“I still don’t see what you expect to gain from an exercise at just one of our silos.”
Chilgers leaned forward. “Each silo, especially each primary one, functions as a microcosm of the entire system. The stress factors and problems encountered within it are almost certain to provide more than adequate analysis of the concerns we’re talking about.”
“I assume you’ve worked out all the details of this Project Placebo of yours by now.”
Chilgers nodded. “The reports and procedures, down to the second, are in my briefcase. For security reasons the only copy is locked in my safe.”
“Well, we certainly wouldn’t want word leaking out if we do decide to go ahead with this.” The President rapped his knuckles on the desk surface. “I assume, Colonel, you’ve already got a test site chosen as well.”
“Bunker 17.”
The President turned to Secretary of Defense Brandenberg. “George?”
“A wise choice,” Brandenberg acknowledged. “Bunker 17 is one of our primary installations, constructed along with five sister stations as a kind of compromise for Dense-Pack. It has the capacity to fire thirty-six MX missiles, each loaded with ten high-yield hydrogen warheads, into Russia with a twenty-one-minute time lag.”
“Targets?”
“They’re changed at regular intervals for security reasons. A fair estimate would be the Soviets’ primary attack centers in addition to major areas of population and government.”
“I didn’t realize we put so many eggs in one basket,” the President said uneasily.
“There’s a reason for it, sir,” Brandenberg explained. “Our latest intelligence information indicates that the Russians are still in the dark about the existence of Bunker 17 and its five sister stations.” Here Brandenberg swung toward Chilgers. “As you know, Colonel, we spread the six units out over the most isolated parts of the West and Midwest: Wyoming, Montana, Utah, the Dakotas, Nevada. Mostly desert country. The installations are contained almost entirely underground with U.S. Agriculture cover buildings constructed over them. The firing silos themselves are spread out in a circle around the installations, under camouflage that makes them undetectable to even the latest Russian spy satellites.”
“The point,” Chilgers interjected, “is that Bunker 17 and her sister stations represent the strongest leg of the system rebuilt by your administration, Mr. President. Yet with all the hardware and computer simulations, we still don’t know if things will function as they must in a crisis. A million hours go into testing the machines. Project Placebo will test the people.”
“You’ve raised some interesting points,” the President said, “certainly worthy of serious consideration.”
“I’m afraid, sir, that the consideration must come rather fast. As my report indicates, three days from today would be the ideal time to activate Project Placebo.”
“Why?”
“Because in four days COBRA will be set to deliver to Bunker 17 thirty-six of the new MX Track One missiles with increased yield to their ten individual warheads.”
“I don’t follow your point.”
“Simply, sir, that the timing would allow us to substitute dummy warheads in the rebuilt Track Ones.”
“Which would be superfluous unless …” The President’s eyes sharpened. His cheeks puckered. “Good God, Colonel, you’re not suggesting we follow Project Placebo through to the point of actually firing the missiles?”
“Yes, I am,” Chilgers said without any hesitation whatsoever. “I left that factor out of my initial report purposely because I felt it was better expressed in person. For Placebo to have any tangible effect, it must be carried through to total completion — up to and including launch — to enable us to study the aftereffects of the stress involved. In a shooting war, Mr. President, we’ll hopefully get a chance to reload.”
“But we’d be taking an awful chance of alerting the Russians to the presence of Bunker 17.”
“Let’s not be naïve, sir. They already know about the existence of Bunker 17 and her sister stations, just as we know about all their secret installations. What we don’t know is how well our hundred billion dollar investment will function if actually called upon.” Chilgers paused briefly. “And the whole point of Project Placebo is to make a detailed study of the most important component of our entire defense system: the men who man it.”
“Then the missiles used for the project will be little more than drones,” the President concluded.
“Easily destructed once they pass into the atmosphere,” Chilgers added.
“So for part of this exercise Bunker 17 will be carrying blanks in all thirty-six cylinders.”
“My report outlines the exact scenario of Placebo,” Chilgers explained. “For optimum effect, the base should be at Yellow Flag status for a minimum of seventy-two hours before we trigger Red Flag. I’ve proposed we bring the bunker’s status up to that level in three days’ time, one day before the shipment of the new Track Ones is due. That way the dummy warheads will only have to be in the silos for forty-eight hours prior to final activation, so as not to weaken this crucial leg of our defense system for any prolonged period.”
“And leaving us hardly enough time for proper advance study.”
“There won’t be time for proper study if the Russians launch first either, sir.”
The President’s eyebrows flickered. “This office seldom affords me the luxury of making an immediate decision. Today is one of those times. Your proposal is tentatively accepted, Colonel, pending study of the detailed schema submitted today.”
This time Chilgers let his smile out.
The President held his gaze out the window after Chilgers had gone. “I’m not sure I like it, gentlemen, I’m not sure I like it at all.”
“On the surface,” said George Brandenberg, “the son of a bitch makes a hell of a lot of sense.”
“Except with Chilgers we never seem to know what’s going on beneath the surface.”
“But he gets results,” reminded Brandenberg. “He always has. Hell, COBRA has almost single-handedly kept us in step with the Russians militarily.”
“I suppose.”
“Then you’re serious about accepting Project Placebo,” from Arthur Jorgenson.
“George has been on my back to run a similar test for more than a year but the right circumstances never presented themselves. They have now.”
“Besides,” added Brandenberg. “How can we go wrong? Let’s take the situation to its worst possible extreme: that Chilgers intends to leave the warheads armed in hopes of starting up with the Russians so we’ll have to use all the marvelous equipment COBRA has developed in the last five years.”
“Then our fail-safe systems,” picked up the President, “would make it impossible for the missiles to ever leave our airspace. There are a dozen ways we could circumvent or abort the mission.”
Jorgenson scowled. “And what stops Chilgers from restructuring the missiles to override them? I mean, just about every piece of equipment at Bunker 17 probably contains component parts constructed by COBRA.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Brandenberg. “With that concern precisely in mind, all missiles go through a safety check on a regular daily basis, four times a day actually, to make sure all fail-safe systems are functioning. Even if half the systems somehow failed, that would still leave six operational.”
Jorgenson shook his head. “Once the missiles are actually launched, there are only four fail-safe systems available to us.”
“And even if all of them failed — a billion to one shot — we’d still be able to shoot them down with relative ease. Let’s say we give Chilgers’ dummy missiles a one-mile altitude before they self-destruct as laid out in Project Placebo. Even if they aren’t dummies and they don’t self-destruct, we use our own fail-safe destruct systems or just shoot the suckers down. There’s no way even COBRA can get around that.”