Postcard — August 3, 2018, 11:16 am

The Grunts of the System

In the face of zero tolerance and family separation, public defenders in Texas are using novel arguments in the hopes of assisting asylum-seekers

A view of the Rio Grande from Ojinaga, Mexico. The Presidio-Ojinaga Port of Entry is in the background. Photo by the author.

Shane O’Neal is spinning his wheels. For the past half hour, we’ve been driving along the Presidio-Ojinaga border, where we’ve been trying to find a road that will lead us to the banks of the Rio Grande, the boundary between the US and Mexico. O’Neal wants to find a place along the river that’s easy enough for migrants to cross. He wants to see what they see as they enter the country, he tells me.

But now we’re stuck. His sedan sits in a puddle on a long, dirt road, just wide enough for one car to pass. His wheels spit flecks of mud onto the windshield.

This could be a metaphor for the day. We’ve spent much of it unsuccessfully looking for people trying to seek asylum at the Presidio-Ojinaga Port of Entry. It’s a shot in the dark, but it could help O’Neal in court. News reports from El Paso and McAllen alleged that Customs and Border Protection officers have been turning away asylum seekers at certain ports of entry, and we want to see if the same is happening here. In a week, O’Neal is set to defend two women—one from Guatemala, the other from El Salvador—who were separately caught crossing the border, just miles from the port. If asylum seekers are being turned away, he says, he can make the case that his clients had no legal alternative but to cross illegally.

The wheels keep spinning. Maybe this is a better metaphor for O’Neal’s line of work. An assistant federal public defender for the Western District of Texas, O’Neal at one point tells me that federal defense attorneys lose the vast majority of their cases at trial. It is June 2018, and, following the Trump Administration’s aggressive stance toward undocumented immigrants and sanctuary cities, he and his colleagues have seen their caseloads nearly double. In most criminal cases of illegal entry, they don’t stand a chance to win. But that doesn’t mean they won’t try.

Border stakeouts are not generally part of a public defender’s job description, but this is new legal territory. Since August 2017, the practice of separating families who crossed into the United States illegally has been intensifying. “This is designed [by the Trump Administration] to be a punishment to deter people,” O’Neal tells me. “The problem is, terror outweighs deterrence.” In early April, it explodes: Attorney General Jeff Sessions announces that the US government will prosecute 100 percent of people charged with illegal entry, regardless of circumstance, under its so-called “zero tolerance” policy. By late June 2018, the Department of Homeland Security announced that more than 2,000 migrant children had been separated from their parents.

I first meet O’Neal and his boss, Chris Carlin, Supervisory Federal Public Defender of the Western District of Texas, in early June, just as the issue is coming to a head. They’re easy to spot when they enter La Calavera, an outdoor Mexican restaurant in the 6,000-small town of Alpine, where their district office is located. They are wearing dark suits that look bulky and burdensome beneath the white heat of the desertscape around us. In West Texas, the typical attire consists of a pair of blue jeans, a button-down shirt, and a cowboy hat that sits on the dashboard of your truck when it’s not on your head. The only folks out here who wear suits are attorneys.

Carlin and O’Neal order and sit with me at a table. “Most of the time we don’t talk to the press,” says Carlin, “but the whole reason we’re doing this is because the possibility of a permanent separation of parent and child is not something that is anticipated under the law. There’s nothing under the law of the United States that countenances that outcome in a trial of this nature. That’s why this is crazy.”

Carlin and O’Neal are no strangers to family separation, since, in any case where a person is being criminally prosecuted, their child is consequently removed. O’Neal offers me a matter-of-fact example: “When you arrest somebody for bank robbery, their kid can’t be with them in jail.”

