The Army’s long-term vision for Project Iceworm was nothing short of staggering. They wanted to dig 2,500 miles of tunnels—enough to stretch from New York to Salt Lake City—and hide 600 specially modified “Iceman” missiles underneath the ice. The whole thing would cover 52,000 square miles, an area three times the size of Denmark, and employ 11,000 military personnel. It was like something out of a Cold War sci-fi novel.

But, as ambitious as it was, the project ran headfirst into a serious problem: the ice wasn’t as stable as they’d hoped. By 1962, it became painfully obvious that the constant movement of the glacier was wreaking havoc on the tunnels and structures. The Army pulled the plug on Project Iceworm, shutting down Camp Century in 1965. The whole plan was officially scrapped in 1966. I can’t help but wonder how much that cost.
While it might sound like a failure, Project Iceworm wasn’t a total loss. It gave engineers valuable insights into building in extreme conditions and revealed just how far the military was willing to go to gain an edge during the Cold War. For a brief moment in history, though, the U.S. really did dream of turning Greenland’s ice sheet into a subterranean missile base.
The Environmental Time Bomb
When Camp Century was abandoned in 1967, no one imagined the environmental time bomb being left behind. But as the Greenland ice sheet melts due to climate change, the hazardous waste buried at the site is inching closer to being exposed. The scope of the problem is massive, and the potential consequences are downright alarming.
First, there’s the toxic cocktail left behind. This includes an estimated 200,000 liters (53,000 gallons) of diesel fuel and 240,000 liters (63,000 gallons) of wastewater, which includes raw sewage. If that wasn’t bad enough, the site is also home to polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs), a class of chemicals highly toxic to human health, and an unknown amount of radioactive coolant from the nuclear generator that powered the base.
The hazardous waste isn’t just sitting idle, either. As the ice melts, these pollutants risk leaking into the surrounding environment, covering an area of 55 hectares—about the size of 100 football fields. If released, this toxic stew could seep into local ecosystems, wreaking havoc on plants, animals, and even humans. Even more troubling, these pollutants could make their way to the ocean, where they might disrupt marine ecosystems and climb the food chain, affecting fish and other seafood.
Here’s the kicker: climate models predict that Camp Century’s site could shift from net snowfall to net melting as early as 2090. Once that happens, the release of waste will become unstoppable. It’s like a ticking clock, counting down to a contamination crisis that no one really knows how to handle.

Cleaning up Camp Century is no small task. The waste is buried tens of meters under the ice, making any attempt at remediation both technically challenging and astronomically expensive. And let’s be honest—this isn’t the kind of problem anyone wants to foot the bill for.
What’s left is a cautionary tale of Cold War ambitions colliding with modern-day climate realities. The mess at Camp Century reminds us of how human activities leave footprints that last far longer than intended. It’s a sobering example of how yesterday’s decisions can come back to haunt us—and why we need to get serious about climate change and its ripple effects.
Lessons from the Ice
The rediscovery of Camp Century is a chilling (no pun intended) reminder of the lengths we went to during the Cold War. It’s a testament to American ingenuity and determination, sure, but it also highlights the long-lasting consequences of our military endeavors. As we grapple with the potential environmental fallout from this long-forgotten base, we’re forced to confront some tough questions. How do we balance national security with environmental responsibility? What other ticking time bombs might be out there, waiting to be exposed by our changing climate? In the end, Camp Century stands as both a marvel of military engineering and a cautionary tale.
It’s a frozen snapshot of a time when the threat of nuclear war loomed large, and no plan seemed too outlandish in the quest for strategic advantage. As we move forward, let’s hope we can learn from both the ingenuity and the oversights of our past. After all, in the world of military strategy, sometimes the most important lessons come from the plans we bury – both figuratively and literally.









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