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IX
… mutually assured
destruction …
If we care to listen, history can tell us the various ways the world’s
political leaders play apocalyptic games with our lives. These games are
often laid out as scenarios — we do this, and they — the enemy — will do that
in response. Scenarios are guesses made by comfortable men in comfortable
rooms calmly factoring the death of billions into a statistical calculation of
victory. In the real world, a positive outcome to a nuclear crisis relies
more on the common decency shared by honorable men on both sides — pragmatic
men who tend to listen closely to their own lingering doubts — moral men who
ultimately gamble on their own human intuition. And this, far more than
the fiction of nuclear disarmament, is our best hope for survival.
The Cuban Missile Crisis is the classic example of playing this game right up
to the edge of the abyss — an abyss first opened in a remote corner of New
Mexico’s Alamogordo Bombing Range on the morning of July 16, 1945 — an abyss
opened with the eye-scalding flash of the world’s first atomic blast. “I
am become death, destroyer of worlds,” was the quote from Hindu scripture that
the bomb project’s scientific director, J. Robert Oppenheimer, used to clarify
what few at the time understood about playing with this particular weapon on
the edge of this particular abyss. The wager being placed on the table
was extinction for most, if not all, of the more complex life forms on the
planet.
If the Cuban Missile Crisis escalated into an all-out nuclear conflagration,
the military had various estimates of probable civilian casualties. We
now know that even the most dismal of their estimations fell far short of the
truth. Modern science suggest that after the initial war damage, a
prolonged nuclear winter and associated catastrophic biosphere collapse would
have reduced the human population of the planet to close to zero. Whether
what was left of the race could survive first the technological implosion, then
the planet’s environmental ruin, and finally the residual radiation eating away
at the species’ genetic heritage is doubtful.
One thing that should be noted by anyone studying the declassified transcripts
of the decision making processes that led up to the Cuban Crisis is how much of
the advice being given the President and Premier was based on faulty
intelligence, incorrect analysis, or the fraudulent manipulations of data by
underlings — manipulations intended to support specific political and strategic
prejudgments among those underlings. In the final analysis, the reason
the human epoch did not end in the autumn of 1962 was that two men, both of
whom understood through first hand experience the gritty and grisly truth of
war — Kennedy in the Pacific, Khrushchev in the Ukraine — decided that so much
death, even using the best case scenarios provided them, was not justified.
The problem for the human race is that the nuclear bomb is the perfect
weapon. It is the final arbitrator. It can solve all military,
political, ideological, cultural, religious, and racial problems by
incinerating those problems with the push of a button. The only thing
that tarnishes this convenient solution is the possibility that the problem
might try to do the same in return.
Mutually assured destruction is the perfect defense against the perfect
weapon. But the only thing that will make this system workable is faith
in the willingness of the enemy to use their weapons if provoked — and the
confidence the opposition has in our assurance that we will do likewise.
For this system to work, this is the only trust between enemies each must have
faith in — the only trust that each must actually rely upon.
It was the job of the young men in the various Strategic Missile Squadron
bunkers scattered around Fairchild Air Force Base, and across the continent, to
provide the Soviet Union with the reliable assurance
that we would retaliate.
And if an authentic launch message were received?
An endless cycle of training, covered by mountains of redundant checklist,
trailed each man through his tour of duty in the bunkers. Readiness
inspections, many unannounced, rattled the routine of standing watch, and
insured that complacency never had a chance to dull the combat crews’
edge. The constant evaluation by upper echelons and fellow crewmembers
probed for any indication of declining discipline or self-control — any
indication that the stress was eating too deeply. Stress from endless
hours of confinement, breathing air vaguely tainted by the taste of diesel
fumes and hydraulic fluid, the chatter of dull-witted thinking machines, the
hum of generators and power converters — smelling oddly of melted oil and
ozone. Stress from being locked in a vault without windows, whose only
view of the outside came through the flickering black and white screens of the
security monitors, or the ready room’s television. An underground concrete
vault that not so subtly hinted at one possible future for the survivors of
humanity — if the buttons were pushed. All this training, isolation, and
waiting, in anticipation of one 15-minute crescendo of compressed stress that
all hoped would never come.
