Turn your key sir!

Not aware of that but I do know up until a few years ago the manual "go-code" for most sites was 000000.

They literally had AF guys on post at F.E. Warren doing LSD.

They're also apparently using green screen computers and 8-inch floppies to track the inventory.

I think it was 60 minutes that did an investigation. It was more abou them complaining theyt got no sleep, and were understaffed

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>understaffed
What the hell did they expect sitting in a bunker doing drills and making rounds all day?

Is that Micheal Madsen?

Nah, it's far more that they had poor morale than they were poorly trained. Missiliers have a shitty job and the only way to get out of it is to be as attractive as possible, which meant doing well on the 100% required tests, which meant they were cheating so as to not have the hammer fall on them since the expectations were higher than could be expected.

t. AFROTC commander was a missile boi who was pretty frank on how the air force was failing the officers in that career field.

It used to be like this. But nowadays all the drills use different consoles because reasons

>airmen are broken down demoralized and shot to hell from the arduous task of sitting in a bunker and turning a key

You can't make it up

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Would you rather be bored to death doing jack shit all day yet always having to be alert to turn a key the moment a light went off? or be in active duty and have something to do all the time to never be bored and get lazy?

I've done both, and they both suck. To answer your question I'd rather be alert and inactive years of military construction and factory work have not been kind to my back

apnews.com/98f903367b50404cb3c9695bcabefa5a/Security-troops-on-US-nuclear-missile-base-took-LSD

That's because the "go-code" was a worthless civilian oversight requirement. There were already measures in place to prevent unauthorized launch. But that was the mandate, so the air force complied, and issued a worthless code for their worthless mandate.

You know, I understand why you may not want to be doing your fake nuclear launch drills on your real nuclear launch equipment even if it means you can't fakeout as effectively.

THE SILO DOORS ARE CLOSED! THIS IS SUICIDE!

His first movie appearance I believe

No it's the simple fact that they're stuck in a shithole of a base in the middle of nowhere, then stuck in a shithole underground, and if they ever turn that key they've just killed hundreds of thousands of people and everything and everyone they know is fucked, and most likely they will die in a hole in the ground.

You ever been to Minot or Cheyenne? It fucking sucks. Anything related to Big missiles in the Air Force is career suicide. “Wow living in the middle of nowhere sucks ass, too bad the only 3 bases I can go to are in the middle of fucking nowhere and my career field is so critically undermanned that I can’t cross train out, so I’ll just leave the Air Force on that golden day my contract ends”
This.

Drills all the time. They kill the world about once a month.

>Jerry! This is suicide!

I bet it beat the hell out of being a Stratofortress driver: the sirens sound at stupid o'clock, just 10 minutes before your 24 hours on constant readiness ends, you rush to your fully fueled bomber carrying more bang than all of the conventional bombs ever made combined, strap yourself in, start the engines and wait for the order to take off, desperate to be told this has been a drill.

then there was the Chrome Dome: at any give moment between 1960 and 1968 there were several B-52s flying the same route over the Arctic with a full bomb load just in case the White House or Kremlin decided they didn't want to live to see the next day, considering the amount of flying hours racked up by the planes and the crews it's a miracle there were so few accidents.

I'm going to post a short story about this topic, because you're a fag who makes the same threads and this will be an interesting change of pace. The following is "Game" by Donald Barthelm.

Shotwell keeps the jacks and the rubber ball in his attaché case and will not allow me to play with them. He plays with them, alone, sitting on the floor near the console hour after hour, chanting "onesies, twosies, threesies, foursies" in a precise, well-modulated voice, not so loud as to be annoying, not so soft as to allow me to forget. I point out to Shotwell that two can derive more enjoyment from playing jacks than one, but he is not interested. I have asked repeatedly to be allowed to play by myself, but he simply shakes his head. "Why?" I ask. "They're mine," he says. And when he has finished, when he has sated himself, back they go into the attaché case.
It is unfair but there is nothing I can do about it. I am aching to get my hands on them.

Shotwell and I watch the console. Shotwell and I live under the ground and watch the console. If certain events take place upon the console, we are to insert our keys in the appropriate locks and turn our keys. Shotwell has a key and I have a key. If we turn our keys simultaneously the bird flies, certain switches are activated and the bird flies. But the bird never flies. In one hundred thirty-three days the bird has not flown. Meanwhile Shotwell and I watch each other. We each wear a .45 and if Shotwell behaves strangely I am supposed to shoot him. If I behave strangely Shotwell is supposed to shoot me. We watch the console and think about shooting each other and think about the bird. Shotwell's behavior with the jacks is strange. Is it strange? I do not know. Perhaps he is merely a selfish bastard, perhaps his character is flawed, perhaps his childhood was twisted. I do not know.