But illegal entry is a far cry from bank robbery—it’s classified as a petty misdemeanor, one of the least serious of federal offenses. In the past, the government could exercise prosecutorial discretion in cases of illegal entry and, in most cases, would choose not to prosecute people who had arrived with children. Now, the frequency of family separation cases resulting from petty misdemeanor prosecutions, Carlin and O’Neal say, is alarming. “The bureaucracy of immigration enforcement as it pertains to young children has been weaponized and it’s now being used as a criminal deterrent,” Carlin says.

Though family separation cases still represent just a fraction of their current caseload, these cases also tend to take up more time and resources. The Department of Homeland Security claims it has “well-established reunification processes” in place; however, in O’Neal and Carlin’s experience, the onus to facilitate contact among parents and children has invariably fallen on them.

A week prior to meeting, Carlin defended three Guatemalan women charged with illegal entry in the Alpine District Court. The women had been apprehended crossing the border illegally in the border town of Presidio, Texas, some ninety miles southwest of Alpine. While they were detained in West Texas, their children—one aged eight, the other two aged nine—were sent to Cayuga Centers, a foster care facility in New York City.

“The moms had no idea where those kids were; they had not been contacted,” Carlin said. When he spoke with them, “the case workers at Cayuga Centers … had no idea that they had arrived with their mothers. They didn’t know anything about the moms. They didn’t know the mothers’ names, they didn’t know their immigration file numbers.” (Cayuga Centers never responded to requests to comment on this story.)

That they were even able to speak to their children was thanks to Carlin and his colleagues. “That’s something that my office facilitated by putting the children’s case workers in touch with the facility where my clients were being held,” he said. “You’re trying to facilitate contact between parents and kids, and to ensure some means of contacting family back in Guatemala in the event that our client is deported. It can take a long time to do that.”

He added, “I’ve had an unpaid college intern working on this since it started.”

O’Neal also attempted to make contact with the children of his own clients—one from Guatemala, the other from El Salvador—and, after hours of phone calls and transfers, discovered that two children were in a foster care facility in New York, and the other was in Arizona. Meanwhile, his clients were being detained in West Texas. “What is most interesting is the layer of bureaucracy we went through to get that information,” O’Neal said, adding that the caseworkers he spoke to also seemed to have no prior knowledge of where the parents were incarcerated.

Even before zero tolerance, the Western District of Texas—which includes the border communities of El Paso and Del Rio—had the second heaviest caseload in the country after the Southern District of Texas, its neighbor. Both districts are bogged down by cases of petty immigration-related offenses—a consequence of stringent G.W. Bush-era immigration measures—so much so that mass hearings and sentencings, which attorneys and activists argue defy due process, have become standard procedure.

These overwhelming numbers aren’t due to an increase in border crossings, but to increasingly stringent border and immigration enforcement programs. Border Patrol statistics show that in 2017, apprehensions at the border were less than a third of what they were in 2007; however, during that same time period, the number of criminal prosecutions referred by Customs and Border Protection and ICE increased from 45,674 to 65,611. By 2016, 52 percent of all federal criminal prosecutions were immigration-related. And, as of April 2018, criminal prosecutions referred by Customs and Border Protection on the southwest border had increased by 60 percent from January of that year.

Carlin and O’Neal are the grunts of the system. “We’re not a powerful public agency; we’re public defenders,” Carlin says. “We’re like the least powerful entity.”

It can often feel that way when the vast majority of cases they try are losses. But it’s hard to make a case against illegal entry when Border Patrol has a clear record of apprehension. Most of the time, Carlin says, clients plead guilty when they realize how soon they could be out jail—within a day or two before they are transferred to immigration custody—if they do. Still, they always have the option of a trial. “If a client says ‘I want a trial,’ my duty as a lawyer is to analyze the case and make every good legal argument as to why the person should be acquitted. Sometimes it’s based in the facts, sometimes in the letter of the law,” Carlin said.

