Perhaps in the early 1970s, the thinking at the Atomic Energy Commission was that one day a nuclear facility could very well melt down in an American city. Were this to happen, the commission could have argued, it would be a good thing to know what to expect. By 1972, the nuclear energy industry had experienced five “boom year(s),” according to Atomic Energy Commission archives. Without any kind of regulatory arm in place, the commission had been promoting and developing nuclear reactor “units,” which are the fuel cores that provide energy for nuclear power plants. By the end of 1967, the commission had placed thirty units around the country. The following year, that number jumped to ninety-one, and by 1972 there were one hundred and sixty nuclear reactor units that the Atomic Energy Commission was in charge of overseeing at power plants around the nation.
Six years after the end of the NERVA program at Jackass Flats, the nuclear facility at Three Mile Island nearly melted down, on March 28, 1979. The nuclear reactor there experienced a partial core meltdown because of a loss of coolant. Officials were apparently stunned. “The people seemed dazed by a situation that wasn’t covered in the manuals, torn between logic and standard operating procedures, indecisive in the absence of a strong executive power,” read a 1980 report on the disaster prepared for the public by the newly formed Nuclear Regulatory Commission’s Special Inquiry Group. Even though similar accident scenarios had been conducted at Area 25, the “executive power,” which was the Atomic Energy Commission, apparently did not share the information with its partners at the power plants.
At the same time the Three Mile Island accident happened, a movie called The China Syndrome was opening in theaters across the country. The movie was about a government plot to conceal an imminent nuclear meltdown disaster, with Jane Fonda playing a reporter determined to expose the plot. Although it was clear to moviegoers that the film was fictional, it had been made with great attention to technical detail. The Nuclear Regulatory Commission’s Special Inquiry Group determined that the combination of the two events — the real and the fictional — resulted in a media firestorm. The fact that the near nuclear meltdown happened in the media glare, wrote the commissioner, “may be the best insurance that it will not reoccur.” The public’s so-called mass hysteria, feared for decades by government elite, really did work in the public’s interest after all. At Three Mile Island, the media firestorm and the public’s response to it proved to act as a democratic “checks and balances” where the federal government had failed.
For as many nuclear accidents of its own making as the Atomic Energy Commission could foresee, they could not have predicted what happened on January 24, 1978, when a nuclear-powered Russian spy satellite crashed on North American soil, in Canada. NORAD analysts had been tracking Cosmos 954 since it launched, on September 18, 1977, but after three months, the movements of the spy satellite were causing NORAD ever-increasing alarm. The Russian satellite had been designed to track U.S. submarines running deep beneath the surface of the sea, and what NORAD knew about the satellite was that it was forty-six feet long and weighed 4.4 tons. To get that much payload into orbit required phenomenal power, most likely nuclear.
In December of 1977, analysts determined that the Russian satellite was slipping out of orbit, dropping closer and closer to Earth on each ninety-minute rotation of the globe. Calculations indicated that unless the Russians could get control of their satellite, Cosmos would, in all probability, reenter the atmosphere and crash somewhere in North America within a month. President Carter’s national security adviser Zbigniew Brzezinski pressed Moscow for information about what exactly was on board the crashing satellite. The Russians told Brzezinski that Cosmos 954 carried 110 pounds of highly enriched uranium 235.
Richard Mingus worked at the Department of Energy’s emergency command center, located in Las Vegas, during the crisis. The center was in charge of controlling public information about the looming nuclear disaster, following directions from the CIA. According to a secret CIA report declassified in 1997, a decision was made not to inform the public. Trying to predict the public’s reaction to a nuclear satellite crash was like “playing night baseball with the lights out,” wrote CIA analyst Gus Weiss, because “the outcome of [Cosmos] 954 would be akin to determining the winner of a train wreck.” The CIA knew exactly what would happen, and that was that “the satellite was coming down carrying a live reactor.” The CIA also believed that “a sensationalized leak would disturb the public in unforeseeable ways.” This information has never been made public before.
