In the 1950s, terror “drills” involved students
climbing under their school desks, clinging to the security of cheap
metal and varnished particle board to keep them safe from a nuclear
attack. But times have changed—now, terror drills require years
of planning and participation by cities, states, the federal
government, non-governmental organizations, and hospitals. But are
those drills, like this week’s massive TOPOFF 4 exercise, any more
realistic than “duck and cover”?
On the morning of Tuesday, October 16, a bomb exploded on board a
MAX train crossing the Steel Bridge, destroying the MAX and a line of
cars going the opposite direction, and spewing debris and bodies around
the bridge and into the Willamette River.
The bomb turned out to be of the “dirty” variety—packed with
radioactive material—immediately contaminating everything in the
area, including the survivors. Once first responders—the fire
department—arrived, they had to deal not only with the
catastrophic damage, but also with a deadly environment, which slowed
their rescue efforts. Area hospitals set up decontamination tents and
triage centers, which, within hours, crowded with victims, many of whom
died upon arrival from trauma or radioactive poisoning. Local shelters
were also crowded, housing those displaced by the radioactive cloud
over downtown.
That’s the scenario, anyway, carefully crafted by the Department of
Homeland Security over the past couple of years. But here’s what really
happened: A week ago, the organizers of the TOPOFF event (which was
also taking place in Phoenix and Guam, but to a much more limited
extent) carted a bus to a field in Yakima, exploded a bomb in it, and
marked the location of debris. They then packed it all down to Portland
for the exercise—the bus was a stand-in for a MAX train, and an
open field at Portland International Raceway (PIR) stood in for the
Steel Bridge.
The PIR field was charmingly marked up to look like the bridge,
albeit a sort of junkyard-chic version of it. To make it more
realistic, a large panoramic picture of the Rose Quarter was placed off
in the distance, attached to a chain link fence.
At about 9:06 am that Tuesday morning, as reporters, “actors,”
agency officials, and emergency responders looked on from a safe
distance, a flash bomb was detonated on the bus to simulate the
explosion. There was no technical need for the explosion, and there was
near unanimous agreement among the spectators that it was clearly done
for the sole benefit of TV news cameras.
The disconnect between terror fantasy and practical reality became
quickly apparent, as fire trucks, ambulances, and responders traipsed
around the field, apparently oblivious to the fact that if it were
really the Steel Bridge, they’d be swimming in Willamette-brand
muck.
There was also a shocking lack of urgency—a full 14 minutes
passed between the explosion and the appearance of fire trucks. Once
the scene was assessed, “victims” were triaged and loaded
onto—no, not ambulances—TriMet buses. It wasn’t until three
hours later that the first of them began arriving at OHSU, staggering
in pretend pain, coated in horror movie make-up, fake blood, and
stomach-churning fake sores. Only five patients showed up in the first
round, but OHSU staff expected that more victims would come “trickling
in” (indeed, a fake press release sent out by the hospital that
afternoon said they received 42 patients and that 26 of them would be
admitted). The “real world” rain was apparently delaying the
transportation of more victims—considering Portland’s climate, it
might be discomforting to know that rain, of all things, can cripple
emergency response.
Undeniably, the agencies and workers participating in TOPOFF 4 found
the exercise to be important, and the federal government is, of course,
interested in gauging and improving responses to major disasters in the
wake of the Katrina debacle. And here’s what the TOPOFF exercise in
Portland has apparently taught them: In certain situations, firemen can
walk on water and defy gravity, TV news producers love things that are
loud and go boom, PIR is a long haul from OHSU, and, in the event of a
major disaster, rain just might kill you.
Three and a half hours after the bus “explosion” kicked off TOPOFF
4, Darryl Madden, a spokesperson for the Federal Emergency Management
Agency, said the drill was “going well, though we’re just looking at
one small piece of it.” It’ll be months before the entire exercise can
be analyzed, he added, as fake victims shuffled past him. Then, since
he had time before the afternoon’s press conference, he went to get a
sandwich.