Francis Powers - Operation Overflight

There was no reason to be dissatisfied, I suppose. Though our marriage was less than ideal, we had good friends, enjoyed many of the same things. Most of our vacations were spent in Florida, swimming and water-skiing. As for my job, I was doing what I most enjoyed, flying. My pay, over four hundred dollars per month take-home, was the most money I had ever earned in my life and was supplemented by what Barbara made. I was visiting parts of the world I had never seen before: I had flown an F-84G to England, and prior to my marriage, I’d spent three months on temporary duty in Japan. Periodically, as a break from routine, there was the excitement of the Air Force gunnery meets, my team taking several top command prizes. I had the satisfaction of knowing that my job was important, not only in the future, if war ever occurred, but now, as a small but necessary part of a collective defense effort in itself a deterrent to war.

There was no reason to be dissatisfied, yet I was. The vague restlessness since boyhood remained—not so much of an ache now, but a bother nonetheless. To date I hadn’t really proved myself, contributed anything.

This was my frame of mind when I was approached by “the agency.”

Late in January, 1956, as Francis G. Palmer, a civilian employee of the Department of the Air Force, according to the official identification in my wallet, I signed the register at the Du Pont Plaza, Washington, D.C., went to my room, and waited for a telephone call, all the while feeling more than a little foolish. Such antics belonged in the realm of spy stories.

When the call came, the voice was that of Collins, informing me we were to meet in another room. Most of the other pilots were already there. Except for one man busily looking behind picture frames, back of dresser drawers, under beds, and whom I took to be an employee of the agency, everyone was familiar. A number of the men were from Turner AFB.

Collins handled the briefing, more informal and relaxed than any of those at the motel. Yet in its way, more serious.

This would not be the first attempt to photograph Russia from the air. Following World War II, modified B-36s and, later, RB-47s, had been used. These had a great advantage—the capacity to carry large quantities of sophisticated photographic and electronic equipment. But disadvantages were also great. Because the altitude at which they flew was well within the range of Russian radar, they were vulnerable to both missiles and fighters and therefore couldn’t be risked on anything other than short-range penetration missions. The most important targets, however, those in which Intelligence was most interested, were deep inside Russia. And, though unarmed and carrying only cameras and electronic gear rather than bombs, they were still, to the uninformed observer, bombers. As such, they could cause an incident.

Then something different had been tried—huge camera-carrying balloons. Set adrift at various points, these were picked up by prevailing winds and carried across the Soviet Union to Japan, where U.S. planes were sent up to shoot them down. Although this had netted some valuable footage, the limitations were obvious, and the Russians, who had shot down more than a few balloons themselves, had protested.

As far as using planes was concerned, there was one big problem—altitude. There had been no solution to it until recently, when Clarence L. “Kelly” Johnson, design genius at Lockheed, had advanced plans for an entirely new aircraft capable of flying well above the range of all known rockets and interceptors.

After some delay, occasioned by the familiar “it can’t possibly fly” objections of other engineers, Johnson had been authorized to build the plane. With men working hundred-hour weeks, the first model had been completed in less than eight months. In August, 1955, it had made its first flight. The plane did everything Johnson had claimed for it, and more.

While Collins talked, one could feel the excitement generating in the room.

Reaching into his briefcase, he extracted a photograph.

It was a strange-looking aircraft, unlike any other I had ever seen. Although the picture was a long shot and gave little detail, it obviously had a remarkably long wingspan. A jet, but with the body of a glider. Though a hybrid, it was nevertheless very individual, with a beautiful symmetry all its own.

It was also a single-seater. I liked that. Whenever possible, I preferred flying alone.

We had a thousand technical questions. Collins told us to save them for our training.

“What do you call it?” someone asked.

“No one calls it anything publicly yet,” he replied. “This project is so secret that, other than those involved in the operation, only top-level government people know about it. But for your information, it’s been dubbed the Utility-2, or U-2.”

The radio was on; I was having trouble hearing Collins. Reaching over, I snapped it off.

Not only did the music stop. But as if he were plugged into the set also, Collins’ voice stopped too. Silently he glared at me.

Red-faced, I turned the radio on again. The moment the music resumed, Collins resumed speaking.

Slowly, bit by bit, I was losing my naïveté. You learn as you grow up, I suppose. And I was growing up.

The other agency man called one of the pilots into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. When he returned, with an odd look, another pilot was summoned. Later he too returned, looking strange.

“Palmer,” he said. “Your turn.”

Entering the room, I saw, on top of the bureau, what looked like an elaborate tape recorder. Only I knew, suddenly, it wasn’t.

“Ever see one of these before?” he asked.

“No,” I answered, “but I think I can make a pretty good guess as to what it is.”

“Any objection to taking a lie-detector test?”

Though I had a great many, I didn’t voice them, shaking my head. If this was a condition of the job, I’d do it. But I didn’t like it.

“Sit down. While I’m strapping you in, you can look over this list of questions.”

Knowing what he’s going to ask in advance should make it easier, I thought. Except that the opposite psychology was used. Awareness that a disturbing question was upcoming served only to increase the tension.

I had never felt so completely exposed, as if there was no privacy whatsoever. If at that moment someone had handed me a petition banning polygraphs forever from the face of the earth, I would gladly have signed it. When I was asked the last question and the straps were taken off, I vowed that never again, no matter what the circumstances, would I undergo such an insult to my integrity.

Apparently we all passed the test, for the same men attended the rest of the meetings. These took place in various Washington hotels—the Mayfair, Roger Smith, etc.—at irregular intervals over the next three months. At no time did we meet in a government building. “Covert,” as opposed to “overt,” employees, we never saw inside headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency.

Turning up the radio and careful inspection of the room were only two of the precautions against “bugging,” I soon learned. By changing hotels and randomly selecting different pilots’ rooms, we avoided establishing a pattern.

Our travel arrangements were also carefully planned so that no routine could be detected. Sometimes we traveled singly, sometimes in groups of two, three, or four, sometimes with an agency representative along, sometimes not. Usually, when accompanied, it was by Collins, who was becoming as omnipresent as the radio in each of our hotel rooms.

When I got to know him better, he confirmed what I had long suspected, that “Collins” was just as native to him as “Palmer” to me. I learned his real name, but, the pseudonym having become habit, never used it.