Nuclear bases that were once the military’s crown jewels are now “little orphanages that get scraps for dinner,” he says. “The Air Force has not kept its ICBMs manned or maintained properly,” says Bruce Blair, a former missileer and cofounder of the anti-nuclear group Global Zero. Especially when the rest of the nation seems to have forgotten about the whole thing. Once the military’s crown jewels, ICBM bases have become “little orphanages that get scraps for dinner.”Īnd a perfect record, in a homeland arsenal made up of hundreds of missiles and countless electronic and mechanical systems that have to operate flawlessly-to say nothing of the men and women at the controls-is a very hard thing to achieve. The greatest risk to my force is doing something stupid.” The real nuclear threat for America today, he said, “is an accident. General James Kowalski, who commands all of the Air Force’s nuclear weapons, said a Russian nuclear attack on the United States was such “a remote possibility” that it was “hardly worth discussing.”īut then Kowalski sounded a disconcerting note that has a growing number of nuclear experts worried. At a July 2013 forum in Washington, DC, Lt. The days of duck-and-cover drills, fallout shelters, and No Nukes protests are fading memories-nowhere more so than in the defense establishment. It’s not just Great Falls practicing selective amnesia. “We get some people that have no idea that there’s even an Air Force base here,” one active-duty missileer told me. With about 4,000 residents and civilian workers and a $219 million annual payroll, Malmstrom Air Force Base drives the local economy, but you won’t see any missile-themed bars or restaurants. The Air Force doesn’t like to draw attention to the 150 silos dotting the surrounding countryside, and neither does Great Falls. We kept passing unmarked blue pickup trucks with large tool chests-missile maintenance guys. Had President Obama ordered an attack with ICBMs, Aaron could have received a coded message, authenticated it, and been expected to turn a launch key.Īlso read: “ That Time We Almost Nuked North Carolina“-a timeline of near-misses, mishaps, and scandals from our atomic arsenal. Aaron, as I’ll call him, had recently completed a four-year stint at the Alpha facility. Six hours earlier, I was driving through Great Falls with a former captain in the Air Force’s 341st Missile Wing. “Hey, there’s something going off in there.” “Just you being here taking photos is causing trouble,” he snaps.Īn alarm starts blaring from inside the building. “I’m not here to cause trouble,” I say, picturing myself in a brig somewhere. He’s followed by an older guy clad in sneakers, maroon gym shorts, and an air of authority. We’re steps away from the 10th Missile Squadron Alpha Missile Alert Facility, an underground bunker capable of launching several dozen nuclear-tipped Minuteman III intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBMs), with a combined destructive force 1,000 times that of the Hiroshima bomb.Īnother airman comes out of the ranch house and asks for my driver’s license. “Well, we might have to confiscate your phone.” “You’re not taking pictures, are you?” he asks nervously. I’m snapping photos when a young airman appears.
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