Operation Overflight: A Memoir of the U-2 Incident

PROLOGUE Turner Air Force Base, Albany, Georgia January, 1956

In the service you scan the bulletin board with one eye closed, hoping not to see your name, since its being there means one of two things. You’ve fouled up in some way, and been caught at it. Or you’ve been assigned extra duties.

That afternoon I had returned to the base after a routine training flight in an F-84F jet fighter; passing the board, I spotted a new list. On it: Powers, Francis Gary lLt.

I was to report to a major in the wing headquarters building at 0800 hours the following morning. No reason given.

There was some consolation. Mine wasn’t the only name. A number of other pilots were also listed.

Next morning we met outside the major’s office a few minutes before eight. Wracking our collective brains, we couldn’t come up with any unusual devilment, at least none of which we were all guilty.

The major came right to the point. Some men were interested in talking to us about a possible job offer.

“Why us?”

Because, he replied, we met certain qualifications: we had exceptional pilot ratings; were reserve officers with indefinite enlistments; had Top Secret clearances; plus having in excess of the required number of hours’ flight time in single-engine, single-place aircraft.

We all started to ask questions. The major interrupted. He was sorry, that was all he could tell us; except, if we were interested, when and where to report.

Later, over coffee, we tried to figure it out, agreeing only that it was a flying job. Everything else was decidedly odd.

The Air Force was not in the habit of arranging outside job interviews for its officers.

Even more puzzling, the meetings were to take place individually, at different times, not during duty hours but at night, not on base but at a motel outside Albany, the Radium Springs Inn on Radium Springs Road. In my case, at 1900 hours (seven p.m.) I was to go to cottage 1, knock, identify myself, and ask for a “Mr. William Collins.”

Cottage 1 was at the end of the row.

I knocked, feeling more curious than anything.

The man who opened the door was in his mid-thirties, of medium build, about five-feet-ten, with black hair, and, like the two men I could see in the room behind him, in civilian clothes.

“I was told to ask for a Mr. William Collins,” I said, feeling a trifle silly.

“I’m Bill Collins,” he replied. “You must be—” He paused and waited.

“Lieutenant Powers.”

Motioning me inside, he introduced me to the other men.

We shook hands and I took the chair they indicated.

Collins was apparently spokesman for the group.

“I suppose you’re wondering what this is all about?”

I admitted I was.

“I’m afraid there’s not very much I can tell you, at least at this time. What I can say is this. You, and several other pilots, have been picked to be part of an organization to carry out a special mission. It will be risky, but patriotic. Should you decide to join us, you’ll be doing something important for your country. The pay will be more than you are now receiving.

“And that’s about all I can tell you now. What we’d like you to do is think about it overnight. Then, if you’re still interested, call me here at the motel tomorrow; we’ll arrange another meeting.”

Despite the sketchiness of the information, everything Collins had said appealed greatly to my sense of adventure. There was no clue as to what the job would be, or for whom I would be working, but it sounded like a Flying Tiger-type operation, such as Chennault had organized in China prior to World War II. I was definitely interested, and told Collins so.

“No,” he said, “don’t decide now. Think about it overnight. Oh, one more thing. You’ll be overseas for eighteen months, and you can’t take your family along.”

I had been married just nine months, and the marriage had been troubled. I was not at all sure it could survive a long separation.

Barbara and I had no children. That wasn’t important. But the future of our marriage was, and I didn’t feel we could risk it.

I told Collins that because of this last condition, I’d have to turn it down.

Collins replied that he was sorry, but should I change my mind, I knew where to reach him. As I was leaving, he added that should I want to discuss the offer with my wife, I could do so. He would appreciate, however, my not mentioning it to anyone else.

Returning home, I told Barbara about the mysterious interview and my decision. I also told her how appealing I found the offer, in spite of the fact that I had no idea for whom I’d be working or what I’d be doing. To my surprise, she shared my enthusiasm, but for less adventurous and more practical reasons.

We could use the additional money, she noted. And I had to agree. Although she worked and our combined salaries equaled about seven hundred dollars per month, we were, like most service couples, living above our income. We had recently made payment on a new car; the balance was still due.

She could move in with her mother while I was gone, she suggested, while keeping her secretarial job at the Marine Corps Supply Center. Since the cost of living overseas was almost always less than in the United States and my pay would be more, we could probably save enough money to pay for the car while possibly making a down payment on a home.

“And eighteen months isn’t forever.”

When she wanted to be, Barbara could be quite persuasive. And I was already more than slightly tempted.

Despite Collins’ admonition, coffee the next morning was a gabfest. Several of the pilots had already rejected the offer because of the separation from their families. The remainder, myself included, were undecided, but highly curious.

Guesses as to the nature of the employment were as varied as they were wild. But they were just that, guesses. Collins had given us just enough information to whet our curiosity. No more.

That afternoon I called to make another appointment, for that evening.

Driving to the motel, I thought about the interviews. Although secrecy appeared to be the major reason for their unorthodox arrangement, I felt sure the psychological effect had not been lost on Collins and his associates. Occurring at night, in an unusual place, set apart from the routine and ordinary—all generated excitement.

