One Last Look Back

From May of 1984 until September of 1985, I was stationed here, at Malmstrom Air Force Base, in Great Falls, Montana. When I was there, Malmstrom was part of the Strategic Air Command, and maintained 150 nuclear-tipped Minuteman II and 50 Minuteman III Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles on constant alert, and has done so since 1962. I don't know the name of the Command it's under now, but the missiles are still there.


The LGM-30G "Minuteman III" ICBM. (Malmstrom
AFB Museum)


A mothballed Transporter-Erector, used to carry the missiles to and from
the Launch Facilities, and to remove or install the missiles in the silos.
(Malmstrom AFB Museum)

Granted, they're all underground in hardened facilities. My job when I was here was as part of the security force assigned to protect those facilities and the missiles within them.


One of the tools of my former trade -- the "Peacekeeper," more affection-
ately known as "death on wheels" -- and we meant for the guys inside! It
was basically a Dodge truck (remember Dodge in the 1980s?!) with its
body replaced by a heavy steel shell, with little peepholes to see out of,
and little gun ports to shoot out of. (Malmstrom AFB Museum)


These things were almost impossible to drive safely, what with three-
inch high, bullet "resistant" windows to look out through and standard
pickup truck brakes compromised by the extra weight. We rarely used
them, but when we had to we were pretty much guaranteed that some-
guard from the base would roll at least one a month. The only smart
thing about these atrocities were the tires...they were solid rubber, so
they couldn't be shot out and deflated by marauding civilians.

The basic concept of the Minuteman Missile program was two officers wait in 24-hour shifts in a capsule -- the Missile Control Center -- deep underground far away from the Air Force base for an order to remotely launch any or all of the ten missiles at their disposal, with myriad checks and balances to prevent one or both of them from blowing a gasket and trying an unauthorized launch.


A deactivated Missile Control Center, where the two officers would
spend their 24-hour shift. There's one chair missing in the diorama...
not like one of them had to stand for 24 hours...

The guards (like me) worked three-day, 12-hour shifts, mainly staying in the house -- or the Launch Control Facility (LCF) -- at ground level above the Missile Control Center. On a shift, there was one guard, usually a non-commissioned officer, who manned the radio communications between the base and any crews that might be working at the remote Launch Facilities spread out around the countryside. The other two guards on the shift were always at the ready to respond to alarms at the Launch Facilities, which were usually attributed to small animals walking across the motion-detector zones.

I was assigned to the P flight area, known in military lingo as the "Papa" flight area. After my visit to the museum at Malmstrom Air Force Base, I drove the hour up to my old flight area, around the town of Conrad, Montana. As hard as I tried, I could not shake loose the memory of how we got to the Papa LCF. The only landmark I could remember was that the road had a series of quick curves in it. Not that I could stop in and see the guys, or anything. I just wanted to see the place again, as it was sort of a second home while I was stationed here.

I finally got my bearings and found the access route, down a frontage road beside I-15.


It may not look like much, but this warped little patch of road was im-
printed on my brain 24 years ago, and it's how I found Papa LCF!

The LCF is basically an institutional-feeling house. There are bedrooms for the off-duty airmen, a day-room, a dining area, a kitchen, and the Flight Security Control room. There are six guards, one cook, one Facility Manager, and, down below, the two Missile Control Center officers.


A drive-by "shooting" of Papa LCF. Getting out of the car and blatantly
taking a photograph would have caused a stir. They couldn't do any-
thing to me unless I was on military property...but they could call the
local police. It's difficult to imagine, but there's a capsule 60 feet below
that little yellow house, where two men sit. And wait.

Again, I couldn't remember where any of the remote Launch Facilities were, though I used to know the Papa flight area in the dark with my eyes closed! After driving around for a while, I happened upon one of them -- Papa 7. This is a missile silo. Beneath the protective, 110-ton concrete and steel lid is a nuclear-tipped missile capable of delivering its payload to the opposite side of the planet in 30 minutes.


Papa 7, as seen from the roadside. I used to be good at spotting these
things, but they've changed them slightly and they're
not as recognizable.


A closer view of Papa 7. On the left and center two concrete posts are
visible. These used to support microwave send-receive units affection-
ately known as "banjos," due to their distinctive shape. Those have
been replaced now, apparently by the tall, thin, white shaft that looks
somewhat like a missile itself. But I'm only guessing. Also in this view
is the south face of the launcher lid which, in a launch sequence, would
be shoved off of the silo by a powerful blast of explosives, sending
its 110 tons through the fence and into the field beyond.



In my nostalgic desire for something to remain unchanged and recognizable after 23 years, I was finally satisfied by the town of Conrad. One of my fondest memories of my time in Montana all those years ago was one summer day when my Alarm Response Team leader and I left the LCF and went to the drive-in restaurant in town to get some ice cream treats for the rest of the crew. We pulled up in our dark blue Air Force Ford Bronco, wearing our O.D. green uniforms, and the girl working there was the cutest thing with the freshest face I had ever seen. And she was absolutely giddy with excitement at seeing two handsome airmen ...well, one handsome airman and me... pull into her restaurant. It affected me because I had never had anyone get giddy over me, never mind the fact that she was probably only fifteen at the time.

So it was with high hopes when I glided off of the entrance ramp into Conrad that I would find the drive-in right where I left it in 1985. And, wouldn't you know it...



...right where I left it. Not only that, but I don't think it has changed at all! Except that giddy, fresh-faced girl is no longer there...

I got my chocolate malted milkshake and headed back south for Great Falls, and as I crested the bridge over the interstate, before I turned onto the ramp, I checked the horizon. If I had noticed 23 years ago that you could see Papa LCF from atop the bridge, I certainly don't remember.



It was with a touch of sadness and a tug at my throat that I drove away from Conrad, Montana. I guess one reason why I wanted to drive up there was that I had never "said goodbye" when I left, I was just so eager to be gone. I never stopped to take a look around, to appreciate the surroundings, to assure them a place in my memories. And now I know I'll never come back here again. I've satisfied my wish to return and do just those things. I took a look around. I got a new appreciation for the area. I gave my memories a brief refresher on my time here, something to keep them rattling around in my head for a little while longer. And I said "good-bye."


Parting Shot, Great Falls Style...

Uh....so which is it?