Prior to zero tolerance, Carlin and O’Neal rarely encountered misdemeanor trials, and so rarely had the opportunity to fight these cases of illegal entry. Lately, in addition to the government’s refusal to dismiss these cases, O’Neal said he’s noticed his clients are much more eager to fight them. “Meeting with the parents of children who were separated, they were so upset by the separation, they seemed to lose all consideration of how long they were going to spend in jail,” O’Neal said. “When we told them they would have to wait two to three weeks for trial, they said, ‘I want to fight my case.’” Amid their increasing caseload, Carlin and O’Neal have been trying novel defenses that they hope will help the courts view the issue in a new light.

In the case of the three Guatemalan women, Carlin tried a defense vested in semantics. In all instances of illegal entry, the person charged must have entered at a time and place—outside a designated port of entry—recorded by immigration officials. Carlin’s clients had crossed the border within the town of Presidio, Texas, several hundred yards from the Customs and Border Protection station, and were arrested while walking toward the inspection point.

Each international port of entry is defined within a code of federal regulations that all courts use. In some cases, a specific facility is defined; however, most ports of entry are merely described by a geographical location. Though the inspection point in Presidio is right next to the Presidio-Ojinaga International Bridge, within this code of federal regulations, the port of entry is simply referred to as Presidio, Texas.

Carlin made the case that since his clients technically entered within the geographical region specified by the code of regulations—Presidio, Texas—and in such a manner that they’d intended to be inspected by immigration officials; therefore, they were not crossing illegally.

The presiding magistrate judge, David Fannin, didn’t buy it. He found all of the defendants guilty. Carlin filed an appeal. “I’m not making the case because it’s novel; I’m making it because I think it’s right,” Carlin says. “Every trial is different and every legal situation is different. It’s good because it forces the courts to look at these issues with fresh eyes.”

That’s what O’Neal aims to do, too, and why he’s willing to make the 90-mile trek to the border in search of asylum seekers. He’s prepared to try his new defense—that without the recourse to petition for asylum, his clients have no choice but to cross illegally. If that doesn’t work, he’s got a few other tricks up his sleeve.

“We’re looking at new ways to apply the law that haven’t been applied in the past because we’re being confronted by a new situation in these family separation cases,” O’Neal says. “It’s very hard to find a court that’s even considered the question, ‘Where is the port of entry?’”

Whether or not he wins won’t make much practical difference for his clients in the short term, though having a criminal record can affect a person’s chances of making an asylum claim, and obtaining citizenship in the future. But a win won’t reunify them with their children any sooner. And, regardless of the verdict, they will be transferred to immigration custody, and in all likelihood, will be deported. “The only difference is they don’t have a conviction, as opposed to having the conviction,” O’Neal said.

So, why bother? Their food arrives: A basket of steak tacos for Carlin and avocado tostadas for O’Neal. They tuck in, alternating their responses to me with their bites. Their ravenousness is the kind that makes you hungry to look at.

“In my experience, public defenders are idealistic, but they’re not naive. They know what they’re up against, and they know how it works,” Carlin says. “They want to fight for the person that’s placed in dire circumstances, has their back against the wall against a really large machine. I like to get a poke or two at the dragon before I get killed.”

Sometimes, that fight is rewarded. “Sometimes your client wins. If you’re a defender, you live for those moments. You have to believe that working within the system will eventually pay off because the system is designed to provide justice,” Carlin says.

Within an immigration system that has separated children as young as nine months from their parents and put three-year-olds on trial without their parents, the right to an attorney is one of the few remaining avenues that effectively restores some semblance of dignity to those charged with the crime of illegal entry.

O’Neal never gets the chance to defend his clients at trial. Before O’Neal’s scheduled court date, President Trump announces his executive order to prevent family separations. But ending family separations without eliminating the real source of the problem—the zero tolerance policy—is a virtually impossible task. Without the infrastructure to detain families together while migrants await trial, they will continue to be held in separate facilities, sometimes in different states. “You’re put in an impossible situation because you have a directive to do two things and you can’t do both of them,” Carlin says. “Unless you have the capability to keep the families together, you can’t carry out that order.” In the aftermath of the executive order, federal entities continue to scramble to make good on Trump’s promise.

