science, not science fiction.
On January 26, 1939, the Carnegie Institution sponsored a press conference to announce the discovery of nuclear fission to the world. When the declaration was made that two German-born scientists had succeeded in splitting the atom, a number of physicists who were present literally ran from the room. The realization was as profound as it was devastating. If scientists could split one atom then surely they would be able to create a chain reaction of splitting atoms — the result of which would be an enormous release of energy. Three months later, the New York Times reported that scientists at a follow-up conference were heard arguing “over the probability of some scientist blowing up a sizable portion of the Earth with a tiny bit of uranium.” This was the terrifying prospect now facing the world. “Science Discovers Real Frankenstein” headlined an article in the Boston Herald that went on to explain that now “an unscrupulous dictator, lusting for conquest, [could] wipe Boston, Worcester and Providence out of existence.” Vannevar Bush disagreed with the popular press. The “real danger” in the discovery of fission, he told Forbes, was not atomic energy itself but the public’s tendency to panic over things they did not understand. To make his point, Bush used the War of the Worlds radio broadcast as an example.
Atomic energy, it turned out, was far more powerful than anything previously made by man. Six years and seven months after the announcement of the discovery of fission, America dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, essentially wiping out both of those cities and a quarter of a million people living there. President Roosevelt had appointed Vannevar Bush to lead the group that made the bomb. Bush was the director of the Manhattan Project, the nation’s first true black operation, and he ran it with totalitarian-like control.
When the Japanese Empire surrendered, Vannevar Bush did not rejoice so much as ponder his next move. For eighteen days he watched as Joseph Stalin marched Soviet troops into eastern Asia,
positioning his Red Army forces in China, Manchuria, Sakhalin Island, and North Korea. When the fighting finally stopped, Bush’s response had become clear. He would convince President Truman that the Soviet Union could not be trusted. In facing down America’s new enemy, the nation needed even more advanced technologies to fight future wars. The most recent war might have ended, but science needed to stay on the forward march.
As Americans celebrated peace (after the atomic bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, public opinion polls showed that more than 85 percent of Americans approved of the bombings), Vannevar Bush and members of the War Department began planning to use the atomic bomb again in a live test — a kind of mock nuclear naval battle, which they hoped could take place the following summer in the Marshall Islands in the Pacific. There, in a deep lagoon at Bikini Atoll, dozens of captured Japanese and German warships would be blown up using live nuclear bombs. The operation would illustrate to the world just how formidable America’s new weapons were. It would be called Operation Crossroads. As its name implied, the event marked a critical juncture. America was signaling to Russia it was ready to do battle with nuclear bombs.
In less than a year, Operation Crossroads was in full swing on Bikini Atoll, a twenty-five-mile ring of red coral islands encircling a clear, blue lagoon. A July 1946 memo, one of many marked Secret, instructed the men not to swim in the lagoon wearing red bathing trunks. There were barracuda everywhere. Word was that the fanged-tooth fish would attack swimmers without warning.
The natives of Bikini, all 167 of them, were led by a king named Juda, but in July of 1946, none of them were on Bikini Atoll anymore. The U.S. Navy had evacuated the natives to Rongerik Atoll, 125 miles to the east. The upcoming three-bomb atomic test series would make their homeland unsafe for a while, the natives were told. But it was going to help ensure world peace.
On the shores of the atoll, a young man named Alfred O’Donnell lay in his Quonset hut listening to the wind blow and the rain pound against the reinforced sheet-metal roof above him. He was unable to sleep. “The reason was because I had too much to worry about,” O’Donnell explains, remembering Crossroads after more than sixty years. “Is everything all right? Is the bomb going to go off, like planned?” What the twenty-four-year-old weapons engineer was worrying about were the sea creatures in the lagoon. “Let’s say an octopus came into contact with one of the bomb’s wires. What would happen? What if something got knocked out of place?” The wires O’Donnell referred to ran from a concrete bunker on Bikini called the control point and out into the ocean, where they connected to a twenty-three-kiloton atomic bomb code-named Baker. The men in the U.S. Navy’s Task Force One gave the bomb a more colorful name: they called it Helen of Bikini, after the legendary femme fatale for whom so many ancient warriors laid down their lives. A nuclear weapon was both destructive and seductive, the sailors said, just like Helen of Troy had been.
