work there daily must prove their right and need to be there a hundred times a day. No one strolls idly around the bombers.
You must have a purpose to be there.
Each aircraft has its own personal guard. No one gets within fifty feet of the bomber without proper authorization and recognition.
And there are guards who watch the guards. And another echelon behind that one to watch the watchers. Trust is not a given
here.
On a dark fall night, the guard on alert sortie number three walked his post by the giant bomber. The aircraft was lit by
stadium lights high above the ramp, but the structure of the huge bomber blocked the light in many areas. The aircraft was
wreathed in shadows.
The airman paced the line around the bomber, constantly alert, his eyes sweeping the darkness. It might seem to be a dull
job. But SAC did a lot to prevent boredom from being a player in nuclear security.
The young man knew that his movements were constantly being watched and evaluated. Many agencies were given the job of testing
the security he provided. Any of those could suddenly attempt to penetrate his area to gauge his ability. Punishment for failing
to pass these tests was immediate and painful. Any member of this elite force who failed could find himself the exact opposite
of his profession: a prisoner.
Sweeping his area of control, the security policeman paced the line. Suddenly, his eyes registered movement from the periphery
of a large shadow. He rushed to the point of the aircraft boundary, charging his weapon as he ran. Even if it was a test,
he must react as if it were the real thing. The evaluators would identify themselves before he could use any of that deadly
force.
But it wasn’t a test. High above the alert area, in a darkened control tower, the next echelon of security scanned banked
monitors of television screens. The low-light cameras covered every square inch of the compound. Just to make sure that the
cameras missed nothing, a guard paced the catwalk outside the tower, watching everything through high-powered binoculars.
Suddenly the attention of these overseers was riveted to the area of sortie number three. The muffled popping coming from
that area wouldn’t have meant much to an untrained observer. Certainly not the end of the world. But that’s how the guardians
above the aircraft took it.
Immediately, sirens rang out. Both men were on their radios alerting all agencies and all security police on the base. Calls
went out to a different part of the airfield. A helicopter, on twenty-four-hour alert, started its engine with a bang and
a whine. The pilot pulled it off the ground and swung violently toward the alert facility as the last armed soldier clambered
aboard.
All over the base, high-ranking officers were running for their vehicles. With red lights flashing, they converged on the
heart of the base.
Everyone was responding to the same message. Everyone was reacting to the same rush of adrenaline that accompanied the words.
“Shots fired! Shots fired in the alert facility!”
It is safe to say that an army was converging on that contested part of the Air Force base. And they converged with grim determination.
For a prime directive was that atomic weapons would not be damaged, destroyed, or removed from the control of the Air Force,
regardless of the cost.
There would be no exceptions.
The advance arm of the protectors approached the line around alert sortie three very cautiously. Attempts had been made to
reach the guard responsible for that zone. There had been no response to repeated radio calls.
The senior noncom, a Vietnam veteran, signaled to the forces arrayed behind him to stay put. He crawled forward to the side
of the bomber opposite from where the shots had come. Looking under the nose of the silent bomber, he could see the form of
the guard lying on the ground. He could tell that the young man was in a defensive posture, with his weapon pointed
You must have a purpose to be there.
Each aircraft has its own personal guard. No one gets within fifty feet of the bomber without proper authorization and recognition.
And there are guards who watch the guards. And another echelon behind that one to watch the watchers. Trust is not a given
here.
On a dark fall night, the guard on alert sortie number three walked his post by the giant bomber. The aircraft was lit by
stadium lights high above the ramp, but the structure of the huge bomber blocked the light in many areas. The aircraft was
wreathed in shadows.
The airman paced the line around the bomber, constantly alert, his eyes sweeping the darkness. It might seem to be a dull
job. But SAC did a lot to prevent boredom from being a player in nuclear security.
The young man knew that his movements were constantly being watched and evaluated. Many agencies were given the job of testing
the security he provided. Any of those could suddenly attempt to penetrate his area to gauge his ability. Punishment for failing
to pass these tests was immediate and painful. Any member of this elite force who failed could find himself the exact opposite
of his profession: a prisoner.
Sweeping his area of control, the security policeman paced the line. Suddenly, his eyes registered movement from the periphery
of a large shadow. He rushed to the point of the aircraft boundary, charging his weapon as he ran. Even if it was a test,
he must react as if it were the real thing. The evaluators would identify themselves before he could use any of that deadly
force.
But it wasn’t a test. High above the alert area, in a darkened control tower, the next echelon of security scanned banked
monitors of television screens. The low-light cameras covered every square inch of the compound. Just to make sure that the
cameras missed nothing, a guard paced the catwalk outside the tower, watching everything through high-powered binoculars.
Suddenly the attention of these overseers was riveted to the area of sortie number three. The muffled popping coming from
that area wouldn’t have meant much to an untrained observer. Certainly not the end of the world. But that’s how the guardians
above the aircraft took it.
Immediately, sirens rang out. Both men were on their radios alerting all agencies and all security police on the base. Calls
went out to a different part of the airfield. A helicopter, on twenty-four-hour alert, started its engine with a bang and
a whine. The pilot pulled it off the ground and swung violently toward the alert facility as the last armed soldier clambered
aboard.
All over the base, high-ranking officers were running for their vehicles. With red lights flashing, they converged on the
heart of the base.
Everyone was responding to the same message. Everyone was reacting to the same rush of adrenaline that accompanied the words.
“Shots fired! Shots fired in the alert facility!”
It is safe to say that an army was converging on that contested part of the Air Force base. And they converged with grim determination.
For a prime directive was that atomic weapons would not be damaged, destroyed, or removed from the control of the Air Force,
regardless of the cost.
There would be no exceptions.
The advance arm of the protectors approached the line around alert sortie three very cautiously. Attempts had been made to
reach the guard responsible for that zone. There had been no response to repeated radio calls.
The senior noncom, a Vietnam veteran, signaled to the forces arrayed behind him to stay put. He crawled forward to the side
of the bomber opposite from where the shots had come. Looking under the nose of the silent bomber, he could see the form of
the guard lying on the ground. He could tell that the young man was in a defensive posture, with his weapon pointed
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