“It was extremely tense,” recalls Richard Mingus, who spent several days fielding calls at the emergency command center. By 1978, NEST — Nuclear Emergency Search Team — was finally trained to handle nuclear disasters. The man in charge was Brigadier General Mahlon E. Gates, also the manager of the Nevada Test Site. According to Gates, “the nucleus for NEST-related activity was established within EG&G, which had responsibility for overall logistics” to the nuclear lab workers and those assigned to NEST by the federal government. The team waited on standby at McCarran Airport, “ready to go the minute the thing crash-landed,” Mingus says. “Our job at the emergency command center was to keep people across America from panicking.” All that Brzezinski had said publicly was that America was experiencing a “space age difficulty.” Mingus believes this was the right move. “The satellite was still pretty high up, there was no radioactive danger until it actually hit the ground. But imagine the panic if people, or say a mayor of a city, started calling for cities to evacuate based on where they thought the satellite was going to crash down on the next ninety-minute rotation?” Mingus says the feeling at the command center was that if that were to happen, it would be panic like in The War of the Worlds.
When Cosmos 954 finally crashed, it hit the earth across a large swath of ice in the middle of the frozen Canadian tundra, one thousand miles north of Montana on Great Slave Lake. At McCarran Airport a fleet of unmarked NEST vans — meant to look like bakery vans but really loaded with banks of gamma- and neutron-detection equipment inside — drove into the belly of a giant C-130 transport plane and prepared to head north. NEST personnel included the usual players in the nuclear military-industrial complex: scientists and engineers from Los Alamos, Livermore, Sandia, and EG&G. Troy Wade was the lead federal official dispatched to the crash site. Looking back, he explains, “It was the radioactive fuel we were most concerned about. If a piece comes down that weighs a ton, you can’t predict how far and wide the debris, including all that fuel, will go.”
For this reason, the first order of business was detecting radiation levels from the air. Wade and the EG&G remote-sensing team loaded small aircraft and helicopters into the belly of the C-130, alongside the unmarked bread vans, and headed for the Canadian tundra. As part of Operation Morning Light, NEST members scoured a fifty-by-eighthundred-mile corridor searching for radioactive debris. “This was long before the advent of GPS. There were no mountains to navigate by,” Wade says. “The pilots had no reference points. Just a lot of snow and ice out there. Temperatures of nearly fifty degrees below zero.” Helping out from high above was an Air Force U-2 spy plane.
After several long months, 90 percent of the debris from Cosmos 954 had been recovered. In the postaccident analysis, officials at NORAD determined that if the satellite had made one last orbit before crashing, its trajectory would have put it down somewhere on America’s East Coast.
Chapter Nineteen: The Lunar-Landing Conspiracy and Other Legends of Area 51
Two hundred and fifty thousand miles from the Nevada Test Site, on July 20, 1969, with less than ninety-four seconds of fuel remaining, Neil Armstrong and copilot Buzz Aldrin were facing almost certain death as they approached the Sea of Tranquillity on the moon. The autotargeting on their lunar landing module, famously called the Eagle, was taking them down onto a football-field-size crater laden with jagged boulders. To have crash-landed there would have meant death. The autotargeting was burning precious fuel with each passing second
; the quick-thinking Neil Armstrong turned it off, took manual control of the Eagle, and, as he would tell NASA officials at Mission Control in Houston, Texas, only moments later, began “flying manually over the rock field to find a reasonably good area” to land. When Armstrong finally set the Eagle down safely on the moon, there was a mere twenty seconds’ worth of fuel left in the descent tanks.
Practice makes perfect, and no doubt Armstrong’s hundreds of hours flying experimental aircraft like the X-15 rocket ship — in dangerous and often death-defying scenarios — helped prepare him for piloting a safe landing on the moon. As with most seminal U.S. government accomplishments, particularly those involving science, it took thousands of men working hundreds of thousands of hours inside scores of research centers and test facilities — not to mention a number of chemical rockets designed by Wernher Von Braun — to get the Apollo 11 astronauts and five additional crews (Apollos 12, 14, 15, 16, and 17) to the moon and back home. A little-known fact is that to prepare for what it would actually be like to walk around on the geology of the moon, the astronauts visited the Nevada Test Site. There, they hiked inside several atomic craters, learning what kind of geology they might have to deal with on the lunar surface’s inhospitable terrain. The Atomic Energy Commission’s Ernie Williams was their guide.
