Almighty

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**A Washington Post “Notable Nonfiction Book of 2016″**

ON A TRANQUIL SUMMER NIGHT in July 2012, a trio of peace activists infiltrated the Y-12 National Security Complex in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. Nicknamed the “Fort Knox of Uranium,” Y-12 was supposedly one of the most secure sites in the world, a bastion of warhead parts and hundreds of tons of highly enriched uranium—enough to power thousands of nuclear bombs. The three activists—a house painter, a Vietnam War veteran, and an 82-year-old Catholic nun—penetrated the complex’s exterior with alarming ease; their strongest tools were two pairs of bolt cutters and three hammers. Once inside, these pacifists hung protest banners, spray-painted biblical messages, and streaked the walls with human blood. Then they waited to be arrested.

WITH THE BREAK-IN and their symbolic actions, the activists hoped to draw attention to a costly military-industrial complex that stockpiles deadly nukes. But they also triggered a political and legal firestorm of urgent and troubling questions. What if they had been terrorists? Why do the United States and Russia continue to possess enough nuclear weaponry to destroy the world several times over?

IN ALMIGHTY, WASHINGTON POST REPORTER Dan Zak answers these questions by reexamining America’s love-hate relationship to the bomb, from the race to achieve atomic power before the Nazis did to the solemn 70th anniversary of Hiroshima. At a time of concern about proliferation in such nations as Iran and North Korea, the U.S. arsenal is plagued by its own security problems. This life-or-death quandary is unraveled in Zak’s eye-opening account, with a cast that includes the biophysicist who first educated the public on atomic energy, the prophet who predicted the creation of Oak Ridge, the generations of activists propelled into resistance by their faith, and the Washington bureaucrats and diplomats who are trying to keep the world safe. Part historical adventure, part courtroom drama, part moral thriller, Almighty reshapes the accepted narratives surrounding nuclear weapons and shows that our greatest modern-day threat remains a power we discovered long ago.“Read Almighty. Its message is current and extremely urgent.” –Huffington Post

“This is a strangely captivating book—dark and utterly frightening…Zak’s narrative is a perfectly measured blend of biography, suspense, and history. He skillfully uses the small, finite story of the Y-12 protest to explore our national identity as a people whose culture is now intimately connected with things nuclear.” –Kai Bird, The New York Times Book Review

“With nuns splashing blood, countries making pledges, diplomats working to reduce the size of world-destroying arsenals, suppliers cheering a new Cold War, Zak demonstrates that we’re all in it together. And he’s honest enough to report as well the hard truth that none of us yet knows how to get out of it alive.” –Richard Rhodes, The Washington Post (author of The Making of the Atomic Bomb)

“This book is essential reading for any American.” –America Magazine

“Centering on a single episode, a powerful declaration of conscience, a Washington Post reporter tells an intensely unsettling story about living with our nuclear arsenal. In July 2012, cutting through fences topped with razor wire and avoiding guards, guns, sensors, armored cars, and alarms, an 80-year-old nun, a Vietnam veteran, and a housepainter, all deeply religious, all affiliated with the pacifist Plowshares movement, broke into the Y-12 National Security Complex in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, the “Fort Knox of Uranium.”… it’s the moral convictions demonstrated by Zak’s three holy fools that will remain with readers. A scrupulously reported, gracefully told, exquisitely paced debut.” –Kirkus (starred review)

“Zak takes the reader on a journey into the still-vibrant realm of the US nuclear arms complex. His guides are an aging nun, a house-painter and other everyday Americans who realize the senseless violence at the center of the nation’s national security. A brilliant portrayal of these heroes of our time.” –Kate Brown, author of Plutopia

“Zak gracefully synthesizes the stories of the politicians and bureaucrats controlling stockpiles of weapons and those of the activists working to disarm them.” –Publisher’s WeeklyDan Zak is a reporter for The Washington Post. He has written a wide range of news stories, narratives, and profiles while on local, national, and foreign assignments. He is from Buffalo, N.Y., and lives in Washington, D.C.***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof***

Copyright © 2016 Dan Zak

PROLOGUE

The zero hour approached but time seemed at a standstill. There was no cell service out there in the bramble, off a state highway named for a U.S. senator, past the point where brick estates gave way to matchstick shanties, past where foothills overtook steeples, where civilization faded down tangles of switch- backs. Off one sudden turn, a gravel drive hitched into the dim heather and got narrower, until it was just a mud lane rutted with tire tracks that wormed between warped barns. And there was the grove of sycamore, the rows of grapevine and corn, the handsome country house. A sanctuary. On the wraparound porch facing the vegetable garden, especially at night, it was possible to pretend that this was all there was—that the world was made only of tranquil enclaves under ancient starlight.

