Operation Overflight (9 page)

I gave the matter much thought. It seemed to me that many of Barbara's and my problems could be attributed to long separations. Perhaps were we together we could still salvage our marriage. We
could at least give it one more try. I did not believe in divorce—it seemed like giving up.

After taking another physical at Lovelace, I renewed my contract and brought Barbara back to Adana in time to celebrate Christmas in Turkey.

With the arrival of the wives, social life at Incirlik improved immeasurably, as did the food.

The married couples rented houses in town. Parties were frequent. Because the job was not without its tensions, when we got the chance to relax we made the most of it. This included considerable drinking. Enjoying liquor, I did my share. Barbara, I soon realized, was doing more than hers. There were arguments, incidents. Not really facing up to the fact that we had problems, I convinced myself that once she adjusted to the changed way of life, things would go more smoothly.

Because there was little to do in Turkey, the R&R leaves became much-anticipated events. We had a C-54 transport to bring in supplies from Germany. Arrangements were made for it to drop off families there one week, pick them up the next. On occasion, shopping-sight-seeing trips were set up for the wives, to Athens, Beirut, Paris, Naples. Many of the pilots bought cars and had them shipped to Adana. The detachment obtained a small boat with outboard engine. There was a reservoir not too far away. To our activities we added water skiing. Also, on one of our trips to Germany, we acquired a German shepherd, whom we named Eck. With the growing number of conflicts in the Middle East—Suez in 1956, Lebanon in 1958—Incirlik became strategically important, as both a military base and a staging area. With the increase in permanent military personnel stationed there, a few more “creature comforts” were added, including an officers' club, which, while primitive compared to those on most modern bases, added to our social life.

The pilots made a conscious effort to separate “squadron business” from their personal lives. While it's possible some told their wives what they were actually doing, I'm inclined to doubt it. Overriding the question of security was one other consideration: we didn't want our wives to worry; had they known what we were doing, they would have done so.

Whether any of them suspected is, of course, another matter. As intelligence gatherers, wives rival anything ever dreamed up by the agency or the KGB.

No secret can be kept indefinitely. Despite elaborate security measures, that of the U-2 was leaking out bit by bit.

Although there had been veiled references to the U-2's “other uses” by aviation writers in several American newspapers—including
The Los Angeles Times
and the New York
Journal American
—the most startling disclosure appeared in one of the most unlikely places.
Model Airplane News
, in its March, 1958, issue, carried a short article on the aircraft, complete with drawings. The article observed: “An unconfirmed rumor says that U-2s are flying across the Iron Curtain taking aerial photographs.”

We also learned, through intelligence, that
Soviet Aviation
, official newspaper of the Red Air Force, had published a series of articles mentioning the U-2. They had dubbed it “the black lady of espionage.” Although much of the information in the articles was incorrect or outdated—for example, the statement that U-2s were flying out of Wiesbaden—we weren't lulled into any false sense of security.

The U-2 was a distinctive aircraft, spectacular in its takeoffs, like none other in the air. The overflight program was two years old; in addition to the two main bases, Adana and Atsugi, U-2s were also, on occasion, flying out of bases all around the globe.

Such flights couldn't long escape notice.

How much did the Russians actually know about our outfit, Detachment 10-10? Talking it over with the intelligence officer we concluded that they probably knew a great deal. It was an unusual unit, set off by itself, flying an easily identifiable aircraft. Spying was an ancient, if not honorable, profession in Turkey. If Russian intelligence was as good as our own intelligence repeatedly told us it was, it seemed likely they not only knew how many planes we had but how many pilots, plus our names.

Of one thing we were sure. There was no longer any doubt they knew about the overflights. Our evidence of this was of the most conclusive kind. Although none of the pilots had actually seen them, electronic equipment on returning U-2s indicated the Russians were now sending up rockets attempting to bring us down.

In the fall of 1958, another country—knowingly or otherwise—became involved in the U-2 program.

