I had just restarted FreeCell game number 3112 for the fifth time. I was thinking that this might be the one to keep me from my goal of winning all 32,000 before I retired. I had vowed to accomplish that, no matter how much of the Air Force’s time it took.
On-duty time in a Launch Control Center is not the most exciting six hours you can spend. It’s one of those “hours of boredom, minutes of terror” jobs. I guess there’s probably something more productive I could be doing, but I haven’t found it yet. I’ve never been much for reading, except the sports page.
When I accepted this position a year ago, I figured a Missile Alert Facility would be a good place to coast into retirement. I’m 48 years old, my oak leaves aren’t likely to be turning silver any time soon, and in ten months I’ll be able to go out with full pension. An easy stint in the silos to finish out my career sounded like a grand plan.
So, I was deep into trying to figure out how to get to the ace of hearts when the alarm klaxon sounded. I figured it was another drill. Lieutenant Jenkins never thinks they’re drills. He spends his time inspecting the birds, inventorying fuel, and checking calibration dates. Jenkins came running into the control room and was at the printer before I even levered myself out of my chair.
“Priority One message from National Command Authority. SAC-NORAD orders launch of all flights: 740th and 741st Squadrons, 91st Strategic Missile Wing. Hostile incoming requires launch before 0240 hours. Sir, we have ten minutes to launch our birds.”
“I can tell time, Jenkins. Calm down, I’m sure it’s just another test. Go get the confirmation code.” They run these tests a few times a year, just to keep us on our toes. I nearly wet myself the first time I went through one. They typically call it off within a minute, but sometimes they wait until the keys are confirmed.
Jenkins arrived with the code as I was getting the verification card out of the safe. I snapped the case open and gave him the card as he handed me the printout. Reading through all 15 digits, pronouncing every November, Romeo, and Niner in clipped precision, and watching Jenkins nod at each, I waited for the phone to ring with the all-clear. It didn’t. The code was confirmed, as it always is, and Jenkins and I pulled out our keys in unison.
I sat down in front of my console and with a trembling hand, I inserted my key into its lock. I heard Jenkins’ key hit home at the same time. When I turned towards him, he was already looking my way. For the first time in our eight months together, I saw a hint of fear in his eyes. It was quickly replaced by fierce determination, and he turned from me to look at the clock. My eyes followed his: 0234. We still had six minutes.
By now, the boys at SAC should have registered our key insertions, so I couldn’t figure out why they hadn’t called yet to stop the test. With a sudden inspiration, or maybe desperation, I picked up the phone. “I’m calling over to 741.” The look of disappointment in his eyes stopped the next sentence in my throat. As the senior officer on this shift, I couldn’t very well call a Captain for direction. I put the phone back down and said, “Oh, let him call me if he needs advice.” Jenkins grinned like a boy reading the last page of his favorite comic book.
My thoughts were too jumbled to think straight. I had orders to launch ten nuclear missiles. The orders were confirmed, and SAC would have no further indication of our action until launch. My mind came to the slow, sure, terrifying realization that this was not a test. We were expected to turn our keys. The clock blared out the time: 0237.
There were three minutes left in which to unleash the man-made hell of nuclear fusion weapons. Jenkins’ shaky voice came from beyond the veil of my self-absorption. “Sir, we have to launch now. Give the order.” I finally realized that the deadline we were up against was our own imminent death. Even a hardened bunker fourteen feet underground can’t stand up to a direct strike from a twenty-megaton weapon. We had to launch before we died and were no longer capable.
I looked at my terminal again. All five flights stood ready, but only ours was keyed. I had the ability and the responsibility to launch not only my own ten missiles, but the other forty as well. Eight other officers had failed forcing me to take full responsibility. How could eight, highly trained officers, each with the perfect psych profile, fail to turn their key? It wasn’t possible. With Jenkins screaming for me to give the order, I removed my hand from my key and watched the clock turn to 0240.
I realize that my actions that night equate to treason. I understand that I failed to obey both direct and indirect orders. I am willing to accept whatever punishment this court deems fit. But, should it not count for something that I was right?