The people who have been writing these things that annoy me—have been talking about a 3,000-mile rocket shot from one continent to another carrying an atom bomb… I think we can leave that out of our thinking… I wish the American people would leave that out of their thinking.
Among the experts actually working on laser defense or advising the government on it, the consensus is that no basic scientific obstacles stand in the way of success. George Keyworth, Science Adviser to the President, said recently, “The major fundamental problems in every area [of laser defense] have been removed.” Two committees, set up to advise the President on the matter after his speech, have reported that the feasibility of several kinds of laser defense against missiles can be tested in the next three or four years, and if all goes well, a complete defense can be in operation ten years after that. According to Dr. Keyworth, there has been “tremendously broad technical progress” in this area.
When the final system is constructed, it will probably be a so-called layered defense, with the first or outermost layer consisting of laser beams aimed from space at enemy ICBM’s in the first minutes of flight, shortly after blast-off. A second layer of defense, either a laser or a smart mini-missile, will hit the ICBM’s that have gotten through the first layer, as they fly across the void en route to their targets. A third layer of mini-missiles, with the “keg of nails” or similar technology, comes into play in the final minutes or seconds of flight as the Soviet warheads reenter the atmosphere, to destroy the intruders that have penetrated the second layer. If the “leakage-rate” in each of the three layers is 10 percent, only one warhead in a thousand will reach its target.
If the Soviets acquire an effective defense against American missiles, so much the better. They will not even have to steal it. The President has suggested that his successor can give the new technology to the Soviet Union, just to prove that there is no point in both sides keeping bulging warehouses of these deadly weapons any longer. Then, the President added, his successor can say to the Soviets, “I am willing to do away with all my missiles. You do away with all yours.”
These are encouraging possibilities for the long run. The problem facing us in the short run, between now and the end of the 1980’s, is the vulnerability of American ICBM’s and other military installations to a Soviet surprise attack. The smart mini-missile, with its TNT and keg-of-nails technology, is less exotic than a laser defense, but it is already state-of-the-art, and can be available on relatively short notice for the protection of our missile silos, submarine and bomber bases, and command posts. In doing that, the mini-missile will strengthen and preserve the American deterrent to a Soviet attack. By strengthening our deterrent, this simple defense will also protect our cities.
For nearly forty years, since the first atomic explosion at Alamogordo, the nuclear bomb has dominated strategic weaponry. But technicians make new facts, and new facts make a new strategic calculus. We are on the threshold of revolutionary gains in the accuracy of intercontinental ballistic missiles, created by the incorporation of computer brains into missile warheads. In the future, the smart ICBM warhead, equipped with electronic brains and infrared or radar “eyes,” will hitch a ride to the general vicinity of the target on its ICBM bus; then, disembarking, it will steer itself into a particular spot on the target within a yard or two to accomplish its task with nice precision. Consider the possibilities opened for the military planner by this development. A Soviet charge of TNT, carried across the ocean by an ICBM, guides itself down the smokestack of the Consolidated Edison plant in New York; an American warhead of TNT, carried 5,000 miles in the nose of an ICBM, drops down onto a critical transformer in the Moscow power grid; a bridge is destroyed by a small explosive charge ferried across oceans and continents on an ICBM, and carefully placed at the foot of a pier. A small, artfully shaped charge of TNT is delivered to the door of a Minuteman or SS-19 silo; exploding, it pierces a hole in the silo door, spraying the interior with shrapnel and destroying the missile. It is not necessary to crush the entire silo with the violence of a nuclear warhead; missiles are fragile, and gentler means suffice to disable them.
Command posts, ammunition dumps, highways, and airport runways—all are vulnerable to conventional explosives skillfully targeted. Nearly every task allotted to nuclear weapons today can be accomplished in the future by missiles armed with non-nuclear, smart warheads.
And when nuclear weapons are not needed, they will not be used. That may seem unlikely, but consider the following facts. A nuclear weapon has many defects from a military point of view. Because of its destructive power and radioactivity, it tends to kill innocent civilians, even if used sparingly in a surgically clean strike at military targets. If used in great numbers, nuclear weapons stir up clouds of radioactive material that roll back with the prevailing pattern of the winds, carrying their poisons with them into the land of the attacker. Finally, these weapons generate emotional reactions of such intensity that the military planner can only hold them in reserve to use as a last resort; he cannot release his nuclear arsenal in gradual increments, adjusted to the military needs of each situation.
In other words, nuclear weapons are messy, and, other things being equal, the military planner will avoid them. They will never disappear entirely, some blockbusters will always be stockpiled by the superpowers as a deterrent to a genocidal attack on their cities and civilians. But as the accuracy on smart warheads increases, and more military tasks can be accomplished by non-nuclear explosives the tasks assigned to nuclear warheads will diminish, and the size of the world’s nuclear arsenals will decrease.
