"PROJECT A120"

In 1958, the United States Air Force developed a Top Secret plan known as A119. Under this plan, the U.S. would detonate a nuclear device on the surface of the moon. The stated objective was to allow study of the lunar interior, to address current mysteries about astrometeorology and astrogeology. 

The real reason for A119, though, was to deliver a flash of explosive light so brilliant that it would be visible to the naked eye on the Earth’s surface. More specifically, that it would be visible to the naked eyes of communist heathens, because in 1958 the Soviet Union had taken the early lead in the space race and we needed to show them we weren’t about to lose to such a godless nation. 

Fortunately, A119 was rejected, scientists concluding that the risks and costs outweighed any benefits.

A little more than a decade later, the idea resurfaced. Apollo 11 had recently landed on the lunar surface, symbolizing an inspiring American comeback in one of the most expensive battlegrounds of the Cold War. At this point, the United States again proposed detonating a nuclear weapon on the moon because, why the hell not, victory had been won, so why not send up a five-kiloton mushroom cloud of celebration? The Soviet Union developed a similar proposal, but for much different reasons—in their case, as an exercise in public relations, a demonstration that they, too, could reach deep into space.

Again, the plan was rejected, and thoughts of nuking the moon were finally put to rest.

Until 2023.

That was the year when the climate crisis reached horrific proportions. The polar ice cap was melting at an unprecedented rate. Ocean-born storms increased in both number and ferocity, imperiling hundreds of millions of people in the Americas and Southeast Asia. Temperatures became more extreme, soaring during the summer months and plummeting during the winter. Meanwhile, in a certain part of the western hemisphere once considered the vanguard of scientific inquiry, a significant proportion of the population had embraced conspiracy theories and provable falsehood while rejecting such time-honored concepts as critical thinking and the laws of gravity.

Thus, it came as no surprise when American scientist Robert Fenderson announced that the entire climate crisis was the result of the moon now being approximately 0.3 degrees out of orbit, thus affecting the tides, thus affecting everything else. Never mind the effects of carbon emissions, deforestation, energy consumption, and other human intemperance. Fenderson’s theory sounded more than plausible; after all, he wore a lab coat and a red hat and used lots of big words. Plus, it took the onus off humans, allowing them to sleep without guilt.

Theories about how to remedy this orbital catastrophe were immediately put forth and, thanks to Facebook and Twitter, shared, debated, and dissected. Fortunately, social media had spawned a whole new generation of research scientists, who were able to draw upon YouTube videos and the expertise of retail salespeople, house cleaners, baristas, and TikTok influencers to understand the intricacies of astrophysics. 

Hal Tyndall was a senator from the great state of Iowa, first elected in 2016. Twice cut from his high school basketball team, he eventually enrolled at Iowa State University, where he became Sergeant at Arms of Sigma Nu fraternity and, in only six years, graduated with a 2.6 GPA and a degree in Recreation Management. Tyndall then worked his way up to assistant night recreation supervisor at a small park in his hometown of Waterloo, Iowa before joining the Army, where he attained the rank of private first class. With that résumé of service, he decided to enter politics, and soon found himself in Washington, DC, junior senator and member of the Senate’s Space and Science Committee.

Tyndall took a special interest in the climate crisis. The excessive Midwest heat had damaged many of his constituents’ corn crops, and Tyndall was nothing if not a dutiful public servant (having been advised by Iowa’s senior senator that the best way to get reelected in Iowa was to take care of the farmers). Tyndall ravenously researched the problem, even going so far as to bookmark YouTube on his laptop. He solicited opinions from the experts—a seed salesman in Dubuque, a tractor mechanic in Ames, an OnlyFans favorite in Des Moines. When Fenderson announced his theory about the moon’s orbit, Tyndall dived in, reading at least three astronomy articles from old issues of Boys Life magazine his mom still kept in the attic in anticipation of future grandchildren.

Junior senators seldom have a chance to shine. Wisconsin Senator Joseph McCarthy seized his opportunity in the 1950s and is still talked about in high school history classes today, but such occasions for notoriety are rare. Tyndall was not about to let this one pass.

He announced his plan before a national television audience, at least that cross-section of the nation which watches late-night propaganda fodder packaged as news.

“The Senate Space and Science Committee has been carefully studying the work of Dr. Fenderson,” Tyndall began. Had any member of the Committee been awake at that hour, they certainly would have been surprised, as Fenderson had long ago been dismissed as a quack. “And we have concluded that, in it, lay the answers to the world’s climate crisis.”

