Was West Lake Landfill a Nuke Dump Before 1973?

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A 1981 report prepared for the Nuclear Regulatory Agency raises more questions about the origins of the radioactive waste at the controversial  West Lake Landfill Superfund site, including who dumped it and when.

No doubt exists that B&K Construction Co. hauled more than 40,000 tons of radioactive material from Cotter Corp.’s  Latty Avenue storage site in Hazelwood, Mo. and illegally dumped it at the West Lake Landfill in Bridgeton, Mo. between July and October of 1973.

But a 1981 government report obtained by the Environmental Archives now suggests some of the nuclear weapons waste at the landfill was quietly disposed of years earlier. Forty-five years later it remains a mystery where the latter nuke waste originated or who dumped it

The report, released under the Freedom of Information Act, is based on a 1980 site investigation by the Radiation Management Corp., a Nuclear Regulatory Commission contractor. The report states that the then-landfill superintendent recalled with certainty that the Latty Avenue waste was disposed on approximately two acres in the southern portion of the landfill.

Vernon Fehr, the superintendent who had first-hand knowledge of the landfill operations for the time periods in question, also said with certainty  that none of the radioactive materials from Latty Avenue  were dumped in the other contaminated part of the landfill, which is comprised of approximately 8 acres in the northeast section.

The NRC report states, “the second area is at least 10 years old (in 1981), and no one had any idea what radioactive material might be present there.” If that timeline is correct, it means large volumes of radioactive waste were secretly dumped at the landfill at least two years prior to  B&K arriving on the scene.

 

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Radiation Management based its findings on both the landfill manager’s testimony and a 1978 aerial survey of the landfill by EG&G engineering firm. The aerial survey discovered radioactive contamination above background on  2.6 acres acres in the southern part of the landfill and also present on  8 acres in the northeast portion of the site.

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Current attention has been directed mainly at area of the landfill nearest the underground fire, which is burning at the adjacent Bridgeton Landfill.

The eight acres in the northeast sector of the site include a toxic stew of chemical waste in addition to the radioactive materials. The mixed contaminants are known to be migrating off site and leaking into the aquifer. The landfill is in the flood plain, approximately 1.5 miles away from the Missouri River.

The exact nature of the all radioactively-contaminated materials and their precise locations remains uncertain because the EPA has failed to fully characterize the site since taking over the clean up in 1990.  In short, despite untold numbers of various tests and surveys over the years,  a comprehensive grid test of the entire 200-acre Superfund site has never been conducted.

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A War of Words

Environmentalist Kay Drey continues to advocate for the removal of waste from the radioactively-contaminated West Lake Landfill

first published at stlreporter.wordpress.com, Jan. 23, 2015

“It just makes me sick,” say Kay Drey. The 81-year-old dean of the St. Louis environmental movement is sitting at her dining room table, which is scattered with various paperwork, including two dogeared reports issued by the Nuclear Regulatory Agency in the 1980s.

As the sun streams through a window of her University City home on this mild January morning, she bemoans the state of affairs related to the stalled clean up of the radioactively-contaminated West Lake Landfill in Bridgeton, a nearby St. Louis County suburban municipality.

The NRC reports to which she refers both candidly recommend the removal of the radioactively-contaminated materials from the landfill, which is located in the Missouri River flood plain upstream from water intakes for the city of St. Louis.

The waste, a byproduct of decades of uranium processing carried out by Mallinckrodt Chemical Works on behalf of the government’s nuclear weapons program, was illegally dumped at West Lake 40 years ago. Drey has been fighting various regulatory agencies to get it removed for almost as long.

On this day, Drey’s voice is failing. It can’t compete with Moxie, the family’s small dog, who yaps at a visitor’s feet. After the canine commotion subsides and breakfast dishes are cleared, Drey explains what is bothering her.

“They’re not talking about digging it up,” she says.

