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IV
… a state of readiness …
“There were five people in a bunker combat crew,” Jim Geoghegan said. “Other maintenance specialties were occasionally detailed to a bunker for repair work and such — but normally only the combat crew and guards were on site. The crew and guards transported to the site as a unit, and left together 24 hours later.” Ballistic Missile Analyst Technician Dick Mellor added, “We were suppose to be on duty for 24 hours, but you never knew. One winter my crew was stuck in site 9 at Reardan for three days after a big blizzard blew drifts over the roads. We ran out of food and had to have some air dropped to us. Finally the Air Force hired a snow-cat to bring in a new crew and take us out. So our tour actually lasted until we were relieved.” “Our shift started with a zero-seven-hundred-hours briefing in Fairchild’s Ready Room,” Jim continued. “Anything relevant to our time on duty was covered. Local weather was noted, but only regarding the road trip to the site, since local weather, other than extremely high winds or lightning storms, had little impact on our operational status, or the missile’s ability to launch. Upcoming events, new policies, all the routine stuff would be covered. But we were also kept aware of events happening elsewhere in the world that might have an impact on us — things that the general public didn’t always know. We were also given the daily password needed to gain entry to the bunker.” Bob Lemley described the formalities of the Ready Room as — “The shift uniform was white coveralls with squadron patches and such pinned on, and a blue ascot. I’d try to lose the damn ascot as soon as I could after reaching the site, unless we were expecting visitors.” “The Ready Room’s chairs were set five rows deep. Each row had nine chairs across — one for each of Fairchild’s nine Atlas missile sites. The Combat Crew Commanders occupied the first row of seats. Behind each Commander would sit his Deputy Combat Crew Commander. Behind him the crew’s Ballistic Missile Analyst Technician — followed by the Maintenance Technician, and then the Electrical Power Production Technician.” “The Missile Launch Officers were always officers. The technicians were Airmen or Sergeants.” Retired Colonel John Voss commented, “I was a Lieutenant during my tour as a Deputy Combat Crew Commander. Most of the Crew Commanders were Captains, Majors, or even Lieutenant Colonels.” Jack Roberts added, “I think a good number of the Crew Commanders were pilots who wanted to get out of flying full time, or had medical problems that knocked them off flying status. Maintenance guys liked the ex-pilots as Commanders because they knew how to work with the enlisted. Some of the officers from other Air Force positions weren’t as good at dealing with maintenance crews.” Master Sergeant Rodrigues said, “At least early on, many of the senior officers utilized a short stint as Combat Crew Commanders to enhance their resumes. It was a position of real responsibility, so wearing a missile badge could help an officer’s career progression — particularly for those who weren’t pilots.” “After the briefing,” technician Geoghegan explained, “someone would take our vehicle, most often a dual cab pickup with a camper on the back, pick up our supply of meal packs, then swing by and get the site guards — four of them as I recall. The guards rode in back, and the crew up front. Crews decided who would actually drive — unless the commander decided otherwise. Depending on the distance to any given site, the time of year, weather conditions, and the like, the trip out could take up to a couple of hours.”
“The “I can’t recall ever stopping anywhere between the base and the site,” Jim continued. “I don’t know if that was policy, or just that we never had time. I do remember being waved down one Thanksgiving Day by a farmer on the access road to the Reardon site. We stopped, thinking it was some kind of emergency. It turned out the farmer’s wife had made several Thanksgiving pies for us. Best damn pies I ever had.” “All the sites had a closed circuit television camera at the main gate, and normally a guard. This gate was controlled from inside the launch control center. To gain access, we talked to the control center over a telephone.” “Changeover began as soon as we were inside the perimeter fence. The crew commander designated crew members to check all the topside structures and equipment. We checked all the fuel and oxidizer filler caps leading to underground tanks, making sure they were secure. We made sure there were no obstructions that would interfere with opening either the missile erection or flame door. We even inspected the topside area for cleanness.” “Then we walk down the ramp leading to the big launch bay door. In the ramp wall, to the right of the big door, was the personnel entry door. Opened in response to a buzzer, this heavy metal door locked behind us after we entered a small room called the ‘entrapment area’. In this small space, between two locked security doors, while being observed by a television camera to assure that no one was being held under ‘duress’, we identify ourselves again. We also had to give the day’s password before launch control would unlatch the inner door.”