A day after Trump signs the executive order, the US Attorney’s office for the Western District of Texas dismisses certain pending cases of illegal entry involving the separation of families, including the two cases O’Neal is set to represent. O’Neal tells me he thinks they do so because if they continue to prosecute these cases, they will defy Trump’s executive order. However, by dismissing these cases, they are effectively overturning Trump’s zero tolerance policy. “Following the President’s executive order, we are moving quickly to keep families together as we process the criminal charges for those who crossed illegally,” the US Attorney’s Office says in an official statement. “The zero tolerance policy is still in effect but there is a necessary transition that will need to occur now that those charged are no longer being transferred to the custody of US Marshals and are staying together with their children in the custody of our partners at DHS. As part of that transition, the office today dismissed certain cases that were pending when the President issued the order.”

O’Neal tries to facilitate contact between his clients and their children. Once the process of deportation occurs, he fears that the possibility of reunification will be untenable. It’s not his job—they aren’t his clients anymore—but he reaches out anyway, coordinating with the children’s caseworker in the likely event that the two mothers from Guatemala and El Salvador are deported.

Meanwhile, the three Guatemalan women Carlin defended are set to be deported. Only one of them, Emilia Figueroa, was able to make a credible fear claim for asylum, though her application for an asylum interview was denied, according to Carlin. She, like many others in her situation, testified that she had been extorted by gang members. Figueroa claimed that they had acquired her phone number and “were calling and threatened to take away my little baby.”

“They told me that if they—I didn’t give them any money, that they would either harm me or harm my child,” Figueroa said in court. When asked why she came to the United States, she said, “Because, supposedly, this is a place where you’re not going to have any violence like the ones that we have in our country.”

Now she’s a plaintiff in a civil lawsuit filed by a handful of El Paso immigration attorneys, disputing the unlawful separation of parents and children. Hers is just one of a handful of lawsuits like it that are being filed.

“There are other legal avenues that could potentially help these clients. And that, to me, that’s hopeful,” Carlin says. “If anything, it’s going to be these lawsuits that make the difference—not the executive order.”

When O’Neal and I finally do make it to the Rio Grande, we climb down its bank, muddy from early monsoon rains. In this stretch of West Texas, the Rio Grande makes a mockery of its name. Its flow has stagnated from decades of building sediment, a result of the invasive carrizo cane that has choked the river’s flow. Still, with the recent rains, the river is much too high to cross without having to swim. We turn toward the direction of the port of entry, a slim white line barely discernible above the horizon that is dwarfed by the vast and mountainous terrain.

“My clients often have difficulty describing to me what they face and what it looks like when they crossed,” O’Neal tells me. “They don’t know what they’re looking at or what’s going on. It’s important to communicate what it looks like to the court, so they can see it.”

He squints into the distance. “I’m not sure I’d know where to cross, either, if I were just turning up here for the first time,” he says.

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August 2018

Combustion Engines

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There Will Always Be Fires

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The End of Eden

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How to Start a Nuclear War

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Combustion Engines·

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On any given day last summer, the smoke-choked skies over Missoula, Montana, swarmed with an average of twenty-eight helicopters and eighteen fixed-wing craft, a blitz waged against Lolo Peak, Rice Ridge, and ninety-six other wildfires in the Lolo National Forest. On the ground, forty or fifty twenty-person handcrews were deployed, alongside hundreds of fire engines and bulldozers. In the battle against Rice Ridge alone, the Air Force, handcrews, loggers, dozers, parachutists, flacks, forecasters, and cooks amounted to some nine hundred people.

