On October 4, 1957 the little
beep-beep-beep of Sputnik 1announced
the opening of the space era and put the Soviets undeniably ahead of the U.S. in
the race. Only a month later Sputnik 2 carried a dog named Laika into orbit. Caught
flat-footed, the U.S. responded with several attempted launches that either
exploded on the launch pad or fizzled after lift-off. Finally, on January 31,
1958 the first American satellite, Explorer I, went into orbit, carrying a
small, three-pound package of scientific instruments designed and built by
James Van Allen. Explorer II followed two months later. Although the American
satellites were belated and small, they yielded serious scientific data. They
revealed a new phenomenon, the existence of radiation trapped high above the
Earth forming what were sometimes described as bands (sometimes as belts or
shells) following the lines of Earth’s magnetic fields. “Van Allen belts”
immediately became common parlance and opened entirely new fields of research
for the scientists around the world who were currently participating in the International
Geophysical Year (IGY), a concerted, global effort to expand knowledge in a
wide range of earth sciences.
But the dawn of the
space era was not greeted with cheers and applause by everyone. Sputnik 1
showed that the Soviets had advanced technologically far beyond what anyone had
suspected; Sputnik 2 showed that they could launch car-sized payloads, which
implied that they would soon be capable of launching missiles carrying nuclear
weapons. The American military went into a panic, desperately looking for
protection. One suggested countermeasure came from a scientist named Nicholas
Christofilos, a brilliant but eccentric character who, after being trained as
an engineer, worked as an elevator repairman in Athens. In his spare time he
taught himself state of the art physics until, after much effort, he earned
recognition among more conventional scientists — “the mad Greek,” they called
him — and found a position in an American research lab. His life story makes a
fascinating chapter in The Burning Sky.
According to Christofilos’s calculations, it should be possible to create an
artificial band of radiation that could interfere with the electronics of
missiles, disrupting or destroying them in mid-flight. All that had to be done
was to release a massive quantity of charged particles several hundreds of
miles above the Earth. Following the Earth’s magnetic lines, the particles
should quickly race north and south of the equator, all the while shifting
eastward until they create a shell around the globe. Releasing the particles
was easy — you simply detonated a small (1-2 kiloton) nuclear bomb high in the
atmosphere. Would it work? Would the belt form? Would the radiation be strong
enough to destroy missiles? Would it also destroy satellites? Would it kill
humans who might be in orbit? Would it interfere with communication and radar
signals? How long would it last? Could the planet’s natural radiation belts be
altered or destroyed inadvertently? Could the planet as a whole be damaged?
Years later one scientist marveled, “Imagine suggesting something like that
today!” But it was the Cold War, and nothing was considered off-limits when
thinking about a possible nuclear strike.
In deepest secrecy and with
no outside consultation, a small circle of U.S. decision-makers approved
Christofilo’s proposal, and the planning of Operation Argus was immediately
begun. Described later as the largest scientific project in history, it now
seems certainly the most hubristic. To keep its military aspects secret, it was
billed simply as geophysical research, an accurate description as far as it
went, and perfectly in keeping with IGY.
Everything proceeded
under intense pressure. Not only did secrecy have to be maintained, despite its
involving many thousands of people in dozens of public and private institutions,
but what would normally take several years of preparation and execution had to
be done in a matter of months, before IGY came to a close at the end of 1958.
Politics added even more time pressure, as world leaders were beginning to
grope their way toward a moratorium on atmospheric nuclear testing and
eventually a (limited) nuclear test ban treaty.
Three nuclear weapons
would be launched from the back of a ship — the first time this had ever been
attempted — in a remote part of the South Atlantic near the British-owned
island of Tristan da Cunha. The X-17a was selected as the right missile, and
testing began off California. Half of the four tests failed; however, after the
fourth engineers believed they had fixed the problem. Everyone hoped they were
right, because the warheads would be detonated automatically by an onboard
timer with no kill switch. A failed launch could wipe out the entire flotilla,
which consisted of 4,500 personnel on nine Navy ships, including an aircraft
carrier. Unaware of their peril, sailors trained rigorously during transit,
practising launch procedures over and over. Because winter in the South
Atlantic was notorious for bad weather, drills and test launches received top
priority on the coldest and stormiest days. It was decided that launches could
be successfully completed in winds up to 74 km/hr and swells up to 5 meters. The
practice missiles, unfortunately, were not X-17a’s.
In the end, the mission
was successful, and important conclusions were reached. The “Christofolis
effect” or “Argus effect” was not, after all, strong enough to serve as an
anti-missile shield. Also, it was short-lived, lasting only a few weeks. On a
more positive note, it would not kill cosmonauts or astronauts. Positive, too,
were the esthetics: where the magnetic lines bent close to the Earth, beautiful
auroral displays appeared. As for disrupting radar and communication signals, that
question was settled shortly before Argus when in Operation Hardtack 75 km
above Johnston Island in the South Pacific several H-bombs were exploded. One
of the Hardtack shots knocked out most radio communications across the Pacific,
cutting off Hawaii, 1,300 km away, for two hours and Australia, over 7,000 km
away, for nine hours. The seriousness of EMPs (electromagnetic pulses) was also
a significant discovery.
All of this makes for an
exciting story, and science writer Wolverton tells it well. Many passages read
with the drama and vividness of a novel. Strictly speaking it is not an
“untold” story as the subtitle claims, since the New York Times broke the story
in April of 1958 and it stayed in the headlines for some time afterward. But Burning
the Sky is certainly the fullest, most accessible version of what happened.
As a fascinating supplement to the book, one might check the U.S. military’s
official 45-minute film report, available on YouTube. The official written report of the operation is also available online.
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