It was a “dog,” never having flown exactly right. Something was always going wrong. No sooner was one malfunction corrected than another appeared. Its current idiosyncrasy was one of the fuel tanks, which wouldn’t feed all its fuel. But not all the time, just occasionally. So the pilot was kept guessing.
Saturday afternoon I again went to bed early, again to be awakened at two A.M. With my backup pilot, I had a good substantial breakfast—two or three eggs, bacon, toast. It was to be the last food I’d have until reaching Norway, some thirteen hours from now. The doctor checked me over, finding me in good shape. During prebreathing my backup and I were joined by the pilot who had ferried number 360 over the night before, a good friend whom we’ll call Bob.
Bob had flown the April 9 overflight on which I was backup, and had been present when I finally asked the intelligence officer the long-avoided question. On this particular mission he would act as mobile control officer. Among his other duties, he would acknowledge when I used the radio code: single click indicating proceed as planned; three clicks meaning return to base.
There was no need for additional briefing. I had studied the maps, knew the route. There had been a slight wind change, meaning navigation had to be corrected; otherwise the weather looked good. Because of 360’s fuel-tank problem, however, Colonel Shelton suggested that if, just before reaching Kandalaksha, I discovered I was running low on fuel, I could take a short cut across Finland and Sweden, thereby saving a few minutes’ time. As for alternate landing fields, he told me I could land in Norway, Sweden, or Finland—the first being preferable, the second less so, the third to be used only in dire emergency, but added, “Anyplace is preferable to going down in the Soviet Union.”
As I was suiting up, I remembered that traveling bag, with wallet and clothing, and asked that it be put in the cockpit.
“Do you want the silver dollar?” Shelton asked.
Before this I hadn’t. But this flight was different. And I had less than complete confidence in the plane.
“If something happened,” I had previously asked the intelligence officer, “could I use the needle as a weapon?”
He couldn’t see why not. One jab, and death would be almost instantaneous. As a weapon, it should be quite effective.
“O.K.,” I replied. Shelton tossed it to me, and I slipped it into the pocket of my outer flight suit.
Though with more than sufficient time to think about it since, I’m still not sure why this time I chose to take it.
Could it have been premonition?
About 5:20 A.M., with Bob’s assistance, I climbed into the plane, the personal-equipment sergeant strapping me in.
It was scorching hot. The sun had been up nearly an hour.
Bob took off his shirt and held it over the cockpit to try to shield me from its rays.
Takeoff was scheduled for six A.M. I completed my preflight check and waited. And waited. Six o’clock came and passed with no sign of a signal.
The long underwear I was wearing was already completely soaked. Beneath the helmet, perspiration was running down my face in rivers. There was no way to wipe it off.
Finally Colonel Shelton came out to explain the delay. They were awaiting approval from the White House.
This was the first time this had happened. When Presidential approval was necessary, it usually came through well in advance of the flight.
Because I would be without radio contact, I had to depend heavily on the sextant for navigation. But since all precomputations had been made on the basis of a six-A.M. takeoff, the sextant would be useless. At this point I was sure the flight would be canceled, and was looking forward to getting out of the sweat-drenched suit, when, at 6:20 A.M., the signal came: cleared for takeoff.
Bob had been holding his shirt over the cockpit for a full hour. As he closed the canopy, I yelled my thanks and locked the canopy from the inside. Once the ladder was pulled away, there was no delay in getting started and taking off.
At top altitudes, the temperature outside the aircraft dropped to sixty degrees below zero. Some of the chill began to penetrate. Although the suit would remain damp and uncomfortable throughout the flight, at least I was no longer sweltering.
Switching on the autopilot, I completed my flight log. I had already filled in the Aircraft Number, 360, and the Sortie Number, 4154. Now I added takeoff time, 0126 Greenwich Mean Time, 6:26 A.M. local time, with the notation “delayed one-half hour.” I also filled in the date: “1 May 1960.”
Five
After the single-click acknowledgment from Bob, only silence. A lonely feeling, knowing you’d broken radio contact.
Approaching the border, I could feel the tension build. It happened on every overflight. Once across the border, you relaxed a bit. For some reason you felt that anything that was going to happen would happen there.
The weather below was worse than expected. On the Russian side, the clouds came right up to the mountains, a solid undercast. As far as intelligence was concerned, this wasn’t important, there being little of interest in this area. But it didn’t make the navigation easier. Without visual observations, I needed the sextant, but couldn’t use it, my celestial computations having been made on the basis of a six-A.M. takeoff. Instead I had to rely on time and headings. The sextant was usable, however, as a check to see if the compass was working correctly. It was.
After about one and one-half hours I spotted the first break in the clouds. I was southeast of the Aral Sea. Slightly right of course, I was correcting back when some of the uncertainty came to an end.
Far below I could see the condensation trail of a single-engine jet aircraft. It was moving fast, at supersonic speed, paralleling my course, though in the opposite direction.
I watched until it disappeared.
Five to ten minutes later I saw another contrail, again paralleling my course, only this time moving in my direction. Presumably it was the same aircraft.
I felt relieved. I was sure now they were tracking me on radar, vectoring in and relaying my headings to the aircraft. But it was so far below as to pose no threat. Because of my altitude, it would have been almost impossible for the pilot to see me. If this was the best they could do, I had nothing to worry about.
Odd, but even before reaching the border I had the feeling they knew I was coming.
I wondered how the Russians felt, knowing I was up here, unable to do anything about it. I could make a pretty good guess.
For four years the U-2s had been overflying the USSR. Much of this time, if not all of it, the Russian government had been aware of our activities. Yet, because to do so would be to admit that they could do nothing to stop us, they couldn’t even complain. I could imagine their frustration and rage. Imagining it made me much less complacent.
Ahead, about thirty miles east of the Aral Sea, was the Tyuratam Cosmodrome, launching site for most of its important ICBM and space shots.
This wasn’t our first visit to the area, nor was it a major objective of this particular flight. But since I was to be in the vicinity, it had been included. Due to the presence of some large thunderclouds, I couldn’t see the launch site itself but could see much of the surrounding area. I switched on the cameras. Some intelligence was achieved, though not one hundred percent.
The clouds closed over again and remained solid until, about three hours into the flight, they began to thin; I could see a little terrain, including a town. With my radio compass I picked up the local station. In regard to this particular station, intelligence had indicated that their information might not be accurate; the call sign, the frequency, or both, could be incorrect. The call sign was wrong, the frequency right. Again slightly off course, I corrected back.