But what if it did?
The tone for an incoming message sounds. As soon as it is identified as a
‘launch preparation message’, the crew is ordered to launch stations.
Doubtless, it would just be just another in the endless cycle of training
exercises — except — no such exercises are to be carried out while the nation
teeters so close to the edge of an actual war. Too much chance that a
training error could be misconstrued by the enemy, and precipitate a real
attack.
As each man reaches his post, he pulls on his communication headset and reports
to the Commander.
Grease pencil on plastic clip-board, the Commander and Deputy Commander
scribble, decoding the message. In disbelief, they see the message
appear. But procedure, not belief, is the issue. Though the message
must be wrong, procedure takes president — procedure drilled to perfection
through ongoing loops of training repetition. The officers confer,
compare their decoded messages, and agree that they both see the same
thing. An order to launch!
To insure that the message is genuine, each officer pulls the laminated plastic
card from around his neck, and breaks it open. Inside is the message
verification code. They compare this series of letters and numbers with
the authentication code sent inside the decoded message. Both officers
agree, the Strategic Air Command has sent the message, it is authentic, and we
are at war.
Over the intercom, the Commander, still acting more on momentum then
comprehension, demands his “crew report”. Each man checks the readiness
status of the equipment under his watch, and reports either “Go” or
“Hold”. If everyone reports “Go”, the Commander lifts the cover over the
‘start countdown’ button, and says, “Start countdown on my mark. Five —
Four — Three — Two — One — Mark!”
Indicators on the launch control panel glow amber or green, and an intricate
series of events, the critical ones timed by stopwatches held be the two
officers, begin.
The entire complex rattles as the 400 ton lid over the launch bay jumps upward
six inches, and is quickly winched to the side. Though normally described
as frightening, whether the crew in a wartime launch would even notice the
racket is questionable.
With the overhead door fully retracted, the launcher begins to rise — slowly
for the first 5 degrees or so, then fast. At about 85 degrees, it slows
into ‘creep mode’ — so it wont overshoot the 90 degree point. At 90
degrees, it stops, and the second set of hold down clamps snap onto the base of
the missile. Then the nosecone clamp opens, retracts about 8 inches,
rotates upward about 10 or 15 degrees, and the boom falls back 10 degrees off
horizontal, leaving the missile clear for launch.
The RP-1 and liquid oxygen lines are partially filled while the bird is on its
way up. When it reaches 90 degrees, rapid RP-1 transfer begins.
Some LOX begins to flow to cool down the valves and lines, but rapid liquid
oxygen transfer doesn’t begin until the fuel tank is topped off and at flight
pressure.
The Commanders watch the progress of each step in the process on the control
console indicators. Lights change from amber to green with the completion
of each designated task. The men check times against flow charts and
stopwatches. Everything in its order. Everything on its mark.
There’s too much to follow in the here and now. There’s little time is
left to consider what might be going on in the rest of the world.
It takes about four minutes to fill the RP-1 tank. Nitrogen gas brings
the tank’s pressure up to the required 55 pounds per square inch. Just
before the rapid filling of LOX tank begins, a ’Crew Recall’ announcement by
the Crew Commander brings the two crewmen in the Launch Building back to Launch
Control — securing the access tunnel’s blast-doors along the way. In
another four minutes the liquid oxygen tank fills. Its internal pressure
is raised to 53 pounds per square inch.
When the ‘fuel & LO2 ready’ light on the launch control console
changes from amber to green, indicating that both tanks are at capacity, the
four hooks holding the missile to the launcher’s base unclamp.
Before the initiation of countdown, the site’s guards had rushed
top-side. Putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the
flame expected from the rising rocket, they take positions around the perimeter
of the site. Their top-side job is to prevent unauthorized intrusions
into the site — or any other actions that might endanger the missile.
In 1962, no enemy action could prevent the Atlas missile from carrying out its
mission once it had risen into the upper atmosphere. But on or near the
ground, sabotage was a concern. One sabotage possibility was perforating
the missile’s thin skin with slugs from a high powered rifle.