“I spent three days with the astronauts in Areas 7, 9, and 10 during astronaut training, several years before they went to the moon,” Williams recalls. In the 1960s, astronauts had rock-star status, and Williams remembered the event like it was yesterday. “The astronauts had coveralls and wore field packs, mock-ups of the real thing, strapped on their backs. They had cameras mounted on their hats and they took turns walking up and down the subsidence craters. It was steep, rocky terrain,” he explains. Williams originally worked for the Atomic Energy Commission in feeding and housing, making sure the “feed wagon” got to remote areas of the atomic bombing range. “We’d get mashed potatoes and gravy to the faraway places inside the test site,” Williams says, “hot food being a key to morale.” But the multitalented Williams quickly became the test site’s jack-of-all-trades, including astronaut guide. His other jobs included being in charge of the motor pool and helping CIA engineers drill for Area 51’s first water well. But for Williams, the highlight of his career was escorting the first men on the moon inside the atomic craters.
“I was with them in 1965, and again five years later when they came back,” Williams recalls. This time the astronauts arrived with a lunar roving vehicle to test what it might be like driving on the moon. The astronauts were taken out to the Schooner crater, located on the Pahute Mesa in Area 20. “We picked them up at the Pahute airstrip and took them and the vehicle into the crater where there was pretty rough terrain,” Williams explains. “Some boulders out there were ten feet tall. One of the astronauts said, ‘If we encounter this kind of thing on the moon, we’re not going to get very far.’” Williams recalls the astronauts learning how to fix a flat tire on the moon. “They took off a steel tire and put on a rubber one” out in the field.
The lunar roving vehicle was not a fast-moving vehicle, and the astronauts took turns driving it. “NASA had built it and had driven it in a lot of flat places,” Williams explains. “But before it came to the test site and drove on the craters, the vehicle had no real experience on inhospitable terrain. The astronauts also did a lot of walking out there,” Williams adds. One of the requirements of the Apollo astronauts who would be driving during moon missions was that they had to be able to walk back to the lunar module if the rover failed.
The craters Williams was talking about are subsidence craters— geologic by-products of underground bomb tests. When a nuclear bomb is placed in a deep vertical shaft, as hundreds were at the test site (not to be confused with tunnel tests), the explosion vaporizes the surrounding earth and liquefies the rock. Once that molten rock cools, it solidifies at the bottom of the cavity, and the earth above it collapses, creating the crater. The glass-coated rock, giant boulders, and loose rubble that remain resemble the craters found on the moon. So similar in geology were the atomic craters to moon craters that in voice transcripts sent back during the Apollo 16 and Apollo 17 missions, astronauts twice referred to the craters at the Nevada Test Site. During Apollo 16, John W. Young got specific. A quarter of a million miles away from Earth, while marveling at a lunar crater laden with rocks, Young asked fellow astronaut Charles M. Duke Jr., “Remember how it was up at that crater? At Schooner.” He was referring to the atomic crater Ernie Williams took the astronauts to in Area 20. During Apollo 17, while looking at the Haemus Mountains, Harrison H. Schmitt can be heard talking about the Buckboard Mesa craters in Area 19. For Ernie Williams, hearing this comparison was a beautiful moment. For lunar-landing conspiracy theorists, of which there are millions worldwide, the feeling was one of suspicion. For these naysayers, Schmitt’s telemetry tapes, the moon photographs, the moon rocks— everything having to do with the Apollo moon missions would become grist for a number of ever-growing conspiracies that have been tied to man’s journey to the moon.
