Command and Control (14 page)

LeMay was involved in almost every detail of the plan, from selecting the mix of bombs—magnesium for high temperatures, napalm for splatter—to choosing a bomb pattern that could start a firestorm. He hoped that the firebombing would break the will of the Japanese people, avoid an American invasion, end the war quickly, and save American lives.
The massive civilian casualties were unfortunate, LeMay thought, but prolonging the war would cause even more. The destruction of Japanese cities, one after another, fit perfectly with his philosophy on the use of military force. “
I'll tell you what war is about,” LeMay once said. “You've got to kill people and when you kill enough of them, they stop fighting.”

LeMay's managerial and logistical skills made him an ideal candidate to head the Strategic Air Command. His most recent assignment had been to organize the Berlin airlift. But he also knew a lot about the atomic bomb. He'd been involved with the preparations to drop Little Boy and Fat Man, later served as a military adviser to the Manhattan Project, supervised the aircraft during the atomic test at the Bikini atoll—and, as deputy chief of staff for research and development at the Air Force, helped to formulate the atomic blitz. LeMay recognized the destructive power of nuclear weapons but didn't feel the least bit intimidated by them. “
We scorched and boiled and baked to death more people in Tokyo,” he later recalled, “than went up in vapor at Hiroshima and Nagasaki combined.” And he didn't lose any sleep over the morality of Truman's decision. Killing was killing, whether you did it with a rock, a rifle, or an atom bomb. LeMay's appointment to run SAC sent a clear message to the Soviets: if necessary, the United States would not hesitate to fight a nuclear war.

After arriving at SAC headquarters in Omaha, Nebraska, during the fall of 1948, LeMay was angered by what he found. Bomber crews had no idea what their targets would be, if war came. Navigators lacked up-to-date maps, and pilots rarely consulted checklists before takeoff. As an exercise, LeMay ordered every SAC crew in the country to stage a mock attack on Wright Field in Dayton, Ohio, at night, from high altitude, under heavy cloud cover, conditions similar to those they might encounter over the Soviet Union. Many of the planes didn't get anywhere near Ohio—and not a single one hit the target. The bombardiers who did simulate the dropping of an atomic bomb, aiming their radar at reflectors on the ground, missed Wright Field by an average of two miles. LeMay called it “
about the darkest night in American military aviation history.”

The top officers at SAC were let go, and LeMay replaced them with veterans of his bombing campaigns in Germany and Japan. He hoped to
create a similar esprit de corps. Promotions weren't given to individuals, but to an entire crew, sometimes on the spot. And when one person screwed up, the rest of the crew also paid the price. Officers lost their jobs because of accidents and honest mistakes. “
I can't afford to differentiate between the incompetent and the unfortunate,” LeMay explained. “Standardization” became the watchword at SAC, repeated like a mantra and ruthlessly pursued, with manuals and checklists and numeric measures of success created for every job. Team players were rewarded, iconoclasts and prima donnas encouraged to go elsewhere. LeMay wanted SAC to function as smoothly as the intricate machinery of a modern bomber. “
Every man a coupling or a tube; every organization a rampart of transistors, battery of condensers,” he wrote in his memoir. “All rubbed up, no corrosion. Alert.”

Within hours of the Japanese surrender, LeMay had flown low over cities that his planes destroyed. The experience confirmed his belief that America needed an Air Force so overwhelmingly powerful that no enemy would ever dare to launch a surprise attack. After Pearl Harbor it had taken years for the United States to mobilize fully for war. Nuclear weapons eliminated that option. If a counterattack couldn't be swift, it might never occur. LeMay wanted everyone at SAC to feel a strong sense of urgency, to be ready for war not next week or tomorrow but at any moment—to feel “
we are at war now.
” His goal was to build a Strategic Air Command that could strike the Soviet Union with planes based in the United States and deliver every nuclear weapon at once. SAC bomber crews constantly trained and prepared for that all-out assault. They staged mock attacks on every city in the United States with a population larger than twenty-five thousand, practicing to drop atomic bombs on urban targets in the middle of the night.
San Francisco was bombed more than six hundred times within a month.