Bob Lemley commented, “I asked one of the engineers from General Dynamics
Astronautics about this. He said a few bullet holes would not have
depressurized the tanks enough to collapse the missile. The missile’s
pressurization system was designed to compensate for the many hundreds of
pounds of propellant being drained from the two tanks each second. The
few pounds lost through bullet holes would be insignificant.”
“What might cause a problem would be any mixing of the LOX and RP-1 that
drained from the perforated tanks. If that stuff shock detonated, the
whole thing could go up.”
“Our defense against that kind of thing was the four top-side guards. As
soon as they detected incoming rounds, their automatic rifles would have been
sending a lot of fire outgoing.”
With the missile upright and loaded, and all the appropriate indicators lit,
the Commander instructs the Deputy Commander to leave the launch control
console, and stand by the remote ‘commit control’ panel.
Bob Lemley explained, “This second panel was located in the crew’s sleeping
quarters — separated from the launch console by walls and doors. The two
officers were in headset communications. The launch control console’s
‘commit start’ switch was a push button. The remote ‘commit control’
panel’s switch was a twist-key. The Deputy Commander needed to twist his
switch within three seconds of the Commander’s depression of the console’s
‘commit start’ button to initiate a launch. The separation of the two
panels insured that one man could not start the sequence by himself.”
With the switch engagements timed correctly, the ‘launch enable’ indicator
turned green, and the final one-minute cascade of events toward launch began.
On his way back to the launch control console, the Deputy Commander might steal
a glance at the Ready Room’s television. The screen that had been covered
for so many days with worried men, speaking in forced calm, flickers without
movement. A single tone from the speaker. A single picture on the
screen. The Civil Defense network had been activated.
Late Octobers in eastern Washington most often come as a dull and dreary chill,
wrapped in yellows and browns, with an occasional leafy splash of red.
Shorter days growing into longer nights slowly ease the countryside toward
winter’s approaching silence.
In late October of 1962 there was an extra chill, an apprehension in the
air. And not a little disappointment at the direction the world seemed to
be taking. The older citizens, many whom had been through more war than
they cared for, shook their heads in sad recognition of the apparent
inevitability of conflict. With their usual lack of forethought, some
citizens suggested we attack first and end the Russian problem — once and for
all. But most, steeped in a common worry, became a little more
considerate of neighbors and strangers alike.
As the engine start indicator flickers, squibs on the solid-fuel gas generators
sputter to red heat, and the powdered chemicals ignites, gasifies, and hammers
down the tubular flumes, spinning the turbine pump impellers to speed.
Valves snapped open, allowing RP-1 and LOX to surge through the piping toward
the rocket’s combustion chambers. Hypergolic slugs burst under the
incoming fuel’s pressure, splash through the showerhead injectors, and burst
into flame against the incoming liquid oxygen.
The rockets thrust chambers shutter as flame pours out, stabbing down as
white-hot jets. The exhaust rushes into the pit beneath the rocket,
though the underground flame-tunnel, and up through the flame door
opening. Blast pours around and out the launch bay, billowing up through
the overhead hatch in rolling pillows of smoke and fire. And in the mist
of it all, the Atlas strains upward.
After the missile rises one inch, the launch pad’s sensor detects the absence
of weight. The ‘missile away’ indicator on the launch control console
burns green. All cables and pipes still attached to the bird
disconnect. The missile, now irretrievable, begins its first and final
mission.
As the missile claws its way out of the Deer Park bunker, the sound of its
engines pours across the farmland. An endless thunderclap eating its way
through forest and field until, long seconds later, it begins sliding up the
sides of the surrounding mountains and echoing back across the valley.
People for dozens of miles around step outside, look, trying to find the source
of the sound.
If daylight and clear, they see a contrail rising straight up from the area
east of Deer Park. If night, they see a bright new star rising with
growing speed toward heaven. Either way, they desperately search for some
explanation other than the obvious.
Some, in panic, quickly realize. Other refuse to understand.
Still rising straight up, the missile, using its two outboard vernier rockets,
rotates around its central axis until its belly aligns toward its target — far
around the curvature of the Earth. This is just the first of its
ballistic adjustments.
