Photo by Andrew Hetherington for New York Magazine
Babysitting the Bomb
❧The missileers of Global Strike Command TKTK
TKDATE
By Reid Cherlin
The air force has bolted a large enne. Today, they have agreed to sit and have lunch with me.
sign to the fence of the Alpha-01 It has been, as usual, a taxing alert. The missiles assail their han- Missile Alert Facility, clear white dlers with “status,” alarms indicating an internal temperature read- type announcing to any wayward ing that’s too high, or a malfunction with the onboard guidance
traveler that this little patch of desolate Wyoming prairie belongs equipment, or a breakdown in the communications link with the to the 319th Missile Squadron, 90th Missile Wing, Global Strike capsule, or any number of aches and pains that might distress a Command. Under the big sign is a smaller sign, divided into two Reagan-era warhead. During this alert, one of the missiles reported halves: real world and exercise. A sergeant stands at attention a GMR-26[ckck]—harmful fluctuations in its power supply—and behind the gate. An American flag is snapping violently at its mast, began shutting itself down in response. “The weapons system is
but the sergeant’s billed cap, high at the top of his head, is perfectly still. He takes my ID through the fence and disappears into what looks like a little house. When he returns, he hands it back. I have been told that he is going to ask “What is your status?,” which he does, and I have been told that I am to answer “I am all secure,” and that if I answer with any other phrase or make no answer at all, I will be thrown to the ground and handcuffed. (“Nothing to do but hold your ID above your head and wait for the pain,” one of the maintenance guys back on base had told me.) I tell the sergeant I am all secure. The gate opens skyward, we step in, and it closes again like a guillotine...
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