Operation Overflight (13 page)

Nor was this all. Not only did they have wreckage from the plane, and contents of the seat pack, including the Russian rubles, gold coins, watches, and rings, they also had my flight bag with my shaving kit, clothing, and wallet.

Carrying that had been a mistake, I realized. It showed how complacent we had become. Thinking only of what I would need
in Norway, I hadn't considered the possibility that I might not reach my destination. Nor had anyone else thought to stop me from carrying it.

I tried to recall exactly what the wallet contained. There was a Defense Department card, identifying me as a civilian employee of the Department of the Air Force, authorizing medical care and PX privileges, and, I was sure, listing my outfit as Detachment 10-10; a NASA certificate (the National Aeronautics and Space Administration had succeeded NACA in 1958); instrument rating cards; U.S. and international driver's licenses; a Selective Service card; a Social Security card; American, German, and Turkish currency; some U.S. postage stamps; pictures of Barbara; and I wasn't sure what else.

The Social Security and Selective Service cards had been issued in Pound, Virginia; the U.S. driver's license in Georgia. Just from these items, they could put together a pretty accurate profile, provided their intelligence didn't already know just about everything there was to know about the U-2 pilots.

I stuck to my story, untenable as it was.

Occasionally I'd glance at the unbarred windows. Always there was someone standing in front of them. When one man left, another replaced him. They were professionals. They knew the way a prisoner thought.

One thing about the questioning especially disturbed me. Again and again they tried to make me admit I was military, not civilian. I wondered why. Did they think the nature of my mission was something other than espionage? By trying to make me admit I was military, were they trying to establish that my purpose was not spying but aggression, that I was in fact the forerunner of an American invasion of Russia?

I now realized why the agency had hired civilians to fly the missions. It was important that I prove to them that I wasn't military.

Pointing out the card which identified me as a civilian employee of the Department of the Air Force didn't help. Ignoring the word “civilian,” they fastened onto “Air Force,” repeating it over and over. This was proof I was military!

Possibly it was a trick. But I thought not. The ramifications of what they were maintaining seemed to be far more dangerous than admitting the truth. I dropped my spur-of-the-moment cover story and told them I was a civilian pilot employed by the CIA.

They seemed aware of the organization. But it didn't change their thinking.

During the questioning there had been a number of incoming
and outgoing telephone calls. Because the tone of voice used was becoming increasingly respectful, I assumed my case was being passed up the chain of command. After one call they stopped the questioning and held a hurried consultation.

One of the men took out a pair of handcuffs; after some additional discussion, however, he put them back in his pocket. Someone brought in a poncholike raincoat, and the interpreter told me to slip it on. Since it wasn't raining, I could only presume it was intended to cover my flight suit and make me less conspicuous.

We went downstairs, got into a large limousine, and drove to an airport, stopping by a gate that led out onto the field. One of the men flashed his identification, the guard opened the gate, and we drove right onto the runway, where a jet passenger plane was waiting. From the car, we ran up the ramp, one of the men prodding me in the back so I would move faster. As soon as we were inside, the door was shut, the ramp pulled away, and the engines started.

Four men got on the plane with me; the interpreter, a major, and two civilians, one with the briefcase that held the poison pin. There were no guards as such, although the major had a pistol strapped on his belt.

I asked the interpreter where we were going; he replied, “Moscow.”

Although we were alone in the front part of the aircraft, with a curtain shutting off our compartment from the one behind it, there was a stewardess, and when she came through the curtain I could see other passengers and presumed this was a regular commercial flight to Moscow which had been held up pending our arrival.

I was offered some fruit and candy, but had no appetite. Two of the men passed the time playing chess. I eyed the major's pistol, but gave up the idea. Even if I got it, and the holster was fastened, I could do nothing but complicate the situation.

There was no questioning on the plane, and I was grateful for that. I needed the time to plan.

It was while we were en route that I decided upon the course of action I would follow in subsequent interrogations. It was entirely my own idea, and I was not at all sure it would work. But I had to try.

Although unsure of the time, I knew that more than nine hours had passed since my takeoff. They would give me another half-hour, because I had carried that much extra fuel, but after that they
would know, beyond a doubt. I could imagine the panic among the crew at Bodö and, after the word was relayed, at Adana.

I wondered how and what they would tell my wife and parents. I had many worries, not only regarding Barbara but also regarding my mother, who had a heart condition.

I was exhausted, more so than I could recall ever having been before, but I couldn't sleep. My wife, my family, the people at Bodö and Adana occupied all my thoughts.

Worrying about them was, I suppose, an escape mechanism, preferable to thoughts of my own predicament.

As for what lay ahead, I knew for sure only one thing. Sooner or later they were going to kill me.

Two

T
he flight from Sverdlovsk to Moscow took over three hours. After the other passengers had deplaned, I was rushed down the ramp into a waiting limousine.

The frenzy of rushing seemed designed less to hurry than to make sure no one got a good look at me.

The automobile, similar to older-model Buicks, had curtains on its windows so that occupants could look out but outsiders couldn't see in. Again a guard sat on either side.

Our route took us from the outskirts into the capital. Reaching downtown Moscow, we pulled up in front of a pair of large iron doors. The driver blew his horn, someone looked out a peephole, there was a consultation, the doors swung open, and we drove into a courtyard. Behind us the doors closed with a solid sound.

I was inside Lubyanka Prison, headquarters of the KGB.

We stopped alongside a guarded door, and I was escorted through it into an elevator.

It was no ordinary elevator, but divided into two compartments; the back and smaller section was a metal cage. Placed inside this, facing forward, the plate-steel doors slid shut inches in front of my face, leaving me alone in the darkness. It was both light-and soundproof. Although I could feel the elevator's movement, I could neither see nor hear the people in the front compartment.