One of LeMay's greatest concerns was the command and control of nuclear weapons—the system of rules and procedures that guided his men, the network of radars and sensors and communications lines that allowed information to travel back and forth between headquarters and the field, the mechanisms that prevented accidental detonations and permitted deliberate ones, all of it designed to make sure that orders could be properly
given, received, and carried out. To retaliate against a surprise attack, you needed to know that one had been launched. You needed to share that news with your own forces and ensure they could immediately respond. Command and control had always been a crucial element in warfare. But in a nuclear war, where decisions might have to be made within minutes and weapons could destroy cities in an instant, the reliability of these administrative systems could be the difference between victory and annihilation. A breakdown in command and control could make it impossible to launch a nuclear attack—or could order one by mistake.

LeMay thought that the Strategic Air Command should control all of America's atomic bombs and select their targets. Such an arrangement would simplify things, creating a unified chain of command. It would give oversight and accountability to one military organization: his. The atomic arsenal should be viewed, according to SAC doctrine, as “
a
single instrument . . .
directed, controlled, if need be, from a single source.” The Army, the Navy, and other units in the Air Force didn't like that idea. As LeMay worked hard to gain control of America's nuclear weapons, his rivals at the Pentagon fought to get their own, expand their influence, and limit the power of the Strategic Air Command.

•   •   •

L
OUIS
S
LOTIN
WAS
TICKLING
the dragon in a laboratory at Los Alamos, carefully lowering a beryllium shell over the plutonium core of a Mark 3 implosion bomb. The beryllium served as a tamper; it reflected neutrons, increased the number of fissions, and brought the assembly closer to a chain reaction. The clicks of a Geiger counter gave an audible measure of how fast the fissions were multiplying. Slotin knew what he was doing. He'd assembled the core for the Trinity test and performed dozens of criticality experiments like this one. A coworker had asked to see how it was done and, on the spur of the moment, Slotin decided to show him. The core looked like an enormous gray pearl resting inside a shiny beryllium shell. Slotin used a screwdriver to lower the top half of that shell—and then, at about 3:20 in the afternoon on May 21, 1946, the screwdriver slipped, the shell shut, the core went supercritical, and a blue flash filled the
room. Slotin immediately threw the top half of the tamper onto the floor, halting the chain reaction. But it was too late: he'd absorbed a lethal dose of radiation. And he, more than anyone else in the room, knew it.

Within hours Slotin was vomiting, his hands were turning red and swollen, his fingernails blue. General Groves flew Slotin's parents down from Winnipeg on a military plane to say good-bye. A week later, Slotin was gone, and his death was excruciating, like so many tens of thousands at Hiroshima and Nagasaki had been. It was recorded on film, with his consent, as a sobering lesson on the importance of nuclear safety. Three of the other seven men in the lab that day eventually died of radiation-induced illnesses. But Slotin had added years to their lives by thinking quickly and stopping the chain reaction. In the absence of any fast-acting safety mechanism at the laboratory, a report on the accident later concluded, “
Slotin was that safety device.”

The same plutonium core that took Slotin's life had already killed one of his assistants, Harry Daghlian. The previous August, while Daghlian was performing an experiment, alone in the laboratory at night, a small tungsten brick slipped from his hand. The brick landed near the core, which became supercritical for a moment, and Daghlian was dead within a month. Having taken the lives of two promising young physicists, it was nicknamed “the Demon Core,” placed in a Mark 3 bomb, and detonated during a test at the Bikini atoll.

Slotin's mishap was the fourth criticality accident at Los Alamos within a year, raising concern about the management practices at America's nuclear weapon facilities. The reactors at Hanford were not only dangerous but largely incapable of making plutonium. Most of the famous scientists who'd worked on the Manhattan Project had left government service after the war. The manufacture of atomic bombs didn't seem to be a wise career choice, at a time when the world appeared ready to ban them.

In April 1947,
David Lilienthal visited Los Alamos for the first time after becoming head of the Atomic Energy Commission. He was shocked by what he saw: rudimentary equipment; dilapidated buildings; poor housing; muddy, unpaved roads—and plutonium cores stored in cages at an old icehouse. Lilienthal was a liberal, one of the last New Dealers in the
Truman administration, and he'd seen a lot of rural poverty while running the Tennessee Valley Authority during the Great Depression. But that first day at Los Alamos, he later noted, was “
one of the saddest days of my life.” Nuclear weapons were now thought indispensable for the defense of the United States; Lilienthal had expected to find them neatly and safely stored for immediate use. “
The substantial stockpile of atom bombs we and the top military assumed was there, in readiness, did not exist,” Lilienthal subsequently wrote. “Furthermore, the production facilities that might enable us to produce quantities of atomic weapons . . . likewise did not exist.”

