“Yesterday you refused to tell us whether you had radioed your base, reporting you were bailing out. We didn’t press you for an answer then, wanting to give you time to consider the benefits of complete cooperation. But you must tell us now.”
“I still refuse to do so.”
My reasoning was thus: If the Russians thought the United States already knew I had bailed out and was probably alive, they would be much more likely to release the news of my capture than if they were positive my fate was unknown.
On the other hand, I was unsure whether the radio had survived the crash. If it had, by examining it their experts could determine that its maximum range was three to four hundred miles.
It seemed definitely to my advantage to refuse to answer either way.
I wanted my presence here known. I presumed that when I failed to reach Bodö my wife and parents would be notified that I was missing on a flight. I was desperately afraid that, worrying about me, my mother would have a heart attack. Knowing that I was alive and well, even though in a Russian prison, would be easier on her, I felt, than not knowing. The same would be true of Barbara.
Neither way would be easy, but I was powerless to do anything about that.
Just as I had loaded Colonel Shelton with more chores than he could possibly have handled, so did I do the same with “Collins,” who became my only CIA contact, something the Russians were inclined to believe, since in their own espionage apparatuses, rarely did an agent know more than one immediate superior.
Actually, in four years I had met a great many agency people, including some of the top planners of the U-2 program, such as Richard M. Bissell, deputy director of the CIA for plans, one of the unmentioned visitors to Detachment 10-10.
By citing Collins, however, I had another, far more important purpose.
“Collins” was a pseudonym. I also knew Collins’ real name. And Collins knew I knew it, as did others in the agency.
If the Russians released a story linking me to the CIA, I could be fairly sure the name of my contact would be mentioned. That I referred to him as “Collins,” and not by his actual name, should alert him, and the agency, to the fact that I wasn’t telling everything.
It had to. It was, as far as I could see, the only way I had of getting the message through.
Asked the time of my takeoff from Peshawar, I told them, 0626 local time. It was on my flight log.
Asked the air speed of the U-2, I told them that, also. On this particular flight it averaged about four hundred miles per hour.
Knowing the time and place of my takeoff, the time and place my flight terminated, and the exact number of miles in between the two points, a child could have computed it.
On all such easily traceable details, I was exact.
Asked questions I felt I could safely answer truthfully, I did so. But I didn’t volunteer information. There were some things about the aircraft they could learn neither from the wreckage nor from the records of this particular flight. I had no intention of supplying them. Though they knew from the notation on my flight log that takeoff had been delayed one-half hour, I didn’t volunteer the reason: that we were awaiting White House approval. One of the last things I wanted to do was give the impression the President himself knew and approved of the overflights. Nor when they were laboring under a misapprehension did I go out of my way to correct it. For example, realizing they had jumped to the conclusion that all our flights out of Pakistan had been made from Peshawar, I saw no reason to recall Lahore.
I told them everything they wanted to know about my childhood and schooling.
I told them when I enlisted in the Air Force, where I was stationed, what planes I flew. But I skipped quickly over my photo-school training and my work as a photo-lab technician, not wanting them to wonder why, with this background, I showed so little interest in the cameras I was carrying. Nor did I find it necessary to mention some other things, such as the secret training at Sandia, where I learned about the construction of atomic weapons, how to load and check them out, different methods of delivery. Nor the target assigned to me behind the Iron Curtain.
As for SAC’s operational plans and preparedness in the event of war, I was sure these things had been changed greatly in the past six years. At the same time, though what I knew was probably outdated, I had no desire to fill any possible gaps in their knowledge.
As for when I joined the CIA, I told them, truthfully, in May, 1956—not mentioning the four months of secret meetings in Washington hotel rooms which preceded the actual signing of the contract, or several of the trips which followed.
As for Watertown, though I was quite truthful in describing my flight training, some of the things that would have interested them far more went undiscussed. Such as the number of classes that went through the base and the number of pilots in each, the Greek washouts, the “safe” house on the East Coast and the training given there.
And I said nothing about the “special” flights. This, above everything else, I was determined to keep from them at all costs.
Each night, on return to my cell, I would go over the questions again in my mind, trying to fit together, bit by bit, a composite picture of what they actually knew.
I’m quite sure they were doing the same thing.
It was like a poker game. Each side with its hole cards, hopefully unknown to the other.
Could they tell when I was bluffing? And, equally important, could I tell when they were?
Only it wasn’t a game. No poker session ever had such high stakes.
Asked if I had made the overflight on April 9, which they had apparently radar-tracked, I replied that I hadn’t. Which was true.
Asked if I knew what its intelligence objectives were, I replied that I didn’t. Which was not true. I’d been backup pilot on the April 9 mission.
Asked about the RB-47 flights, I told them I knew only about the U-2s. The RB-47s had, on occasion, flown out of Incirlik.
Asked what I knew about U.S. missiles in Turkey, I told them I had never seen one. Which was not true.
Asked when the first U-2s were shipped to Europe, I replied I had no idea.
Asked when the first U-2 overflight took place, I gave the same, and equally erroneous, reply.
All these were safe bets. They might doubt my answers, but there was no way they could disprove them. So long as I kept my stories straight.
When had I first been told by the CIA that I would not only be flying along the borders but also over Russia? Some months after signing my contract.
When had I been told I would be making the May 1 flight? The night before.
How had I felt about it? Scared.
As much as possible, I wanted to eliminate the element of premeditation.
Had I ever been stationed at Atsugi, Japan?
No, only at Adana, Turkey.
Was I aware that U-2s were stationed at Atsugi?
I had heard that, but didn’t know it from personal knowledge.
They showed me articles, in Japanese, on the U-2 that had crashlanded on the glider-club strip. Had I heard about this?
Yes, I admitted, I had, but I didn’t know any of the details. I didn’t find it necessary to tell them that they were now the proud possessors of that same aircraft. Or what was left of it.
Did I know of any U-2 bases in West Germany?
Yes.
Which bases?
Wiesbaden and Giebelstadt.
Had I ever flown out of either?
I had flown a T-33 trainer to Wiesbaden once. And in 1959 I had ferried a U-2 nonstop across the Atlantic, to a base in New York State, from Giebelstadt.
From the limousine incident, we knew that Giebelstadt had been compromised. From the articles in Soviet Aviation, that they also knew of Wiesbaden. Neither base was still in use; it seemed safe to mention both.