My Chemical Allure: Re-dux

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Later today I’ll go to the gas chamber. It’ll be filled with Chemical Warfare Agents (CWAs) and it could be considered a war crime - except I volunteered.

I am a Chemical Defense Officer. At this Chemical Defense Training Facility (CDTF) all the students are exposed to VX and Sarin gas to test their skill and confidence. The American government has a sordid history of performing unethical drug trials on uninformed and often marginalized recruits, however my classmates and I are FULLY informed about the trial ahead.

Every soldier is familiar with the gas chamber. Our military careers begin with a trip through the tear-gas chamber. Officially that first exposure is a valuable training exercise in discipline… and… other important things that no one really learns. But it’s actually hazing. Hilarious vomit-inducing hazing and you can find videos online. For most soldiers that initial experience is also their last in chemical-based training. But us in the Chemical-Corps will be exposed to VX nerve agent) and Sarin Gas this very afternoon.

Not to brag, but it's kind of a big deal. Though actually… I am bragging.

CWAs are more restricted than nuclear material. For reference the bomb dropped on Hiroshima █████████████████████████.The Geneva Convention limits facilities to 10kg of VX, though no one in their right mind would ever have that much on hand. A while back the Army put an entire base on lockdown because a milliliter went missing. A soda-can of VX could kill 50,000 people if the doses were properly rationed. The Army maintains a healthy paranoia for CWAs. They built this training site so prevailing winds blow away from populated areas in case of an accident.

If CWAs were baseball teams, VX would be the Yankees and Sarin gas the Cardinals. VX would be Floyd Mayweather and Sarin would be Muhammad Ali. VX a Michael Bay action thriller and Sarin a cult classic. Actually... that’s more than a metaphor. Michael Bay made a film about VX called “The Rock” starring Sean Connery and Nic Cage. It's a perfect over-the-top 90’s action thriller. Oh, and a literal cult called Aleph) used Sarin to conduct terror-attacks in a Japanese subway. Both chemicals are famous, VX is the rock star.

I’ve spent the last 2 months training for today’s encounter, but first I need a healthy breakfast. My girlfriend and I meet up with a few other students at the officer’s mess. Not everyone is eating, some are too nervous. Oddly enough, eating reminds me of the chemical mechanism by which VX kills.

When my brain wants to use a muscle, it sends an electrical impulse through my nerves. That impulse hits the point where thenerves and muscles connect and triggers an enzyme which catalyzes the chemical energy--from eating food--into force. That causes my muscle to contract. The waste product, CO2, is released into my bloodstream and eventually exhaled.

It’s important to note the enzyme is a CATALYST, meaning it is not consumed in the reaction. Think of it as the translator between the brain’s electrical impulse and the chemical reaction in the muscle. The enzyme doesn’t DO anything, it just helps the electrical impulse tell the chemical energy to do work.

If a “thing” were to destroy the translator enzyme, then the brain would lose control of that muscle. This “thing” could be biological or chemical, so scientists decided to call it an “agent”. Since it affects the nervous system, they call it a “nerve agent”.

After breakfast we walk to the rally-point. A tan school bus pulls up and our instructor steps out. After a full headcount, and a double check, the bus lumbers off to the CDTF.

I look out my window as we pass the school house where we spent the last 2 months studying the horrors of nerve agent exposure. Non-lethal doses cause headaches, paranoia, anxiety, and shortness of breath. Additionally, victims can have glandular issues like hyper-salivation and sweaty-palms, and of course diarrhea. A dose becomes lethal if it can kill enough of the translator enzymes in the heart or lungs.

If a nerve agent touches skin, it will be absorbed and paralyze the muscles beneath. Supposedly it feels like the worst muscle cramp imaginable. In the bloodstream, it will incapacitate all the muscles as it passes through the body. Progressive debilitation will cause the victim to stumble, stagger, seize, and go rigid similar to Tetanus.

If inhaled, a nerve agent will cause cramping and paralysis in the chest, lungs, throat, and mouth. Victims will experience excessive salivation, clenched jaws, and throat spasms. The combination of restricted airways and hyperactive mucus membranes can drown a person on dry land.

The film “The Rock” depicts VX as a string of iridescent green balls. Hollywood couldn’t make the chemical any scarier, so they just changed the color. At the end of the movie Nic Cage gets contaminated and has to stab a finger-length needle directly into his heart to administer the life-saving antidote. Hollywood almost got this right, the Military does have auto injectors but instead of shooting into the heart, it just goes in the thigh. However, the injectors are not a cure so much as a prayer. It’s just adrenaline and anti-seizure medication. The hope is that the victim’s body can just push through the symptoms.

Our instructors did their best to ground us to reality. Paracelsus¹ said, “The dose makes the poison.” He wasn’t an instructor, he was a 14th-century Swiss physician who my instructor loved to quote. Any chemical can kill if administered in a large enough dose, even water. We just need to be doubly cautious around chemicals that were designed to kill. The capstone exercise was designed for us to demonstrate that caution while maintaining military capabilities. They weren’t going to splash a bunch of chemicals on us and promote the survivors, this isn’t “The Trial of Grasses”. We’ll be in a controlled environment inside the Chemical Defense Training Facility’s infamous HOT ZONE.