As the Earth falls further behind, the rocket begins to pitch over — begins to
tip from vertical, pushed by its dorsal vernier rocket. The contrail
begins an ever sharper curve northwest.
The first major event in the flight occurs 45 miles downrange, at a speed of
6,500 miles an hour, and some 35 miles above the small town of Colville.
About two and a half minutes after takeoff, with 85 percent of its fuel already
consumed, the rocket stages — the rocket prepares to drop the section
containing the two large, outer booster rockets.
Propellant lines to the booster section close, and the booster engines, without
fuel, shut downs — though the central sustainer engine, designed to stay with
the missile, continues to burn. When the separation system detaches, the
sustainer pushes the missile away from the booster.
Bob Lemley, who watched Atlas test launches from the Vandenberg training
facility, commented, “Staging is still within naked eye viewing distance of the
launch point. Visibility permitting, a puff of smoke can clearly be seen,
as well as a few flashes from the tumbling booster section.”
The actual nature of the ‘puff of smoke’ and ‘flashes’ was not known in
1962. As the booster broke away from the missile, 21 gallons of fuel and
27 gallons of liquid oxygen left in the jettisoned lines spilled into the near
vacuum 35 miles above the Earth. Essentially boiling at such low
pressure, this vaporized mixture expanded in all directions at 600 feet per
second. Since the plume would be traveling at the same speed as the
booster when detached, it enveloped the lower section of the rocket before the
sustainer engine could push the missile’s body away from the separation
point. At the same time, the burning sustainer engine, passing through
the expanding fuel/oxygen plume, ignited it. The expanding plume
accounted for the puff of smoke seen by observers — and the igniting
flame-front, the flashes.
The tumbling booster section rips apart as it dropped back into the atmosphere,
and large chunks of it scatter across British Columbia.
With the booster section staged, and the weight of so much hardware and fuel
gone, the remaining 15 percent of the propellant, over the next two minutes, is
enough to drive the missile to near orbital altitude — into a ballistic
trajectory well above the atmosphere.
When the sustainer engine shuts down, the reentry vehicle separates from the
Atlas, and the warhead begins its final arming sequence. Then it waits
for its flaming plunge back to Earth.
But launch orders were never sent. And, as events eased into the third
week of a conciliatory November, everyone began to see signs of hope.
On November 20, at 11:21 Eastern Standard Time, after an agreement between the
United States and the Soviet Union was finalized, the Joint Chiefs of Staff
ordered the Strategic Air Command to lower its alert status to DEFCON 3.
The Cuban Missile Crisis was officially over.
Two years later, in November of 1964, the Air Force announced the phase-out of
all Atlas missiles in its arsenal. Newer, supposedly less complicated and
more reliable missile systems were taking over. America’s first ICBM,
already obsolete, was to be retired.
Atlas E ICBM during dual propellant loading exercise, Deer Park launch
complex 567-1, August 18, 1961 |
Between the 17th of February, and the 31st of March,
1965, all nine of Fairchild’s Atlas missiles bases were taken out of the
defensive loop. By late June, with its official deactivation, the 567th
Strategic Missile Squadron, its men and its mission, began their long slide
into history.
The missile itself continued to fly. As one of the nation’s most reliable
launch vehicles for civilian and military orbital payloads, the Atlas continued
well into the 1990’s, outliving the majority of its designers, and at least a
few of the men who stood watch with it.
As for the bunkers — the equipment was sold at auction and hauled away.
Eventual the shell of the Deer Park
bunker became a factory for manufacturing explosives used in open-pit mining.
It will take centuries for the sheer mass of concrete used in Fairchild’s nine
Atlas missile bunkers to crumble away, though the knowledge of what actually
occurred there is already dissipating. Drawing mild curiosity, these
monuments to the ‘cold war’ are already seen as irrelevant artifacts from
another century.
This new century is already hard at work designing and building weapons more
perfect, more ultimate than those of the last. The only defense against
many of these new weapons will be the ancient tactic of assured retaliation —
of mutually assured destruction. And this will mean new generations of
young men and women in armored bunkers — beneath the ground, beneath the sea,
above the clouds — standing watch.
— the end —
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