There are probably two ways to be a nuclear reactor operator. The first would be to avoid thinking, on a visceral level, about what disaster would mean. The second would be to become comfortable with dark places and consequences. Alec Austin seems to have done the latter.
“Dead men shouldn’t scream,” Marya muttered at Kade from the next cot over, her eyes glittering like funeral jade in the bunker’s dimness. “Or have panic dreams, or sweat. You reek, did you know that?”
“They were cutting me open,” Kade said, drawing a shuddering breath.
When Marya spoke again, her voice was gentler. “You were dead at the time, Kade. Really dead, until they replaced your heart with a necropotence engine. Let the dream go. You have enough nightmares without inventing new ones.”
Kade nodded once, in acquiescence. As Marya rolled over, the impact of a shell landing nearby rattled the bunker, but neither of them deigned to notice it. Welcome to the Front, Kade thought as their lantern oscillated on its hook, making his shadow sway from wall to wall. The Front, where shells fell like rain, and men and Sidhe died like mayflies. The Front, where replacing his heart with an engine of spelled steel that could revive him when he died almost seemed sane and reasonable.
I hate this place, Kade thought, but the thought was worn and tired. Of course he hated it here, amidst the mud and the corpses. Anyone would hate it.
Anyone but your sister, a traitorous part of him whispered, and Kade shuddered and closed his eyes.
Like Marya said, he had enough nightmares already.
As someone who spent years as a “nuclear occupational worker,” I can assure you that the first group would not last long.
I was a nuclear Machinist’s Mate in a nuclear powered submarine for nearly five years. Before I went to that sub, I spent six months at Nuclear Power School and six months at a Nuclear Power Training Unit (basically a fully functional submarine power plant on land). We spent hour in classrooms discussing various nuclear catastrophes and how to respond to them.* At NPTU we had daily drills on various accidents with critiques afterwards. Anyone who hadn’t internalized what could happen due to a reactor incident or accident would have been washed out of the nuclear training program.
When I was in the sub the training and drills continued. At least every 18 months (usually more often) we had an Operational Reactor Safeguard Examination (ORSE) which tested the crew’s knowledge of the nuclear plant, including accident response. Failing an ORSE would mean automatic relief of the Captain, Engineer and Reactor Officer. The Navy takes ORSEs very seriously.
Sorry to break it to you but Homer Simpson is a fictitious character and not a realistic portrayal of nuclear operators.
*There were several nuclear accidents we were trained on in which the last action was “put your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye.”
‘Tis, that’s one part of thinking about what a reactor accident implies – the short-term reaction. But more significant are the long-term effects: If disaster strikes, you can kiss goodbye not only to the power plant and your ass but to everything within dozens of kilometers for the next couple of centuries, possibly millennia. Due to the smaller size, a sub’s reactor may contaminate less than a land-based power plant, but not that much less. You’re operating a machine that can stamp out millions of square kilometer-years of Earth’s future.
Hmm, I get a 404 Error on the “Keep Reading” link, but I found the story here:
Ironheart