Gaining impressive access, Adam Ciralsky reports from the Wyoming—a United States nuclear submarine. It’s a fascinating, yet terrifying, look at the message these subs are designed to send to the rest of the world: don’t mess with us, the response will be apocalyptic.
Upon reaching the hatch, I carefully descended several vertical ladders that were slick with sea spray. Stepping off, it felt like I was stepping back in time. I was surrounded by walls with exposed pipes, old-school circuitry, panels full of analog dials, switches, and gauges. It felt part boiler room, part brewery, part mad scientist lab from a 1950s sci-fi film. The explanation: When the devices on this class of sub were devised in the ’70s and ’80s, they were quite modern. Some have been upgraded; others remain unchanged (one uses a crank!) because they’re reliable, durable, and easy to replace at sea. Here and there, I passed men and women in coveralls who were receiving instructions on throwback speakers and talking into vintage telephones. Save for the advanced systems in the control and sonar rooms (bristling with screens labeled “secret” and “top secret”), everything about the boat—down to the Wyoming’s stated mission (to be “on scene and unseen”)—harkened back to the Cold War. Maybe, I thought, we were being cast in the sequel. Or maybe the original never ended.
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