Each of us wears a .45 and each of us is supposed to shoot the other if the other is behaving strangely. How strangely is strangely? I do not know. In addition to the .45 I have a .38 which Shotwell does not know about concealed in my attaché case, and Shotwell has a .25 caliber Beretta which I do not know about strapped to his right calf. Sometimes instead of watching the console I pointedly watch Shotwell's .45, but this is simply a ruse, simply a maneuver, in reality I am watching his hand when it dangles in the vicinity of his right calf. If he decides I am behaving strangely he will shoot me not with the .45 but with the Beretta. Similarly Shotwell pretends to watch my .45 but he is really watching my hand resting idly atop my attaché case, my hand resting atop my attaché case, my hand. My hand resting idly atop my attaché case.

In the beginning I took care to behave normally. So did Shotwell. Our behavior was painfully normal. Norms of politeness, consideration, speech and personal habits were scrupulously observed. But then it became apparent that an error had been made, that our relief was not going to arrive. Owing to an oversight. Owing to an oversight we have been here for one hundred thirty-three days. When it became clear that an error had been made, that we were not to be relieved, the norms were relaxed. Definitions of normality were redrawn in the agreement of January 1, called by us, The Agreement. Uniform regulations were relaxed, and mealtimes are no longer rigorously scheduled. We eat when we are hungry and sleep when we are tired. Considerations of rank and precedence were temporarily put aside, a handsome concession on the part of Shotwell, who is a captain, whereas I am only a first lieutenant. One of us watches the console at all times rather than two of us watching the console at all times, except when we are both on our feet.

Testing to see if sage works.

One of us watches the console at all times and if the bird flies then that one wakes the other and we turn our keys in the locks simultaneously and the bird flies. Our system involves a delay of perhaps twelve seconds but I do not care because I am not well, and Shotwell does not care because he is not himself. After the agreement was signed Shotwell produced the jacks and the rubber ball from his attaché case, and I began to write a series of descriptions of forms occurring in nature, such as a shell, a leaf, a stone, an animal. On the walls.

Shotwell plays jacks and I write descriptions of natural forms on the walls. Shotwell is enrolled in a USAFI course which leads to a master's degree in business administration from the University of Wisconsin (although we are not in Wisconsin, we are in Utah, Montana or Idaho). When we went down it was in either Utah, Montana or Idaho, I don't remember. We have been here for one hundred thirty-three days owing to an oversight. The pale green reinforced concrete walls sweat and the air conditioning zips on and off erratically and Shotwell reads Introduction to Marketing by Lassiter and Munk, making notes with a blue ballpoint pen. Shotwell is not himself but I do not know it, he presents a calm aspect and reads Introduction to Marketing and makes his exemplary notes with a blue ballpoint pen, meanwhile controlling the .38 in my attaché case with one-third of his attention. I am not well.

We have been here one hundred thirty-three days owing to an oversight. Although now we are not sure what is oversight, what is plan. Perhaps the plan is for us to stay here permanently, or if not permanently at least for a year, for three hundred sixty-five days. Or if not for a year for some number of days known to them and not known to us, such as two hundred days. It may be that they are pleased with us, with our behavior, not in every detail but in sum. Perhaps the whole thing is very successful, perhaps the whole thing is a experiment and the experiment is very successful. I do not know. But I suspect that the only way they can persuade sun-loving creatures into their pale green sweating reinforced concrete rooms under the ground is to say that the system is twelve hours on, twelve hours off. And then lock us below for some number of days known to them and not known to us. We eat well although the frozen enchiladas are damp when defrosted and the frozen devil's food cake is sour and untasty. We sleep uneasily and acrimoniously. I hear Shotwell shouting in his sleep, objecting, denouncing, cursing sometimes, weeping sometimes, in his sleep. When Shotwell sleeps I try to pick the lock on his attaché case, so as to get at the jacks. Thus far I have been unsuccessful. Nor has Shotwell been successful in picking the locks on my attaché case so as to get at the .38. I have seen the marks on the shiny surface. I laughed, in the latrine, pale green walls sweating and the air conditioning whispering, in the latrine. I write descriptions of natural forms on the walls, scratching them on the tile surface with a diamond. The diamond is a two and one-half carat solitaire I had in my attaché case when we went down. It was for Lucy. The south wall of the room containing the console is already covered. I have described a shell, a leaf, a stone, animals, a baseball bat. I am aware that the baseball bat is not a natural form. Yet I described it.

