Patricia was home for the weekend from Reno, and we went for a walk on the strand in Manhattan Beach to watch the sun sink beneath the Pacific. As we passed the pier, heading north, I saw a vertical arrow of white smoke, its head a ball of fire rising upward from the mountains above Malibu.

I pointed it out to her. “There’s a launch out of Vandenberg.”

We watched as it continued to move upward, and then curved over, compelled by gravity, as it headed south. The stage flickered out, and a second one ignited.

A couple minutes later, and it disappeared, its propellant expended, its fire extinguished, and its body invisible from the distance of hundreds of miles.

I told her it was probably a Minuteman, perhaps to launch a target thousands of miles southwest, to the lonely atoll of Kwajalein in the South Pacific. In the war, it suffered what was probably the most dense and intensive bombardment in history–thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of pounds of explosives, on a tiny lump of coral, to ferret out or destroy Japanese soldiers dug into it like ants in a hill. Now, it is the launch base to test the weapons that may allow us to knock down smites from our new enemies.

The smoke trail was twirled on the fingers of the jet stream. It was dark on the ground, but the rocket exhaust was dancing in the dying sunlight, lighting the night sky in a sun-drenched kaleidescope of swirling vapor and chemical fumes. It was a beauty both natural and artificial, and we were glad that we decided to take a walk on the beach that night.

When I got home, and heard that the most recent missile test was successful, I was most pleased to hear that my surmise was correct.