A very thick cloud layer had rolled into Diego Garcia. Everything within 200 miles of the airfield was covered from 500 feet above the ground up to around 5,000 feet. As he headed east from the coast of Africa, his Omega failed. He would normally now be relying on his backup system, the Tactical Air Navigation (TACAN). The U-2 used TACAN in the weather. Military aircraft used TACAN and it was more accurate than VOR/DME systems used by civilian aircraft. TACAN provided bearing and range information to the aircraft. Diego Garcia had a TACAN station but it was off the air for maintenance repair. So his two primary navigation aids were inoperative.
Doc would be arriving at night and would have to rely on the station’s radar to guide him through the clouds and down to the runway. Prior to his arrival, Diego Garcia’s radar failed. Doc now had nothing to guide him down but he also had no place else to go. When Doc had first arrived in Diego Garcia, he had been briefed about the treacherous Indian Ocean surrounding the base. Foremost among his concerns were the sharks and he didn’t want to ditch into shark-infested waters.
Doc had received the news about the radar outage through his secure High Frequency radio when he was still 150 miles out. Navigating above 50,000 feet was pretty straightforward. Since there was no wind up there Doc simply held the heading he thought would lead him to the airport. Below 50,000 feet, he had to factor the wind into his navigation. This would be a combination of guesswork and good luck. He knew he had to come up with a plan to get down and see the airport. He planned on an early descent. He wanted the airport ahead of him when he broke out of the cloud deck. This strategy would cost him valuable fuel but if he broke out with the airport behind him, he may never find it, fuel or no fuel. He planned to break out of the clouds at 500 feet and hoped that the airport would be just a few miles ahead of him.
Once he started down, he noted his low fuel supply; he didn’t have a lot to play with. He was able to establish radio contact with the tower as he entered the cloud layer at 5,000 feet. He had every light in the airplane on hoping that if he couldn’t see the runway, the tower would see him and direct him toward the airport. Down through the clouds he came, from 5,000 feet all the way down to 500 feet, waiting to break out and still nothing. He checked his vanishing fuel supply and went down another 100 feet. He finally broke out of the bottom of the cloud deck and saw… nothing. Before him was a vast black hole. He tried to keep his voice under control. It was one thing to die a horrible death in shark-infested waters, but Doc was not going to sound like a wimp as he did so. He kept talking to tower as he searched the horizon for a light but there was nothing ahead of him.
Just as he decided to turn back in the other direction, the tower called saying they might have spotted him. They asked him to start a left turn to verify that it was him that they saw. He started turning and tower confirmed his sighting. He stayed in the turn until he could see the airport. The final piece of bad news at the end of this grueling 12-hour day was the wind report. Tower was reporting a 15-knot direct crosswind; the limit for the U-2 was 10 knots. But his choices were limited. He had to put the airplane down here or dump it in the drink with the sharks. He opted for the runway. He headed directly to it. He had no fuel to waste in setting up a long, straightin approach. The landing was as good as it gets but not good enough. In order to keep from drifting away from the runway and into the ocean, he had to hold the crab on landing. The airplane settled on the runway and immediately aligned itself, snapping the tailwheel steering. Since the same thing had happened to me on a training ride, I knew exactly what was coming. His airplane turned into the wind and ran off the side of the runway. Doc was so thankful and relieved to be on the ground and not in the ocean he neglected to shut off the engine. He stopped the airplane and only then did he think about the running engine. As he reached for the shutoff switch, the engine shut itself down. He had run out of fuel.
Doc’s other experience was a much more uplifting, feel-good story. While at Beale, Doc had been assigned a search and rescue mission over the Pacific Ocean. In October of 1976, Doc joined in the search for a seaman who had been adrift for three weeks. The seaman was the sole survivor of a shipwreck and he was thought to be adrift in an orange raft.
Doc’s mission was to scour the Pacific by taking recon photos of the seaman’s suspected track. It was hoped that an analysis of Doc’s film would show the raft’s position. Doc spent several hours crisscrossing the suspect area. He returned to the base and was met by the photo interpreters who retrieved the film from his airplane. From 70,000 feet over an ocean that appeared nearly pitch black the raft was spotted. It was a mere bright speck in a dark frame. Due to Doc’s efforts, the lost sailor was brought safely home.
Chapter 10
Once I finished my training in the U-2R, I continued to build time by flying missions out of Beale. I needed to build this time before I could go TDY to one of the remote locations.
On my last Beale flight prior to my first TDY I had a revealing experience at the Physiological Support Division (PSD) building. I returned from a six-hour mapping mission and was in the PSD building getting out of my suit. One of the two technicians helping me undress was new to the unit. Sgt. Laura Mayall was a lovely, shy young lady about 22 years old. The suit had been unzipped from the back and I was standing straight up as Laura and her older fellow technician tried to pull the suit off. Normally, after the techs unzip the suit and get the top half off, they leave the room to give the pilot privacy as he undoes the bottom and removes the urine collection tube.
On this day, however, the suit was stuck on my shoulders. Laura pulled on the sleeves but it wouldn’t come off. Both techs grabbed the shoulders of the suit and gave one big yank. The suit came off so suddenly that Laura fell on her knees in front me with her head about a foot in front of my crotch. The suit had come all the way off and so had my urine collection tube. Laura looked shocked as she stared at my manhood so close to her face. She made a little screaming noise and quickly left the room. It all happened so fast that I didn’t even realize that I was exposed until she had left the room and I looked down to see what all the fuss was about. She quickly recovered and from then on we had something to laugh about.
The typical U-2 pilot spent about half his time overseas. New pilots were always sent to Osan Air Base, Korea, as their first TDY. By January of 1978 I had accumulated enough hours to go to Korea.
January in Korea was brutal. The weather was always cold and bleak. I thought the country and its people were fascinating but these positives didn’t overcome the lousy weather. I soon settled into my BOQ and learned my way around the base and the local area surrounding it. Our Korea detachment was small, consisting of an Operations Officer (the Boss), three pilots, and one airplane. Unlike other TDY locations, we wore our uniforms on base. Officially, we weren’t there but everyone on base knew about the U-2. The airplane flew two or three times a week. That meant I would fly once a week at a maximum, and act as mobile, or launch supervisor, once a week.
Osan is located about 25 miles south of Seoul, the largest city and capital of South Korea. The base itself is just south of the small town of Osan. If you were in the market for custom clothing, Seoul, and even Osan could fill your needs. My fellow pilots had thoroughly briefed me about the clothing before I left Beale. The man I needed to see in Osan was Mr. Oh. Mr. Oh sold only custom made clothing and had been doing so for over 20 years. I visited his shop about a week after arriving at Osan. Mr. Oh took my measurements and showed me his cloth samples. Within ten days he had produced for me the following: three three-piece suits, two ski outfits, a tuxedo, and a leather-flying jacket. All the garments were expertly tailored, and each coat had my name stitched, in cursive, on the inside pocket. Total cost for the entire wardrobe was $300.