Operation Overflight (8 page)

And it would remain throughout this and all other overflights.

By the time you returned to the base you were physically and emotionally exhausted. You told yourself it was because you had been wearing your helmet and breathing pure oxygen for twelve hours, because you had been in a tight-fitting suit in a cramped cockpit for ten.

But that wasn't all of it.

As I was soon to learn, tension was not the exclusive property of those actually making the overflights. Each time a plane was out, there was a changed feeling in the squadron. The personnel
went about their duties as usual, but with less comment. The good-natured joshing vanished, along with the horseplay. Remarks were spare, clipped. It was quieter. Everyone was waiting. As the hours passed, the silent tension increased. Navigation on the U-2 was so exact that you knew, almost to the minute, where the plane should be, could time almost exactly when it should reappear on the radar screen. But this only made the waiting, especially during the last minutes, more intense.

The returning pilot got no clue of this, not until the next time, when he was among those waiting.

The moment he touched down, the squadron was alive with activity.

While the pilot was being debriefed, equipment was unloaded, film and recording tape rushed to the photo lab. Once the film was developed, a copy was made of the negatives. The recording tape was also reproduced. One set of films and tapes was then flown to the United States for study.

The duplication was essential; if the courier aircraft went down, the mission itself would not have been wasted.

Occasionally pilots were shown the films, but not often. Nor were we usually told how important a specific mission had been. But there were indications. When the agency couldn't wait for the transfer of films to Washington, but flew photo interpreters over to examine them the moment they were processed, we knew they were looking for something out of the ordinary. When, at a later date, the “big wigs”—both military and civilian—began visiting the base, they were less careful than agency personnel in hiding their enthusiasms. From their reactions we could often tell when there had been a major breakthrough.

One occurred late in 1956, although it wasn't until later that we were filled in on its ramifications.

In the United States a battle had long raged in military and congressional circles over how much of our defense effort should be allotted to bombers, how much to missiles. It was not only a matter of “keeping up with Russia” in retaliatory strength; also at stake was whether our defenses were or were not geared to the actual threat.

There was considerable evidence the Russians had chosen to concentrate on production of heavy bombers, in particular one similar to the U.S. B-52. On Soviet Aviation Day in July, 1955, a
mammoth air spectacular had been staged over Moscow. On a “flyby,” flight after flight of these planes had passed over the reviewing stand, in numbers far greater than our intelligence had believed existed. From other intelligence sources throughout Russia came supporting evidence, reports of a squadron sighted here, another there.

The U-2s revealed this “bomber buildup” for what it was, an elaborate hoax, one which had already cost the United States millions of dollars and could conceivably in time have cost millions of lives.

There was only one squadron of these planes, reappearing periodically in those places Westerners were most likely to spot them. As for the fly-by, it was now surmised that having once passed overhead, the same planes had flown out of sight, circled, and returned again and again.

The U-2s revealed more than this. Evidence accumulated proved that while the United States was busily manufacturing bombers, the Russians had shifted their major emphasis to missiles. And from photographs of their launching sites and other data, such as that picked up on the electronic surveillance flights, U.S. intelligence was able to determine how far Soviet technology had progressed in both missile development and production.

Bit by bit, mission after mission, the U-2s were penetrating, and dissipating, a cloud of ignorance which had for decades made the Soviet Union a dark and shadowy land, revealing for the first time a composite picture of military Russia, complete to airfields, atomic production sites, power plants, oil-storage depots, submarine yards, arsenals, railroads, missile factories, launch sites, radar installations, industrial complexes, antiaircraft defenses. Much later,
The New York Times
would call the U-2 overflights “the most successful reconnaissance, espionage project in history,” while Allen Dulles, head of the Central Intelligence Agency during this period, would observe that the U-2 “could collect information with more speed, accuracy, and dependability than could any agent on the ground. In a sense, its feats could be equaled only by the acquisition of technical documents directly from Soviet offices and laboratories. The U-2 marked a new high, in more ways than one, in the scientific collection of intelligence.”

The U-2 pilots were denied this broad overview. We caught only glimpses.

That was enough, however, to convince us of the importance of what we were doing.

And to make us aware of the risks involved.

Still no one asked the big question.

Returning from one of the “special” missions, I was handed a message from Colonel Perry. Exhausted, still mentally involved in the flight just finished, I couldn't understand it, even after reading it several times.

The colonel explained it to me, his tone something less than happy.

“Your wife called the Washington number you gave her, Powers. To tell us she's on her way to Athens, determined to see you.”

The agency didn't want her in the vicinity. But they couldn't order her to return home. I'd have to persuade her.

But Barbara had already made up her mind and wasn't about to change it. She was going to stay in Athens and get a job. Nothing I could say would dissuade her.

And, I must admit, I didn't try very hard. At this time we were not at all sure the overflight program would last the full eighteen months. There was the possibility we would be returning to the United States much sooner. In the interim, although I was quite aware it would displease the agency, I couldn't see any good reason why she shouldn't stay.

One thing bothered me, though: Barbara was given to impetuous acts. When she wanted to do something, she did it, regardless of consequences. In the States, living with her mother, there had been some check on her wilder impulses. In Athens, away from home for the first time, and separated from me except for occasional visits, she would be on her own. Yet there was the possibility this was just what she needed, to be out from under the parental roof, where she could learn self-control.

We rented an apartment in Athens. She found a steno-clerk job in one of the Air Force offices. And by arranging my off-duty time, I was able to fly over and be with her almost every other weekend.

