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Rocky Flats, just like everyone else. National security is at stake.
    But on this Mother’s Day, Willie isn’t thinking about work. He’s thinking about having a beer.
    T HE SPARK in the glove box grows. The two utility operators on shift are busy attending to another area. The spark feeds on the steady supply of oxygen from the ventilation system and bursts into an intense flame. ThePlexiglas window on the glove box suddenly begins to burn, releasing hot, noxious gases. The lead-lined rubber gloves catch fire. The Benelex shielding—considered nonflammable—ignites. Fire fills the glove box and moves into the next in line. It snakes quickly, quietly through the linked glove-box lines of both Building 776 and Building 777.
    At 2:27 p.m., a building heat detector finally triggers an alarm at the Rocky Flats fire station. Three firefighters are on duty: two men by the name of Skull and Sweet, and their captain, Wayne Jesser. A minute later, one of the utility operators returns to Building 776 and smells smoke. He is the first and only man to pull an alarm.
    W ILLIE W ARLING is about to take a sip from his third beer of the afternoon when the bartender approaches. “Your wife is on the phone,” he says.
    “What?”
    “Your wife.” The bartender looks away.
    Willie walks behind the register and picks up the receiver.
    “Mom?” he asks. He can’t remember exactly when he started calling her that. It must have been somewhere along the line between all the kids.
    “Something’s wrong,” she says. “You need to come home.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Your manager called. They’re having a problem.”
    He drives home. It could be anything. Things happen all the time.
    His wife meets him at the door. “He said to call back right away,” she says. “Hurry.”
    Willie calls. His supervisor’s voice is tense. “I need you to come in to work. We need you right now.”
    “Well.” He pauses. This is a surprise. “I don’t know whether I should come out there.”
    “Why is that?”
    Willie clears his throat. “I should tell you I’ve had a couple of beers.”
    “We need you now, Willie.”
    He looks over to see if anyone is listening. “They always told us notto go to work if we’ve had any beer, any alcohol or drugs or anything,” he says. “I don’t know if I should come in.”
    “Listen, Willie,” says the supervisor. “We need you. You come on out here right now.”
    “All right.” Willie hangs up the phone. “I’m going into work, Mom,” he says. “I should be home soon.” Suddenly he feels sober.
    T HE THREE firemen jump into the fire truck and roar to the west side of the building. Sweet stays in the truck. Skull and Jesser climb into their protective suits, pull on their hard hats, strap on oxygen tanks, and head into the building. Dense black smoke fills the room. Flames shoot a foot and a half above the top of the glove-box line. The men can’t see well enough to move forward. They look down at their feet and try to follow the emergency evacuation markings painted on the floor, ducking to avoid the hot, glowing beads of lead dripping from the radiation shielding above.
    They’ve been trained not to use water on plutonium. Each man grabs a canister of liquid carbon dioxide and together they try to shoot down the flames.
    It doesn’t work. Jesser grabs two more CO 2 canisters off a second line and they try to shoot down the fire again. It has no effect.
    The men hastily retreat to rethink their strategy. They burst through the doors into the fresh air and pull off their equipment. A couple more workers have arrived, and Skull and Jesser are checked for radiation.
    They’re blazing hot.
    “You can’t go back in there. You’re contaminated,” the radiation monitor shouts. Jesser can’t tell who’s behind the mask.
Is that Willie Warling?
he wonders.
    “We’ve got to,” Jesser yells. He jerks off his mask.
    “You’re hot, sir,” the radiation monitor yells.