“The inner door opened into a corrugated metal tunnel leading west about twenty
five feet. At the end of this tunnel was another small room. The
south exit lead to the Launch and “Once inside Launch Control, the crew and guards separated to attend to their own changeover duties.’ “The crew had another briefing in the control center,” Colonel Voss added. “Then the missile launch officers exchanged the code cards they wore around their necks, and the 38 caliber revolvers we were required to carry whenever we were in possession of those cards.” The Crew Commander’s main job was to insure that the launch complex was maintained in a state of readiness, and that everyone else was doing their job as required. He controlled access to the bunker, and to the various sections of the bunker. But perhaps the most important of his duties involved the potential launch of the missile. The Crew Commander sat in the left seat at the launch control console during exercises, or an actual countdown. He was one half of the team that authenticated launch orders. He would start the countdown to launch, and start the commit to launch sequence. Next in line was the Deputy Crew Commander — the other half of the team that would authenticate any incoming launch order. He manned the right side of the launch control console during exercises, or an actual launch.
Each of Fairchild’s nine ICBM sites was a self contained weapon system.
While the objective of the weapon system was simple enough — to launch a
ballistic missile with the intent of delivering a high powered nuclear device
to a target somewhere in Russia — the mechanics of not only the missile, but of
the missile base itself, was complicated in the extreme. Much of this
complexity was monitored through indicators located in the BMAT Bob Lemley stated, “The Ballistic Missile Analyst Technician handled the electronic items on the site, and cared for the long row of logic units in the equipment room. I would monitor those units during the raising or lowering of the missile. If launch orders were received, practice or real, my job was to stand at that post during fueling. Before launch, the missile technician and I would have vacated the equipment room, hurried through the long access tunnel into the launch control room — latching the tunnel blast door behind us — to assume duties as directed by the launch officers. Only after we were in Launch Control would the Crew Commander initiate the launch commit sequence.” The Missile Maintenance Technician was responsible for general maintenance on the missile and the systems supporting the missile. During the raising or lowering of the missile, he would monitor the erection mechanism motor control center at the south end of the launch building’s equipment room.
“For me, the drill at changeover was a walk-through with the outgoing EPPT, and then a review of the logs. During the shift, I took hourly readings of the electrical output and such.” “I only did routine maintenance. If any involved repair work needed to be done, a maintenance team was brought in from Fairchild. That was because the site was completely self contained — not even an extension cord to the outside world. So if there was any problem, it was critical that it be solved as quickly as possible, and the site brought back to a state of ready.” “The normal power requirements of the site could be handled by one generator. Peak load occurred when the overhead door and missile erection system was engaged. At those times, the second generator was placed on line to ensure power continuity should the first generator fail.” “Heat for the site was supplied by heat-exchangers connected into the diesel engine’s exhaust system. In the winter, when the site needed more heat, we’d use ‘load banks’ to create more drag on the generators and increase the waste heat produced by the engine.” “If an alert sounded, my duty was to place the second generator on line, get on the intercom and report the power room status to the Crew Commander, then I’d stand by my post in the generator room.” “The Power Technician would assist the Analyst Technician and Maintenance Technician whenever ordered. On the crews I served with, I would usually be the second man whenever the ‘two man’ requirement needed to be fulfilled.” Colonel Charles Simpson, Executive Director for the Association of Air Force Missileers, stated, “The two man policy requires that anytime personnel are working around nuclear weapons — such as the Atlas warhead — at least two people must be involved. Each person must be capable of detecting any unauthorized action on the part of the other that might endanger, damage, or compromise the weapon system.” “There was also a ‘two officer policy’. Before taking steps to launch a weapon, the ‘execution message’ needed to be authenticated. This always required two officers. Some enlisted men, referred to as ‘code qualified’, could carry out certain parts of the launch process. But as the process got underway, both officers had to be involved.” Senior Analyst Technician & Instructor Geoghegan added. “Enlisted men needed to be ‘Emergency War Order’ trained, and have a ‘top secret crypto clearance’, to be code qualified. That meant we were qualified to be the second man in the control center when one of the officers was elsewhere.” “Whenever the alert tone for incoming messages sounded, all personnel except those with ‘crypto clearance’ cleared the room. If the second officer was out of the area, the code-qualified crewman copied and decoded the message.” A ‘Warble Tone’ accompanied all ‘Emergency War Order’ messages sent over the ‘Primary Alerting System’. This same tone was used for practice, exercise, and real messages. “With certain messages, the site ‘Alert