That September, the Soviet Union, after a six-month suspension, resumed nuclear testing, with several large detonations north of the Arctic Circle. Flying out of Bodö, Norway, U-2s collected atomic samples and other data on the tests. We remained in Bodö for
about three weeks; grounded by the weather much of the time, we got in a lot of fishing. We presumed—strictly presumption—that some understanding had been reached with the Norwegian government regarding our presence there. A Norwegian military officer acted as our liaison. Similar arrangements pertained in Pakistan.

To my knowledge no intentional overflights were made from Norway. On returning a U-2 to Adana, one pilot did accidentally stray over the border into the USSR. Recrossing uneventfully, he was more fortunate than two U.S. Air Force planes that earlier made the same mistake.

In June a C-118 transport, hauling freight from Turkey to Iran, had inadvertently crossed into Soviet Armenia during a bad storm and was shot down. The nine crew members, who had escaped injury in the crash, were released by the Russians little more than a week later. According to a strongly worded U.S. State Department protest, Russian MIGs had continued firing at the plane even when it was in flames and trying to land. Some crewmen had been badly beaten by the peasants who captured them, and one was almost lynched from a telephone pole before police rescued him from the irate mob.

Early in September another unarmed transport plane, this one a turboprop C-130, also crossed over into Soviet Armenia from Turkey and was shot down. This time the Russians returned the bodies of six crewmen, but ignored inquiries as to the fate of the other eleven men aboard.

The significance of these incidents wasn't lost on us.

At our altitude we weren't too worried about MIGs, but we were beginning to be concerned about SAMs, surface-to-air-missiles.

By this time a few of the “unknowns” were disappearing from U-2 overflights.

We now knew that the Russians were radar-tracking at least some of our flights; it was possible that they had been doing so from the start. Equipment on board recorded their signals; from their strength it was possible to tell whether they were “painting,” that is tracking the flight. However, this could only be determined after returning to base and studying transcriptions. There was still no way, while in flight, to know for sure.

We also knew that SAMs were being fired at us, that some were uncomfortably close to our altitude. But we knew too that the Russians had a control problem in their guidance system. Because of the speed of the missile, and the extremely thin atmosphere, it
was almost impossible to make a correction. This did not eliminate the possibility of a lucky hit. In our navigation we were careful to ensure our routes circumvented known SAM sites.

We were concerned, but not greatly. In retrospect—from which everything always seems crystal clear—we should have been damn worried. The truth is, we were growing complacent.

As defense against air-to-air missiles, those fired from another aircraft, a new piece of equipment called a “granger” was installed in the tail. As explained to us, should an aircraft lock onto a U-2 with his radar and launch a missile, the granger would send out a faulty signal to break his radar lock. Whether it actually did this or not, we had no way of knowing, since we had never been threatened by aircraft.

The U-2 had a problem shared by many Americans. It was overweight. From the day of its birth, it had been gaining extra pounds, each new piece of equipment adding more, at the same time lowering the altitude at which the plane could fly.

In 1959 a more powerful engine was developed to compensate for this extra weight, lifting us back into the higher altitudes. One of the first U-2s so adapted was sent to Atsugi, where it promptly made its share of unwanted headlines.

As flying-safety officer for the detachment, I received reports on all U-2 accidents around the world, a great many of which were never publicized. By this time, U-2s had made flights not only from Turkey and Japan but also from California, Nevada, Alaska, Texas, New York, Brazil, Okinawa, Formosa, the Philippines, Australia, England, West Germany, Norway and Pakistan. Most of these, of course, were not overflights, but for collection of weather data and atomic sampling.

The Japan incident, in September, 1959, was much too well publicized. It especially interested me because the plane, number 360, had one of the new engines. Also it had set two new records, on the same day: it had flown the highest, and the lowest, any U-2 had ever flown.

