The Japan Syndrome

By Tim Larimer/Tokyo

The flash of blue light was the first sign that something was horribly wrong. Three workers feeding uranium into a tank were jolted by the flash inside the JCO uranium-processing plant, 85 miles northeast of Tokyo. One of them was knocked unconscious. Within minutes, the others were nauseated, and their hands and faces were burned bright crimson. The way they had handled stainless-steel pails full of uranium 235 had caused the worst nuclear accident in Japan's history.

As the workers soaked up potentially lethal doses of radiation, still more leaked from the plant in Tokaimura, the hub of the Japanese nuclear power industry. Eventually, more than 300,000 people in Tokaimura and eight nearby towns were bunkered in their homes, waiting to find out how badly they were affected. Meanwhile, 28 million people in metropolitan Tokyo, downwind of the accident, wondered about their fate. As the hours ticked by, a plodding government dithered and displayed once again its inability to come to grips with a huge nuclear power industry riddled with safety flaws.

It wasn't Chernobyl and it wasn't Three Mile Island, but the accident was bad enough. Though authorities eventually gave the all clear, the full extent of the damage is unknown. But what made it most frightening was the amount of time that passed before anybody seemed to know just how bad it was or wasn't. At one point, radiation levels a mile or so from the plant were 15,000 times higher than normal for an urban setting; 46 workers were exposed to dangerously high levels of radiation. U.S. and European experts said backup safety measures should have automatically shifted into gear to halt the disaster. But the facility, housed in a bland-looking white five-story building just 60 ft. from the nearest residential housing, apparently had no such safety precautions.

The factory, built in 1982, is part of the fuel supply line for an experimental fast-breeder nuclear power plant. It is where fissionable U-235 is combined with nitric acid to produce uranium dioxide, which is then combined at another plant with plutonium to produce the enriched uranium pellets used as breeder fuel. According to JCO, workers inexplicably mixed far more than the normal amount of uranium--35.2 lbs. instead of 5.2 lbs.--with the acid. Then they used stainless-steel buckets rather than pipes--again, inexplicably--to pour the liquefied uranium into the tank. The high concentration of uranium started the nuclear fission that normally occurs in power reactors. Power plants have equipment to moderate such chain reactions. Fuel-processing plants don't.

In the town of Tokaimura, none of the 33,900 residents could see the flash or know that radiation was escaping. Nor did they find out soon. Members of the Kawano family, who live in the vicinity, were drawing water from the family well to wash vegetables and brush their teeth. Two hours after the accident, teenager Yoshitaka Nanbara wandered to a friend's house, just a few yards from the facility's back fence. The two youngsters spent an hour or so playing Biohazard on a Sony PlayStation. Loudspeakers mounted on telephone poles around the town, built to warn of nuclear disaster, were silent.

Tokaimura is a town that should be ready for nuclear accidents. It is home to 15 nuclear power facilities and has had three other nuclear accidents in the past four years. Yet three fire fighters who answered an emergency call at the plant misunderstood the reason. They thought someone was having an epileptic seizure and so didn't wear protective clothing. The Tokaimura town office didn't find out about the accident for almost an hour.

In Tokyo, Prime Minister Keizo Obuchi's office wasn't informed for five hours. It wasn't until late afternoon--more than five hours after the disastrous blunder--that local authorities evacuated 160 residents to a community center. There, technicians in gray jump suits scanned bodies with wands to measure radioactive exposure. Chieko Kawano was told she shouldn't use her well water. "It's too late, you know," she replied. Later that evening loudspeakers in Tokaimura and eight nearby towns advised more than 300,000 people to stay inside, close their doors and seal their windows. "When we have more information, we will tell you," the announcer said. For the next 12 hours, there was nothing.

The next morning, neighborhoods around the plant looked like ghost towns. Train service in and out of the area was halted, and masked police officers in protective gear stopped motorists from entering. The country's leaders went on national TV to admit that they didn't know what was wrong or how to end whatever was going on inside the plant. More hours ticked by during which no one tried to stop the nuclear reaction. Finally, after almost 20 hours, the disaster was contained, and local residents were told several hours later that they could go outside. Those living closest to the plant were still barred from returning home, and radiation testing continued. The fuel plant will be shut down indefinitely.

Once again the suspect safety record of Japan's nuclear power industry has been caught in a harsh blue glare. In a nation where memories of Hiroshima and Nagasaki are still painfully strong, and where earthquake faults run under much of the country, Japan still clings to an uneasy reliance on nuclear power. The country has 52 nuclear power plants, which supply more than 35% of the electricity demand. There are plans to build 20 more plants over the next decade. All of that would seem to demand ultra-strict safety standards. But the industry has been plagued by accidents, plant shutdowns, radiation leaks and cover-up attempts. And it still lacks adequate scrutiny.

Last July, after a leak at a reactor in Fukui prefecture, operators gave 90 visitors a tour outside the plant, even though they hadn't found the source of the leak and didn't know the extent of the damage. Videotapes of another plant accident were tampered with by a plant official. In 1997 managers at another plant in Tokaimura tried to cover up an explosion that left 37 workers contaminated by radiation. The revelation prompted then Prime Minister Ryutaro Hashimoto to declare, "I am so angry, I cannot utter a word." But his apoplexy effected little change.

At Tokaimura last week, many residents soon shrugged it all off as a temporary inconvenience. But some worried. Satomi Akutsu, six months pregnant, waited as technicians checked her for radiation exposure. She was safe, for now. "I didn't know that this kind of factory was even here," she said. "I'm relieved we're O.K. But I want to move out of this place." The question was, to where?

--With reporting by Dan Cray/Los Angeles, Donald Macintyre and Sachiko Sakamaki/Tokaimura and Dick Thompson/Washington

With reporting by Dan Cray/Los Angeles, Donald Macintyre and Sachiko Sakamaki/Tokaimura and Dick Thompson/ Washington