Since the early days of the “atomic age,” nuclear weapons have held the public imagination in their apocalyptic grip. From John Hersey's Hiroshima to volumes on Pakistan's A. Q. Khan proliferation network, there have been innumerable popular works that analyse and dramatize nuclear issues for the public at large. A strand running through many of these works is a distinctly alarmist approach to the weapons and their spread. “We the public,” intone serious-minded works, “should be very, very afraid of nuclear proliferation, nuclear terrorism, and nuclear weapons accidents.” These points, however, are all arguable. Despite the many flaws of the nuclear nonproliferation regime, the number of nuclear-capable states has not grown at the dramatic rates predicted by the alarmists. Neither has “nuclear terrorism” eventuated, in spite of the ease with which it is alleged non-state actors could acquire or construct an atomic device. It is, however, the final point – the accidental detonation of a nuclear weapon – that concerns Eric Schlosser in his latest work, Command and Control.

Schlosser is best known as the author of Fast Food Nation (2001), a work that examined the pervasive influence of the American fast-food industry. Since that book's publication, Schlosser has turned his attention to the “underground economy” in the US, and to producing a version of Fast Food Nation for children. More recently, he has become something of the go-to figure for media outlets seeking comment on the dangers posed by national nuclear arsenals, appearing on varied television and radio programmes from the satirical Last Week Tonight to 60 Minutes.

Command and Control is a gripping, fast-paced work that weaves together a potted history of the US nuclear arsenal with a recounting of the 1980 “Damascus Incident.” Well known to historians of nuclear issues, Damascus saw one of the United States Air Force's ageing Titan II missiles go up in flames in its Arkansas silo. The missile exploded, but thankfully the nine-megaton nuclear warhead did not. Schlosser uses Damascus as the spine of his narrative. Like a skilled thriller writer, he gives his readership just enough drama to keep them interested, and then switches to the history of nuclear weapons. A hackneyed literary device it may be, but it is one that works well.

Schlosser certainly does not leave the reader much time to think before plunging into near-nuclear incident after near-nuclear incident. Because of this, he sometimes plays a little fast and loose with evidence. For example, he makes much of the (undeniably dangerous) systemic flaws that would have allowed a rogue missile command team to launch an entire wing of Minuteman ICBMs without permission from their superiors. This is portrayed as a potentially Armageddon-causing and very serious flaw in the command-and-control system, yet at the end of several pages dealing with the issue, Schlosser reveals that these flaws were rectified before the missiles were even brought online in 1962. This form of narrative license deployed for dramatic effect is sadly rather common throughout the book.

Criticizing a skilfully written, popular work for weak historical methodology is rather like criticizing a Ford Escort for not being a Ferrari: while it is quite correct that one is not quite as good as the other, the market for both is quite different. Yet authors such as Schlosser are the public face of nuclear history, reaching a far wider readership than brilliant academic works such as Francis Gavin's Nuclear Statecraft (2012) or Matthew Jones's After Hiroshima (2010). Moreover, this is the troubling thing about Schlosser and his many less skilled contemporaries. They remove the nuance, subtlety, and analytical rigour of academic history in favour of drama and big headlines.

Command and Control is riddled with “would,” “could,” and “if”: a nuclear weapon could have detonated if only a certain thing had happened. This event would have turned out differently, if only things had turned out differently. Hyperbole abounds, as do totally unsustainable assertions: the warhead involved in the Damascus incident would not – as the author seems to suggest – have destroyed most of Arkansas. The intent with this is to cause fear and alarm. Schlosser is right to suggest that we must be vigilant about nuclear weapons and not fall into the complacency sometimes exhibited by those within the command-and-control system. Nevertheless, in the end, the system worked. During the Cold War (and after) there were no accidental detonations. Though there were tragic accidents and failures in design and decision-making, Arkansas was never wiped off the map.