Rice Ridge was what is known as a mega-fire, a recently coined term for blazes that cover more than 100,000 acres. The West has always known forest fires, of course, but for much of the past century, they rarely got any bigger than 10,000 acres. No more. In 1988, a 250,000-acre anomaly, Canyon Creek, burned for months, roaring across a forty-mile stretch of Montana’s Bob Marshall Wilderness in a single night. A few decades on, that anomaly is becoming the norm. Rice Ridge, for its part, swept through 160,000 acres.

At this scale, the firefighting operation is run by an incident management team, a group of about thirty specialists drawn from a mix of state and federal agencies and trained in fields ranging from aviation to weather forecasting and accounting to public information. The management teams are ranked according to experience and ability, from type 3 (the least skilled) to type 1 (the most). The fiercest fires are assigned to type 1s. Teams take the name of their incident commander, the field general, and some of those names become recognizable, even illustrious, in the wildfire-fighting community. One such name is that of Greg Poncin, who is to fire commanders what Wyatt Earp was to federal marshals.

Smoke from the Lolo Peak fire (detail) © Laura Verhaeghe
There Will Always Be Fires·

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The pinhal interior, a wooded region of hills and narrow hollows in rural central Portugal, used to be farmland. Well into the latter half of the past century, the fields were worked by peasants from the old stone villages. Portugal was poor and isolated, and the pinhal interior particularly so; when they could, the peasants left. There is electricity and running water now, but most of the people have gone. The fields have been taken over by trees. Each year the forest encroaches farther, and each year the villages grow more lonely. There are remnants of the earlier life, though, and amid the trees the holdouts of the older generations still work a few small fields. The pinhal interior cannot yet be called wilderness, then, and that, in large part, is why it burns.

Thousands of fires burn in the region each summer, almost all of them started not by lightning or some other natural spark but by the remaining Portuguese. (The great majority of the blazes are started unintentionally, though not all.) The pinhal interior—the name means “interior pine forest,” though today there is at least as much eucalyptus as pine—stretches along a sort of climate border between the semiarid Iberian interior and the wet influence of the Atlantic; vegetation grows exceptionally well there, and in the summers fire conditions are ideal. Still, most of the burns are quickly contained, and although they have grown larger in recent years, residents have learned to pay them little mind. The creeping fire that began in the dry duff and twigs of an oak grove on June 17 of last year, in the district of Pe­drógão Grande, therefore occasioned no panic.

A local woman, Dora da Silva Co­sta, drove past the blaze in the midafternoon, by which time it had entered a stand of pines. Firefighters were on hand. “There were no people in the streets,” Costa told me. “It was just another fire.” She continued on her way. It was a Saturday, and she had brought her two young sons to visit their older cousin in Vila Facaia, the village of small farms in which she’d been raised.

Firefighters near Pedrógão Grande (detail) © Pablo Blazquez Dominguez/Getty Images
The End of Eden·

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On a blistering morning in July 2017, Ghazi Luaibi rose before dawn and set out in a worn black sedan from his home in Zubair, a town of concrete low-rises in southern Iraq. He drove for a while along sandy roads strewn with plastic bags. On the horizon, he could see gas flares from the oil refineries, pillars of amber flame rising into the sky. As he approached Basra, the largest city in the province, desert scrub gave way to empty apartment blocks and rows of withered palms. Though the sun had barely risen, the temperature was already nearing 100 degrees Fahrenheit. The previous year, Basra had registered one of the highest temperatures ever reliably recorded on earth: about 129 degrees, hot enough to cause birds to drop from the sky.

Ghazi, a sixty-two-year-old with stooped shoulders, an ash-gray beard, and lively brown eyes, would have preferred to stay home and wait out the heat. But he hadn’t had much of a choice. He was the president of the local council of Mandaeans, members of a gnostic religion that appeared in Mesopotamia in the early centuries ad. Today marked the beginning of their new year, and Ghazi, who was born into the Mandaean priestly class, was responsible for making sure everything went smoothly: he needed to find a tent to shield worshippers from the sun and, most importantly, a location near flowing water where they could carry out the ceremony.

