At a small United States Air Force installation in eastern Wyoming, I’m sitting at an electronic console, ready to unleash nuclear hell. In front of me is a strange amalgamation of ’60s-era flip switches and modern digital display screens. It’s the control console for launching an intercontinental ballistic missile or ICBM.  
 
Of course, this is just a training scenario. The coded orders are a simulation. The console is a mockup of the real thing, stowed away in a larger hanger and serviced seven days a week by a small staff of Boeing contractors.  
 
If this were a real event, I’d be buried in a steel cocoon 100 feet underground. I’d have shed my standard-issue flight suit and boots. Instead, I’d be wearing sweats, fleece-lined slippers and, naturally, my indispensable, royal blue Snuggie.