edgar-mitchell

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Much about military life was troubling in those days. During my threeyear
stint of flying from various land and carrier bases in the Pacific, I saw
what was widely believed to be the future of warfare. From test sites on a
small group of islands called Kwajalein Atoll in the South Pacific, I studied
the detonation of atomic weaponry, the successor technology to that which
produced the extraordinary glow in the skies over White Sands Proving
Grounds during my boyhood. The sight of the opaque mushroom cloud
and the palpable release of so much energy was at once terrible and awesome.
Considering the political landscape of the times, the escalation of a
cold war over ideology made for apocalyptic scenarios. This was the ugly
aspect of my profession. From the very beginning I hoped it would someday
become obsolete, but there was a job to do, and I would do it with all
the vigor I possessed.
In 1957, after spending a year flying from carriers in the Pacific, I was
sent to an isolated military base just north of the Mojave Desert. The mission
was to design a new delivery system for atomic weaponry before the
days of cruise missiles and ICBMs (intercontinental ballistic missiles). Above
this lonely desert outpost I carried what are known in military circles as
“shapes” in the bomb bay of my jet. These were facsimiles of the shape,
size, and weight of actual nuclear weapons. As my jet raged through the
pale desert sky at maximum speed, 50 feet above the barren dusty floor, I
helped perfect the means by which such a bomb could be smuggled below
enemy radar, then lofted into the air, detonating after the pilot had raced
away, safely ahead of the devastating shock wave that would follow with
angry revenge.
Through the course of the hot, unchanging seasons, we carried out
our duties in short-sleeve tropical uniform. We were test pilots, absorbed
in our work and oblivious to the barren landscape around us. My young
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