Reprocessing got its start in the early 1940s, when Manhattan Project scientists sought a way to isolate pure plutonium. According to Richard Rhodes, author of The Making of the Atomic Bomb (Simon & Schuster, 1986), the chemist Glenn Seaborg, the discoverer of plutonium, came up with the basic concept. A carrier molecule grabs onto plutonium that’s in a particular chemical state. That allows the carrier and the plutonium to be separated from the rest of the spent fuel. Further chemistry releases the carrier, leaving a solution of nearly pure plutonium.

It was a risky endeavor from the start because of the volatile, intensely radioactive materials involved. When it was scaled up at the Hanford Nuclear Reservation in Washington state to obtain the quantities of plutonium needed for bombs, immense concrete bunkers were built to house the operations [see “The Atomic Fortress That Time Forgot,” IEEE Spectrum, April 2006]. The workers called them Queen Marys, after the British ocean liner, the world’s biggest at the time. Inside, all the processing steps were done entirely by remote control, with technicians peering through thick windows at the machinery that moved materials through the chemical tanks. It was all part of what Bertrand Goldschmidt, an eminent French chemist who worked with Seaborg, called “the astonishing American creation in three years”—a network of laboratories and factories equivalent in size to the whole U.S. auto industry.

France’s Commissariat à l’Énergie Atomique (CEA), a ­government organization, commissioned its first reprocessing plant in 1958 at Marcoule, in the south, to supply weapons-grade plutonium for the country’s nascent atomic bomb program. It added an initial reprocessing unit at La Hague for the same purpose in the early 1960s. The equipment running today, however, dates mostly to a massive upgrade and expansion begun in the 1970s and 1980s. France cut a deal with five countries—Belgium, Germany, Japan, the Netherlands, and Switzerland—to finance the modernization of La Hague. In exchange, France agreed to reprocess those countries’ spent fuel and return their separated plutonium, so as to reduce high-level waste volumes and provide additional fresh nuclear fuel. Today, the Areva Group, a spin-off of the CEA, runs La Hague as well as other French fuel-cycle installations and builds reactors via a subsidiary it co-owns with Siemens.

Even some of the nuclear industry’s most tenacious opponents acknowledge that the result is a technical marvel. The leader of Greenpeace France’s antinuclear program, Yannick Rousselet, says he no longer cites technical challenges in his criticism of Areva. “In the past,” Rousselet says, “the antinuclear movement tried to say that they would not succeed with reprocessing. But they succeeded. To be honest, at least in terms of the technical aspects, it works.”

Activists such as Rousselet had reason to doubt La Hague’s chemistry, essentially the same as the separation process developed by the Manhattan Project. It has proved an ecological, occupational, and humanitarian disaster nearly everywhere else. Spills and explosions at reprocessing plants in the United States, Russia, and Britain have polluted rivers and contaminated hundreds of thousands of acres. Britain’s Sellafield reprocessing complex, on England’s Cumbrian coast, was shuttered in April 2005 after safety authorities discovered that 83 cubic meters of highly radioactive liquids had spilled during a period of nine months.

La Hague, in contrast, has never had a serious accident or spill. It does intentionally release relatively small amounts of radioactive substances into the air and water of the adjacent English Channel, whose strong currents were a key attraction of the La Hague site—behavior that Rousselet calls irresponsible and unwarranted. But the amounts released are below licensed levels and are dropping.

Eric Blanc, the marine engineer turned chemical plant operator who serves as La Hague’s deputy director, tells the growing stream of visiting U.S. politicos and utility executives that La Hague’s neighbors experience an annual radiation dose below 0.02 millisieverts—roughly equivalent to the dose of solar radiation the visitors receive on their transatlantic flights. La Hague’s 5000 workers absorb less radiation than they would if they were employed at a nuclear power plant.