Our training has instilled confidence in our equipment. We’ve learned to trust that our gear will protect us from CWAs. This trip to the HOT ZONE is to test our discipline. We’ll go into the zone properly equipped and ready to demonstrate our skills. HOWEVER… our instructors also spent the past month teaching us every excruciating detail by which these chemicals can kill us. “Not only will it kill you, it will hurt the whole time you’re dying.” they said. The more we learned about the chemicals, the more I was afraid. As the saying goes, "Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise².”

We soon arrive. The parking lot, dirt road, and semi-circular building on the left half are upwind of the actual training facility housed inside the building with the white and black roof. We alight from the bus at the gate where the instructors identify us by name and take our military IDs, cell phones, and wallets.

Today I’m wearing my birth-control-goggles, those thick military-issued glasses instead of my usual contact lenses. We’d been instructed not to wear them and leave all our jewelry at home. Before today, I never knew how many female classmates had weaves. We could not take anything but our naked bodies, covered by protective gear, in or out of the HOT ZONE. They would even give us disposable underwear.

Inside the CDTF, I struggle to stay awake through an hour of orientation, then several briefings on the order of operations. During these briefings the medics would occasionally pull us aside for individual counselling. My turn comes and they ask about my mental health. Do I have any open wounds, persistent coughs? They draw a small vial of my blood. I found out later that if anyone suspects their PPE was breached, then the medics could draw a fresh sample of blood and compare them for damaged proteins. If we were exposed, the samples would show evidence even before the symptoms, allowing the medics to render aid faster.

I slip out of my daydream when I notice the others pulling out their M40 masks. I pull mine out and look into its hollow face. We’d worn this mask daily during the last month of training trying to get comfortable, some students even claimed to have slept in theirs. I don’t think anyone could feel “normal” with all that rubber strapped tightly to their face, but mine no longer caused discomfort. The girl next to me nervously pulls at straps and flaps making last minute adjustments. I’d checked mine last night.

An instructor walks down the row of students handing out bulging gray pouches. I take mine and open it. A new filter. I’d never actually held a fresh one before. All the ones I’d handled were emblazoned with “TRAINING ONLY” labels. My stomach churns at this thought. Everything suddenly feels too real. Every other moment today was standard-military: wake up, stand in line, slide shows, more lines, more waiting. Even the bored medic pricking me with a needle felt normal. But opening a fresh, new, single-use filter makes it all dead-serious.

The trainers say they must test our filter-seals. I’m in the second group called. We stand and shuffle out the door. I don my mask and hold my head over a small heated pot of vomit-inducing gas. I take a deep breath through my new filter. Exhale. Then another deep breath. I don’t puke. That means all my straps, flaps, and seals work and I won’t die today. If a person vomits in their mask, then they have a leak. They would clean the chunder out of their mask, re-adjust straps, and reseat the filter before trying again. No leaks beyond this point.

“After you cross the threshold to the HOT ZONE,” our instructor warns us, “NEVER take off your mask. Even if you throw up, DO NOT TAKE IT OFF! Here’s what you do.” He demonstrates with a mouthful of water how to blow liquid through the release valve so we won’t drown in a mask full of vomit. “It's better for you to suffocate and pass out than to remove your mask. We have a better chance at reviving your unconscious body than we do counteracting the agents.” He concludes his block of instruction with a very specific bit of advice, “Everyone make sure to THOROUGHLY chew your lunch today.” No one laughs.

We are ushered into a short walk-through closet containing several shelves of protective gear sorted by size. Our gear is formally known as, Mission Oriented Protective Posture level 4, or MOPP4. During the past month, we’d trained with a variety of suits, including those puffy plastic suits called SCBA, but the MOPP suits are much cheaper and longer lasting. They’re basically a camouflage Carhart jacket-and-pants with a layer of charcoal filter sewn in the lining. Rugged enough to be worn for months on end, it can even be washed and reused up to 8 times.

In fact, the suits in the storage closet HAD been used before. On average each piece had been through the facility 5 or 6 times. I quickly claim one with only three prior uses, marked with tiny black X’s on the label. One tall officer received pants on their 8th and final use. Hand-me-down clothes were never more disappointing.

The 6 small buildings on the left side of this picture are replicas of the rooms we would encounter inside the hot zone. Each room contains a scenario exercise for us to demonstrate our skills. The 3rd room will have the real nerve agents. We do a dry run through each of the exercises, all the while narrating our actions loudly through our masks to the instructors.

A bit after noon we each got a bag lunch. I slowly and deliberately chew my sandwich, hoping my last meal isn’t ham and cheese. Right as I finish eating, the head instructor clears his voice, “Suit up and do a buddy check. Then get into formation. We’re about to go in.”

The HOT ZONE is kept below atmospheric pressure by a robust air filtration system. If there was a rupture, contaminated air would be drawn inward. Supposedly, the exhaust air from this facility is cleaner than the ambient air in most cities.

