along the transportation corridor, urging them to oppose the massive shipment of nuclear waste through their communities. Utah mayors concerned about transporting and storing the waste have scheduled a press conference at the State Capitol Sept. 18.
Even the Utah Legislature has tried to find ways to stop the waste. "This is not a political issue," stresses Utah Senate President Lyle Hillyard. "It's a health issue." University of Utah Law Professor Ed Firmage, who has been meeting regularly with various groups and individuals fighting the waste storage, sees the Mormon church as a potential trump card. Remembering how a formal statement by the Mormon church killed plans to base the MX Missile system in Utah, Firmage, who was a key player in squashing the MX, has wondered if the church might take a similar public stand on nuclear waste. So far, the LDS church has remained silent.
Firmage, like others, is concerned with what is already in Utah's West Desert. Not only does Utah continue to suffer the long-lasting effects of radiation from atomic testing downwind in Nevada, but it is burdened with the largest air polluter in the United States, two chemical weapons incinerators, two hazardous waste incinerators, a massive radioactive waste landfill, a hazardous waste landfill, the largest stockpile of chemical weapons in the world, a proving ground for biological and chemical warfare, a massive bombing range and an army depot with a large underground plume of carcinogenic water.
It's not surprising that Utahns aren't as trusting as they were 50 years ago, when the government assured them nuclear testing was safe and encouraged families to watch the atomic blasts as recreation. "What is good is that people are savvy," says Sammy Blackbear. "They know what's going on."
The broad spectrum of citizens who packed the ballroom at Little America Hotel for the two final public hearings had definitely done their homework. A geologist presented a large colored print of the area showing fault lines that intersect the proposed site. A slight young man with shoulder-length hair bound by a bandana began his remarks with, "I never thought I'd be on the same side as the military." A Tooele mother, who brought her four children along, said she didn't believe PFS assurances. A Vietnam vet broke into tears as he told of the health woes he and other Utahns already suffer from toxins in the West Desert. A father of two from Puerto Rico expressed his disillusionment at arriving in Utah only to find that "it's a toilet bowl for the nation's filth." A young student likened the cross-country transport of such stupefying quantities of nuclear waste to a "Mobile Chernobyl."
During the hearings, Goshute Chairman Leon Bear sat quietly on the sidelines, as one speaker after another begged him to reconsider his decision. But Heidi Sorensen, a Salt Lake mother of four, evoked an American Indian creed that every decision should consider the well-being of seven generations to come.
What's Next?
A final environmental impact statement by the NRC and other federal agencies is due toward the end of February, which then opens the window of opportunity for them to act. Several agencies must approve the PFS proposal before Skull Valley can become home to radioactive waste generated by nuclear plants in Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois, Ohio, Michigan, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Georgia, Alabama and California. The NRC must license PFS to transport, transfer and store the waste. The Bureau of Land Management would have to grant right-of-way for PFS to build a 32-mile rail line on public land leading to the reservation. The Bureau of Indian Affairs and U.S. Surface and Transportation Board will also be involved in the decision process. The timeframe is anyone's guess, but even the most cynical observers expect a decision by next summer.
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