Eric Schlosser - Command and Control

Harold Agnew had recently met with Donald R. Cotter, a supervisor at Sandia, about the best way to install use controls on a nuclear weapon. Cotter mentioned an electromechanical lock that Sandia was developing for atomic land mines. The weapons were, essentially, time bombs that NATO troops could arm and then leave behind to destroy buildings, bridges, airfields, or units of an invading Red Army. The new lock had originally been conceived as a safety device. Because these weapons wouldn’t be dropped from a plane or launched by a missile, a trajectory-sensing switch wouldn’t help to prevent accidental detonations. The g-forces that a land mine would normally experience before being armed would be the same as those of the soldier carrying it. And the weapon might sit for hours or days before exploding. But a motor-driven lock inside the mine, connected by a long cable to a handheld decoder, would allow troops to arm the weapon from a safe distance. Agnew thought that sort of lock would solve many of the custody problems at NATO. A coded switch, installed in every nuclear weapon, would block the crucial arming circuits. It would make a clear distinction between the physical possession of a weapon and the ability to use one. It would become a form of remote control. And the power to exert that control, to prohibit or allow a nuclear detonation, would remain with whoever had the code.

Agnew brought an early version of the electromechanical locking system to Washington, D.C., for a closed-door hearing of the joint committee, putting the switch and the decoder in the seat next to him on a commercial flight from Albuquerque. The coded switch that went inside a weapon weighed about a pound; the decoder weighed about forty. It was a black box with knobs, numbers, and a series of colored lights on it, powered by a large internal battery. To unlock a nuclear weapon, a two-man custodial team would attach a cable to it from the decoder. Then they’d turn the knobs on the decoder to enter a four-digit code. It was a “split-knowledge” code — each custodian would be given only two of the four numbers. Once the correct code was entered, the switch inside the weapon would take anywhere from thirty seconds to two and a half minutes to unlock, as its little gears, cams, and cam followers whirred and spun. When Agnew and Cotter showed the committee how the new lock worked, it didn’t. Something was wrong. But none of the senators, congressmen, or committee staff members realized that it wouldn’t unlock, no matter how many times the proper code was entered. The decoder looked impressive, the colored lights flashed, and everyone in the hearing room agreed that it was absolutely essential for national security.

The American military, however, vehemently opposed putting any locks on nuclear weapons. The Army, the Navy, the Air Force, the Marines, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Power at SAC, General Norstad at NATO — all of them agreed that locks were a bad idea. The always/never dilemma lay at the heart of military’s thinking. “No single device can be expected to increase both safety and readiness,” the Joint Chiefs of Staff argued. And readiness was considered more important: the nuclear weapons in Europe were “adequately safe, within the limits of the operational requirements imposed on them.”

Although the description “adequately safe” was hardly reassuring, the possibility of America’s nuclear weapons being rendered useless during wartime, when their locks somehow malfunctioned, was more worrisome to the Joint Chiefs. Even if the locking and unlocking mechanisms worked flawlessly, use of the weapons would depend on effective code management. If only a few people were allowed to know the code, then the death of those few or an inability to reach them in an emergency could prevent the weapons from being unlocked. But if the code was too widely shared, the locks would offer little protection against unauthorized use. The joint committee’s desire for stronger use controls threatened to add complexity and uncertainty to the command and control of nuclear weapons. A State Department official summarized the military’s position: “all is well with the atomic stockpile program and there is no need for any changes.”

The Kennedy administration was far more receptive to the committee’s proposals. The former RAND analysts at the Pentagon were familiar with Fred Iklé’s work and his recommendation, two years earlier, that locks should be put on nuclear weapons. Jerome Wiesner, the president’s science adviser, met with Agnew and agreed that something had to be done about NATO’s atomic stockpile. Wiesner was deeply concerned about the risk of an unauthorized or accidental detonation. He had trained as an electrical engineer, briefly worked at Los Alamos, and advised Eisenhower on nuclear issues. Wiesner supported placing locks on the weapons but had no illusions that locks would completely solve the problem. A skilled technician could open a stolen nuclear weapon and unlock it within a few hours. But Wiesner thought that the locks might help “to buy time” after a weapon had been taken, stop “individual psychotics,” and prevent “unauthorized use by military forces holding the weapons during periods of high tension or military combat.”

For Secretary of Defense McNamara, the locks were part of a larger effort to regain not only American control but also civilian control of nuclear weapons. He felt adamant that the president of the United States should have the sole authority to order a weapon’s use. The military had gained far too much power over the nuclear arsenal since the days of Harry Truman, McNamara thought — and the lack of civilian oversight at NATO was chilling. The Davy Crockett recoilless rifle was especially problematic. Its atomic projectiles weighed about fifty pounds and would be easy to steal. They were small enough to fit in a duffle bag or a backpack. After reading the joint committee’s report, President Kennedy halted the dispersal of nuclear weapons among America’s NATO allies. Studies on weapon safety and command and control were commissioned. At Sandia, the development of coded, electromechanical locks was begun on a crash basis. Known at first as “Prescribed Action Links,” the locks were given a new name, one that sounded less restrictive, in the hopes of appeasing the military. “Permissive Action Links” sounded more friendly, as did the acronym: PALs.

WITHIN SEVEN WEEKS of President Kennedy’s inauguration, the broad outlines of his defense policies were set. Spending on conventional forces would increase. More Polaris submarines would be built. And intercontinental ballistic missiles would largely replace bombers. Missiles were thought to be faster, cheaper, and less likely to be destroyed in a surprise attack. The Atlases, Titans, Jupiters, and Thors, so recently rushed into service, would be decommissioned as soon as possible. Less expensive, solid-fueled missiles would replace them. McNamara and his team had come to believe that nuclear weapons with a lower yield were more cost effective. The Minuteman missile carried a 1-megaton warhead, and calculations suggested that five of them would inflict more damage than a single 9-megaton warhead carried by a Titan II. Nevertheless, a relatively small number of Titan II missiles would be retained, for the time being. They would be useful for destroying naval bases, missile complexes, and underground command centers.

The Polaris submarine seemed like the ideal weapon system for the Kennedy administration’s strategic goals. The sixteen missiles on each sub would serve as a powerful deterrent to the Soviets, greatly increasing the odds that the United States could offer some sort of nuclear response after a surprise attack. Safely hidden beneath the ocean, the submarines could also give the president more time to think or negotiate during a crisis. In 1958 the Navy had requested a dozen Polaris subs; facing intense pressure from Congress, Eisenhower later agreed to deploy 19. Kennedy decided to build 41. The 656 missiles of the Polaris fleet would be aimed solely at “countervalue” targets — at civilians who lived in the major cities of the Soviet Union.