Operation Nutty Payload - How Malmstrom’s Squirrel Brigade Almost Ushered in a New Era of Warfare

Deep beneath the Montana plains, amidst the steely sentinels of America’s nuclear might, a different kind of strategic planning was underway. It wasn't the grim calculus of deterrence, but the surprisingly ambitious, albeit spectacularly ill-conceived, machinations of the Malmstrom Squirrel Brigade. Their objective: acquire nuclear weapons tech, and frankly any shiny bits they could carry, all in a desperate bid to end the avian tyranny that had long plagued their burrow communities. The US military is no stranger to wildlife, but this was a new sort of concern.

Led by General Squeakers Nutkin, (a name given him by the random Tech Sergeant that frequently threw food for the squirrels in violation of base ordinance), the squirrels had observed the towering silos and the endless parade of serious-looking vehicles with growing interest. “The humans had all this tech hiding below our burrows, but they won’t drive out the Pigeons??” Nutkin had allegedly squeaked during a clandestine underground briefing, translated roughly from frantic tail twitches and high-pitched chitters. “Then we will take matters into our own paws to blow those bird bastards off of face of the park!”

Their initial strategy, dubbed “Operation Nutty Payload,” was audacious in its simplicity: dig under the fences. Years of meticulous tunneling paid off as tiny legions of determined rodents breached the perimeter with surprising ease. Unfortunately, their understanding of advanced sensor technology was somewhat lacking. The moment a whisker crossed an invisible beam, the sirens blared. Too much invisible air-magic to crawl through, it would seem.

Undeterred, the squirrels moved to Phase Two: “Operation Cable Chomp.” Their logic, flawed but undeniably enthusiastic, was that disabling the “long, tasty worms” snaking across the base would somehow grant them access to the munitions they sought. Countless vital communication and electrical lines fell victim to their relentless gnawing. The base experienced a series of inexplicable outages, often coinciding with particularly large gatherings of squirrels near critical infrastructure. Airmen scratched their heads, muttering about gremlins, unaware that the real culprits were tiny, buck-toothed saboteurs with a vendetta against blue jays.

Their attempts to enter a missile silo were, predictably, farcical. One brave (or perhaps just very lost) squad managed to squeeze through a ventilation shaft, only to find themselves in a surprisingly drafty and alarmingly clean concrete room. Mistaking blinking lights for some form of high-tech nut dispenser, they proceeded to chew on every wire in sight, triggering a cascade of even louder alarms and earning themselves a very confused rescue by security forces who were, by this point, starting to suspect they were in a very strange episode of a nature documentary.

The squirrels’ understanding of nuclear technology peaked with their fascination for anything vaguely metallic or shiny. One particularly bold operative, known only as “Fingers” for his surprisingly dexterous paws, managed to abscond with a discarded wrench nearly as large as he was. His triumphant return to the burrow was short-lived, however, as he promptly got stuck in the main tunnel entrance, creating a furry traffic jam.

Despite their consistent failures, the Malmstrom Squirrel Brigade’s efforts were not entirely without impact. They became a legendary nuisance, a furry embodiment of Murphy’s Law at the heart of America’s nuclear defense. While they never got their paws on a launch code (thankfully, their intellectual capacity proved far less formidable than their chewing prowess), they did manage to trigger thousands of false alarms, cause significant infrastructure damage, and provide countless bewildered airmen with truly bizarre anecdotes for their retirement parties. As for the birds, they continued to steal acorns with impunity, blissfully unaware of the underground war being waged in their name by a brigade of remarkably persistent, yet undeniably dim-witted, squirrels.

In case the article made too many jokes, this (mostly) all happened, and the issue is not yet resolved.