Warning’ would be activated, and all crew members would report to their post. If one of the officers were elsewhere, the enlisted man on duty would remain at launch control console until the second officer returned.” “Most messages were system test or security upgrades.” Colonel Voss explained, “Messages usually came by radio, and were copied with grease pencil onto a plastic covered form. White Dot messages were for practice. Green Dot were information messages. Blue Dot alerted us to a change in our Defense Condition — our DEFCON status. And Red Dot were launch orders.” Jim Geoghegan said, “I recall the messages being received by voice. They were copied by hand, then decoded using a book kept on the launch consol. This classified codebook was changed often, and caution was always exercised to make sure no one except authorize crypto personnel so much as touched it. The decoding procedure was somewhat complicated, and I’m not allowed to explain it in any greater detail.” “Each officer wore a plastic laminated card around his neck,” Voss continued. “In the event of a Red Dot message, the cards were broken open, and the concealed code used to authenticate the launch orders.” “The highest rated message I ever received was a Blue Dot raising our Defense Condition during the Cuban Missile Crisis.” As part of the bunker crew changeover, the incoming launch officers and technicians first checked the launch control console. All indicator lights should have been either green or extinguished. Red meant either a malfunction or a system down for maintenance. If there was a problem, the outgoing commander needed to explain which was being indicated, explain what action had been taken, what action yet needed to be taken, and estimate when the system should be coming back up. Both the ‘start countdown’ button, and ‘commit start’ key switch needed to be covered, safety-wired, and sealed. The only exception would be if these seals had been broken with proper authority. Switches needed to be flipped or rotated to their proper settings. And the gauges indicating the missile’s propellant tanks pressures had to be reading within acceptable limits — 7 to 9 pounds per square inch for the upper liquid oxygen tank and 16 to 18 pounds for the lower synthetic kerosene tank, with a least 5 pounds per square inch difference between the two at all times. Jim Geoghegan said, “Each technician went through the site with his counterpart, verifying everything from the functions of the various mechanical and electrical systems, to housekeeping items — and any problem areas, ongoing repairs, and the like.” When everything was completed to the satisfaction of the incoming and outgoing commanders, the new commander announced over the intercom that his crew was now on duty. The outgoing combat crew closely followed the security protocol as they exited the site under the monitoring eye of the new commander. After the rush of changeover, John Voss reports, “We settled into a routine of maintenance rounds, checklists, training exercises, card playing, reading, and TV.”And waiting for the Emergency War Orders they hoped would never come.
The missileers didn’t believe their Atlas E bunkers would be targeted by Russian nuclear weapons.
Bob Lemley commented, “While our bunkers were only secure to a 25 pound per
square inch overpressure, which didn’t give us a whole lot of protection, any
effective Russian bomb would have had to have been delivered by airplane.
Their missiles were horribly inaccurate — though initially ours weren’t much
better — and would have had a hard time hitting Dick Mellor added, “Our missiles would have been long gone before Russian aircraft could over-fly the sites. And since the bunkers, as a practical matter, were actually a one shot deal, what would be the use of bombing them after the birds had flown? We all understood that once we pushed the button, we were functionally out of a job. And the only thing left to do was hitch a ride home — assuming we still had a home. We expected that the Russian tactic would be to carpet bomb all major metropolitan areas with nuclear devices. The east and west coasts would be pretty well incinerated. There were no good outcomes, no good scenarios for this kind of war.” The term overpressure is a method of measuring the shock wave force from a nuclear detonation. One way to visualize it is to imagine a one cubic foot block weighing exactly 144 pounds. Set on the top of a flat surface, this one cubic foot block will be applying one pound per square inch of pressure on the surface beneath. Stack 25 of these blocks on top of each other, and they’ll be applying 25 pounds per square inch of pressure on the surface below. This would be the equivalent of 25 pounds overpressure. The actual damage that such pressure can induce is compounded by the fact that the overpressure is applied almost instantaneously, and relaxed in the same manner. That’s why it’s called a shock wave. A twenty five pound overpressure would be like suddenly adding seven and a half million pounds to that portion of the overhead hatch spanning the launch bay itself, and then just as suddenly removing it. While the crews had little expectation that an enemy bomber or missile could catch them unaware, the Air Force had provided a system to automatically seal the base in case of a surprise attack. A blast detector — a phototube that produced a signal if it detected a light twice as bright as the sun — would start a cascade of events resulting in the slamming shut of all blast doors on the site. It also closed all ventilation shafts to the exterior. All these systems would reset once the danger had passed — if the danger did indeed pass.
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