Associated Press
July 19, 2003

Tens of thousands nearby wait, worry as Army prepares to burn weapons

By JAY REEVES
Associated Press Writer
July 19, 2003

Inside the pink zone - where tens of thousands of people live and work near an Army chemical weapons incinerator - the debate over weapons of mass destruction hits dangerously close to home.

With the burning of a huge stockpile of nerve agents and mustard gas set to begin soon, some here feel almost like guinea pigs because the Army has never before tried to carry out such unforgiving work in such a populated area.
About 35,000 live within nine miles of the incinerator - the pink zone - and more than 250,000 are within a 30-mile circle.

"If something happens I think we'll pretty much be dead," said Beverly Carlisle, who cares for 90 children at her Ms. B's Child Care Center. "I just don't feel safe."

Some worry what will happen once workers start chopping up Cold War-era rockets, shells and mines and feeding them to the superheated flames.

Others fear what could happen if the $1 billion incineration program doesn't get started.

They're afraid of possible deterioration and leakage from the 2,254 tons of chemical weapons that have been stored in concrete bunkers for decades.

One way or the other, things are about to change.

As early as late July - an exact date has not yet been set - the Army plans to begin destroying weapons at Anniston Army Depot, a sprawling garage and storehouse about 50 miles east of Birmingham.

Opponents have filed suit trying to stop the work and the state has yet to give its final approval, but the Pentagon is pressing ahead.

Seated outside her mobile home, Debra Echtle said she hates living just down the road from a weapons stockpile big enough to kill millions, but she also fears the Army's solution. She cringed at the thought of the incinerator being up and running.

"I want to just get away from it," said Echtle, whose daughter and 2-week-old granddaughter live with her at Shady Acres Mobile Home Community.

"It's for her," said Echtle, referring to the newborn. "She deserves a chance to live."

The Army says concerns over incineration are overblown, calling it a safe way to dispose of the weapons. Any dangers are at least 200 times less serious than those posed by the weapons stockpile, the military says.

As proof, the Army says it has destroyed some 8,100 tons of munitions - about a quarter of the nation's stockpile - at isolated incinerators on Johnston Atoll in the Pacific Ocean and Tooele, Utah, without anyone being seriously injured by the chemicals. Two workers suffered minor exposures, it says, and one person was crushed to death by a machine.

"If folks will just trust us, we can do this job," said Mike Abrams, a spokesman for the Anniston incinerator. "We know the community is going to be so relieved when we have completed our mission."

Cathy Coleman, a spokeswoman for the +Chemical+ Stockpile Emergency Preparedness Program in Anniston, said about $140 million has been spent safeguarding the community.

The work has been extensive and, in some cases, last-minute.

Special air filters and ventilation systems have been installed in 10 nearby schools to ward off fumes in an accident, but work continues at 28 more, said David Ford of the Calhoun County Emergency Management Agency.

Evacuation routes have been mapped out, but only 12,500 protective masks have been distributed to the 35,000 pink zone residents. Sirens and some 30,000 tone radios will alert people to an accident.

More than 9,700 "shelter-in-place" kits - cardboard boxes containing duct tape, plastic sheeting, scissors and a training video - have been given out along with filtration systems for residents to seal up a room during any accident.

But preparations have just started in some areas. Talladega County, located south of the pink zone, has distributed only 160 of its 7,600 shelter-in-place kits.

"We just started last week," said Deborah Gaither of the Talladega Emergency Management Agency.

Carlisle is near the point of despair over the safety of the children at her day care center.

A squirming little girl in her lap, Carlisle said there is no way to make the center airtight because it is located in a combination of mobile homes and a frame building. There's also no way to quickly get protective hoods on 90 kids, she said, and businesses aren't provided with the equipment, anyway.

Carlisle figures her best option during an accident might be to rush children across the street to an elementary school, which is equipped with the special filtering equipment. But
Carlisle said there is little chance of getting so many children even that far in the three or four minutes officials say would be required.

Tasha Salter's family has its own plan for what to do if any gas escapes: They'll all meet in the parking lot at Six Flags Over Georgia, just west of Atlanta.

For now, she keeps a roll of duct tape stored in the glove compartment of her car in case of an accident. "I'll tape up the vents," said Salter.

School secretary Judy Hanvey, who lives across the depot from the incinerator, has made sure her 80-year-old mother has an airtight room and a radio in her home in the pink zone.

While Hanvey wonders what will happen once the incinerator fires up, she also is one of those who hasn't gotten a protective hood. With the startup looming, Hanvey said she plans to pick one up soon.

"It's scary thinking about that first time," she said. "Is it going to work?"

Just getting this close to incineration in Alabama has been a long haul.

The Army decided in 1982 to construct eight incinerators nationwide to dispose of some 31,500 tons of lethal chemicals, but it has since decided to use chemical neutralization to
destroy nerve agents in Colorado, Indiana, Kentucky and Maryland.

The Pentagon settled on incineration only for the stockpiles in Alabama, Utah, and Pine Bluff, Ark., saying the method works best with the individual weapons stored there.
For Phil Harris, whose CENTECH Group has been hired to hand out the protective hoods and other safety equipment, easing fears is part of the job.

Each day, people come to a tan building at the Army's defunct Fort McClellan to pick up their gear and learn how to use it. A trainer shows a videotape, and each person has to put on a hood, made of clear plastic with a battery-powered fan that blows filtered air over the wearer's face.

Aside from the distribution of similar hoods on Capitol Hill after the anthrax scares, never before has the government provided civilians with safety gear on such a large scale, Harris said.

"We are breaking new ground," he said. "Our goal is to treat this seriously, but not alarmingly."