Mandaean holidays are celebrated with a mass baptism, a ritual that is deeply rooted in their scripture and theology. Mandaeans follow the teachings of Yahia Yuhana, known to Christians as John the Baptist. Water is central to their religion. They believe that all life originates in the World of Light, a spiritual realm that is the starting point for a great river known as Yardana, or Jordan. Outside the World of Light lie the lifeless, stagnant waters of the World of Darkness. According to one version of the Mandaean creation myth, a demiurge named Ptahil set out to shape a new world from the World of Darkness, which became the material world we inhabit today. Once the world was complete, Ptahil sculpted Adam, the first man, from the same dark waters as the earth, but his soul came from the World of Light. In Mandaean scripture, rivers are manifestations of the World of Light, coursing from the heavenly Jordan to the earth to purify it. To be baptized is to be immersed in this divine realm.

Basra General Hospital (detail) July 2017 © Alex Potter
How to Start a Nuclear War·

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Serving as a US Air Force launch control officer for intercontinental missiles in the early Seventies, First Lieutenant Bruce Blair figured out how to start a nuclear war and kill a few hundred million people. His unit, stationed in the vast missile fields at Malmstrom Air Force Base, in Montana, oversaw one of four squadrons of Minuteman II ­ICBMs, each missile topped by a W56 thermonuclear warhead with an explosive force of 1.2 megatons—eighty times that of the bomb that destroyed Hiroshima. In theory, the missiles could be fired only by order of the president of the United States, and required mutual cooperation by the two men on duty in each of the launch control centers, of which there were five for each squadron.

In fact, as Blair recounted to me recently, the system could be bypassed with remarkable ease. Safeguards made it difficult, though not impossible, for a two-man crew (of either captains or lieutenants, some straight out of college) in a single launch control center to fire a missile. But, said Blair, “it took only a small conspiracy”—of two people in two separate control centers—to launch the entire squadron of fifty missiles, “sixty megatons targeted at the Soviet Union, China, and North Korea.” (The scheme would first necessitate the “disabling” of the conspirators’ silo crewmates, unless, of course, they, too, were complicit in the operation.) Working in conjunction, the plotters could “jury-rig the system” to send a “vote” by turning keys in their separate launch centers. The three other launch centers might see what was happening, but they would not be able to override the two votes, and the missiles would begin their firing sequence. Even more alarmingly, Blair discovered that if one of the plotters was posted at the particular launch control center in overall command of the squadron, they could together format and transmit a “valid and authentic launch order” for general nuclear war that would immediately launch the entire US strategic nuclear missile force, including a thousand Minuteman and fifty-four Titan missiles, without the possibility of recall. As he put it, “that would get everyone’s attention, for sure.” A more pacifically inclined conspiracy, on the other hand, could effectively disarm the strategic force by formatting and transmitting messages invalidating the presidential launch codes.

When he quit the Air Force in 1974, Blair was haunted by the power that had been within his grasp, andhe resolved to do something about it. But when he started lobbying his former superiors, he was met with indifference and even active hostility. “I got in a fair scrap with the Air Force over it,” he recalled. As Blair well knew, there was supposed to be a system already in place to prevent that type of unilateral launch. The civilian leadership in the Pentagon took comfort in this, not knowing that the Strategic Air Command, which then controlled the Air Force’s nuclear weapons, had quietly neutralized it.

This reluctance to implement an obviously desirable precaution might seem extraordinary, but it is explicable in light of the dominant theme in the military’s nuclear weapons culture: the strategy known as “launch under attack.” Theoretically, the president has the option of waiting through an attack before deciding how to respond. But in practice, the system of command and control has been organized so as to leave a president facing reports of incoming missiles with little option but to launch. In the words of Lee Butler, who commanded all US nuclear forces at the end of the Cold War, the system the military designed was “structured to drive the president invariably toward a decision to launch under attack” if he or she believes there is “incontrovertible proof that warheads actually are on the way.” Ensuring that all missiles and bombers would be en route before any enemy missiles actually landed meant that most of the targets in the strategic nuclear war plan would be destroyed—thereby justifying the purchase and deployment of the massive force required to execute such a strike.