But I’d had enough mystery. Tonight I was determined to get some hard answers.

Collins supplied them. More than I’d anticipated, and without my asking.

He began by explaining that he and the other two men were representatives of the Central Intelligence Agency. Should I be accepted, I would be working under contract for that agency.

I knew nothing about the Central Intelligence Agency, except that it was a supersecret branch of the government, most often referred to by its initials, CIA.

Though I was impressed, I tried not to show it.

As for the Air Force, Collins continued, should I wish to return to it following completion of my contract, arrangements would be made so I could do so, with no loss of time in grade or toward retirement. In short, I could reenter at the same rank as my contemporaries, my time in the CIA being counted as service time.

Now the particulars. First, I would be checked out on an entirely new aircraft—

To a pilot who loved flying, as I did, there are few words more thrilling. But Collins went on to add them.

—a plane which would fly higher than any plane had ever before flown.

I was hooked.

My pay, training in the United States, would be fifteen hundred dollars per month. On arrival overseas, it would be upped to twenty-five hundred.

I was so surprised I couldn’t reply. Even with combat pay, this was far beyond anything I could ever hope to earn in the Air Force; it was nearly as much as the captain of a commercial airliner received!

Collins appeared to read my thoughts, that I was now contemplating what nature of job would necessitate such a pay scale.

“Once you’ve completed your training, you will be sent overseas. Part of your job will be to make reconnaissance flights along the border outside Russia, the highly sensitive equipment aboard the plane monitoring radar and radio signals.

“But that’s only a part,” he continued. “Your main mission will be to fly over Russia.”

Stunned, I listened as he described how during these “overflights” special cameras would photograph Russian defenses, missile-launching sites, military deployments….

It is difficult to describe exactly what I felt at that moment. I was one of what I presumed to be a not inconsiderable number who believed that the Cold War was a very real war, with real objectives, and that since the stalemate and compromise in Korea, the free world had been losing that war, and one country after another, to Communism.

The discovery that the government of the United States had conceived an intelligence operation so bold and daring restored much of my faith in the alertness of that government.

I was amazed. And immensely proud, not only of being chosen to participate in such a venture, but, even more, proud of my country itself, for having the courage, and guts, to do what it believed essential and right.

Collins was still talking. Huge areas of Russia were a dark mystery. Since World War II, tremendous industrial and military complexes—whole cities—had grown up beyond the Urals, never seen by outsiders. Except for the limited intelligence received from inside the Soviet Union, there was no way of knowing what Russia was planning militarily, its capabilities, what we must be prepared to meet should war come. At the time of Pearl Harbor, we at least had some comprehension of Japan’s military might. This was not the case with Russia. After the Soviets failed to approve President Eisenhower’s Open Skies Plan of 1955, “Operation Overflight” had been conceived to close this gap.

“How do you feel about it now?” he asked.

“I’m in. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. All my life I’ve wanted to do something like this!”

This was no exaggeration. Had I been asked to do it simply on a volunteer basis, as an Air Force pilot, my enthusiasm and commitment wouldn’t have been one whit less great.

“Take another night to think it over,” Collins suggested.

“That’s not necessary: I’ve decided.”

“We want you to be sure. If you feel the same way tomorrow, call me. We’ll talk about it.”

He needn’t have added the obvious, but he did, that this time I was not to discuss our conversation with anyone, even my wife.

I slept little that night. Early the following morning I called him with my answer.

Our third and last meeting at the motel was quite businesslike. As always, Collins did most of the talking.

It was necessary that I go to Washington, D.C., for briefings and certain tests. The following week, routine Air Force orders would be issued, directing me to report there for several days’ temporary duty. These would cover my absence from the base, as well as authorizing travel expenses. Actual orders—where to report in Washington and when—would be issued verbally by the major with whom I had first been in contact. I was to travel in civilian clothes. Hotel reservations would be made for me. My alias, to be used on the hotel register: “Palmer, Francis G.”—false last name, correct first name and middle initial. ID, with this name, would be issued to me prior to the trip, identifying me as a civilian employee of the Department of the Air Force.

Again Collins anticipated my question. Wives being naturally inquisitive, I could tell my wife that I would have several months to clear up pending business and to make necessary living arrangements. I could also tell her the amount of my pay, that I would be working as an employee of the government—though under no circumstances was I to mention the Central Intelligence Agency—and that my job would be to make reconnaissance flights along the border outside Russia. Just enough to make her feel she was in on what was happening and to impress upon her the necessity for complete secrecy. Nothing more. As for others—parents and friends—I would be given a separate cover story at a later date. Meantime, I was to say nothing.

Collins also informed me he would be in communication when necessary. If for any reason I had to reach him, there was a telephone number to memorize. There would be an answer at all hours of the day or night.

During our meetings I had several times referred to the Central Intelligence Agency as the CIA. Each time, Collins had winced slightly. When he or the other men referred to it, it was always “the government,” or, most often, “the agency.” Almost automatically, I fell into the same habit.

I was learning.

Thus, I suppose, spies are made.