At a small United States Air Force installation in eastern Wyoming, I’m sitting at an electronic console, ready to unleash nuclear hell. In front of me is a strange amalgamation of ’60s-era flip switches and modern digital display screens. It’s the control console for launching an intercontinental ballistic missile or ICBM.
On an archaic display screen in the center of the console, three large letters blink in rapid succession. “EAM inbound,” says my deputy commander and the second member of the launch crew. An emergency-action message is on its way, maybe from the Joint Chiefs of Staff, maybe from the Commander of U.S. Strategic Command, maybe even from the president. We both mechanically pull down our code books, thick binders swollen with pages of alpha-numeric sequences, and swiftly decipher the message.
After nearly four years of pulling ICBM-alert duty, this process is instinctive. I deliberately recite the encrypted characters to ensure my deputy is on the same page, literally and figuratively, as six short characters can effectively communicate a wealth of information through the use of special decoding binders. “Charlie, Echo, Seven, Quebec, Golf, Bravo, six characters ending in Bravo.” My partner concurs, scribbling in his code book.
“Crowd pleaser,” he adds without emotion, referring to a war plan that mandates immediate release of our entire flight of nuclear missiles, 10 in all.
Of course, this is just a training scenario. The coded orders are a simulation. The console is a mockup of the real thing, stowed away in a larger hanger and serviced seven days a week by a small staff of Boeing contractors.
If this were a real event, I’d be buried in a steel cocoon 100 feet underground. I’d have shed my standard-issue flight suit and boots. Instead, I’d be wearing sweats, fleece-lined slippers and, naturally,
my indispensable, royal blue Snuggie.
America and her nuclear warriors have an odd relationship. For decades,
missileers (as we’re known in the military) have quietly performed their duties, custodians of a dying breed of weapon. But American citizens have no real connection with the shadowy operators who stand the old posts of the Cold War, despite the fact that they spend up to $8 billion a year to maintain our country’s nuclear deterrent. The truth is the job is an awesome responsibility, but it’s deeply weird.
Back in the air-conditioned simulator, my deputy and I carefully, but quickly, walk through a precisely choreographed preparation sequence. Unlock codes provided by the president allow us to enable the missiles for launch, a function similar to the safety switch of a gun. At this moment, the safety is off.
Several times during the process, we verify that the orders are authentic and formatted properly, and that they originate from the appropriate command authorities. Both of us keep a sharp eye out for a “termination message,” a quick stand-down notification that would cancel our attack orders. None comes.
We finish our sequence in less than a minute, leaving 30 seconds to spare before initiating our practice launch. It feels like an eternity. My deputy stares at his keyboard, while my eyes are locked on a large red clock above our heads. The clock is set to Greenwich Mean Time (“Zulu time” in missile parlance), and is checked against the Navy’s atomic clock twice a day for accuracy down to the millisecond.
At 10 seconds out, we place our hands on a series of launch switches. Contrary to popular myth, there is no red button. Four launch switches means it takes four hands to launch — it’s one of many safety mechanisms built into the system as a means of preventing unauthorized execution of missiles by a lone individual. At five seconds out, I start my countdown, commanding a final “3, 2, 1 — execute.”
We turn our keys, and watch as the control screen flashes with missile-launch notifications. Some fly immediately, some with a delay to prevent nuclear fratricide when the bombs approach their targets in 20 to 30 minutes.
Death Wears Bunny Slippers
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Originally Posted by Dreadnaught
movie.
