In the Event of an Attack

By editor

Great Falls, Cascade County, Montana

The 564th Missile Squadron was headquartered at Malmstrom Air Force Base in Great Falls, Montana. It did not begin life as a Cold War sentinel, though. Its origins lie far from the quiet prairies and wheat fields of Montana, back in the chaos of the Second World War. The unit began its career as the 564th Bombardment Squadron, flying B-24 Liberators over the skies of central and southern Europe, dropping bombs on targets that nobody wanted to visit on a Sunday afternoon. When the war ended, the squadron was mothballed and forgotten, a relic of a world that hoped it had seen the last of such things.

But peace, as it often does, proved to be a short interlude. The Cold War, that long game of nuclear poker between the United States and the Soviet Union, required new weapons, new strategies, and new units. In December 1965, the Air Force reactivated the 564th as an Intercontinental Ballistic Missile (ICBM) squadron, tapping into the growing arsenal of nuclear deterrence. By 1967, the 564th was fully operational, the first in Montana to receive the new Minuteman II missiles, those cold metal sentinels promising a swift end to any adversary foolish enough to cross the line.

The choice of Montana for this nuclear deployment was not random. The state’s high altitude, flat terrain, and sparse population made it an ideal spot to hide weapons that could obliterate cities thousands of miles away. The Montana missile field covered some 23,500 square miles across nine counties, with Malmstrom Air Force Base as the nervous system controlling this vast network. By the early 1960s, the base had become the nerve center for America’s Minuteman missile program, the first of its kind in the world.

The missiles themselves were housed in underground silos scattered across the prairie, each one carefully positioned at least ten miles from its nearest neighbor to reduce the risk of multiple silos being destroyed in a single strike. Each missile was linked by hardened cables to a launch control facility, which was more bunker than building, buried some sixty feet below the surface. Inside, two Air Force officers sat in a cramped capsule, their lives defined by waiting and vigilance. They were the custodians of doom, poised to push buttons that no man wanted to push, their orders coming from a chain of command that assumed the world’s fate might hinge on their readiness.

It was a grim occupation, and one shrouded in a peculiar kind of bureaucratic ritual. The missiles carried warheads with yields measured in megatons, enough to vaporize entire cities and darken the skies for years. Yet the officers stationed in those capsules lived lives of monotony punctuated by moments of intense pressure. The Cold War was a war of nerves and patience, and the men of the 564th knew it well. The official motto of the 341st Missile Wing, to which the 564th belonged, was “Global Vigilance, Global Reach, Global Power,” a phrase that might sound like a line from an advertising brochure for a heavy-handed insurance policy.

The missile field saw technological upgrades as the years rolled on. By 1975, the 564th had transitioned from the Minuteman II to the Minuteman III missiles, which were more accurate and capable of carrying multiple independently targetable reentry vehicles (MIRVs). These missiles could hit several targets from a single launch, multiplying the destructive potential without requiring more silos. It was an advance that underscored the escalating stakes of the nuclear stand-off.

The presence of these missiles had a palpable effect on the local economy and society. Malmstrom Air Force Base became one of the largest employers in the area, and the construction and maintenance of the missile sites brought government dollars and jobs to small Montana towns. Roads were built and maintained to reach isolated silos, fences and security measures altered the landscape, and a certain quiet tension settled over the countryside. Farmers and ranchers, used to the rhythms of planting and harvest, had to accommodate the strange reality of nuclear warheads buried beneath their fields.

The Cold War’s most dangerous moment came in October 1962, during the Cuban Missile Crisis, when the United States and the Soviet Union came perilously close to nuclear conflict. Malmstrom’s missile squadrons were on high alert, their crews ready to launch at a moment’s notice. The crisis passed without war, but it left a lingering awareness that the Minuteman missile field was not just a theoretical deterrent; it was a real, lethal force poised to transform the world in an instant.

In official statements, military leaders often framed the missile program as vital for peace. General Curtis LeMay, a figure both revered and feared in Air Force circles, once remarked, “If the United States ever loses its deterrent capability, we will lose the peace we have so far enjoyed.” The logic was simple: the threat of mutual destruction would keep both sides honest. Yet the presence of hundreds of nuclear missiles in Montana also meant that the state was a prime target in any Soviet first strike. The missiles that promised security also guaranteed that Montana would be ground zero in the event of an attack.

By the late 20th century, however, the geopolitical landscape began to shift. The Cold War thawed, arms control treaties were negotiated, and the United States started to reduce its nuclear arsenal. In 2008, the Air Force inactivated the 341st Missile Squadron and removed the Minuteman III missiles from their silos. The silos were sealed, launch control centers decommissioned, and the men who had spent years underground waiting for orders that never came returned to lives above ground.

Malmstrom Air Force Base itself remains operational today, though its mission has evolved. The physical infrastructure -- the roads, fences, and hardened communications lines running beneath the Montana prairie -- still mark the land. They are reminders not of glory or conquest, but of a time when the world balanced on the edge of annihilation, held steady by machines and men in underground bunkers.

The Montana missile field was a product of its era -- a time when the future seemed to hinge on the reliability of cold metal and the nerves of two young officers in a capsule sixty feet underground. It was a chapter in American history where the threat of destruction was woven into the fabric of daily life, and where, as General LeMay put it, maintaining peace depended on the readiness to unleash devastation.

See also

• In the Event of an Attack at Great Falls, Cascade County
• LGM-30A Minuteman I at Lewistown, Fergus County
• Lewis and Clark Passed Here at Great Falls, Cascade County