Rumor had the accident as pilot error, or, to be more precise, pilot goof. Testing the new engine, he had decided to see if he could set a new altitude record. He did. He also used up more fuel than anticipated. Less than ten miles south of Atsugi he ran out of fuel and was forced to make an emergency landing at a glider-club strip.

Mired deep in mud, he set his second record that day: having flown the U-2 lower than anyone else in history.

Remaining in the cockpit, he radioed the base for assistance. Meantime, the Japanese, with their ever-present cameras, had surrounded the plane, happily taking pictures. When U.S. military police arrived, they ordered them away at gunpoint, cordoning off the area.

It was not exactly the way to avoid publicity. Japanese newspapers and magazines picked up the story and the pictures, their editorials asking why, if the U-2 was being used strictly for weather research, it bore no identification marks and occasioned such extreme security.

Still, it was a minor incident, or seemed so at the time.

I had no idea then how well I would come to know plane number 360. Nor did anyone foresee the kind of headlines it would soon make.

The original concept of Operation Overflight had been short-term, something less than the eighteen months called for in our contracts.

In November, 1957, we had extended for another year.

We had done the same in November, 1958, and 1959

In the interim, the Russians had made spectacular strides in missile and space development.

We could not shake the feeling that time was catching up with us.

Not long after the installation of the granger, the intelligence officer introduced us to another new piece of “equipment.”

We couldn't figure it out. It looked like a good-luck charm. It seemed to be an ordinary silver dollar, with a metal loop at one end so it could be fastened onto a key chain or a chain around the neck.

Obviously enjoying our puzzlement, he unscrewed the loop. Inside the dollar was what appeared to be an ordinary straight pin. But this too wasn't what it seemed. Looking at it more closely, we could see the body of the pin to be a sheath not fitting quite tightly against the head. Pulling this off, it became a thin needle, only again not an ordinary needle. Toward the end there were grooves. Inside the grooves was a sticky brown substance.

It was curare, the intelligence officer explained. Just one prick would suffice.

From now on, we could carry this, if we wanted to, instead of cyanide.

The majority of pilots had decided, individually, against carrying cyanide. I had never carried it.

But we were fascinated with the dollar-pin-needle device. Passing it around, quite carefully, leaving the needle in the sheath, we each examined it. It was ingenious. Who would ever think of looking inside a silver dollar for something like this?

We were again champing at the bit. Most of 1958, all of 1959, and thus far in I960, there had been a drastic reduction in the number of overflights. Months would pass without one. Although never told the reason for the severe cutback, we presumed it was because of the political climate. We were quite capable of making many more flights than was the case, in fact were anxious to do so. We were not inactive; we continued to make border-surveillance missions, and the “special” missions, but were definitely restive. The longer the layoff, the greater the tension. The fewer the overflights, the more apprehensive we became about the next one.

Then, suddenly, after a long pause, two flights were scheduled for the same month, April, I960.

I was to be “backup” on the first and to fly the second.

Use of a backup, or substitute, pilot was a comparatively recent change in procedure, occurring after we had started making overflights from bases other than Incirlik. Along with the lead pilot, the backup pilot went through all preflight stages, from briefings up to and including prebreathing. Should the lead pilot have a heart attack (or, considering the food, a much more common occurrence, the GIs), the backup could take over.

Some accounts, apparently confused over the role of the backup, state that on each overflight two U-2s would take off simultaneously, one to fly along the border, throwing off Russian radar, while the other made the actual mission. To my knowledge, this was never done, nor probably was it ever considered, since Russian radar was quite capable of picking up more than one plane at a time.

The backup pilot was simply a substitute for the lead pilot in the event he was unable to fly.

It was some weeks prior to the first April flight, when we were studying routes, that I finally asked the question.

It had been put off much too long. There had been no mention of it in our contracts. It had never been brought up in our briefings.
We had never discussed it among ourselves. Yet I knew we had thought about it—or, at least, I knew one pilot had.