The Air Force also continued to have little interest in permissive action links or other forms of use control. The latest PALs were far more sophisticated and reliable than the ones provided to NATO in the early 1960s. The new Category D PALs had a six-digit code with a million possible combinations, a limited-try feature that permanently locked the weapon if the wrong numbers were entered, and the capability to store multiple codes. The president could now choose to unlock some nuclear weapons, but not others, by selecting a certain code. The system promised centralized, secure command and control. But the Strategic Air Command continued to resist installing PALs inside its warheads and bombs.
After the accident at Thule, the Pentagon had ordered SAC to impose some form of use control. Instead of relying on PALs, during the early 1970s the Air Force put a coded switch in the cockpit of every bomber that carried nuclear weapons. The switch permitted an arming signal to be sent to the bomb bay when the right code was entered. The lock had been placed on the bomber, not inside the bombs — and a stolen weapon could still be detonated with a simple DC signal. SAC was far more worried about its weapons being rendered inoperable during wartime than about someone stealing them or using them without proper authorization. During the late 1970s, a coded switch was finally placed in the control center of every SAC ballistic missile. It unlocked the missile, not the warhead. And as a final act of defiance, SAC demonstrated the importance of code management to the usefulness of any coded switch. The combination necessary to launch the missiles was the same at every Minuteman site: 00000000.
Peurifoy was undaunted by the many layers of bureaucratic opposition. The issue at stake wasn’t trivial, and he was determined to persuade others in the defense community that the danger was real. The cost of adding weak links and strong links and a unique signal mechanism was about $100,000 per weapon. The Office of Management and Budget estimated that the installation of those safety devices in the two most widely used Air Force bombs, the Mark 28 and the B-61, would cost about $360 million. Peurifoy realized that was a good deal of money — but a nuclear weapon accident could be a hell of a lot more expensive. The amount of money needed for that retrofit was roughly 1 percent of what the Air Force planned to spend driving around MX missiles in the Utah and Nevada desert. The Pentagon’s fixation on obtaining new weapons, instead of properly maintaining older ones, would be hard to overcome. But the fight seemed worthwhile. A friend sent Peurifoy a cartoon that showed a member of the Supreme Court speaking from the bench. It conveyed Peurifoy’s general attitude, when the facts were on his side. “My dissenting opinion will be brief,” the justice said. “You’re all full of crap.”
The role of the weapons laboratories had become mainly advisory. They competed for contracts from the Department of Defense — and felt reluctant to criticize their largest customer. Peurifoy had no authority to demand changes in weapon systems that the armed services already possessed. But he refused to sign the Sandia major assembly release of any new bombs or warheads that didn’t have the new safety devices. And without his approval, those weapons couldn’t enter the stockpile. In 1977, almost four years after gaining some real authority at the lab, Peurifoy signed the release papers on a modification of the B-61 bomb. It was the first nuclear weapon to feature weak link/strong link technology.
As the dispute with the Pentagon dragged on, Peurifoy learned that the armed services were no longer telling him about nuclear weapon accidents. Broken Arrows would be difficult to hide, but the more commonplace mishaps — short circuits, bombs falling off loading carts, weapon carriers overturned — weren’t being reported to him. Peurifoy would often hear about them through other sources. The sense of denial at the upper levels of the Air Force and the Department of Defense had a ripple effect throughout both institutions. The bomber crews, the missile crews, the technicians who routinely handled warheads and bombs, the maintenance teams and firefighters — they were told the weapons were perfectly safe. The misinformation placed them at greater risk. It was also a form of disrespect toward young servicemen and women who were already risking their lives. And it encouraged careless behavior around nuclear weapons. In many ways, denying the safety problems only made them worse.
