Spy Pilot: Francis Gary Powers, the U-2 Incident, and a Controversial Cold War Legacy

INTRODUCTION

Sometimes, it is the little things that linger, like the scruff of a father’s beard.

Every night, when I was a young boy, my dad came to my room, tucked me into bed, and kissed me on the cheek, the day-long growth of his nine o’clock shadow pressing firmly against my still-smooth skin. There was love in that moment. There was security.

I’ll never forget the last time we shared this ritual. It was the night before my world shattered.

In those days, Dad piloted a traffic helicopter for KNBC-TV, the NBC-owned station in Los Angeles. We lived very comfortably in the San Fernando Valley town of Sherman Oaks: father; mother; elder sister, Dee; and me. Life was good.

The first day of August in 1977 was an ordinary workday for my forty-seven-year-old father, but something went terribly wrong. His helicopter ran out of gas and crashed near a golf course in Encino. When someone from the station came to tell the family about the crash, I was left confused, thinking he must have broken a few bones and probably would be confined to a hospital bed for a few days. No one pulled me aside to reveal the awful truth.

Later in the day, with the house full of people and a somber tone permeating the place, I stood behind several adults in the living room, watching Channel 4’s evening newscast. Jess Marlow was a giant in Los Angeles television, the personification of the stone-faced, detached anchorman. Hearing from this iconic figure that my father was dead, at the same time much of Southern California learned the news, was shocking… and so was watching him choke up and actually shed a tear on live television. There was no crying on television in those days, but Marlow could not help himself. He had lost a colleague and a friend. I was devastated beyond words. My life would never be the same.

Several adults went out of their way to comfort me, including another dear family friend, the actor Robert Conrad. At one point, Conrad called me on the telephone and gave me what amounted to a pep talk: “Your father was a good man,” he said, stressing that, “no matter what you might hear,” your dad was a patriot who sacrificed greatly for his country.

“Be proud of him. His legacy is now in you….”

No matter what I might hear?

I tried to process what Mr. Conrad said, but on the day my father died, I was still too young and too sheltered to fully appreciate the burden associated with being Francis Gary Powers Jr., because I didn’t really know my father. I didn’t know him at all.

I knew the helicopter pilot. The man who patiently helped me with my homework. The man who carefully taught me how to shoot a .22-caliber rifle. The man who gently kissed me good night. But I didn’t know what I didn’t know.

In time, I would feel compelled to solve the riddle of Conrad’s cryptic consolation, to learn the haunting truth about my father.