Eric Schlosser - Command and Control

Sergeant Hanson left the command post and went to the PTS shop, where Sandaker and the other volunteers were gathering their equipment. The Disaster Response Force left the base at about nine o’clock, but PTS Team B needed more time to get ready. Once they arrived at 4–7, Hanson thought the plan would go something like this: two men would put on RFHCOs, enter the complex through the access portal, open the blast doors, walk down the long cableway to the silo, and try to vent the missile. Perhaps they’d also turn on the purge fan to clear vapors from the silo.

Unsure of what equipment was available at 4–7, Hanson decided that PTS Team B had to bring everything it needed. They had to gather the gear, load it into five trucks, stop at two other missile complexes, and pick up items that the shop didn’t have. Although PTS Team B wanted to get to 4–7 as quickly as possible, logistical problems delayed them, including an unexpected stop for water. Hanson’s truck was the only one with a radio. Whenever he needed to communicate with the others, the entire convoy would have to pull over to the side of the road, and someone would get out of the truck to explain their next move.

The Little Rock command post continued to have communications difficulties, as well. Once the control center was evacuated, the radio in Sergeant Brocksmith’s truck became the only way to speak with people at the missile site. Unfortunately, the radio transmissions from his truck weren’t scrambled or secure. Anyone who knew the right frequency could listen to them, and the sound quality was less than ideal. Major Joseph A. Kinderman — the head of the wing’s security police, who manned the radio at the command post — found that conversations were sometimes garbled and difficult to understand.

At about half past nine, Major Kinderman reported the latest set of tank pressures, and a sergeant added them to the chalkboard. For a moment, everyone focused on the pressure in the stage 1 fuel tank. During the hour since the last reading, it had fallen from -0.7 to -2 psi. Those numbers were disturbing, they suggested the tank was on the verge of collapse — and then a member of the K crew wondered, how the hell does anyone know what the tank pressures are? The control center had been evacuated at about half past eight. Kinderman asked Colonel Morris where those numbers came from.

Morris had provided the numbers, but didn’t answer the question. He was sitting in Brocksmith’s security police truck, parked at the end of the access road, off Highway 65.

Kinderman waited for a reply, and then Captain Mazzaro got on the radio and said that Kennedy had reentered the control center, without permission, violating the two-man rule.

Members of the K crew couldn’t believe what Kennedy had just done. Colonel Moser was more upset than angry, and he wasn’t thrilled about telling SAC headquarters. But the information that Kennedy obtained was extremely useful. Moser shared the numbers with everyone on the net and described Kennedy’s unauthorized behavior. General Leavitt seemed unperturbed. Although one of SAC’s cardinal rules had just been broken, Leavitt appreciated the importance of having the latest tank pressures — and the personal risk that Kennedy had taken to get them.

Colonel Morris was told not to allow any further actions at the launch complex without the approval of SAC headquarters. And while the PTS convoy drove to 4–7, the discussion on the net turned to whether the power at the complex should be completely shut off. The crew had turned off everything they could before leaving, but the water pumps on level 8 of the silo were still running, as were a series of fans, motors, and relays connected to the air-conditioning and ventilation systems. General Leavitt worried that a spark from one of these motors or the slightest bit of electrical arcing could ignite the fuel vapor in the silo. The command post called the Petit Jean Electric Company, the local utility in Damascus, and asked it to send over workers who could climb the poles and disconnect the jacks from power lines leading to the complex.

The majority of the hazard team in Little Rock wanted to leave the power on. If the power were cut, the phone in the control center would go dead, and they wouldn’t be able to monitor the vapor detector left behind there. The sound of the detector going off would signal that fuel vapor had seeped past blast door 8. Anyone who reentered the complex to save the missile would find the job more difficult, without power. You wouldn’t be able to check tank pressures, turn on the purge fan, or do anything in the silo, aside from removing the pressure cap by hand and venting the stage 1 fuel tank.

The workers from Petit Jean were told to stand by, and for the time being, the power stayed on. An executive from Martin Marietta, the manufacturer of the Titan II, had joined the net, giving estimates of the tank pressures at which the stage 1 fuel tank was likely to collapse and the oxidizer tank to burst. The situation felt grim. Nevertheless, members of the hazard net debated how PTS Team B should proceed, step by step, upon their arrival at 4–7. First, everyone had to reach a consensus on the proper course of action — and then they had to write a checklist for it. The audio quality of the conference call was mediocre, and with so many people involved in the discussion, at half a dozen locations, it was often hard to figure out who was saying what.

One of the most authoritative voices had a strong Texan accent. It belonged to Colonel Ben Scallorn, the deputy chief of staff for missiles at Eighth Air Force headquarters in Louisiana. Moser had served under Scallorn at Whiteman Air Force Base and phoned him right after hearing about the accident in Damascus, wanting to get his opinion, privately, of how bad it sounded. Scallorn didn’t sugar the pill; he thought it sounded really bad. He knew the Titan II as well as just about anyone else at SAC. He’d worked long hours in silos wearing a RFHCO and seen firsthand how dangerous the missile could be. During the discussions on the Missile Potential Hazard Net, he was blunt about what needed to be done at 4–7, regardless of whether anyone would listen.

WHEN BEN SCALLORN FIRST REPORTED to Little Rock Air Force Base in 1962, the Titan II silos there were still being dug. The missile maintenance department consisted of three people: a first lieutenant who ran it, a sergeant who served as his clerk, and a secretary. The 308th Strategic Missile Wing had not yet been activated, and the Air Force was eager to get the Titan IIs into the ground. Scallorn was glad to be in Little Rock, preparing to study missile maintenance. His previous assignment in the Air Force had been “recreational services.” For years he’d managed softball fields, swimming pools, movie theaters, and service clubs at SAC bases everywhere from Mississippi to Morocco. He was thirty-three, with a wife and three small boys. Helping to deploy America’s largest ballistic missile, at the dawn of the missile age, promised to be a more rewarding career path. He was sent to Sheppard Air Force Base in Wichita Falls, Texas, to learn how the Titan II worked — and six weeks later returned to Little Rock as chief of maintenance training at the 308th.

Scallorn visited the launch complexes around Little Rock as they were being constructed. Each one was a massive endeavor, requiring about 4.5 million pounds of steel and about 30 million pounds of concrete. Elaborate water, power, and hydraulic systems had to be laid underground. The silo door was too heavy to be transported by road; it arrived in eight pieces for assembly at the site. In order to bring missiles on alert as quickly as possible, the Air Force relied on a management practice known as “concurrency”: work began on the Titan II complexes long before a Titan II missile had flown. Both would be completed at roughly the same time.