I

… there were rumors …

            The rumors started in the summer of 1958 — rumors saying inquiries about large tracts of land around the municipal airport were being made — rumors saying government surveyors were crawling all over the Deer Park area, taking measurements and asking questions.

            Something big was going on.

            By summer's end the rumors were saying the military planned to build a multi-million dollar missile base close to Deer Park, with lots of new jobs for the locals.

            Deer Park and Clayton were ripe for rumors.  Just a year before, one of the area's major employers, the Clayton brick plant, had shut down.  Any rumor suggesting a chance for economic growth was worth grasping.

            Everyone in the country was nervous.  During the closing months of 1957, the entire nation had been shaken by three troubling events.  For several years the Navy's Vanguard satellite project had promised that the world's first "artificial moon" would be launched in 1958 — and would be American.  But in October of '57, and again in November, the Russians orbited satellites.  America's spirit was bruised again in early December when the much-publicized Vanguard rocket blew up during a test.  

Doctor Edward Teller, creator of the American hydrogen bomb, described this set of events as a "technological Pearl Harbor".  Doctor Teller wasn't just speaking of the damage to American pride.  The rockets that launched the Sputniks were military, and what was shot into orbit could be dropped back to earth.  Satellites or bombs, the Russian's could do either.  No place was safe.

            Unlike the average citizen, steeped in the myth of American technological superiority, not everyone was surprised by Russia's capabilities.  Farsighted scientific, military, and political leaders in Russia and America had understood since the close of World War II that topping a long-range rocket with a nuclear warhead would create the ultimate weapon.  Like the German V-2, once such a device began clawing its way out of the atmosphere, nothing on this Earth could stop it.  While Russian scientists, when speaking of massive "transatlantic rockets", were listened to by the Soviet version of the military/industrial complex, in America such visionaries were fighting an uphill battle.
            In 1946 the Air Force initiated an on-off relationship with a company called Consolidated-Vultee — contracting with them to study and develop systems for long-range rockets.  Over the years, Vultee came up with two exceptionally innovative concepts.

            First was the "steel balloon" design.  Intended to save weight, this design did away with the need for a nose to tail framework.  Rather it pressurized the rocket's vertically stacked fuel tanks — much like blowing up an inner tube — to make them rigid.

            Second was the stage-and-a-half design.  The rocket would lift-off with all its engines firing.  Then, part way through the powered portion of the flight, some of the rocket engines and their associated assemblies would shut down and jettison, again reducing weight.

            In 1951, the inner circles of government, stimulated by a growing suspicion that eventual conflict with a technologically advanced Soviet Union was probable, began to become serious about intercontinental ballistic missiles.  That seriousness was reinforced in 1953 when the Russians, less than a year after Americans exploded the world's first hydrogen device, exploded a hydrogen bomb of their own — a device that was actually more scientifically sophisticated, and usable as a rocket delivered weapon, then the research device the Americans had detonated.

            By 1954, a flood of classified reports regarding Russian capabilities and intent, finally forced the government to act.  The decision was made to build a workable intercontinental ballistic missile (ICBM) system as soon as possible.  Certainly before the end of the decade — the point at which those privy to that secret intelligence expected the Russians to have a deployable long range missile.

            Since the United States needed a workable system quickly, it was decided all the parts — rockets, warheads, launch systems, guidance systems, transport systems, and support systems — would have to be developed at the same time.  Often several companies, using different approaches, were contracted to solve the same problem.  The first fully developed solution would be fitted into the system, with development and improvements continuing even after the missile became operational.

            The last decade's worth of missile research needed to be pulled into one place.  As this was being done, many members of the original Consolidated-Vultee design team found themselves again working on the project — this time under their company's new name, Convair Astronautics.

            By 1955, the general appearance and overall performance expectations of the Atlas had been solidified.  All that was left was to build it, test it, and then keep reworking the system until it functioned as intended.

