Harvard, argued that the Super was an unusable weapon and that the atomic bomb was sufficient to deter aggression. The Super did not necessarily offer greater security, but might only create an endless race for ever more powerful weapons. In its own way, he argued, it might be oddly paralyzingto the possessor. A balanced weapons program might offer greater security.
Even as the members of the AEC were trying to decide what to do about the Super, some of the nation’s top military men already thought war with the Soviet Union inevitable. Nor was it just military men and politicians on the fringe. The members of the AEC met with Senator Brien McMahon, a Democrat on the Joint Committee on Atomic Energy, who had written the Atomic Energy Act and was generally considered a moderate. McMahon might have been by the standards of the day a domestic liberal, but he was a devout Catholic, with a heavily Catholic constituency, and thus a hard-liner on the subject of Communism. He had become the single most important congressional figure on the issue of atomic weapons, and unlike the scientists, he had no doubts about using them. The bombing of Hiroshima, he had said on the Senate floor, was “the greatest event in world history since the birth of Jesus Christ.” If the Russians got ahead of us in nuclear weaponry, that would, in his words, place “total power in the hands of total evil [which] will equal total destruction.” When David Lilienthal met with McMahon he found it extremely dispiriting. “What he [McMahon] is talking about is the inevitability of war with the Russians and what he says adds up to one thing: blow them off the face of the earth quick, before they do the same to us—and we haven’t much time.”
The political pressure building around Truman to go ahead with the Super was relentless. How could his administration, already accused of being soft on Communism, fail to pursue what seemed to be the supreme weapon—especially one that might eventually end up in the hands of the Soviets. Failure to do so, Acheson noted, “would push the Administration into a political buzzsaw.” In addition, a powerful new force was pushing for the Super in the scientific community—Edward Teller. As a refugee, much of whose family still lived in Budapest, under Communist control, he was terrified by the news of Joe One, and at the time he had immediately called Oppenheimer. “What shall we do? What shall we do?” Teller kept asking over the phone. Oppenheimer became so irritated with Teller’s emotional outburst that he finally told him, “Keep your shirt on.”
Still, Teller had no doubts about which course to pursue, and he distrusted those who were more cautious. Soon after the Soviet explosion, he spent an afternoon with Kenneth Nichols, a top Army official on nuclear policy. Teller’s vehemence surprised Nichols, who asked him why he was worrying so much about the situation. “I’m not worrying about the situation,” Teller answered. “I’m worrying about the people who should be worrying about it.”
Teller began to scour America’s universities to recruit young scientists for Los Alamos, but his success was marginal; his was not a project to stir the imagination of America’s best young minds. He had wanted Oppenheimer to come back, but Oppenheimer had no taste for it. Failing to get Oppenheimer, he tried for Hans Bethe, whose prestige was almost equal to Oppenheimer’s. He visited Bethe at Cornell in October 1949. Bethe was deeply torn by events. He felt that no decent society should pursue a weapon as destructive as the Super. But he was also worried that the Russians might build one, giving them the capacity to blackmail the United States.
Bethe seemed to be the scientist in the center. He talked it over with his wife, who pointed out that he had worked on one terrible bomb already and that he had done this because America was at war with Nazi Germany. She then pointed to the room where their two
Even as the members of the AEC were trying to decide what to do about the Super, some of the nation’s top military men already thought war with the Soviet Union inevitable. Nor was it just military men and politicians on the fringe. The members of the AEC met with Senator Brien McMahon, a Democrat on the Joint Committee on Atomic Energy, who had written the Atomic Energy Act and was generally considered a moderate. McMahon might have been by the standards of the day a domestic liberal, but he was a devout Catholic, with a heavily Catholic constituency, and thus a hard-liner on the subject of Communism. He had become the single most important congressional figure on the issue of atomic weapons, and unlike the scientists, he had no doubts about using them. The bombing of Hiroshima, he had said on the Senate floor, was “the greatest event in world history since the birth of Jesus Christ.” If the Russians got ahead of us in nuclear weaponry, that would, in his words, place “total power in the hands of total evil [which] will equal total destruction.” When David Lilienthal met with McMahon he found it extremely dispiriting. “What he [McMahon] is talking about is the inevitability of war with the Russians and what he says adds up to one thing: blow them off the face of the earth quick, before they do the same to us—and we haven’t much time.”
The political pressure building around Truman to go ahead with the Super was relentless. How could his administration, already accused of being soft on Communism, fail to pursue what seemed to be the supreme weapon—especially one that might eventually end up in the hands of the Soviets. Failure to do so, Acheson noted, “would push the Administration into a political buzzsaw.” In addition, a powerful new force was pushing for the Super in the scientific community—Edward Teller. As a refugee, much of whose family still lived in Budapest, under Communist control, he was terrified by the news of Joe One, and at the time he had immediately called Oppenheimer. “What shall we do? What shall we do?” Teller kept asking over the phone. Oppenheimer became so irritated with Teller’s emotional outburst that he finally told him, “Keep your shirt on.”
Still, Teller had no doubts about which course to pursue, and he distrusted those who were more cautious. Soon after the Soviet explosion, he spent an afternoon with Kenneth Nichols, a top Army official on nuclear policy. Teller’s vehemence surprised Nichols, who asked him why he was worrying so much about the situation. “I’m not worrying about the situation,” Teller answered. “I’m worrying about the people who should be worrying about it.”
Teller began to scour America’s universities to recruit young scientists for Los Alamos, but his success was marginal; his was not a project to stir the imagination of America’s best young minds. He had wanted Oppenheimer to come back, but Oppenheimer had no taste for it. Failing to get Oppenheimer, he tried for Hans Bethe, whose prestige was almost equal to Oppenheimer’s. He visited Bethe at Cornell in October 1949. Bethe was deeply torn by events. He felt that no decent society should pursue a weapon as destructive as the Super. But he was also worried that the Russians might build one, giving them the capacity to blackmail the United States.
Bethe seemed to be the scientist in the center. He talked it over with his wife, who pointed out that he had worked on one terrible bomb already and that he had done this because America was at war with Nazi Germany. She then pointed to the room where their two
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