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The chairman frowned. "I hope nothing's wrong out there."
Instinctively, eyes swung to an instrument panel with the legend above it: LA MISSION NO- 5. This was Big Lil, the newest and largest generator at La Mission plant fifty miles outside the city.
Big Lil-Lilien Industries of Pennsylvania built the huge machine and a news writer coined the descriptive name which stuck-was a monster delivering a million and a quarter kilowatts of electric power. It was fuelled by oil in enormous quantities which created superheated steam to drive the giant turbine. In the past Big Lil had had its critics. During the planning stages experts argued it was sheerest folly to build a generator so large because too much reliance would be placed on a single source of power; they used a non-scientific simile involving eggs and a basket. Other experts disagreed. These pointed to "economies of scale," by which they meant: mass-produced electricity is cheaper. The second group prevailed and, so far, had been proven right. In the two years since it began operating, Big Lil had been economical compared with smaller generators, magnificently reliable, and trouble-free. Today, in the Energy Control Center, a strip chart recorder showed the heartening news that Big Lil was giving its utmost, running at maximum, shouldering a massive six percent of the utility's total load,
“There was some turbine vibration reported early this morning," Ray Paulsen told the chairman. “The chief and I discussed it. While it probably isn't critical, we both thought he should take a look."
Humphrey nodded approval. There was nothing the chief could do here, anyway. It was simply more comfortable to have him around.
"Here is the Governor," an operator announced on Humphrey's telephone.
And a moment later a familiar voice: "Good afternoon, Eric."
"Good afternoon, Sir," the chairman said. "I'm afraid I'm calling with unhappy . . ."
It was then that it happened.
Amid the bank of instruments under the sign LA MISSION NO- 5 a buzzer, urgently insistent, sounded a series of short, sharp notes. Simultaneously, amber and red warning lights began blinking. The inked needle Of NO- 5's chart recorder faltered, then descended steeply.
"My God!" someone's shocked voice said. "Big Lil's tripped off the line."
There remained no doubt of it as the recorder and other readings slid to zero.
Reactions were immediate. In the Energy Control Center a high speed logging typewriter came to life, chattering, spewing out status reports as hundreds of high voltage circuit breakers at switching centers and substations sprang open at computer command. The opening of the circuit breakers would save the system and protect other generators from harm.
But the action had already plunged huge segments of the state into total electric blackout. Within two or three successive seconds, millions of people in widely separated areas-factory and office workers, farmers, housewives, shoppers, salesclerks, restaurant operators, printers, service station attendants, stock-brokers, hoteliers, hairdressers, movie projectionists and patrons, streetcar motormen, TV station staffs and viewers, bartenders, mail sorters, wine makers, doctors, dentists, veterinarians, pinball players . . . a list ad infinitum-were deprived of power and light, unable to continue whatever, a moment earlier, they had been doing.
In buildings, elevators halted between floors. Airports, which had been bursting with activity, virtually ceased to function. On streets and highways traffic lights went out, beginning monumental traffic chaos.
More than an eighth of California-a land area substantially larger than all of Switzerland and with a population of about three millioncame abruptly to a standstill. What, only a short time ago, had been merely a possibility was now disastrous reality-and worse, by far, than feared.
At the control center's communications console-protected by special circuits from the widespread loss of power-all three dispatchers were working swiftly, spreading out emergency instructions, telephoning orders to generating plants and division power controllers, examining pedal-actuated roller system maps, scanning cathode ray tube displays for information. They would be busy for a long time to come, but actions triggered by computers were far ahead of them now.
"Hey," the Governor said on Eric Humphrey's telephone, "all the lights just went out."
"I know," the chairman acknowledged. "That's what I called you about."
On another phone-a direct line to La Mission's control room-Ray Paulsen was shouting, "What in hell has happened to Big Lil?"
2
The explosion at the La Mission plant of Golden State Power & Light occurred entirely without warning.
A half hour earlier the chief engineer, Walter Talbot, had arrived to inspect La Mission No. 5-Big Lil-following reports of slight turbine vibration during the night. The chief was a lean, spindly man, outwardly dour, but with a puckish sense of humor and who still talked in a broad Glaswegian accent, though for forty years he had been no nearer Scotland than an occasional Burns Night dinner in San Francisco. He liked to take his time about whatever be was doing and today inspected Big Lil slowly and carefully while the plant superintendent, a mild, scholarly engineer named Danieli, accompanied him. All the while the giant generator poured out its power-sufficient to light more than twenty million average light bulbs.
A faint vibration deep within the turbine, and differing from its normal steady whine, was audible occasionally to the trained cars of the chief and superintendent. But eventually, after tests which included applying a nylon-tipped probe to a main bearing, the chief pronounced, "It's naething tae worry over. The fat lassie will gi' nae trouble, and what's necessary we'll see to when the panic's bye."
As he spoke, the two were standing close to Big Lil on metal gratings which formed the floor of the cathedral-like turbine ball. The monstrous turbine-generator, a city block in length, sat perched on concrete pedestals, each of the unit's seven casings resembling a beached whale.
Immediately beneath was a massive steam chest with high pressure steam lines going in from the boiler and out to the turbine, as well as other service facilities. Both men were wearing hard hats and protective ear pads. Neither precaution, however, was of help in the explosion which occurred with a deafening roar an instant later. The chief and Plant Superintendent Danieli took the secondary force of a dynamite blast, originating beneath the main hall floor, which initially breached a three-foot diameter steam line, one of several running from the boiler to the steam chest. A smaller lubricating oil line was also pierced. The explosion, combined with escaping steam, produced an overwhelming noise, deep and thunderous. Then the steam, at a thousand degrees Fahrenheit and under pressure Of 2,400 pounds per square inch, rushed through the gratings on which the two men were standing.
Both died instantly. They were cooked, literally, like vegetables in a steamer. A few seconds later the entire scene was obscured by dense black smoke from the ruptured oil line, now burning-ignited by a spark from flying metal.
Two plant workers, painting on a scaffold high above the turbine room floor and in danger of being overcome by the rising black smoke, tried to clamber blindly to a walkway some fifteen feet higher. They failed, and fell to their deaths below.
Only in the plant control room-two hundred feet away and protected by double doors-was total disaster averted. The fast reactions of a technician at No. 5's control panel, aided by automatic devices, ensured that Big Lil was shut down without damage to the turbine generator's vital components.
At the La Mission plant it would take several days of inquiry-a painstaking sifting of debris by experts and questioning by sheriff's deputies and FBI agents-to discover the explosion's cause and circumstances. But a suspicion of sabotage would emerge quickly and later be proven true.
In the end, the accumulated evidence provided a fairly clear picture of the explosion and events preceding it.
At 2:40 that morning, a white male of medium build, clean-shaven, sallow-complexioned, wearing steel-rimmed glasses and in the uniform of a Salvation Army officer, approached the main gate of La Mission on foot.
He was carrying an attache-type briefcase.
Questioned by the gate security guard, the visitor produced a letter, apparently on Golden State Power & Light stationery, authorizing him to visit GSP & L installations for the purpose of soliciting funds from utility employees for a Salvation Army charity-a free lunch program for needy children.
The guard informed the Salvation Army man that he must go to the plant superintendent's office and present his letter there. The guard gave directions on how to reach the office which was on the second floor of the main powerhouse and accessible through a doorway out of sight from the guard post. The visitor then left in the direction indicated. The guard saw no more of him until the visitor returned and walked out of the plant about twenty minutes later. The guard noticed he was still carrying the briefcase.