            In the summer of 1958, as a workable system began to emerge, the Army Corps of Engineers started looking for land to site missile bases — looking for land before the design of those bases had been finalized.  And one place they were looking was Deer Park.

            In the second week of January 1959, the Deer Park Tribune announced that the rumors that began in the summer of `58 were no longer rumors.  The Washington, D.C. office of congressman Walt Horan had called a press release in to the local newspaper saying the Air Force was indeed considering the local airport as a possible missile site.

            The plan called for three missile bases, with each base containing three missiles.  Tentative sites for those bases would be near the towns of Davenport, Deer Park, and in the Long Lake area — with Fairchild Air Force Base as the hub.

            The peak of Dunns Mountain, located about eight miles west by southwest of Deer Park, was also to be purchased, presumably for some type of air defense or missile tracking device.  The actual function of this proposed mountaintop installation remained secret.

            Information obtained from a land surveyor suggested the Air Force was interested in a 250 acre tract, at least part of it overlaying a portion of the existing Deer Park airport.  But the town council had yet to be approached by anyone from the government with any official proposal — meaning that the council, like everyone else, was still in the dark.

            In the January article, the Tribune quoted Congressman Horan as saying the Atlas site would be "a big boost to the town of Deer Park".  While the hope of jobs created by a continuing military presence lifted spirits, the joke of the day was that the town would "boom" in more ways than one — since the missile base would surely become a Soviet target.

            Located about two miles east of downtown Deer Park, the airport had three paved runways laid out in a triangle, with the tips overlapping.  The west runway lay in a true north-south direction.  The other two slanted inward, to cross over each other to the east.

            It was this eastern portion of the triangle that raised a few eyebrows when, a month later, a "civilian" from the Army Corps of Engineers asked the city council to sign a "right of entry" so preliminary construction could begin at the airport.  It was then that the city council was shown a Corps of Engineers map, dated October, 1958, outlining a 20 acre block on top of the southeast/northeast runway intersection as the missile base proper, and another 250 surrounding acres as restricted military space.

            The town's mayor, Earl Mix, told the representative that he wasn't signing anything until the government explained its intention of ruining Deer Park's municipal airport by sitting the missile base on top of it.

            The council decided to act. Letters of protest went out to the Air Force Chief of Staff and every national and state legislator the council could think of.  The city's Chamber of Commerce did likewise.

            In the second week of March, to discuss the issue, the Air Force sent Colonel R. H. Farwell of the Ballistic Missile Division, and eight other Air Force officers, plus four men from the Army Corps of Engineers, into a meeting with Earl Mix and two city councilmen.  Apparently unimpressed by this display of "overwhelming force", Mayor Mix told the military that the city had two other nearby tracts of land — one 400 acres, another 600 — and would be willing to sell any part or all of those for a missile site.  But the airport was too important to the city to be negotiated away.

            The Air Force relented, and agreed to look at the other properties.

            When asked why the Air Force had its sights specifically on the airport, Colonel Farwell said the military was originally looking for a thousand acres of level land.  The land around Deer Park's airport was perfect for the military's needs.  As requirements solidified, the amount of land needed was reduced, and the original acreage was shrunk down to its center — the airport itself.  He went on to say that the airport's potential value to the city hadn't been taken into account during the plan's development.

            By mid April, the military had released its latest plan revisions.  The number of missiles per site had shrunk from three to one, while the number of sites in the Fairchild complex had expanded from three to nine.  Deer Park and Reardon remained as sites.  The Long Lake area was eliminated.  Added to the list of sites were Newman Lake, Sprague, Lemona, Davenport, Wilbur, Egypt, and Rockford — although the Rockford site itself would be just over the Idaho state line.

            Though unexplained at the time, what had prompted the changes in the Air Force's plans were recent advances in the missile's design.