There was a dot testing again.

"The baseball bat," I said, "is typically made of wood. It is typically one meter in length or a little longer, fat at on end, tapering to afford a comfortable grip at the other end. The end with the handhold typically offers a slight rim, or lip, at the nether extremity, to prevent slippage." My description of the baseball bat ran to 4500 words, all scratched with a diamond on the south wall. Does Shotwell read what I have written? I do not know. I am aware that Shotwell regards my writing-behaviour as strange. Yet it is no stranger than his jacks-behaviour, or the day he appeared in black bathing trunks with the .25 caliber Beretta strapped to his right calf and stood over the console, trying to span with his two arms outstretched the distance between the two locks. He could not do it, I had already tried, standing over the console with my two arms outstretched, the distance is too great. I was moved to comment but did not comment, comment would have provoked counter-comment, comment would have led God knows where. They had in their infinite patience, in their infinite foresight, in their infinite wisdom already imagined a man standing over the console with his two arms outstretched, trying to span with his two arms outstretched the distance between the locks.

Shotwell is not himself. He has made certain overtures. The burden of his message is not clear. It has something to do with the keys, with the locks. Shotwell is a strange person. He appears to be less affected by our situation than I. He goes about his business stolidly, watching the console, studying Introduction to Marketing, bouncing his rubber ball on the floor in a steady, rhythmical, conscientious manner. He appears to be less affected by our situation than I am. He is stolid. He says nothing. But he has made certain overtures, certain overtures have been made. I am not sure that I understand them. They have something to do with the keys, with the locks. Shotwell has something in mind. Stolidly he shucks the shiny silver paper from the frozen enchiladas, stolidly he stuffs them into the electric oven. But he has something in mind. But there must be a quid pro quo. I insist on a quid pro quo. I have something in mind.

I am not well. I do not know our target. They do not tell us for which city the bird is targeted. I do not know. That is planning. That is not my responsibility. My responsibility is to watch the console and when certain events take place upon the console, turn my key in the lock. Shotwell bounces the rubber ball on the floor in a steady, stolid, rhythmical manner. I am aching to get my hands on the ball, on the jacks. We have been here one hundred thirty-three days owing to an oversight. I write on the walls. Shotwell chants "onesies, twosies, threesies, foursies" in a precise, well-modulated voice. Now he cups the jacks and the rubber ball in his hands and rattles them suggestively. I do not know for which city the bird is targeted. Shotwell is not himself.

Sometimes I cannot sleep. Sometimes Shotwell cannot sleep. Sometimes when Shotwell cradles me in his arms and rocks me to sleep, singing Brahms' "Guten abend, gut Nacht," or I cradle Shotwell in my arms and rock him to sleep, singing, I understand what it is Shotwell wishes me to do. At such moments we are very close. But only if he will give me the jacks. That is fair. There is something he wants me to do with my key, while he does something with his key. But only if he will give me my turn. That is fair. I am not well.

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It's a balancing act, between being so blown out of your own head that you don't really grasp what turning the key does, and being too far out to be bale to turn the key.
npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2018/05/24/614013988/air-force-uncovered-lsd-use-among-airmen-guarding-nuclear-missiles

thanks for the good read

My company upgraded its circa 1980s shop order tracking software with a very expensive new software. All kinds of problems for months after the switchover, orders dropped, too many parts ordered, parts sent wrong place, etc. And at the end of the day, I'm not sure what it actually does better other than look nicer.

So I can see why for something that is vital to the survival of the country that you might want to maintain a system known to work.

So, basically the job is shitty because you are suposed to go into nowhere, shit in front of 60s console, and wait for orders? There is nothing else? No way to relax a bit or something?

Exactly. Nukes should be easy to launch imo. Air Force needs to be able to launch them independent of the President too incase he goes down in a first strike.

What movie is this from?

Why shoot a man before he turns his key?
there's a big gap
4u

I think it's from the campy-but-fun-as-hell Red Alert 2 opening sequence.

