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As soon as the landing was confirmed, Operation Morning Light, as it was christened, was swiftly launched. The U.S. dispatched a high-flying U-2 and a large KC-135, both carrying radiation sensors, to check for high-altitude radiation in the Canadian wilderness. A 22-man Canadian nuclear-accident support team, equipped with radiation-proof suits and ready to collect any satellite debris on the ground, flew from Edmonton to Yellowknife. A 44-man team of U.S. military technicians arrived from Andrews Air Force Base and Nellis Air Force Base.
After two days of searching, a low-flying joint U.S.-Canadian "sniffer" plane detected what Canadian National Defense Minister Barnett Danson called "an extremely dangerous" level of radiation. A U.S. intelligence official told TIME Correspondent Jerry Hannifin: "Obviously, some part of the satellite survived the burnout to hit the ground."
But next day Admiral R.H. Falls, chief of the Canadian Defense Staff, confused matters by announcing that the high radiation reading had not been confirmed by other aircraft and might, in fact, have been the result of a malfunction in the measuring equipment. "It is unlikely there is anything on the ground," he said about the Soviet reactor. That was puzzling, since the chief of the crew manning the equipment on the original sniffer plane was a U.S. Air Force specialist who is a highly respected nuclear physicist and unlikely to be confused by false sensor readings. Were the Canadians and Americans trying to bluff the Russians into thinking that their spacecraft had totally disintegrated? No one on the outside could be sure. The search for localized radiation continued into the weekend.
Understandably, Soviet officials informed both Washington and Ottawa that they would be more than willing to join the search. U.S. officials properly let the Canadians deal with the offer—and Trudeau obviously was in no hurry to accept Russian help. Plainly, the U.S. and Canadians wanted some time to study any recovered fragments. Western scientists could learn a lot about Soviet space engineering, its radar capability, and just how close the Russian spy satellites had come to being able to distinguish the movement of U.S. submarines in the oceans' depths.
As the search for the remains of the Russian satellite continued, much of the public fear over widespread radiation dangers dissipated. The Soviet nuclear package actually packed a punch equivalent to about 100,000 tons of TNT—a puny power in comparison with modern nuclear weapons. Yet it is also five times the explosive force dropped on Hiroshima. While a full explosion of the uranium 235 seemed technically impossible, the worst-case scenario of radiation damage was frightening. If Cosmos 954 had somehow survived re-entry and released all of its radiation in a city like New York, the death and disabling effect could easily have devastated an acre or more.
U.S. space experts contend that their nuclear power packages provide heavy protection against such disaster because they are encased in armor designed to survive both re-entry and impact with the earth. They can sometimes be recovered intact. And despite the tremendous interest in the fall of Cosmos 954, there have been at least six previous nuclear space accidents without known harm.