The shrinkage has already been observed in the armaments of the U.S. and the USSR. Nuclear weapons in the American arsenal are now one seventh their size twenty-five years ago, and the total megatonnage of our arsenal is one-quarter what it was then. (Nuclear weapons were mated to ICBM’s originally because the early models of the ICBM’s wandered all over, and generally landed a mile or so from their targets. Only a nuclear warhead—with its enormous radius of destruction—could make such blunderbusses militarily effective.) Figures available to me on Soviet nuclear weapons go back only ten years, but in that short interval, while the number of Soviet warheads increased enormously, the average size of an individual warhead decreased by a factor of three.
These changes in the sizes of the world’s nuclear arsenals have resulted from rather modest improvements in the accuracy of missiles, but the technology of the smart warhead is still in its infancy. When it reaches its maturity, and the precision of delivery of explosives across continents can be measured in feet rather than in hundreds of yards, the military uses of the nuclear bomb will dwindle into nothingness. And so it may come to pass, as President Reagan suggested, that the scientists who gave us nuclear weapons will also give us “the means of rendering these weapons impotent and obsolete.”
Editor's Introduction to:
JOINED THE SPACE FORCE TO WEAR MY BLUES
by John Maddox Roberts
Combat is not the only danger to a military unit. Boredom can destroy military effectiveness as thoroughly as any enemy. From time immemorial soldiers have sought relief from the monotony of their daily routine through wine, women, and song. This has not always endeared them to the local townsfolk. More than one US post commander has arranged to have his troops paid in two dollar bills in order to demonstrate just how important the soldiers are to the local economy. Sometimes that has worked; sometimes the local shopkeepers do not care. It depends on the military unit nearby…
There have been campaigns in which the local townsfolk were more dangerous than battle. Troop commanders then seek ways to prevent fraternization, mostly without success. One of the strangest of such methods was employed in the Moroccan campaign after World War I: the French government sent in a mobile force of prostitutes. This was the notorious Bordel Mobile de Campaigne, the “Mobile Military Brothel,” known as the B.M.C., ten or twelve whores sent to entertain as many as 5,000 soldiers. In order to
avoid bloody fights days were reserved for different branches of service: Legion, Spahis, tirailleurs, with armed guards to enforce order.
When women are not available there is always booze. For many years the traditional drink of the Foreign Legion was called “earthquake”; it consisted of raw white Moroccan wine laced with Pernod.
There are always those who would deny soldiers their rightful rewards. They usually have no more success than did the temperance workers who sought to end drinking in the Foreign Legion by placing in each barracks room a poster showing a grinning death’s head and the legend “ALCOHOL IS DEADLY.” The signs came down when it was found that in every barracks someone had printed under the inscription “BUT THE LEGIONNAIRE DOES NOT FEAR DEATH!”
It has ever been thus; and John Maddox Roberts tells us that things will not have changed in the far future.
JOINED THE SPACE FORCE TO WEAR MY BLUES
by John Maddox Roberts
Leave on Moloch!
Was ever there a place like unto Moloch? Were not its iniquities manifold and its delights beyond number? Yea, though we lie in our tanks, will we not drink deep of these? Will we not cast our souls into the visible?
Quick, off duty and put on our Class As, jump before the mirror and check gig line and spit shine. All perfect.
“Remember to shine your brass!” says Minton to Huang. All laugh. Huang has more brass than most. Pile into the briefing room for cautionary lecture from the Chaplain.
Here he comes, and the arc lights glint from his insignia, cross inside six-pointed star inside crescent. It gleams like a halo from his shiny dome. He is Chaplain Hymnal 55, a legend in his own time.
“You go forth in Sin!” roars Hymnal 55.
That we do, comes their reply, that we do.
“The enemy seeks merely to destroy your miserable, replaceable carcasses, but Moloch will devour your immortal souls!”
So it must be, Padre, they say.
“Moloch is a sink of vileness, and you shall wallow in drunkenness, gluttony, sloth and lewdness!”
“Yes! they say. Yes! Yes!
“Go, you sinners, and come not to me for absolution!”
All pile out and tumble for the shuttle dock, pockets stuffed with payday cheer. Line up for last-minute inspection by the OD.
“Did you polish all your brass, Twomey?” asks the OD. All laugh. Twomey’s left buttock is brass.
Into the shuttle for the ride down. The descent begins. Leave on Moloch! You descend into the pit, comes Hymnal 55’s voice from behind their ears. They pay no heed. They were soldiers, heroes all, and they were bound for R&R, for the basic, raw stuff of which fun and guilt are made.
They left the shuttle at the port, and as they left, they saw other soldiers waiting to board for the trip back up. The others looked tired. Many were damaged. Some were in pieces. All were singing happily, for this was Moloch, and they had just enjoyed leave on Moloch.
Outside the port they were met by purveyors of all manner of delights. There were pimps and pushers and perversion mongers. There were bar shills and gamblers. Mostly there were taxi drivers. They grabbed one such.
“Take us where there is large-scale dissipation to be had,” said Twomey. “We are heroes on leave.”
“There is no small-scale sinning on Moloch,” said the driver. “What kind do you crave?”
“Take us to the big-stakes games,” said Dungeness. “To the sharpers and the high rollers, to where the dice click and the cards shuffle and the roulette balls whirl about.”
“Take us to where there is blood and riot,” said Twomey. “We’ve been fighting the enemy for many a day, and would fain fight our friends.”