Although Operation Overflight settled into an established routine, the flights themselves never became routine.

After a while, for example, there was no need to mention in briefings that under no circumstances was radio contact to be attempted while over “forbidden territory,” or that in the event of a bail-out or forced landing the pilot should do everything he could to see that the aircraft was not captured intact. Since we all knew this, we could take such things for granted and eliminate mention
of them from the briefings, instead concentrating on the most important thing, navigation. The procedures became familiar; as for the flights, however, each was new.

There were no “milk runs.” Although there were return flights to a few specific targets, because of continuing interest in what was happening there, the route was changed each time. We did not believe the Russians yet had the capability of shooting us down; the easiest way to find out, however, would have been to make the same trip twice. We avoided any semblance of establishing a pattern. We went out of our way to avoid passing over known radar or antiaircraft installations. But in so doing we also ran another risk, inadvertently passing over installations which intelligence knew nothing about.

It was only a matter of time, we knew, before Russia would have the capability. The only question was when.

Because this risk existed on every flight, the overflights never became “old hat.”

Whether awaiting its return, or flying it, we sweated each overflight.

Three

D
uring 1957 there was a step-up in activity in the U-2 program.

After the third and last class completed its training at Watertown, a new U-2 base was opened, this one in the Far East, at Atsugi, fifteen miles west of Yokohama, Japan.

Having received too much attention at Wiesbaden, the first U-2 group moved to a more isolated location, Giebelstadt.

It wasn't isolated enough.

On takeoff, pilots frequently noticed a long, black limousine parked at the end of the runway. Checking license plates, agency security discovered it was registered by one of the Iron Curtain embassies.

Giebelstadt had been “compromised.” Shortly afterward, the first and second U-2 groups combined, at Adana. Although special flights were to continue to be made from West German bases, major emphasis in Europe now shifted to Turkey and its environs. By this time we were flying not only out of Adana but also, on occasion, from two bases in Pakistan: Lahore and Peshawar. There were two major reasons for the change. Being closer to targets in the Soviet Union in which we were most interested, this cut down flying
time and fuel consumption. And, because of the ruggedness of the terrain, with its fierce mountains, it was one of the least defended portions of the Soviet border, decreasing odds on flights being spotted.

During 1957 there were modifications of the plane. Its silver coloration was changed to blue-black, making it even harder to spot when in flight. And an ejection seat was installed. Prior to this time, there had been few successful bail-outs from the U-2. If the plane became disabled and went into a spin, the
g
forces pinned the pilot in the cockpit, making it extremely difficult for him to climb out. The ejection seat was supposed to remedy this hazard.

It merely substituted another.

It was discovered that at high altitudes the plastic canopy over the cockpit, normally broken by the top of the seat when it ejected, froze and became like steel. Tragically, this wasn't discovered until a pilot tried to escape using the ejection seat. Though he had hit the canopy with tremendous force, it hadn't budged. He went down with the plane.

Following this, the explosive charge was increased and sharp breaker points installed on top of the seat, positioned in order to hit the canopy at its points of greatest stress, causing it to shatter.

Like many another pilot, I remained leery, hating to ride in a plane with an ejection seat. It was comparable to sitting on a loaded shotgun. There had been instances, though not yet in the U-2, where, because of some mechanical failure, pilots had been ejected while their planes were taking off, landing, or still aground.

There was a “safety pin” to keep the seat from ejecting. Pilots were supposed to remove this before takeoff. I never did, always waiting until reaching an altitude where I knew the chute had some chance to open.

Today successful ejections may be made from most aircraft while still on the ground. This was not the case during the period of Operation Overflight. Any altitude below two thousand feet was considered marginal.

In one respect our luck held. There were no incidents over Russia, not even a close call.

The year 1957 brought more changes, ramifications of which are still felt.

On August 26 the Soviet Union announced it had launched its first successful intercontinental ballistic missile, or ICBM.

On September 4 a new age opened with the successful orbiting of the first space satellite, Sputnik.

One month later, less one day, Sputnik II was in orbit, with the dog Laika aboard.

Russia was busy. So were the U-2s. With these events, the overflights gained a new and far greater importance. That the government of the United States was pleased with our efforts became evident when we were told that, although civilians, each of us had been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross, our military records having been changed to show the award.

Another significant event during this period was a revision of attitude toward the aircraft itself. By now it was apparent the engineers had badly misjudged the reliability of the U-2. It had proven to be an extremely capable plane, able to withstand a great deal of abuse and still perform beautifully.

The number of flights increased. And, as we neared the eighteen-month expiration date of our contracts, we were asked to renew for another twelve months.

I had mixed feelings. My commitment to the program was total. I believed in what we were doing, feeling it was not only vital to our national security but that the information gathered might someday be a determining factor in our survival.

My reservations were personal.

Sometime earlier Barbara had obtained a transfer from Athens to a job at Wheelus Air Force Base, Tripoli, Libya. Occasionally it was necessary to ferry one of our T-33 instrument trainers to Wheelus for inspection; whenever possible, I would try to get the assignment. But our marriage was badly floundering and in the fall of 1957, when Barbara and I returned to the United States, we discussed the idea of a divorce.

I did not talk over my personal problems with the agency (they would not be mentioned here except for their relevance to what followed), but I did indicate that in November, when my contract expired, I might not renew.

Nor was I the only one who had made this decision. Several other married pilots had decided that an eighteen-month separation from their families was more than enough.

Having little choice, the agency capitulated. If we extended, they would let us move our families to Adana.