They knew the world was not this way, so they retrieved three Red Cross blood bags from the refrigerator, snipped their corners, and began to funnel the blood into baby bottles on the porch.

The blood was human, and until very recently had been frozen for some time, so at first it appeared almost black and was cool to the touch. In the afternoon light, as it hit the thick midsummer oxygen of East Tennessee, the blood became cherry red. One man, who had done this type of thing several times before, funneled the blood over a ceramic bowl on a Ping-Pong table. He thought, “God, let this all be to the good, in some way or another.” The voice of a de- parted friend, who had first demonstrated this process for him 30 years earlier, was also in his ear: “This is sacred stuff. This is the stuff of life.”

The solemnity of the ritual kept it tidy. The funneling of the blood was one of many practical chores on the checklist, but it was also a private preparation for public prayer. To mark an object of scorn with blood was both symbolic and literal. It was a sacrament.

Nine people were at the house, including three who would put the six bottles of blood in their backpacks for illicit transport later that night. One was a Roman Catholic sister, 82 years old. One was a Vietnam veteran, age 63, who had no earthly possessions. One was a housepainter, 57, who knew that this could be his last day as a free man, or perhaps his last day alive. The remaining six at the house were the support team. The mission was initially scheduled for early Sunday, but on Thursday the group felt ready enough to go a day early. The sister in particular was anxious. Her life had been building to this moment.

Using box cutters, they had scraped the peacenik bumper stickers from the drop-off car, which they would send to the junkyard after- ward, just to be safe. A woman had unrolled a long ribbon of red caution tape, with black marker had written nuclear crime zone after each danger, and then had rolled it back up. The sister, the vet, and the painter had the bolt cutters, the hammers, the flashlights, their typed statement of intent. They had observed one another over the week for hesitation, for spiritual disquiet. The man who funneled the blood remembered what his friend had told him years ago, before a similar mission: “Don’t macho bullshit your way through it.” A young man in the support group had decided just that week not to participate. He was not as ready as the sister was, nor as steadfast as her companions.

Now another woman was inside the safe house making two loaves of bread from scratch. One would be broken over dinner. The other would go into the backpacks with the bolt cutters and the blood. After the dough rose a second time, she used a kitchen knife to carve a cross atop both circular loaves. She herself was not a believer—not in Jesus Christ, anyway, but certainly a believer in the spirit of the night’s mission. If carving crosses into loaves of bread was in the service of peace, then doing so would be her pleasure.

The sister, the veteran, and the painter rehearsed likely scenarios out in the yard, which they imagined was the fenced perimeter of their target. Supporters played the role of armed guards who might discover them at any point in the mile-long hike over a wooded ridge. The possibilities ranged from the pedestrian to the fatal: What if one of them turns an ankle? What if the guards open fire, as they were authorized to do? What if they were thwarted before they got anywhere near their target? Would they be satisfied with their mission even if it was stopped early? What was their definition of victory?

The bread baked in the oven.

Afternoon unwound into evening.

Supper was salad and potatoes. A liturgy followed in the living room. One of the supporters, a Catholic priest, consecrated bread and wine near an unlit woodstove. Then there was nothing to do but lie down and wait.

Around 1 a.m. they gathered in the living room and held hands. They drew a collective breath. They prayed for success.

Then they walked out of the house, light of head, heavy of heart.

The sister, the veteran and the housepainter embraced their supporters, shouldered their backpacks, and piled into the car after the driver.

Then they were moving through the night, back to civilization, toward their target, armed with a weapon whose power they believed was unmatched.

US

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