Removing the radioactively-contaminated materials from the St. Louis area to a federally-licensed nuclear waste depository in the sparsely-populated West has long been her goal.

In 2008, Drey and the Missouri Coalition for the Environment challenged the EPA’s record of decision on West Lake, which would have mandated a relatively cheap fix — capping the landfill with dirt and leaving the nuclear materials in place. Republic Services, the liable landfill owner, favors this remedy, which would allow the contamination to continue migrating into the ground water. The final decision is still up in the air along with noxious landfill fumes that have been the bane of nearby residents for the last four years.

Since 2010, public outrage over the issue has grown due to an underground fire at the adjacent Bridgeton landfill, which is part of the same EPA Superfund site. The Missouri Department of Natural Resources is overseeing efforts to contain the fire, which is moving in the direction of the radioactive waste. To bolster DNR’s authority, the Missouri Attorney General’s office has filed suit against Republic for various infractions. Splitting responsibility for dealing with the problem between the state and federal agencies has led to further bureaucratic snafus. One of the impasses involves a state-mandated barrier wall to stop the fire from advancing.

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Drey and other activists advocate turning the clean up over to the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, the agency that has remediated other St. Louis radioactive sites under the Formerly Utilized Site Remedial Action Program (FUSRAP), which targets sites contaminated with nuclear weapons waste from World War II. Gaining congressional approval for such a change has not happened, however, despite efforts by the activists to spur the St. Louis congressional delegation to sponsor the requisite federal legislation.

Meanwhile, Republic, the responsible party, keeps pushing the original capping proposal. The company’s public relations efforts have included backing a rural-based front group, the Coalition to Keep Us Safe which is against shipping radioactive material through the state. The Coalition to Keep Us Safe, via their twitter feed, routinely uses the words “capping” and “encapsulation” to mean the same thing. The terms are used interchangeably by the group, but “encapsulation” is not part of the 2008 Record of Decision issued by the EPA. The confusion of terms is not clear to a casual observer or to many members of the Coalition as seen in the tweets they post.

As the debate wears on, Drey sees support for removal of the waste waning. But she’s standing her ground. There is no compromise on this subject when viewed from her eyes. Those who consider capping as an option are abandoning the goal. In her opinion, it is indefensible to leave deadly radioactive waste to drain inevitably into the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers forever.

Drey also sees how language is being used to obfuscate the issue. Supporters of capping the landfill often use the word “encapsulation” to describe the plan to leave the waste in the floodplain, leaking into the aquifer.

To make her point, Drey gets up from the dining room table and retrieves a worn dictionary from a bookshelf. She runs her index finger down the page to the entry and recites the definition: “Encapsulate: to encase in or as if in a capsule.”

“Does a capsule have just a top?” she asks.

Locked Out in Metropolis

Honeywell workers learn the high cost of good-paying jobs

The troubles started a few years back, says the big man in the lawn chair,   an umbrella shielding him from the summer sun. His eyes squint as he explains the circumstances that led to his sitting on this barren stretch of highway on the outskirts
of Metropolis, Illinois. As he stares into the distance, in the direction of his union
hall, his words express a Southerner’s fatalism echoed by the drawl of his voice.

He calls his plight a cliché, for it is an old and familiar story in these parts.
Knowing such tales rarely end well, he speaks with resignation beyond his years.
His is a story of haves and have nots, which has been played out in Southern
Illinois for as long as anyone can remember. Metropolis may lay claim to
being the home of the Man of Steel, but the struggles of mere mortals have defined
this place.

Vestiges of those struggles can be seen in the hardscrabble towns that dot the
Shawnee Hills, a topography that connects Appalachia to the Ozark Plateau both
geographically and culturally. For motorists whizzing along Interstates 57
and 24 it is impossible to catch a fleeting glimpse of the dual sense of sadness and
survival that steep these hills and hollows.

But those sentiments can be heard in the tenor of the big man’s voice as surely as
the thunderheads can be seen gathering on the horizon on this scorching August
afternoon.

