cards around the table in level 1 of the control center. Jeffrey Plumb, who was new to the group, lay on one of the beds. Theyâd been working since early in the morning and were ready to be finishedwith the day. PTS teams and launch crews didnât tend to socialize. The PTS guys were a different breed. Outside of work they had a reputation for being rowdy and wild. They had one of the most dangerous jobs in the Air Forceâand at the end of the day they liked to blow off steam, drinking and partying harder than just about anyone else at the base. They were more likely to ride motorcycles, ignore speed limits, violate curfews, and toss a commanding officer into a shower, fully clothed, after consuming too much alcohol. They called the missiles âbirds,â and they were attached to them and proud of them in the same way that good automobile mechanics care about cars. The danger of the oxidizer and the fuel wasnât theoretical. It was part of the job. The daily risks often inspired a defiant, cavalier attitude among the PTS guys. Some of them had been known to fill a Ping-Pong ball with oxidizer and toss it into a bucket of fuel. The destruction of the steel bucket, accompanied by flames, was a good reminder of what they were working with. And if you were afraid of the propellants, as most people would be, you needed to find a different line of work.
Although low pressure in an oxidizer tank could mean a leak, PTS Team A wasnât worried about it. This was the third day in a row that theyâd been called out to 4-7. The missile in the silo had recently been recycled. The warhead and the propellants were removed during a recycle, and then the missile was lifted from the silo, hauled back to the base, carefully checked for corrosion and leaks. Later, the same missile might be returned to the complex, or a different one might be shipped there from storage. The fuel and oxidizer pressure often didnât stabilize at the proper levels for weeks after a recycle. PTS teams were accustomed to adding more nitrogen two, three, four times until the tank pressures settled.
At the conclusion of the recycle at 4-7, a Titan II was placed in the silo, filled with propellants, and armed with a warhead.The missileâs serial number was 62-0006. The same missile that had been in the silo during the fire at the complex near Searcy now stood on the thrust mount at Launch Complex 374-7 north of Damascus. The odds were slim that the same Titan II airframe, out of dozens, would wind up in those two places.Bad luck, fate, sheer coincidenceâwhatever the explanation, neither the launch crew, nor the PTS team, knew that this missile had once been in a silo full of thick smoke and dying men.
By six oâclock in the evening, the platforms had finally been repaired, and the PTS team was ready to do its work. Childers was in the control center, instructing the trainee. Mazzaro and Heineman, the PTS team chief, were there as well, going over the checklist for the procedure. Holder decided to get a few hours of sleep. Although the control center was underground and far removed from the world, it was always noisy. Motors, fans, and pumps were constantly switching on and off. Test messages from SAC were loudly broadcast over the speakers, and telephones rang. The sound had nowhere to go, so it bounced off the walls. Holder never slept well there, even with earplugs. The vibration bothered him more than the noise. The whole place was mounted on springs, and there was so much machinery running that the walls and the floors always seemed to be vibrating. It was the sort of thing you didnât notice, until you became perfectly still, and then it became hard to ignore.
Holder took off his socks and shoes, put on a T-shirt and some pants from an old uniform, and had a bite to eat before bed. He was washing dishes when the Klaxon went off. The sound was excruciatingly loud, like a fire alarm, an electric buzzer inside your
Although low pressure in an oxidizer tank could mean a leak, PTS Team A wasnât worried about it. This was the third day in a row that theyâd been called out to 4-7. The missile in the silo had recently been recycled. The warhead and the propellants were removed during a recycle, and then the missile was lifted from the silo, hauled back to the base, carefully checked for corrosion and leaks. Later, the same missile might be returned to the complex, or a different one might be shipped there from storage. The fuel and oxidizer pressure often didnât stabilize at the proper levels for weeks after a recycle. PTS teams were accustomed to adding more nitrogen two, three, four times until the tank pressures settled.
At the conclusion of the recycle at 4-7, a Titan II was placed in the silo, filled with propellants, and armed with a warhead.The missileâs serial number was 62-0006. The same missile that had been in the silo during the fire at the complex near Searcy now stood on the thrust mount at Launch Complex 374-7 north of Damascus. The odds were slim that the same Titan II airframe, out of dozens, would wind up in those two places.Bad luck, fate, sheer coincidenceâwhatever the explanation, neither the launch crew, nor the PTS team, knew that this missile had once been in a silo full of thick smoke and dying men.
By six oâclock in the evening, the platforms had finally been repaired, and the PTS team was ready to do its work. Childers was in the control center, instructing the trainee. Mazzaro and Heineman, the PTS team chief, were there as well, going over the checklist for the procedure. Holder decided to get a few hours of sleep. Although the control center was underground and far removed from the world, it was always noisy. Motors, fans, and pumps were constantly switching on and off. Test messages from SAC were loudly broadcast over the speakers, and telephones rang. The sound had nowhere to go, so it bounced off the walls. Holder never slept well there, even with earplugs. The vibration bothered him more than the noise. The whole place was mounted on springs, and there was so much machinery running that the walls and the floors always seemed to be vibrating. It was the sort of thing you didnât notice, until you became perfectly still, and then it became hard to ignore.
Holder took off his socks and shoes, put on a T-shirt and some pants from an old uniform, and had a bite to eat before bed. He was washing dishes when the Klaxon went off. The sound was excruciatingly loud, like a fire alarm, an electric buzzer inside your
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