"I don't give a wooden nickel about your legacy!"

I would rather work back breaking labor (Im an civil engineer) for 16 hours than be stuck in a room doing nothing for only 6.

The president does not actually launch anything. The nuclear football is just a fancy phone to alert the launch crews.

This, basically. In the Navy, serving on a boomer sub is a prestigious position, whereas in the Air Force, serving on a missile field is where your career goes to die. Results from this are predictable.

I would not give a fuck because as long I actually get paid for it I will glady sit in my vhair and proudly and with glee turn the key whenever the order is given out but be disappointed that it was a drill but be thankful I'm getting paid for this. I would also hope to know for a fact that when it is actually legit then the idea of Japan getting nuked again and know that all the soulless bastards have died off on that shit island they have and their disgusting flag to be burned in a nuclear hellfire is enough to keep me signing to stay in the job until the day on launching the nukes comes.

I don't care if that means everyone dies I just want to see the Japanese to die for what they done and for attacking pearl harbor!

yeah maybe in 1960. in 2018 you fly out to the desert, get a 9-line because the brass has a hard-on for strategic bomber CAS, check in with your "CAT-1 POD" that literally every other AF asset has the equivalent of or better, then spend an hour setting up one attack. in the same time a fighter would be able to prosecute the attack, go back to doing loops to music deterring flankers, refuel his 2-ship, fill 3 piddle packs, and play targeting pod bingo.

>I would not give a fuck because as long I actually get paid for it I

This, there are NEETs in this board that right now could do the job and not suffer an inch of stress.

>Cracker
>Not peanut M&M's
Disgusting.

wouldn't giving them a quart of vodka/bourbon & rest of the day off be more effective incentive?

My dad has one of those and kept it after his service was up.

This is it? I expected it to end with them trying to shoot each other and the guns turn out to be filled with blanks then discovering the whole thing was an experiment

They expected to have enough people to be able to do those things effectively.

>if you turn this key at the right time, it activates the onahole

Fun fact, the DIA and CIA have been known to use punch cards because

1- its unhackable
2- even if you steal a box of punch cards you've stolen the equivalent of a few kilobytes of data, and its so bulky you'll probably get caught
3- if you dont know exactly what you're looking for, it's worthless to search
4- if you drop the cards or they get jumbled good fucking luck sorting it out.
5- it's proven to work

JERRY *BOOM*

Not to mention it's aesthetic as fuck, like a classic car in perfect OEM condition. If you're going to blow the world up with Cold War era panic you better do it with Cold War era pizazz.

Won't happen retard, Japan is an ally. Plus, are you fucking 90 or something? WW2 was a long time ago gramps

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>KV-2
can't literally turn the turret except on even ground
a single Tiger I can take out 7-10 KV-2s in the time it takes for one KV-2 to reload
Also soviets can't into combined arms

ps. you call that a huge gun? this is a huge gun

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No one's comparing the KV-2 to a Tiger wehreaboo, also the sturmtiger was undeniably a piece of shit.

Pz III can pen a KV-2 with tungsten at a direct angle or from side

38032641

Imaging being this retarded

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Should have been a nice cigar. It'd be the last thing they could do before they get crushed by their bunker collapsed on top of them.

Wrong, it's the opening scene of WarGames.

Pretty much. All you get for entertainment down there is maybe a TV and whatever books you might bring. No Bing Bing Wahoo allowed in a bunker

Here. You have to search a little through the many stories he wrote but you'll find pretty nice insight on what it felt to be a B52 driver inna late 80s.

dailykos.com/user/Major Kong

They didn't think about turning the key with their toes.

>airmen are broken down demoralized and shot to hell from the unimaginable weight of responsibility involved in pulling the trigger on a weapon that will cause them to commit mass murder of innocent civilians on a scale hitherto unheard of

Fixed that for you. Keep banging rocks together, little guy. We'll handle the real jobs.

>Turn your key sir!
Y-you too

>Japan
>history of brutal unethical attacks
>extreme fanatical cult culture
>absolutely no regard for humanity or anything regarding human behavior
>outright fucked beyond reasoning
>muh honor and autism
>ally

Fuck you they are anything BUT an ally.

can't the president order strikes, oh fuck I just realized what I asked and EXACTLY the response I'm gonna get.

I KNOW I've seen that movie, but it's been awhile. The day after?

Make it irregular, at random and about once every week.