Johnston Atoll-The Secret Island, by Vic Hundahl

As the mid-sized Boeing 727, a T-tailed jet with trio rear-mounted jet engines and unique rear airstair for passenger loading and unloading approached the 9,000-foot landing strip; the pilot announced "We are landing at Johnston Atoll, this a US Government installation, no photographs allowed. Only US Government authorized personnel is to leave the aircraft; all others remain on board." 

Waiting in my seat to disembark, I observed a  young male passenger upfront in the window seat, taking pictures of the installation with his 35mm camera, which was duly reported to ground security officers by some disembarking passengers. An armed, uniformed security officer approached the offender, informing him that he had a choice of being arrested and detained for espionage or surrender his camera and film. Being wise, he gave up his camera.   

Stepping off the aircraft airstair ramp, I was met by armed security personnel who checked my name and government orders and took my medical bags and suitcase for inspection. My welcome to Johnston Atoll was friendly and official, which I expected at a top-secret US Government installation.   

In July 1973, being a civilian, I contracted as a medic for Holmes and Narver Company, which was under contract by US Atomic Energy Commission for the top-secret Johnston Atoll, located 717 nautical miles southwest of Hawaiian islands is one of the most isolated atolls in the world. The island, only 2 1/2 mile long and half-mile wide, was home to 960 civilians and 250 military personnel. Every soldier received specialized training in handling and emergency responses to chemical and biological agents. The civilians and military personnel safeguarded and disposed of mustard gas and the deadly sarin and VX warfare nerve agents. Rumors persisted that biological warfare agents as plaque, anthrax, and other experimental biological warfare agents were stored on site. Two IBM Missles were maintained and in-readiness if atmospheric nuclear testing was resumed. At prescheduled times, the nuclear IBM missiles were removed from their protective sheds and raised into firing position for practice simulation drills by civilian and military rocket specialists. 

Usually, it took more than a year to go through the FBI investigative process to receive a secret clearance. My clearance was rapidly processed in a month or so because I had previously been granted a "Q" security clearance while stationed at Alameda Naval Air Station while serving in the US Marine Corps as a security guard.

Now having gone through the selection process and having signed the employment contract, I was required to sign a document not to reveal government secrets for at least ten years. It stipulated imprisonment if I violated the Espionage Act or the Atomic Energy Act. 

All new civilian and military arrivals had to go through gas chemical training in case of accidental release of nerve gas or chemical/biological agent. About twenty of us entered a huge gas chamber, lined up, and walked around a stove like a device located in the center of the gas chamber. Unlike other new inductees, I was familiar with this procedure, having to go through chemical gas training and use of the protective equipment while in the military.  After donning our gas masks and while walking around in a circle, the Instructor flooded the chamber with tear gas. The gas mist immediately impaired our vision.

The instructor yelled, "take three deep breaths and hold it, do not breath out, on my command, remove your gas mask, and put it back into the carrier!"

I took the three deep breaths and held my breath and, when commanded, removed my gas mask. Immediately the tear gas fog caused stinging of the face and burning weeping eyes. Not being able to see, I clutched the man's jacket in front while we shuffled in a circle around the tear gas chamber pot. When I thought I couldn't hold my breath anymore, the instructor gave the command to take out the gas mask from the carrier and put our gas mask on and clear it. Clutching and spreading the elastic straps, I pulled the mask over my face, tighten the elastic straps for a tight face seal then forcibly exhaled clearing the mask of any tear gas. Success! Now only to continue to walk in the gas chamber breathing through filtered clean air through the gas mask. Several people who were overcome by panic fumbled around and who failed to put their gas mask on successful, gasped for air only to inhale more tear gas resulting in burning throat and lungs and tearing eyes.  Unable to see, the instructors led them out of the gas chamber into the fresh air. Hunched over with chest pain, and burning throat and lungs, and vomiting, they struggled to breath-more training for them. 

