Command and Control

A small group of reporters stood along Highway 65, watching the Air Force trucks roll up. It was about half past eleven, and Sid King was impressed by all the Air Force personnel and equipment that suddenly appeared. Crews from the local television stations in Little Rock pointed their lights and cameras at the vehicles, as military police tried to keep the press off the access road. A cattle guard about thirty feet from the highway served as the line that civilians were prohibited to cross. The questions shouted by reporters were ignored. Sergeant Joseph W. Cotton, the public affairs officer who’d arrived with the Disaster Response Force, had already told the press that there was a fuel leak and it was under control. Cotton refused to say anything more. And he gave reporters the phone number of SAC headquarters in Omaha, in case they had any further questions.

King and his friend Tom Phillips thought about sneaking closer to the launch complex to see what was happening. King knew Ralph and Reba Jo Parish, who owned the farm to the north of the missile site. Although the Parishes had been evacuated, King was sure they wouldn’t mind his entering the property and heading west through their fields toward the silo. King and Phillips quietly discussed the plan, feeling confident they wouldn’t get caught. It was dark out there. But they wondered what would happen if they were caught — and decided, for the time being, to stay put.

PTS Team B unloaded their gear just past the cattle guard, along the road to the launch complex, relying on flashlights to see what they were doing. The television crews had better lights.

Man, those look like space suits, Sid King thought, as the RFHCOs and their helmets were unpacked. He was struck by how young the airmen appeared. He’d expected to see gray-haired scientists and high-ranking Air Force officers coming to fix the missile. These guys were younger than him. They were kids.

Once the RFHCOs were laid out, the air packs filled, and everything ready to go, Sergeant Hanson walked over to Colonel Morris. He told Morris that a couple of people would be sent through the access portal into the silo.

Colonel Morris hadn’t heard anything about a plan to reenter the complex.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Morris said. “We’re not doing anything until I get directions.”

Morris got on the radio to the command post and asked, what’s the plan? He was told to stand by, they were still working on it.

* * *

Colonel Moser asked SAC headquarters if they should follow Martin Marietta’s advice.

“Well, let’s go over what we’ve got here,” General Leavitt said.

About half an hour earlier, Leavitt had called Governor Clinton in Hot Springs. Their conversation was brief and polite. He told Clinton that a team was about to reenter the complex and that the situation was under control. Clinton thanked him for the update and went to bed.

But Leavitt had changed his mind. He decided that they should wait and allow the fuel vapor to dissipate before sending anyone near the missile. And he asked everyone on the net to discuss what had happened at 4–7, from the moment the socket was dropped.

* * *

Jeff Kennedy lay on the grass atop a low hill. Silas Spann, a member of PTS Team B, sat beside him. Spann was one of the few African Americans who worked in missile maintenance, and he stood out in this part of rural Arkansas. Whenever he walked into one of the local shops, people looked surprised. Kennedy and Spann could see the launch complex down below. A thick white cloud still floated from the vents. The two men wondered what would happen if the missile exploded. Would the blast doors and the silo door hold, would they fully contain the blast? Both agreed that the doors would. They had faith in those big fucking doors. It was a warm, beautiful night with a slight breeze and plenty of stars in the sky.

* * *

Don Green was at Little Rock Air Force Base, guarding the weapons storage area, around midnight, when a new set of officers came on duty. Green was told that he could go home. Before leaving, he stopped by central security control to see if anybody needed help. He bumped into another security officer, Sergeant Jimmy Roberts, who’d come there for the same reason. Roberts worked across the hall from Green, and the two were friends. They both felt like being useful; it was a busy night. A third security officer walked into the office and asked for a map. He was supposed to escort a flatbed truck carrying an all-terrain forklift to Launch Complex 374-7 but didn’t know how to get there. The job sounded pretty urgent: they needed the forklift to haul light-all units onto the complex, so that the PTS team could see what they were doing.

Green and Roberts said they’d be glad to escort the flatbed. They knew the way and could get the forklift out there fast. Instead of going home and getting into bed, they got into a pickup and headed to Damascus.

* * *