The news host, Jeanine Asher, leaned forward with interest, revealing a hint of cleavage in hopes it would propel her to a prime-time slot.

“As you know, the moon’s gravitational pull controls the tides,” Tyndall continued. He remembered that from Boy Scouts, a fact learned during the same trip on which he burned his scrotum while building a campfire. “So, it’s really quite simple. All we need to do is get the moon back in orbit, and everything will take care of itself.” 

“Interesting,” said Asher, who had been wondering if she should unbutton her top button and thus missed most of Tyndall’s theory. Fortunately, an alert producer screamed into her earpiece: “How?” Having attended journalism school, the producer was out of place in this environment.

“How?” Asher repeated, her ear ringing from the producer’s urgent question.

“Let me explain,” Tyndall said. He sat up tall, befitting the forthcoming wisdom. “In the late 1950s, the United States developed a plan known as A119…”

In a small office in the Pentagon, General Frank Dupree spit out his coffee. Senators were not supposed to reveal Top Secret information, even on a little-watched late-night program. But Tyndall was rolling now, revealing his plan—threadbare as it currently was—to avert climate disaster.

“The Space and Science Committee suggests we use that same idea to bump the moon back in its orbit,” he continued. “Just a little nuclear nudge, as it were.”

Tyndall concluded his remarks with obligatory platitudes: “I am a proud American and a veteran. I honor and salute Old Glory, the great symbol of the greatest nation on Earth, with all my heart. And after this mission, everyone will once again respect the United States and its flag.”

That is how Senator Hal Tyndall faced ethics charges, was expelled from the Senate Space and Science Committee, and created Project A120, all on the same day.

But momentum is a powerful thing, and despite Senate censure and public ridicule of Senator Tyndall, his idea quickly gained traction. The project was fast-tracked, and less than three months later, a spacecraft was launched from Cape Canaveral. Officially named Pluto 1, its destination was the moon and its payload a nuclear weapon with the power of 25 megatons of TNT.

With the Senate currently in recess, Tyndall watched the entire operation from his home. When it was successful, all his transgressions would be forgotten and he would be hailed a hero. Hal Tyndall, who failed American History at Iowa State and suffered through dysentery in Iraq, was about to save the world. The whole freaking world—even those who didn’t deserve it. 

Pluto 1 arrived at the moon a little more than three days after it pierced the Earth’s atmosphere. The flight was flawless, and the spacecraft’s computers calculated its descent to the lunar surface. Pluto 1 was to land on the side of the moon nearest to Earth, detonate its massive weapon at a precise angle, and with that blast push the moon back into its correct orbit. 

Detonation took place not far from the Sea of Tranquility, the site where Neil Armstrong took “one giant leap for mankind” and planted an American flag in 1969. This wasn’t the ideal location, insofar as it would likely obliterate the relics of that momentous mission, but the future of the planet was worth the sacrifice of a flag, even one so historic. The mushroom cloud was, in fact, a sight to behold. While no longer trying to shove it in the Russians’ face, it still told the world, unequivocally, who saved their asses.

Over the next three days, scientists became fixtures on cable news shows. Some expressed that they’d never doubted Project A120, others acknowledged that its apparent success was a welcome surprise, and a few questioned the plan or wondered about the calculations behind it. What if we pushed the moon too far? What if the radiation from the blast eventually returned to Earth? What if we damaged the moon’s surface and sent debris into space? This latter group of scientists offered alternative theories and exotic calculations that would melt a graphing calculator, and were so incomprehensible and boring as to be unwatchable.

Three days after the detonation, Tyndall stood in his backyard. It was a pleasant day, cool, slightly breezy, quite likely a return to climatic normalcy. He didn’t expect it to happen this quickly, but so much the better. 

A whistling in the sky broke his reverie, and Tyndall looked upward. Something broke through the clouds and hurtled toward him from the sky, moving so fast that he didn’t have time to jump.

When emergency crews arrived, they found Hal Tyndall, junior senator from Iowa, impaled by a faded American flag. The date 7/20/1969 was etched on its metal flagpole, which had pierced Tyndall’s heart and pinned him fast to the ground. As the paramedics and a guy from Joe’s Landscaping spent four hours unearthing the flag and the skewered senator, the world suffered tropical storms in both the Atlantic and Pacific and the beginning of a deadly heat wave in western Africa, while a small village in Alaska was engulfed by the ocean.