In the event of VX or Sarin gas exposure and toxic symptoms, we were to immediately use our prepared syringe and inject Atropine into the dense muscle of the thigh. The next step was being washed fully clothed than stripped-down nude and washed again at the decontamination wash station; then, transferred to the medical clinic for critical treatment. All of this sounded comforting; however, in reality, one was only fully protected when wearing a full weapons-grade hazmat suit and gas mask before being exposed to the toxic gas. A single drop of VX or Sarin nerve gas absorbed through the skin is enough to kill, worse when inhaled into the respiratory system, resulting in signs and symptoms and death within seconds after exposure. In my mind, if exposed to an accidental toxic gas leak, it's all over. 

Another danger area!  The Herbicide Yard, located at the Northwest corner of the island, stacked in long rows, were large 55-gallon drums of the deadly toxic herbicide Agent Orange, used as a defoliant in South Vietnam during the war. The deteriorating metal containers were leaking Agent Orange and during redrumming contaminated both the yard and lagoon. To determine the extent of Agent Orange bleeding offshore, I was invited to observe a team member take ocean water samples. Rowing offshore about to fifty feet In a small aluminum boat, my team member dressed in SCUBA diving gear, submerged to the depth of thirty feet. He captured a sample of ocean water in a pint-size plastic container, which he sealed with a cap and brought back up to the boat to deliver to our supervisor's office for laboratory testing.

 Alarmed of what I had observed, I reported the procedure of how the offshore lagoon sample was taken and remarked that the SCUBA divers health was at risk if the Agent Orange was of significant contamination. The supervisor appeared stunned. He had no idea the team member was swimming with SCUBA gear to collect ocean water, most likely contaminated with toxic Agent Orange. Collecting samples of ocean waters by staff emerging themselves into the poisonous soup was immediately stopped. The engineers then designed a thirty-foot long pole with a plastic jar attached to the end, with a cap that was opened and closed by pulling on and releasing a lanyard when the mast was pushed down from the small boat to the appropriate water depth to collect the water sample. The official word went out that nobody was to swim or SCUBA dive offshore of the Herbicide orange yard.   

The hospital was buried underground, complete with a surgery room, patient ward, X-ray room, and critical emergency supplies. Medical staff contained three Doctors,  a Dentist, eight medics, an X-ray technician, and a laboratory technician. I found and interest in taking and processing X-rays in which the X-Ray technician eagerly cross-trained me for back up. We were responsible for the clinical care of 960 civilians and 250 militaries. No woman allowed and single status only, and of course, US government security clearance required.   

One Morning three men who were not current civilian employees or military had just flown in from the mainland, escorted by security they arrived at the medical laboratory to have their blood drawn for a particular test. Not for me to question why they were flown here to this secret base and not have the blood drawn elsewhere on the mainland. To maintain the secrecy of what happened some years ago? I knew not to ask too many questions. Just keep silent and ears open, and bits and pieces of information would be gained to give an idea of what was going on or what had happened.  Scuttlebutt was that of the four Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles (ICBMs) failures on Johnston Island; the most serious resulted in the men having received long life radiation plutonium contamination when a 1.4 megaton nuclear-tipped warhead ICBM Thor missile exploded on the launchpad in 1962. The nuclear device did not explode, but the massive explosion and fireball of the Thor missile and warhead charge destroyed the launch pad and sprayed radioactive contamination throughout Johnston Island by the ongoing fire and smoke throughout the night. Most of the military and civilian workers on Johnston Island who was there when the missile detonated, suffered long term illness and cancers due to the effects of radioactive plutonium fallout. 

It was necessary to decontaminate the entire area with 24 acres of contaminated soil being dug up and moved to the Northside of the island. Twelve years later, during my exercise running, I would run by this area with nuclear radioactive warning danger signs dangling from a single fence wire.

It wasn't until years later with the release of declassified US government reports of the two most severe Nuclear Thor ICBMs missiles test explosions and radioactive fallout which contaminated Johnston Island that I realized the extent of the damage to the Island and radiation exposure to US government operational personnel.    

