Arizona's Titan Missile Museum

A MUSEUM OF THE COLD WAR

The bugles of time have sounded retreat for many of Arizona's former military posts. They have become silent witnesses to another era: Fort Apache, Fort Bowie, Fort Defiance, even a little known outpost near Tucson nicknamed the Copper Penny. The Copper Penny, however, was no isolated encampment on the Arizona frontier. Less than a decade ago, this underground fortress and its Titan-2 intercontinental ballistic missile still stood global guard duty; it was, in fact, on constant alert for 19 years. Now, much as does Fort Bowie just beyond the eastern horizon, the Copper Penny gives tourists from around the world a glimpse into the garrison life of United States armed forces during a critical period. It is a museum of the Cold War. "Okay, folks, let's gather out here in the hot sun," urges the guide and museum manager, Becky by Roberts, after the latest group of visitors, nervously adjusting hard hats, emerge from a short George Ridgevideo briefing. They make a quick circuit of the aboveground facilities and get a peek at the decommissioned Titan-2, which extends down nearly half the length of a football field beneath the glassed-over mouth of the launch tube.

The guide leads the group to a metal stairway emerging from the desert floor, the entrance to the crew quarters and command center.

Jon E. Rosell II, now an executive with United Technologies in California, was a Titan-2 site commander here in the late 1970s, and he recalls one vivid moment connected with these underground steps. One sizzling day in an Arizona summer-when temperatures on the desert floor can climb above 120°-a member of Rosell's crew opened this door to discover that the small sump at its base, refreshingly ventilated by air leaking from inside, had become a pit of rattlesnakes. The reptiles had snuggled up to the only cool spot within 25 miles. Because the silo was designed to withstand a nuclear blast, the crew could survive any emergency for 30 days. On this occasion, Rosell recalls, they gladly remained inside until a special Air Force strike team could be summoned from another missile site to rout the intruders.

Many of Rosell's memories as a Titan crewman are of such intangibles as the smell of hydraulic oil and the more ominous odor of toxic missile fuel. The volunteer developers of the museum have done their best, without benefit of missile fuel, to re-create the underground scene when a crew of four babysat their intercontinental bird in 24-hour shifts.

The Titan museum and its missile centerpiece exist by tacit if not ratified superpower agreement. The inoperative Titan-2 was moved aboveground before the museum opened so its decommissioning could be verified by Soviet reconnaissance satellites. The nuclear warhead was long ago removed from the nose cone.

When it was operational, the underground fortress extending nine floor levels into the copper-rich earthhence the name, Copper Penny-was almost invisible from the nearby desert. It was a fort designed for a single retaliatory shot in response to a nuclear strike at the United States. The entire complex floats on massive springs to withstand the shock of a nuclear explosion outside.

Today's visitors descend 39 steps after entering the crew's doorway, passing through the former area of intense security. From the control center, a 200-foot underground passageway leads to the missile hangar, where a viewing port has been cut through two feet of concrete encircling the launch duct (the port also renders the silo incapable of launching). The missile sits behind this window, with a mixture of sunlight and greenish artificial light patterning on the rivets.

Two floors above, the 740-ton launch door has been welded into a half-open position. There at ground level, silence extends from the mine tailings on the west to the stately Santa Rita Mountains rising from the Santa Cruz River basin on the east. Despite this air of serenity, the fading sign at the front gate evokes memories of the watchfulness of the recent past. "This is an Air Force installation," it warns. "It is unlawful to enter this area without permission of the installation commander." To show that some things have not changed since Rosell's day, a more imperative warning in white on red has been posted near the rest rooms: "This is rattlesnake country. Please be careful when walking around the site."

As many as 14 tours leave the visitor headquarters daily, many of them led by retired Air Force officers and senior noncommissioned officers who served on active duty at Titan missile sites. Among nearly 100,000 visitors since the museum's opening in 1986 have been the commander of China's air force and a delegation of medical doctors on a private peace initiative from the Soviet Union.

Entrance to the control room is through a three-ton blast lock, balanced so perfectly that a slight push moves it on its hinges. The signs on the walls remind one and all that a "two-man" policy is mandatory. In the days of nuclear warheads, nobody was to be alone in these redbutton areas. Here was the nerve center, and the layout of buttons and dials continues to command the same awe as a science-fiction thriller.

"I can still go through the countdown," remembers Rosell. "Sometimes I wake up at night doing it." While the tour group is in the command center, a guide plays a tape that contains a realistic but simulated order to fire an order that never arrived when the site was operational. Crisply the electronic voice cuts through the hush of the chamber: "Red-dash-alpha message in two parts!" The guide points out the lights on the console that indicate stages in the launch order. In the most crucial fail-safe maneuver, the site commander and the deputy commander, standing several paces apart, would turn separate keys. The ignition ports resemble ordinary automo bile starter switches.

MISSILE MUSEUM

Not quite a century ago, on Oct. 17, 1894, Troops B and I of the Second U.S. Cavalry lowered a 44-star flag, wheeled into line for the final review on Fort Bowie's parade ground, and rode off toward Colorado.

In a ceremony that underlined the evolution of military technology in this century, on Nov. 11, 1982, the 50-star flag was lowered in the final review at the Copper Penny, and a caravan of blue trucks carried the crew of the 571st Strategic Missile Squadron back to wing headquarters at nearby Davis-Monthan Air Force Base. Among the 54 Titan-2 intercontinental ballistic missiles that once stood on underground alert outside Tucson and other U.S. cities, only one remains to bear witness to an era: the permanent resident of the launch tube at the Copper Penny.

WHEN YOU GO...

The Titan Missile Museum is located on the outskirts of Green Valley, Arizona, about 25 miles south of Tucson. Take Interstate Route 19 to the Duval Mine Road (exit 69). The museum is ½ mile west. From November through April, the museum is open seven days a week, except on Christmas. From May 1 through October 31, the museum is open Wednesday through Sunday (plus holidays) only. Hour-long guided tours begin every 30 minutes from 9:00 A.M. until 4:00 P.M. Reservations are recommended. Admission is $4 for adults, $3 for seniors and active military personnel, $2 for youngsters 10 to 17, and free for those 9 and under. Group rates are available. For additional information or to make reservations, write to the Titan Missile Museum, Box 150, Green Valley, AZ 85622; or telephone (602) 791-2929.