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 Although much of the information in the articles was incorrect or outdated—for example, the statement that U-2s were flying out of Wiesbaden—we weren’t lulled into any false sense of security.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.