The number of atomic bombs in the American arsenal was considered so secret that it could not be shared with the Joint Chiefs of Staff—or even recorded on paper. After visiting Los Alamos, Lilienthal met with President Truman in the Oval Office and told him how many atomic bombs would be available in the event of a war with the Soviet Union:
at most, one. The bomb was unassembled but, in Lilienthal's view, “
probably operable.” The president was stunned. He'd just announced the Truman Doctrine before Congress, vowing to contain the worldwide spread of communism. Admirals and generals were fighting over the atomic stockpile, completely unaware that there wasn't one. “
We not only didn't have a pile,” Lilienthal recalled, “we didn't have a stock.” The threat to destroy the Soviet Union, if it invaded Western Europe, was a bluff.

During his visit to New Mexico, Lilienthal also discovered a shortage of scientists trained to make atomic bombs. The physicists, chemists, and engineers who'd put together the bombs at the end of the Second World War were now scattered throughout the United States. The Mark 3 implosion bomb was, in Oppenheimer's words, a “
haywire contraption,” difficult and dangerous to assemble. But at least some of the scientists in Los Alamos still knew how to make one.
Nobody had bothered to save all the technical drawings necessary for building another Little Boy, the uranium-based, gun-type bomb dropped on Hiroshima. The exact configuration of the various parts had never been recorded on paper—an oversight that, amid the current shortage of plutonium, created some unease. As files and storerooms at Los Alamos were searched for information about Little Boy's
design, a machinist offered to demonstrate how one of the bomb's aluminum tubes had been forged.
He'd wrapped the metal around a Coke bottle.

After the war, the Z Division at Los Alamos, which had designed the firing and fuzing mechanisms of both atomic bombs, was moved an hour and a half south to an old Army air base near Albuquerque. The Z Division's headquarters was soon renamed the Sandia Laboratory, and a new military outfit called the Armed Forces Special Weapons Project (AFSWP) was located at the base, too. When the production of Mark 3 bombs resumed, the work was now divided among three organizations: Los Alamos fabricated the cores and the explosive lenses; Sandia was responsible for the rest of the weapon; and the AFSWP trained military personnel how to complete the assembly in the field. Norris Bradbury, the director of Los Alamos, pushed for improved designs that would make atomic bombs simpler, smaller, lighter, and safer to handle. It would take years for such improvements to be made. Until then, the safety of America's nuclear weapons depended on checklists, standard operating procedures, and a laboratory culture with a low tolerance for mistakes.

Bradbury worried about what would happen if a B-29 bomber crashed in the United States while carrying a fully assembled Mark 3 bomb. The B-29 had a high accident rate—two had crashed and burned on the runways at Tinian while trying to take off the night before the bombing of Nagasaki. In 1947 the Armed Forces Special Weapons Project decided that
the final assembly of Mark 3 bombs must always occur outside the United States. The reliability of the weapon's electronic, mechanical, and explosive components was unknown, and Bradbury thought that a crash during takeoff would pose “
a very serious potential hazard to a large area in the vicinity.”

The Mark 3 was considered too dangerous to be flown, fully assembled, over American soil. But no safety restrictions were imposed on flights of the bomb over Great Britain. Atomic bomb–making facilities were
secretly constructed at two Royal Air Force bases, in Sculthorpe and Lakenheath. Before attacking the Soviets, American B-29s would leave the United States with partially assembled Mark 3s and land at the British bases. Plutonium
cores would be inserted into the weapons there, and then the B-29s would head for their Soviet targets. If one of the B-29s crashed during takeoff, the RAF base, as well as neighboring towns, might be obliterated. Anticipating that possibility, the U.S. Air Force explored sites in the countryside of Norfolk and Suffolk where atomic bombs could be hidden, so that “
if one blew, the others would survive.”