“The Hundred-Year-Old Crap Game is still going strong in Whistler’s Alley,” said the driver. “There’s a riot between Army and Navy in Skid Row Plaza that’s been in progress for three days.”
“That’s what we want!” shouted Huang. “And we want women! Women with the bodies of houris and the minds of Port Said sewer rats.”
“Such are to be had,” said the driver. “Come with me, my heroes, and sample the Homeric delights of Moloch.” All piled into the cab and were off, singing.
They stopped at the notorious DIVINE VEIL OF ISHTAR BAR & GRILL, and there they swilled demijohns of delectable Olde Rocket Nectar. They crammed down cheeseburgers smeared with paté de foie gras and Ishtar’s famed caviar milkshakes.
Thus fortified, they descended to the next level, Lower Middle Gambling Hell. There a fight promoter spotted the many rows of decorations adorning Twomey’s chest.
“You must be the one I’ve searched for these many years, Sergeant,” he said. “Come with me and make your fortune! Here we have swordfights and knifefights, fistfights and gunfights. There are blood and cheering crowds and great piles of money to be won!”
“Not I,” said Twomey. “But Spinetti, here, is the greatest pistolero of all. He’s your man.”
So they all tramped along, Spinetti warming up his draw and the others laughing.
“You’ll be put out of action, Spinetti,” said Burgess, “and miss the rest of the leave.”
“It matters not,” said Spinetti. “I must try my skill.”
The arena was bright with floodlights and smelly with the crowds. There was money flying about as the bets were placed. Spinetti took the ring and challenged all comers. The hands dashed and the pistols zapped and stinky black smoke and prickly ozone filled the air. They laid bets on Spinetti and won hugely as he disposed of one opponent after another. Then they stopped betting because Spinetti was never good for more than ten fights per night. Eventually a Marine got him with a horizontal beam-slash and they carried him off to a body shop, blood dripping from his right arm and sparks and melted copper from his left. They promised to return for him when their leave was up.
They descended through the riot in Skid Row Plaza, duking it out with Army and Navy impartially. Here the great Twomey came to the fore, his bronze fists smiting merrily as the flying wedge crossed the Plaza, leaving a trail of broken, bleeding, smoking, sparking, tooth-spitting, circuit-fusing men in its wake. They found the drop and descended farther.
It was dim. It smelled sweet. It was quiet and infinitely enticing. It was New Storeyville.
The women came and took them by the hand. They were not ordinary women. Their skin was of a smoothness not to be seen outside dreams. Their curves defied geometry. There were violations of gravity in the way their various projections swayed. And their voices, their voices…
“Come with us, heroes,” said one. “You are weary. You are worn. You are sated with lesser pleasures.” They could not but agree. The lips of a loose woman drip honey, and her speech is smoother than oil, said the voice of Hymnal 55 behind their ears.
Sweeter than any honey, Rev! they sent back. Smoother than any oil. Soothing balm to our afflicted sensibilities. They were led to a spacious villa. Quiet music played there, and they were served cool drinks in tall glasses as they reclined on couches and listened to the sound of wind chimes.
“Which among you is the greatest hero?” asked a green-eyed beauty with blue skin.
“Do you not see Twomey’s KIA badge?” said Minton. “Do but note that it bears twenty-seven stars.”
“Killed in combat twenty-seven times!” exclaimed the houri. “You surpass the records of the greatest heroes I have ever known!” Beware the words of the flatterer, says the voice of Hymnal 55 behind their ears.
We love flattery, they say back. We want more!
The women proceed with their ministrations. The men are delighted. “You seem to have been long deprived of female company,” says an houri.
“Not so long,” says Twomey. “But we are men of flesh and blood.”
“Well,” qualifies Minton, “partly flesh and blood.”
“That is to say,” says Huang, “a good deal of plasti-flesh.”
“And metal,” says Twomey, “but nonetheless men withal. In fact, Huang there will require some sp
ecialized attentions.”
The women opened Huang’s trousers, observed and conferred among themselves. Some went out and returned with the agreed-upon equipment. They attached wires and plugs and tubes to Huang’s midsection. “There,” beamed one. “You’ll never know the difference.”
“We never worry about the difference,” said Twomey. “For are we not heroes, and are not these our mortal carcasses dedicated to the heroes’ calling, while the vital parts of us reside elsewhere?”
“Elsewhere,” sighed the houri. “Yet you enjoy as if you were here.”
“We are here,” said Minton. “Meat and blood, plastic, wires, circuits and such, we are here. And come you here also, little wiggly one.” And the houri complied, for was this not leave on Moloch?
Later, much later, they picked up Spinetti at the body shop on the way back to the shuttle. They were weary but exultant.
“You missed one of the great experiences, Spinetti,” they said. “Now we must return to the war to rest up for the next leave, though it will never be such a leave as we had on Moloch.”
“I am content,” said Spinetti. “The nurses here are houris too. And some of the mechanics aren’t bad either.”
So, carrying Spinetti, they returned to the shuttle. And as they returned, they sang the old, old song.
There Will Be War Volume IV Page 26