Everyone tightens their mask straps, dons their suits, and partners-up for self inspection. After my buddy gives me the all-clear signal, I queue in front of the airlock. Once everyone is ready, the door opens, hissing clean air, and we all walk through. Behind us, the instructor swings the heavy door shut, sealing us inside. The slight vacuum catches the door at the end of its arc and slams it hard enough to pop my ears.

Immediately I feel anxious as my short fast breaths dry out my mouth. My sweaty palms slip against my rubber gloves. I can hear my pulse. I swallow hard and mentally walk myself back from the edge of paranoia. I know the headache comes from my overtightened mask straps, the shortness of breath from my filter, and my sweaty palms are due to the heat. Plus, it’s perfectly normal to be scared right now. The instructors guide us through the first pair of scenario rooms and the exercises are strangely reassuring and calming.

Then we enter THE room.

I was transported back to the first time I was sent to the principal’s office in high school. Standing in front of his closed doors, brimming with anticipation and fear at what would happen on the other side. Except now the fear of expulsion is replaced with the fear of death.

I walk to my assigned place at the perimeter of the room, holding my liquid and vapor test kits at the ready. We wait in silence for a long time. Nothing is audible except the gentle woosh of my filtered breath and soft closing of the one-way valve. Soon the main door opens and a large man enters carrying a clear tackle-box. He wears a rubber apron, an additional liquid barrier, over his MOPP4. It reminds of the apron the villain wears in Hostel, but it’s probably just a thick lab apron. A clear liquid sloshes inside the box as he sets it down. The clasps pop open and he pulls a jar out, dripping what looks like bleach. He unscrews the lid and pulls out a syringe. He holds it aloft like a priest blessing communion. I know it’s full of VX. Everyone stands mute, transfixed and silent, as he walks before us. In front of me he places five droplets in a “ ” pattern on the metal table. Instead of bright Hollywood green, VX is thick and greasy, the color and consistency of new motor oil.

Celebrities always seem smaller in person.

I dip a corner of my M8 chemical detection paper into the nearest drop and it immediately turns dark green. I turn to the nearby instructor and positively identify it as a V-series Nerve agent. A terse nod and the instructor moves to the next student. That was it… the worst is over. The remaining liquid slowly evaporates from the table.

The big man repeats his chemical ritual, this time with Sarin. The liquid he dribbles on the table immediately begins to dissipate. Snapping the ampule on the M256A1 vapor-detector kit, I waft the sampler through the vapor. The droplets on the table persist less than a minute, just long enough to get a positive reading on my kit.

After everyone finishes, we dispose of our kits as we exit the room. In the hallway the instructors use a flashlight to check our pupils and ask us questions like, “What is your name?”, “Where are you?” and “Who is the President?”. They repeat the questions and inspections after each room. The post-exposure exercises keep us busy while functioning as a quarantine. A bit of psychological management on their part to keep us calm while they watch for symptoms.

After an hour, we enter the doffing chamber where I and a partner perform an elaborate and chaste striptease, designed to remove our MOPP gear without touching the outer surfaces. We deposit them into laundry chutes. A separate chute labeled “INCINERATOR” gets my underwear. Then we line up in front of the airlock showers, all of us naked except for our masks. The instructors tell the first student to take a deep breath and close their eyes. They must remove their mask and run into the decontamination shower, spending 30 seconds in the shower without breathing before exiting the HOT ZONE.

My turn. I take one last breath through my new filter, before removing my mask and blindly staggering toward the sound of the shower. My discipline breaks when the cold water hits my skin. I gasp out my lungful of air and inhale before I could stop myself. They could afford to install a 5% bleach mixture on tap but they couldn’t be bothered to heat it?! Damn government spending priorities. Fortunately I didn’t die from my lapse in protocol.

The Chemical Romance.

Facebook tells me I’m still friends with 32 of the 47 students who graduated from that class, nearly a decade ago. Three marriages resulted from this group, including mine. We celebrated our third anniversary last month.

As terrifying as these chemicals are, my wife and I have a healthy admiration and perverse fascination with them. I think sharing strange and unique experiences like this one brought us together. Lots of people study, exercise, and party together but, who faces death together? Back then, as well as today, we often talk about horrific chemicals like they’re old friends. We reminisce about the danger and the fun. Nerve agents are strangely charismatic. The gift shop at the facility even sells novelty shirts.

After my training, I continued my education. One of my graduate professors, an expert in hazardous materials treatment, asked me to come to office hours and share my experience at the CDTF. He was a tenured professor at Purdue University who’d literally designed haz-waste treatment facilities but had never personally handled anything as toxic as those 5 droplets of VX.

I’ve told this story to a lot of people and I always get strong reactions, mostly positive. However, some people tell me it’s fake. The military wouldn’t risk killing people by exposing them to real agents. I must concede it's possible. I have no way of independently verifying the military’s training practices. But one thing I can know for sure:

My fear was real.

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Footnotes

1: full name “Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim”

2: Thomas Gray, 1742. also Cypher, The Matrix, 1999