He says the troubles began when Honeywell International Inc. disbanded his
union’s safety committee. In its place, his employer implemented a program named
“behavioral safety,” a euphemism for a system that blames individual workers for
on-the-job accidents. As a result, plant workers refrained from reporting accidents
out of fear that they would lose their jobs.

The big man furrows his brow, as he describes how the program essentially
helped mask the continuing safety risks inside the plant. Workers’ morale declined
and labor disputes inside the plant accelerated.

The big man compares the work he does – uranium processing – to coal
mining an occupation with a long history in the Southern Illinois. Both are dirty and
fraught with potential safety hazards and chronic health risks. Since coal mining
petered out hereabouts, the nuclear energy

Honeywell plant helps supply processed uranium to the gaseous diffusion plant in
nearby Paducah, which further refines nuclear fuel. The facilities, which are both
radioactively contaminated, are products of the Cold War, built more than 50 years
ago as a part of the nuclear arms race against the former Soviet Union. They
now help supply enriched uranium to the nuclear power industry.

The labor problems peaked earlier this summer, after contract negotiations
between Steelworkers Local 7-669 and Honeywell broke down over the
company’s plan to reduce retiree health benefits and cut the pensions of newly
hired workers.

 On June 28, Honeywell
locked out its 220 union employees. The
company replaced its union workers with
non-union employees supplied by Shaw
Environmental and Infrastructure of Baton
Rouge, Louisiana. Shaw, a billion-dollar
corporation, holds numerous government
contracts with the Department of Energy
and the Department of Defense.

The lockout has had a ripple effect
across the entire nuclear energy industry,
causing the price of uranium companies’
stock to skyrocket. Closer to home, the
lockout is on the brink of sending the
already recession-wracked local economy
into a tailspin. With tempers flaring on
both sides, a once-cohesive community is on the verge of coming apart at the seams. The lockout has pitted management against labor and neighbor against
neighbor. The risks of potential nuclear mishap have raised tensions in the town of 6,500.

It has happened before.

In the early hours of Dec. 22, 2003, the plant inadvertently released seven pounds of uranium hexafluoride (UF-6). The accident prompted the immediate
evacuation of nearby residents. News reports issued at the time said no one was
hurt, but four or five residents were sent to the hospital for observation.

As recently as April, the Nuclear Regulatory Commission held a meeting at
the Massac County Courthouse to discuss the findings of a two-year safety study.
The study was prompted by past radiological and safety hazards inside the
plant. Despite the NRC’s review, the agency has issued repeated exemptions to
Honeywell so it can continue to operate despite the contamination. According to a
recent Securities and Exchange Commission filing, Honeywell is being
investigated by the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency and the Justice Department for allegedly dumping radioactive sludge at its Metropolis
facility.

Hard times never really left Little Egypt, the name some old- timers still call the
pyramid-shaped area between the two great rivers.

Behind each levee there are countless human tragedies, tales of woe passed
down generations, remembrances of floods and droughts and man-made calamities like the lockout now in progress.

At the steel workers union hall, a member of the local’s negotiating
committee opens the meeting with an invocation. He prays for the sick, and for
all who are now unemployed, asking in Jesus’ name for strength. Across the road,
in front of the plant, the union has erected a memorial. Forty-two crosses symbolize
workers who have died of cancer; 27 smaller crosses represent those who have
so far survived the disease.

Later, in the parking lot, the man who gave the prayer, a 30-year employee at the
plant, says he hopes for a resolution to the labor problems so the men and women of
his union can return to work. He acknowledges that the plant has pockets of
radiation that are dangerous, but expresses no ill will toward the company. His
concern now is for those operating the plant; they’re untrained and, in his view,
unqualified to do the work.

Sitting on the tailgate of a visitor’s car, he nods in the direction of the uranium
plant, and says: “Somebody’s going to get killed.”