            The typical Atlas D group consisted of three missiles around a single launch control center — just as indicated in Congressman Horan's original message to the Deer Park Tribune.  The Atlas D's onboard guidance system required ground tracking for flight corrections.  Any corrections were calculated by a launch center computer, then radioed to the missile.  The two problems with this system were its vulnerability to radio interference — natural and deliberate — and that the system could only handle one missile at a time — meaning a five minute minimum between launches.

            Designated Atlas E, the newest version of the missile possessed an advanced onboard computer and inertial guidance system, and was totally autonomous from the moment of launch.  The moment it lifted one inch skyward, it was independent of any ground communication — and, in fact, was incapable of receiving any.

            It was also becoming apparent that the base itself would be autonomous the moment it became operational.  Nothing like a traditional military post, it had little to offer the community in the way of jobs or business.  With that realization, the excitement began to fade.  Little further mention of the missile could be found on the front page of the community newspaper until the fall of 1960.

            Despite the calm, much was going on.  At a location about a mile east of the airport, construction began.  Enough earth was excavated to allow most everything to be built below surface grade.  Two main structures were laid out — a five thousand square foot launch control bunker, and about ten thousand square feet of bunker for the missile and related equipment.  There was also over a hundred feet of tunnel to connect the two. One hundred and thirty thousand cubic yards of concrete, and almost thirty thousand tons of steel went into the eighteen inch thick walls, ceilings, and reinforced doors and hatches.

            Perhaps this lack of news about the construction was deliberate.  After all, the finer details of the missiles and the nine bases surrounding Fairchild were a matter of military secrecy.

            The existence of the earlier version of the Atlas — the D model — was far from secret.  It was the largest rocket in the American arsenal, and was on its way to becoming the nation's primary satellite launch vehicle — used to shoot a growing array of hardware into space, as well as being modified to lift the Mercury astronauts into orbit.

            Much of the military's involvement with the D series was taking place at California's Vandenberg Air Force Base, which was the training center for Atlas crews, and the location of the first successful all Air Force launch.

            Master Sergeant Paul Rodriques, USAF Ret. — now of Glendale, Arizona — recalls, "On January 20, 1960, my crew, Unit R01 (Ready Zero One) of the 576^th Strategic Missile Squadron launched the first operational Atlas D sent aloft by an all Air Force team.  Personnel from Convair Astronautics and North American Rocketdyne — the builders — had conducted launches before, but this time our team did everything.  We picked up the missile at the San Diego factory and followed through until the re-entry vehicle impacted its target in the Pacific Ocean.  In fact, both the Sector Commander and our Crew Commander had barred all contractors from the area during checkout and launch — just to make sure everyone understood this was all ours."

            "Of course, our crew also had the distinction of being the first Air Force unit to have an Atlas blow-up in the gantry."

            "A few months after our first launch, we were conducting a Dual Propellant Loading exercise.  With Convair Astronautics engineers on site, we were filling the missile's tanks with RP-1 — a highly refined form of kerosene — and liquid oxygen.  Apparently, some of the liquid oxygen spilled down through the channel used to direct the rocket exhaust away from the gantry.  The bottom of this flame spillway was paved with asphalt.  Liquid oxygen and petroleum products — the tar in the asphalt for example — don't react kindly to each other."

            "We had a television camera mounted on top of the launch control bunker.  I was in the bunker watching the missile on a monitor when the Atlas blew.  One second it was there, the next smoke."

            By August of 1960, most of the residents of the Deer Park and Clayton area spent at least a few minutes of their warm, summer nights watching the sky for the Echo communication satellite.  This 100-foot diameter aluminized balloon had been placed into low orbit as the target in a radio-wave bouncing experiment.  Since Echo was so easy to spot, it was the first artificial satellite the majority of Americans actually saw.

            It was also a reminder that technology had evaporated the wide oceans that had once isolated America from the old world.  And now Americans were beginning to view overhead objects, such as the contrails of high flying planes, with the same uneasiness Europeans had been feeling for decades.

            Within a half-dozen weeks of the Echo satellite launch, the town of Deer Park and the military were ready to butt heads again — this time over a highway turnoff.