Operation Overflight (15 page)

When the guards and the little old lady arrived with the tea, I was already up and dressed. I had been anticipating their arrival, eagerly awaiting it, in fact.

She greated me with
“Zdravstvuite”
, I replied with “Good morning.” Pointing to the tea kettle, I asked what it was called, managing to make myself understood. It was a
chuenek
.

“Chaenek,” I repeated.

I'd had my first lesson in Russian.

I felt better than the night before. Whether intentional or not—and I felt sure everything my captors did was for a purpose—leaving me alone had a definite psychological effect. It made me anxious to talk to someone, anyone. I'd have to guard against this, I realized.

But it was, in a way, an unnecessary worry. For that morning, May 3, the interrogations began in earnest. Morning, afternoon, evening, averaging eleven hours per day, seven days per week, they were to continue without pause for nineteen days, then, after a single day's recess, start all over again.

The indecision as to my fate I had sensed on the second day was gone now. As was the friendliness. From this point on everything was quite businesslike, with one objective, to get as much information as possible from the prisoner.

Although the cast occasionally varied, technical experts sometimes sitting in with questions of their own, five people were usually present at the interrogations:

A stenographer
. I had expected them to tape-record the sessions. Instead, each word was laboriously transcribed, typed in Russian, then, later, translated and retyped in English. Not too surprisingly, in the process words and phrases changed, whole sentences got lost, meanings distorted. In some instances, intentionally. Thus, questioned about the Defense Department certificate in my wallet and asked if this meant I was an Air Force pilot, my reply, “It means that I was a civilian employee of the Department of the Air Force,” became in transcript, “It means that I served in the United States Air Force as a civilian.” A small but quite important change.

The interpreter
. In his mid-thirties, only he “appeared” to know English. I was never sure about the others.

Two majors
, Kusmin and Vasaelliev. Both about thirty, my age, which I suppose was more than coincidence. They handled the bulk of the questioning, working as a carefully rehearsed team. I'd read in detective stories of how American policemen would sometimes grill a suspect, utilizing a Mutt and Jeff routine. While one would be impatient and threatening, his partner would be sympathetic and kind, the prisoner naturally hating the former, but warming to and cooperating with the latter. Although I recognized the tactic, this didn't keep me from succumbing to it, halfway. I hated Major Vasaelliev. But, quite aware that his purpose was exactly the same, I didn't allow myself the luxury of thinking Major Kusmin meant me well.

A colonel
. At one point I asked if I could have an attorney present during the questioning. In the United States, I noted, an accused person has that right. The interpreter had pointed to the colonel. As a representative of the prosecutor's office, he was present to see that the interrogation proceeded in accordance with the law. Supposedly an observer, the colonel frequently asked questions himself, including some of the most incriminating. Later, examining transcripts of the interrogations, I would find every one of his questions attributed to someone else.

Although present during the first two interrogations, Rudenko was absent from most of those which followed. During one session, which was conducted by a general rather than the two majors, a short, thin, chain-smoking man of about forty monitored the proceedings. Later I learned his name. He was Aleksandr N. Shelepin, his official title chairman of the State Security Committee under the Council of Ministers of the USSR, or head of the KGB.

(Shelepin was head of the KGB from 1958 to 1961, at which time he was elevated to the Presidium. A Khrushchev protégé and one of the premier's most trusted advisers, later he would betray him, helping arrange his downfall.)

At what altitude was the U-2 flying when the rocket hit you?

About sixty-eight thousand feet, but I'm not sure it did hit me.

It could have been a near-miss.

You were hit on the very first shot. You didn't see any other rockets, did you?

No, but then neither did I see this one.

How many flights have you made over Russia?

This was my first.

How many?

Just one.

What is your unit called?

Detachment 10-10.

Where is it based?

Incirlik.

Where is Incirlik?

Adana, Turkey.

How many U-2s are there at Incirlik?

Four or five.

How many U-2 pilots are stationed there?

Seven.

What are their names?

I'm not going to tell you that.

We know them anyway, so you might as well tell us.

Fine, if you already know them, then there's no need for me to tell you.

Did any high-ranking officials ever visit Incirlik?

Occasionally.

Who were they?

General Thomas D. White was one.

Who is he?

I think he's Chief of Staff of the United States Air Force.

Did he visit your detachment?

No, only the base.

Who were the others?

General Frank F. Everest, Commander-in-Chief of the United States Air Force in Europe.

The others?

I can't remember anyone else.

Think. Who else?

Cardinal Spellman.

Did he visit your detachment?

No, neither White nor Spellman did. They only visited the base.

What is the name of the commanding officer of Detachment 10-10?

Colonel Shelton.

Who ordered you to make this flight?

Colonel Shelton.

Who was in charge of planning such flights?

All I know about is the one flight I took. Colonel Shelton handled that.

Who briefed you?

Colonel Shelton.

Who marked the route you were to follow on the maps?

Our navigator.

What was his name?

Major Dulak.

How many navigators are there in the detachment?

Just one.

How many pilots?

Seven.

What are their names?

I told you I wasn't going to answer that.

Where did you learn to fly the U-2?

In the United States.

Where in the United States?

A base on the West Coast.

What is it called?

Watertown.

Who was in charge of your training?

A Colonel Perry.

When did you first arrive at Incirlik?

In 1956.

Who was your commanding officer then?

The same Colonel Perry.

What were the names of your other commanding officers?

The only other one I can remember was a Colonel Beerli.

What is this piece of equipment? What does it do?

