Command and Control: Nuclear Weapons, the Damascus Accident, and the Illusion of Safety

In the days and months following Sputnik, the Atlas missile loomed as America’s great hope, its first ICBM, designed to hit Soviet targets from bases in the United States. But producing a missile that could reliably reach the Soviet Union took much longer than expected. An Air Force missile expert later described its propellant system as a “fire waiting to happen.” Liquid oxygen (LOX), the missile’s oxidizer, was dangerously unstable. About twenty thousand gallons of LOX had to be stored in tanks outside the Atlas, at a temperature of -297 degrees Fahrenheit — and then pumped into the missile during the countdown. The margin for error was slim. During a series of dramatic, well-publicized mishaps at Vandenberg, Atlas missiles exploded on the launchpad, veered wildly off course, or never left the ground. Nevertheless, the first Atlas went on alert in 1959. At a top secret hearing two years later, an Air Force official admitted to Congress that the odds of an Atlas missile hitting a target in the Soviet Union were no better than fifty-fifty. General Thomas Power, the head of SAC, who much preferred bombers, thought the odds were closer to zero.

Developed as a backup to Atlas, the Titan missile incorporated a number of new technologies. It had a second stage that ignited in the upper atmosphere, enabling the launch of a heavier payload. Although it relied on the same propellants as the Atlas, the Titan would be based in an underground silo, gaining some protection from a Soviet attack. The missile would be filled with propellants underground, about fifteen minutes before launch, and then would ride an elevator to the surface before ignition. The elevator was immense, capable of lifting more than half a million pounds. But it didn’t always work. During a test run of the first Titan silo, overlooking the Pacific at Vandenberg, a control valve in the elevator’s hydraulic system broke. The elevator, the Titan, and about 170,000 pounds of liquid oxygen and fuel fell all the way to the bottom of the silo. Nobody was hurt by the explosion, though debris from it landed more than a mile away. The silo was destroyed and never rebuilt.

While Atlas and Titan missiles were being prepared for their launch complexes, the Air Force debated whether to deploy another liquid-fueled, long-range missile: the Titan II. It would be more accurate and reliable, carry a larger warhead, store propellants within its airframe, launch from inside a silo, and lift off in less than a minute. Those were compelling arguments on behalf of the Titan II, and yet critics of the missile asked a good question — did the Air Force really need four different types of ICBM? It had already committed to the development of the Minuteman, a missile that would be small, mass-produced, and inexpensive. The Minuteman’s solid fuel would burn slowly from one end, like a big cigar, and didn’t pose the same risks as liquid propellants.

Donald Quarles was one of the leading skeptics at the Pentagon, eager to cut costs and avoid the unnecessary duplication of weapon systems. No longer secretary of the Air Force, he was the second-highest-ranking official at the Pentagon, rumored to be Eisenhower’s choice to become the next secretary of defense. And then Quarles suddenly died of a heart attack, amid the long hours and great stress of his job. Funding of the Titan II was soon approved, largely due to the size of its warhead. General LeMay didn’t care much for the Atlas, Titan, or Minuteman — missiles whose only strategic use was the annihilation of cities. But the Titan II, with its 9 megatons, was the kind of weapon he liked. It could destroy the deep underground bunkers where the Soviet leadership might hide, even without a direct hit.

One of the many challenges that the designers of the Titan II faced was how to bring the warhead close to its target. The Titan II’s rocket engines burned for only the first five minutes of flight. They provided a good, strong push, enough to lift the warhead above the earth’s atmosphere. But for the remaining half hour or so of flight, it was propelled by gravity and momentum. Ballistic missiles were extraordinarily complex machines, symbols of the space age featuring thousands of moving parts, and yet their guidance systems were based on seventeenth-century physics and Isaac Newton’s laws of motion. The principles that determined the trajectory of a warhead were the same as those that guided a rock thrown at a window. Accuracy depended on the shape of the projectile, the distance to the target, the aim and strength of the toss.