As a leading member of the arming party that would wire and fire the atomic bombs during Operation Crossroads, O’Donnell had a tremendous responsibility, especially for someone so young. “Five years earlier I was just a kid from Boston with a normal life. All I was thinking about for my future was a baseball career,” O’Donnell recalls. In 1941, when O’Donnell was in high school, he’d been recruited by the Boston Braves, thanks to his exceptional.423 batting average. Then came the war, and everything changed. He married Ruth. He joined the Navy, where he learned radio and electronics. In both subjects he quickly excelled. Back in Boston after the war, O’Donnell was mysteriously recruited for a job with Raytheon Production Corporation, a defense contract company cofounded by Vannevar Bush. What exactly the job entailed, O’Donnell did not know when he signed on. The recruiters told him he would find out more details once he was granted a security clearance. “I didn’t know what a security clearance was back then,” O’Donnell recalls. After a month, he learned that he was now part of the Manhattan Project. He was transferred to a small engineering company named for the three MIT professors who ran it: Edgerton, Germeshausen, and Grier. Later, the company shortened its name to EG&G. There, O’Donnell was trained to wire a nuclear bomb by Herbert Grier, the man who had invented the firing systems for the bombs dropped on Japan.
“The next thing I knew I was asked to go to Bikini in the summer of 1946,” says O’Donnell. “I did not want to go. I’d fought on those atolls during the war. I’d seen bodies of young soldiers floating dead in the water and I swore I’d never go back. But Ruth and I had a baby on the way and she said go, and I did.” He went on, “I missed Ruth. She was pregnant, thank God, but I wondered what she was doing back in Boston where we lived. Was she able to take out the garbage all right?” Forty-two thousand people had gathered on Bikini Atoll to witness Operation Crossroads, and O’Donnell could not sleep because he felt all of those eyes were on him. Thinking about Ruth was how O’Donnell stopped worrying about how well he had wired the bomb.
Elsewhere on Bikini Atoll, Colonel Richard Sully Leghorn cut the figure of a war hero. Handsome and mustached, Leghorn looked just like Clark Gable in It Happened One Night. Commanding officer of Task Force 1.5.2, Leghorn was one of the pilots leading the mission to photograph the nuclear bombs from the air. Leghorn spent afternoons with Navy navigators rehearsing flight paths that, come shot day, would take him within viewing distance of the atomic cloud. At twenty-seven years old, Richard Leghorn was already a public figure. He’d been the young reconnaissance officer who’d taken photographs of the beaches of Normandy on D-day. “In the face of intense fire from some of the strongest anti-aircraft installments in western Europe, Richard Leghorn photographed bridges, rail junctions, airfields and other targets,” the U.S. Army Air Forces was proud to say. Leghorn, a physicist, had a degree from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. He loved the scientific concept of photography, which was why he went to work for Eastman Kodak after the war. Then, in early 1946, the Navy called him back for temporary duty on Operation Crossroads. He trained at the Roswell Army Air Field in New Mexico and flew the military’s best photographic equipment across the Pacific. Now here he was on Bikini. Soon, Leghorn would be soaring over the mushroom cloud taking pictures of what happens to warships when they are targeted by a nuclear bomb.
At central command, Curtis Emerson LeMay stood chomping on a cigar. LeMay was going over procedures and protocols for the Crossroads event. Just thirty-nine years old, LeMay had already graced the cover of Time magazine and was known around the world as the man who’d helped end World War II. By the time he was fortyfive, Curtis LeMay would become the youngest four-star general in the U.S. military since Ulysses S. Grant. Dark, brooding, and of legendary self-will, LeMay had led the incendiary bombing campaigns against Japanese cities, including Tokyo. When the napalm bombs didn’t end war in the Pacific, President Truman authorized LeMay to lead the 509th Operations Group, based on Tinian Island, to drop the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bombs.
Curtis LeMay rarely smiled. When he spoke, it was described as “not much more than a snarl.” Critics called him a coldhearted military strategist and attributed his calculated vision to a troubled upbringing. His father was a violent drunk, and LeMay was forced to help support the family when he was a child. At the age of seven, he was shooting sparrows for an old-lady neighbor who paid five cents per bird. Though journalist I. F. Stone called LeMay a “Caveman in a Jet Bomber,” his men adored him, often noting that he was not someone who sent his men into