I don't know. I told you the pilots were never shown the equipment. (It was part of the radar recording apparatus.)

You said that the purpose of your flight was intelligence. Now—

No. I didn't say that. I said I
presumed
that was its purpose. As far as my own knowledge goes, I don't
know
that to be the case.

You could surely guess?

Yes, I could. But it would be only a guess.

When you were hit by the rocket, did you radio your base and tell them you were bailing out?

I don't intend to answer that question.

Why not?

Because I don't think it to my advantage to do so.

Under Soviet law, complete cooperation, which includes answering all questions truthfully, can be an important factor in mitigating punishment.

That may be so. But I still refuse to answer.

What are the names of the other pilots at Incirlik?

(Silence.)

How many flights have you made over the Soviet Union?

This was my first and, presumably, my last.

The detachment number appeared on my identification; Incirlik was shown on my maps, as well as listed on the U-2 radio channelization chart in the aircraft. The visits of generals White and Everest were parts of well-publicized European base-inspection tours, Cardinal Spellman's visit only a stop on his regular Christmas tour—all had been written up in
Stars and Stripes
. Other visitors, unpublicized and of far more interest to the Russians, I left unmentioned. NACA had issued a press release identifying Watertown; it was no longer in use as a training base. As for Detachment 10-10's commanders, I presumed it would be relatively easy for the Russians to discover their names, if their intelligence didn't already know them. By crediting each with far more duties than he was actually responsible for—training, planning, operations, intelligence, etc.—I was able to avoid revealing the names of more than a dozen others. Nor was Major Dulak the only navigator.

I didn't want to mention any names. If I had to do so, to make my story seem truthful, I wanted them to be as few as possible.

As for the number of U-2s at Incirlik, I couldn't be sure whether they had the base under surveillance. The number I chose was the number they were likely to see should this be the case. It was not exact. Nor was the number of pilots in the detachment.

Toward the end of the evening interrogation session on May 3, the interpreter asked me why I wasn't eating. I told him I simply had no appetite. Could they get some other food? he asked. They would order anything I wanted, if I would just eat it.

Although not interested in food, I told him I would like something to read.

Noting that there were a number of English books available in Moscow University library, he asked what I wanted.

A Bible, I answered, curious as to whether they would supply it.

He promised to try to obtain one. In the meantime, he had some paperback mysteries, his own personal collection, also a copy of
Gone with the Wind
. He could lend me these if I was interested.

I was, definitely.

Deciding to tempt my luck, I also asked if I could have some
paper and a pencil. After consulting with the majors, he gave them to me, without asking why I wanted them.

That night I made a calendar. I don't know why—I was not serving out a sentence; on the contrary, each day I checked off might well be my last—but it seemed important to know what day it was. It was a small link with the outside world. One of the only ones I had.

“Yesterday you refused to tell us whether you had radioed your base, reporting you were bailing out. We didn't press you for an answer then, wanting to give you time to consider the benefits of complete cooperation. But you must tell us now.”

“I still refuse to do so.”

My reasoning was thus: If the Russians thought the United States already knew I had bailed out and was probably alive, they would be much more likely to release the news of my capture than if they were positive my fate was unknown.

On the other hand, I was unsure whether the radio had survived the crash. If it had, by examining it their experts could determine that its maximum range was three to four hundred miles.

It seemed definitely to my advantage to refuse to answer either way.

I wanted my presence here known. I presumed that when I failed to reach Bodö my wife and parents would be notified that I was missing on a flight. I was desperately afraid that, worrying about me, my mother would have a heart attack. Knowing that I was alive and well, even though in a Russian prison, would be easier on her, I felt, than not knowing. The same would be true of Barbara.

Neither way would be easy, but I was powerless to do anything about that.

Just as I had loaded Colonel Shelton with more chores than he could possibly have handled, so did I do the same with “Collins,” who became my only CIA contact, something the Russians were inclined to believe, since in their own espionage apparatuses, rarely did an agent know more than one immediate superior.

Actually, in four years I had met a great many agency people, including some of the top planners of the U-2 program, such as Richard M. Bissell, deputy director of the CIA for plans, one of the unmentioned visitors to Detachment 10-10.

By citing Collins, however, I had another, far more important purpose.

“Collins” was a pseudonym. I also knew Collins' real name. And Collins knew I knew it, as did others in the agency.

If the Russians released a story linking me to the CIA, I could be fairly sure the name of my contact would be mentioned. That I referred to him as “Collins,” and not by his actual name, should alert him, and the agency, to the fact that I wasn't telling everything.

It had to. It was, as far as I could see, the only way I had of getting the message through.

Asked the time of my takeoff from Peshawar, I told them, 0626 local time. It was on my flight log.

Asked the air speed of the U-2, I told them that, also. On this particular flight it averaged about four hundred miles per hour.

Knowing the time and place of my takeoff, the time and place my flight terminated, and the exact number of miles in between the two points, a child could have computed it.

On all such easily traceable details, I was exact.

Asked questions I felt I could safely answer truthfully, I did so. But I didn't volunteer information. There were some things about the aircraft they could learn neither from the wreckage nor from the records of this particular flight. I had no intention of supplying them. Though they knew from the notation on my flight log that takeoff had been delayed one-half hour, I didn't volunteer the reason: that we were awaiting White House approval. One of the last things I wanted to do was give the impression the President himself knew and approved of the overflights. Nor when they were laboring under a misapprehension did I go out of my way to correct it. For example, realizing they had jumped to the conclusion that all our flights out of Pakistan had been made from Peshawar, I saw no reason to recall Lahore.