Thus it was possible to transport two prisoners at the same time, without either being aware of the other.

I began to wonder after all if I had really passed the claustrophobia tests at Lovelace.

From the elevator I was taken down a long, brightly lighted hall into a small room, where I was again stripped and thoroughly searched. Only this time my clothes were kept and I was given a double-breasted black suit several sizes too large, underwear, shirt, socks, shoes. The clothing was all old and worn. The pants were beltless, the shoes loafers, without laces, so I'd have nothing with which to hang myself.

From there I was taken to a large room where some dozen people were waiting. A few wore uniforms, but most were in civilian clothes. There was no doubt they were “big shots.” It was interesting how you could distinguish rank, even when never mentioned. I was seated at one end of a long table; a different interpreter and two other men sat alongside. The others remained behind me, out of sight.

There were no harsh light in my eyes, the chair was not uncomfortable, but the interrogation atmosphere was unmistakable.

What was my name? My nationality? My parents' name? My birthplace? What was my military rank? Why had I flown over Russia? On whose orders was I carrying out this act of aggression? What type aircraft had I been flying? Was I alone, or were there other planes? What people was I to contact if I went down? What was my takeoff point? Where had I intended to land? How many times had I flown over Russia?

The tactic I had decided upon was simple. When questioned, I would tell them the truth.

Up to a point. And with definite limitations.

Should the question concern something I was sure they already knew (such as my route, which was on the maps), or something they could easily find out (such as the commanding officer of Detachment 10-10), I would tell them the truth. Establishing a foundation of truthfulness on little things, I could risk lying on the big ones.

The limitations were also important. Although I was prepared to admit having made a number of border-surveillance flights, which were not illegal, I intended to maintain this was my first overflight. If I could convince them of this, vast areas of questioning would be cut off: where the other flights had originated, how many there had been, where they had gone, their intelligence objectives. As a further limitation, I decided to stress, in whatever ways I could, that I was only a pilot, not an intelligence agent or spy, paid only to fly a plane along a certain route, flipping switches on and off at points designated on the map; that I was unfamiliar with the
special equipment carried in the plane; nor had I ever been told the intelligence results of my border flights.

As for the “special” missions, I had no intention of mentioning them, knowing that this information could be far more damaging to the United States than any other I possessed.

There was no denying they had captured a U-2 pilot. This didn't mean he had to be particularly knowledgeable or experienced.

My tactics were improvised. No one had briefed me on how to handle such a situation. And I was not at all sure they would work. But I had to try. Too much was at stake to do otherwise.

“Why was this flight flown so close to the Summit meetings? Was this a deliberate attempt to sabotage the talks?”

That caught me off guard. The Summit hadn't even crossed my mind.

I replied that I was sure the flight had nothing to do with the Summit, that had the United States wanted to wreck the talks they needed only not to show up, that sending an airplane over Russia was certainly a roundabout method.

From the way they repeatedly returned to that question, it was obvious someone was obsessed with this explanation. I could make a fairly good guess who.

They refused to believe this was not one of the purposes of the flight.

Just as they refused to believe I was not military.

“At what altitude were you flying when your flight was terminated?”

This was, as far as I was concerned, one of the most important questions they could ask. Having already given it a great deal of thought, I replied, “At maximum altitude for the plane, sixty-eight thousand feet.”

This was not one, but two, lies.

The maximum altitude of the U-2 was highly relative. Stripped down, it could reach heights greatly different from those it reached when it carried a variety of equipment and a full fuel load. Sixtyeight thousand feet was not the maximum altitude for the plane in either case.

Nor was it the altitude at which I had been flying during this particular flight.

It was an arbitrary figure I had chosen, close enough to my actual altitude to be credible, I hoped; far enough away so that if the overflights continued, and the Russians used it as a setting for their missiles, they would miss their targets.

This was my greatest fear: that we might resume the flights.

Following the crash of the C-130 in 1958, the Communists had returned the bodies of six men. There had been no mention of the eleven others known to be aboard.

The United States knew the C-130 had been shot down, but they would not necessarily know what had happened to me. Should the Russians choose to say nothing, the agency might well conclude I had developed engine trouble or, considering number 360's fuel-tank problem, run out of fuel and crashed unnoticed in an isolated area.

After a time, hearing nothing, they might well resume the overflights.

Should they do so, I did not want my fellow pilots to end up as I did.

It was important that they believe me. This was the main reason I decided to answer their questions rather than remain silent. Despite instructions of the intelligence officer (“You may tell them everything because they're going to get it out of you anyway”), all my service training inclined me toward silence.

Yet, as I was well aware, it was a dangerous gamble. It was possible their intelligence had already ferreted out the exact altitude. I was inclined to doubt this: this was one of the most closely guarded secrets of the U-2. Even more dangerous were their radar plots. Everything depended on their accuracy, or rather, lack of it. Previously we had felt their height-finding radar was inaccurate at the altitudes at which we were flying. If we were wrong, they would quickly pinpoint the lie.

The alternative made the risk imperative.

My interrogators were, unfortunately, professionals. From their set expressions I couldn't tell whether they believed me or not.

I was exhausted. As the questioning continued, I had to watch my answers, weighing each carefully to make sure not to make a slip. Just the use of the plural rather than the singular—“overflights” instead of “overflight”—could give away everything.

The biggest problem with lying, I realized, is that you have to remember your lies.

Yet I discovered something else that worked to my favor. Each question and each answer had to be translated. And this not only eliminated the possibility of a barrage of rapid-fire questions, it also gave me extra time, time in which to think, to try to determine the direction of the line of questioning and, if possible, prepare myself.