Just two months after Armstrong and Aldrin returned home, a UFOon-the-moon conspiracy was born. On September 29, 1969, in New York City, the newest installment of National Bulletin magazine rolled off the printing press with a shocking headline: “Phony Transmission Failure Hides Apollo 11 Discovery. Moon Is a UFO Base,” it read. The author of the article, Sam Pepper, said he’d been leaked a transcript of what NASA had allegedly edited out of the live broadcast back from the moon, namely, that there were UFOs there. Various UFO groups pressed their congressmen to take action, several of whom wrote to NASA requesting a response. “The incident… did not take place,” NASA’s assistant administrator for legal affairs shot back in a memo from January 1970.
As time passed the ufologists continued to write stories about the moon being a base for aliens and UFOs. For the most part, NASA ignored them. But then, in the midseventies, a newly famous film director named Steven Spielberg decided to make a film about aliens coming down to visit Earth. He sent NASA officials his script for Close Encounters of the Third Kind, expecting their endorsement. Instead, NASA sent Spielberg an angry twenty-page letter opposing his film. “I had wanted co-operation from them,” Spielberg said in a 1978 interview, “but when they read the script they got very angry and felt that it was a film that would be dangerous. I think they mainly wrote the letter because Jaws convinced so many people around the world that there were sharks in toilets and bathtubs, not just in the oceans and rivers. They were afraid the same kind of epidemic would happen with UFOs.” Fringe ufologists were one thing as far as NASA was concerned. Steven Spielberg had millions of movie fans. He was a modern-day version of Orson Welles.
Right around the same time, another moon conspiracy theorist let his idea loose on the American public, a theory that did not involve UFOs. In 1974, a man named William Kaysing self-published a book called We Never Went to the Moon: America’s Thirty-Billion-Dollar Swindle. With these three questions, Kaysing became known as the father of the lunar-landing conspiracy:
How can the American flag flutter when there is no wind on the moon?
Why can’t the stars be seen in the moon photographs? Why is there no blast crater where Apollo’s landing vehicle landed?
Kaysing, who died in 2005, often said his skepticism began when he was an analyst and engineer at Rocketdyne, the company that designed the Saturn rockets that allowed man to get to the moon. While watching the lunar landing live on television, he said he experienced “an intuitive feeling that what was being shown was not real.” Later, he began scrutinizing the moon-landing photographs for evidence of a hoax. Kaysing’s original three questions have since planted seeds in millions upon millions of people who continue to insist that NASA did not put men on the moon. The lunar-landing conspiracy ebbs and flows in popularity, but as of 2011, it shows no signs of going away.
In August 2001 Kaysing was interviewed by Katie Couric on the Today show. By then, Kays
ing’s theory had morphed to involve Area 51. He was often quoted as saying that the Apollo landings were filmed at a movie studio there. “Area 51 is one of the most heavily guarded facilities in the United States,” Kaysing said, and anyone who tried to go there “could be shot and killed without any warning. With good reason… because the moon sets are still there.”
In the twenty-first century, a new generation of moon hoaxers walk in Kaysing’s footsteps to expose what they say is NASA’s fraud. Like the game of Whac-A-Mole, as soon as one element of the conspiracy appears to be disproven another allegation surfaces — from missing telemetry tapes to outright murder. So aggravated has America’s formidable space agency become over the moon hoaxers that in 2002, NASA hired aerospace historian Jim Oberg to write a book meant to challenge conspiracy theorists’ questions and claims — now numbering hundreds — in a point-by-point rebuttal. When news of the project was leaked to the media, NASA got such bad press over it they canceled the book.
The idea that the moon landing was faked was born at a time of high government mistrust. In 1974, for the first time in history, a U.S. president resigned. In 1975, the CIA admitted it had been running mind-control programs, a number of which involved human experiments with dangerous, illegal drugs. Then, in April, Saigon fell. The general antigovernment feeling was heightened by the fact that while government proved capable of many nefarious deeds it had been unable to win the war in Vietnam; 58,193 Americans were killed trying.
Area 51: An Uncensored History of America's Top Secret Military Base Page 35