IN THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY, IT SEEMS INCREDIBLE THAT SOMETHING SUCH AS Argus or Fishbowl could have ever been contemplated, much less actually carried out. Surely such an enterprise, one nation deciding to conduct experiments that could conceivably affect the entire planet in unknown and perhaps dangerous ways, without the knowledge or consent of the rest of the world, was nothing less than the height of arrogance and hubris.
From the perspective of the Cold War era, when both the US and USSR were gripped by a more or less constant state of existential dread and when almost every move by the other side seemed to herald the path to doomsday, it’s perhaps somewhat more understandable. A desperate struggle for survival can make the irrational seem rational, the terrible risk worth taking, the mad scheme seem reasonable. In such a climate, far removed from the context of a humane and peaceful culture, even Dr. Strangelove becomes a paragon of rationality.
Coupled with that sort of paranoid recklessness born of fear was also a certain naive ignorance. In the 1950s and 1960s, nuclear weapons were still a relatively new technology, and much about their capabilities remained uncertain or completely unknown. The first edition of The Effects of Atomic Weapons, a one-volume summary of the current state of knowledge about the atomic bomb published jointly by the Atomic Energy Commission and Department of Defense in 1950, contained absolutely no mention of the electromagnetic pulse phenomenon or the effects of high-altitude detonations, simply because they had not yet been observed in the relative handful of atomic blasts that had so far occurred. It wasn’t until the third edition of the book (by then retitled The Effects of Nuclear Weapons), published in 1977, that detailed descriptions of EMP and high-altitude and outer space nuclear weapons phenomena could be included, after Argus and Fishbowl had provided the data.
Also, any thought that human beings could seriously do anything to profoundly affect the entire Earth at a single stroke seemed absurd, the stuff of science fiction rather than science. At the time of Argus and Fishbowl, climate science was in its infancy, and the concept of the Earth as a single, unified system of interrelated parts was even more remote. James Van Allen’s discovery of the radiation belts, along with other geophysical research during the IGY, had begun to hint at such a perspective, but it would be years before it became common scientific or cultural coin.
So it may be comforting to think of Argus, Fishbowl, and the various Soviet nuclear space tests as historical anomalies, relics of their peculiar era, something that could never again be an issue. Even Herbert York, who had been one of the chief architects of Argus, seemed to hold this view. Many years afterward, he remarked: “Imagine proposing such a thing today. You’d never get away with it. But in that moment, you could.”1
But consider the historical sequence of events. Argus was hastily conceived, organized, and executed in perhaps the most absolute secrecy attainable at the time, and would have quite possibly have remained classified to this day, but for the efforts of some enterprising journalists and scientists who finally forced its revelation. Once it went public, the very idea of Argus shocked and outraged many people, even some of the fiercest Cold Warriors. Yet a mere four years later, tourists threw parties on Hawaiian beaches to watch the light show produced by weapons that were orders of magnitude more powerful than the Argus shots exploded in outer space. Some people still protested, but for most of the public, Operation Fishbowl was merely a visual extravaganza, produced by their government with their tax dollars.
By the time of Fishbowl, the idea that humans might actually possess the power to affect and alter the entire planet had become a faint glimmer in the public perception, though still far dimmer and subtler than the brilliant displays of auroral fire from Fishbowl’s tests. Ironically, the example of Argus and Fishbowl were one reason for this growing perception, inspiring many to worry about disrupting or destroying the Earth’s natural radiation belts, climate, or even the tilt of its axis. And the tests now provide a powerful counterargument to those who, at a time when human beings are being forced to confront the long-term effects of their civilization upon the Earth’s continued habitability, still argue that our activities can’t possibly affect our planetary environment.
But the transition of nuclear weapons from the surface and near-surface of the Earth to outer space, the shift of their targeting from cities and military bases to a hemispheric and global scale, was perhaps even more alarming. By simply introducing it to a completely new environment, the most physically destructive weapon ever invented was found capable of wreaking devastation in entirely new ways that its creators had never contemplated. Now, argued some strategists, space-based nuclear weapons could destroy without killing and attack an enemy’s vital interests without dropping a single warhead on its territory. The EMP and antisatellite capabilities of nuclear weapons offered an enhanced military versatility that made the consideration of their use in various scenarios seem more tempting, reasonable, and even humane. And the path was cleared to a brand new potential arena of warfare that could engulf and threaten the entire planet.
Fortunately, with the Limited Test Ban Treaty and the Outer Space Treaty, the international community chose to turn away from such a dangerous potential future, no doubt partly influenced by the brief preview that Argus and Fishbowl had provided. But the dreams of nuclear-based military space dominance persist, and have only been encouraged by our ever-increasing dependence on a satellite-based infrastructure, and the challenges posed by the growing space capabilities of rival nations.
Keeping the reaches of space a completely sacrosanct civilian refuge, free of any military presence, was never a realistic possibility. “The militarization of space has proceeded steadily and inexorably since the launch of Sputnik in 1957,” wrote Stimson Center co-founder Michael Krepon in a 2003 report on military space policy. But Krepon and his co-author Christopher Clary also emphasize that while a military presence in space is a fact of life, “the crucial distinction between the militarization and weaponization of space remains in place.”2
At present, that distinction still holds, but is becoming ever more tenuous. If we allow it to dissolve whether through casual indifference or conscious intention, the sky may yet again burn with nuclear fire.