Among students of nuclear command and control, this practice of precluding all options but the desired one is known as “jamming” the president. Blair’s irksome protests threatened to slow this process. When his pleas drew rejection from inside the system, he turned to Congress. Eventually the Air Force agreed to begin using “unlock codes”—codes transmitted at the time of the launch order by higher authority without which the crews could not fire—on the weapons in 1977. (Even then, the Navy held off safeguarding its submarine-launched nuclear missiles in this way for another twenty years.)

Following this small victory, Blair continued to probe the baroque architecture of nuclear command and control, and its extreme vulnerability to lethal mishap. In the early Eighties, while working with a top-secret clearance for the Office of Technology Assessment, he prepared a detailed report on such shortcomings. The Pentagon promptly classified it as SIOP-ESI—a level higher than top secret. (SIOP stands for Single Integrated Operational Plan, the US plan for conducting a nuclear war. ESI stands for Extremely Sensitive Information.) Hidden away in the Pentagon, the report was withheld from both relevant senior civilian officials and the very congressional committees that had commissioned it in the first place.

From positions in Washington’s national security think tanks, including the Brookings Institution, Blair used his expertise and scholarly approach to gain access to knowledgeable insiders at the highest ranks, even in Moscow. On visits to the Russian capital during the halcyon years between the Cold War’s end and the renewal of tensions in the twenty-first century, he learned that the Soviet Union had actually developed a “dead hand” in ultimate control of their strategic nuclear arsenal. If sensors detected signs of an enemy nuclear attack, the USSR’s entire missile force would immediately launch with a minimum of human intervention—in effect, the doomsday weapon that ends the world in Dr. Strangelove.

Needless to say, this was a tightly held arrangement, known only to a select few in Moscow. Similarly chilling secrets, Blair continued to learn, lurked in the bowels of the US system, often unknown to the civilian leadership that supposedly directed it. In 1998, for example, on a visit to the headquarters of Strategic Command (­STRATCOM), the force controlling all US strategic nuclear weapons, at Offutt Air Force Base, near Omaha, Nebraska, he discovered that the ­­­STRATCOM targeting staff had unilaterally chosen to interpret a presidential order on nuclear targeting in such a way as to reinsert China into the ­SIOP, from which it had been removed in 1982, thereby provisionally consigning a billion Chinese to nuclear immolation. Shortly thereafter, he informed a senior White House official, whose reaction Blair recalled as “surprised” and “befuddled.”

In 2006, Blair founded Global Zero, an organization dedicated to ridding the world of nuclear weapons, with an immediate goal of ending the policy of launch under attack. By that time, the Cold War that had generated the ­SIOP and all those nuclear weapons had long since come to an end. As a result, part of the nuclear war machine had been dismantled—warhead numbers were reduced, bombers taken off alert, weapons withdrawn from Europe. But at its heart, the system continued unchanged, officially ever alert and smooth running, poised to dispatch hundreds of precisely targeted weapons, but only on receipt of an order from the commander in chief.

Bombhead, by Bruce Conner (detail) © Conner Family Trust, San Francisco, and ARS, New York City. Courtesy Kohn Gallery, Los Angeles

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Happiness Is a Worn Gun


Illustration by Stan Fellows

Illustration by Stan Fellows

“Nowadays, most states let just about anybody who wants a concealed-handgun permit have one; in seventeen states, you don’t even have to be a resident. Nobody knows exactly how many Americans carry guns, because not all states release their numbers, and even if they did, not all permit holders carry all the time. But it’s safe to assume that as many as 6 million Americans are walking around with firearms under their clothes.”

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