Recreation provided was an open-air movie theater, an Olympic size swimming pool, 

A small studio to record music on a cassette or reel to reel tapes, and an amateur HAM radio station. I took advantage of a basic course in SCUBA diving and received a certificate from The National Association of Underwater Instructors and enjoyed the excellent diving in the beautiful red color coral reefs; there were sunken boats and submerged airplanes to explore. Being a black belt in Hap Ki Do karate, I found myself teaching karate to about 30 military and civilian personnel.

I heard about the "Shark Man" and thought of myself as a risk-taker and somewhat eager to know what he was about, met him at the dock in the morning around three.  Getting into a gas motorized aluminum two-person boat, we motored out offshore. I was about to learn why the short, slim South Islander was named the "Shark Man." With the two of us floating silently in the peaceful, full moonlight, he suddenly threw some bloody mess of red meat overboard and handed me a large flashlight to shine down into the water surface to help attract the sharks. Quickly sharks of various types and sizes were now circling our boat and thrashing around, snapping up the bloody meat mess he had thrown into the water. The "Shark Man" then expertly thrust down a spear and hooked the biggest shark in the swirling mass. With a graceful, swift motion, he swung the shark over into the boat with the sharks head landing with a metallic bang between my feet and legs. The dam shark seemed to take over the full length of the boat. "Watch your feet; he will bite!" he yelled.  Now in panic mode, I jerked-up my feet and spread my legs apart as the "Shark Man' pulled back on the spear shaft hooked into the shark restraining it. The two evil penetrating bright blue eyes and snarling snapping razor white teeth of the thrashing shark seem to focus on my crotch! For some unexplained reason, I was more concerned about my crotch then my feet and legs! I had an immediate urge to jump over the side of the boat to get away from this killer snapping beast, but then came to my senses, as I realized the bigger danger of the circling sharks down around the boat! Suddenly the "Shark Man" leaped upon the shark and pounded the head with thuds from a baseball bat that stunned and silenced the shark. Happily back onshore and in one piece, the "Shark Man" said I did right and invited me back out again. That invitation is one that I thought about for a long, long time!

One evening after my usual shift while enjoying recording music in the studio room, one of the medics rushed and told me that the Doctor was doing surgery and wanted me. Upon entering one of the emergency rooms, I observed that the Doctor had incised and removed several lipomas of benign soft tissue tumors, lying beneath the skin of both arms.  He said that he understood that I did minor suturing of wounds in Vietnam and told me to glove up and start suturing. I mentioned I might be a little slow to start as I had not sutured for two years. Now I felt some pressure as I began to suture, as I worked, all staff eyes were on me as if in disbelief that I could suture. As I completed suturing the first incision site and picking up speed, the Doctor said: " I cut and remove, you continue to follow and suture."  Now I am in my element, here now we had a Doctor and three other medics to assist, unlike my nearly seven years in Vietnam where I was by myself, except for my Vietnamese interpreters, cleaning, suturing, and dressing wounds; sometimes while Viet Cong 122mm rocket strikes exploded around my dispensary and during Viet Cong and Northern Vietnamese Army ground and sapper attacks.

One thing leads to another, sometimes the expected or unexpected. Most of the time, words or orders were given officially from the top, rarely from the bottom. A medic came to me and announced that an intense hurricane was going to hit Johnston Island, and I being the most qualified medic, as I was experienced in emergency care and could treat wounds and suture, was to stay back with a selected small group of crucial emergency personnel. All other staff was to going to be evacuated. I was miffed! How come the supervisors didn't confide in me first? I had to hear it from someone I considered to be a low echelon employee. I accepted the assignment; of course, it was a matter of pride and duty for me. The challenge did not arrive, as the hurricane center passed a hundred miles off the island, and the storm did minor damage.

After a year on Johnston Island and looking for a different type of adventure and challenge, I accepted a job at Republic Du Zaire, Africa, with the C.I.S. Construction company. Now that would become be a different experience and story. 

Around the year 2000, after my departure, the US Government decommissioned Johnston Island, tore down and removed all buildings, facilities, and rocket lunch pads. The only thing remaining was the inactive runway. It is now a National Wildlife refuge and closed to the public. Sometimes I wonder if the underground hospital structure is still intact.