The Wizards of Langley
Page 23
The transfer of the National Photographic Interpretation Center from the intelligence directorate to DS&T had been in the works for several years. By 1973, NPIC was no longer operating over a car dealership on K Street. In 1962, Defense Secretary Robert McNamara and members of the President’s Foreign Intelligence Advisory Board visited and were shocked by the conditions at 5th and K and advised the President that NPIC needed a new building.3
Kennedy promptly told DCI John McCone “to get them out of that structure” and wanted to know how soon a move could be accomplished. McCone responded that the Naval Gun Factory appeared to be a reasonable choice but that it would require a year to refurbish it. Kennedy’s reply was “All right, you do it.”4
On January 1, 1963, NPIC moved into its new home—Building 213 in the Washington Navy Yard, often referred to as the “Lundahl Hilton.” It was, according to McCone, a “rags-to-riches” situation. The 200,000 square feet of floor space meant that hundreds of more workers could be added. The building had large elevators, air conditioning, and good security. Most of all, it was the national center that Lundahl had envisioned almost ten years earlier. Most people in the building worked for the CIA—the people who typed the letters, drove courier trucks, ran the computers and library searches, and produced the graphics.5 But the photointer-preters came from the CIA, DIA, Army, Navy, Air Force, and other organizations. An Air Force interpreter who studied photos of Soviet silos might ride the elevator with a CIA interpreter who pored over photos of Chinese nuclear facilities and a Navy representative whose safe was filled with the latest photography of Soviet submarines.
Of course, the environment at the Washington Navy Yard, itself located in a rundown area of Washington, was far from luxurious. And working in a building whose windows, for security reasons, were bricked up certainly could be claustrophobic. But at least NPIC personnel were located in a larger facility with some amenities.
Even before the first KH-9 mission, NPIC officials, including director Arthur Lundahl and senior manager Dino Brugioni, realized that upgraded equipment would be needed to exploit the imagery fully. Using lasers rather than crosshairs for measurement would increase precision. Lundahl helped sell Richard Helms on the idea by arguing that better equipment would enable photointerpreters to extract more data from KH-9 images and thus reduce the chances of successful Soviet deception, a particular fear of Helms.6
Also required was other new equipment that would make the photointerpreters’ work easier and more productive, such as new light tables, microstereoscopes, and adjustable chairs. The new light tables would employ cold light to eliminate the unpleasant effects of hot lights, such as dry skin. Adjustable chairs would allow both short and tall interpreters to work in comfort.7
But the funding required was difficult to obtain while NPIC was in the intelligence directorate, where spending large amounts of money on equipment was not a common practice. Further, according to Brugioni, contractors were not interested in working with NPIC because it had relatively little money to spend. A million-dollar contract was not worth the trouble, and the intelligence directorate had no leverage with such contractors. However, the science and technology directorate did hundreds of millions of dollars of business with such contractors, giving it considerable influence. Accepting work from NPIC, even if it was for relatively little money, would be a smart business move if it was done for a valued customer. Helms was sufficiently convinced to authorize NPIC’s transfer to the DS&T, a move not without opposition.8
On February 2, 1973, Richard Helms’s tenure as DCI ended, a consequence of his refusal to permit President Nixon to use the agency to help cover up the Watergate break-in. Helms was shipped off to Iran as the new ambassador, and James R. Schlesinger, the former Bureau of the Budget official who almost terminated the HEXAGON program, became the nation’s new intelligence chief. Serving at that time as the agency’s executive director, its number-three official, was William Colby, a veteran of the OSS and the CIA’s Plans directorate. Colby quickly convinced Schlesinger that the executive director position was of little value, and that Colby would be more useful as the head of Plans.9
In his memoirs, Colby recalled that as the new head of Plans, he changed its designation to Operations and, on Schlesinger’s orders, transferred the Technical Services Division—which Helms had insisted remain in the Plans directorate when he headed it—to the DS&T. The change was, he wrote, “a start in breaking down the walls of compartmentation between the Operations Directorate and the Agency’s other directorates.” In return, Schlesinger agreed to shift to Operations the unit of the intelligence directorate that operated overtly within the United States to gather information from U.S. citizens with knowledge of foreign developments or personalities.10 As a result of the transfer, TSD became OTS—Office of Technical Service.
Colby’s boss had more in mind for TSD than a change in name and a transfer from one part of the agency to another. One day in April 1973, Schlesinger summoned John McMahon to appear at his office at nine o’clock the next morning. At the time, McMahon was in his second year as director of the ELINT office, after having served as deputy director of both the Office of Special Projects (1965–1970) and the Office of ELINT (1970–1971). Having no idea why Schlesinger wanted to see him, McMahon called Duckett, who joined him in the director’s seventh-floor office the next morning.11
Schlesinger told a surprised McMahon that he wanted him to assume command of OTS, replacing Sidney Gottlieb. The CIA veteran noted that his last real contact with the office and its activities was in the 1950s. Schlesinger’s response—“close enough”—settled the issue. With the issue of “whether” settled, the only question left was “when?” Duckett suggested the first of the month, but Schlesinger looked at his watch and said, “How about ten o’clock?” McMahon never returned to his office at OEL.12
McMahon’s immediate transfer reflected the DCI’s belief that it was necessary to clean house at OTS and do so without delay. According to McMahon, the key issue was that the drug research OTS was conducting with the Army had “got out of hand.”13 Schlesinger was also probably aware that in July 1971, TSD had provided former CIA officer and then White House employee Howard Hunt with an assortment of its products—a wig, a speech-altering device that would give him a lisp, a gait-altering device that would make him limp, a pair of thick glasses that provided clear vision, and false identification papers. Hunt’s projects included trying to dig up derogatory information on the Kennedys, in particular potential Democratic presidential nominee Edward Kennedy, as well as trying to obtain information that could be used to discredit Daniel Ellsberg, who had leaked a copy of the Defense Department’s topsecret Pentagon Papers study of U.S. involvement in Vietnam to the New York Times.14 In May, Schlesinger issued a directive requiring all elements of the agency to report any activities that were conducted outside the agency’s charter.
Aside from cleaning house, McMahon had two other missions. One was to build up office morale, which had been damaged as a result of the negative publicity the CIA had received as fallout from Watergate and other matters. The other was to push improved technologies through the R&D phase and into operations.15
OTS, McMahon later recalled, “made any kind of James Bond device you could think of.”16 Those devices, in addition to the kind provided to Howard Hunt, included personal weapons such as the “cigarette pistol” (a .22-caliber weapon disguised as a European king-sized cigarette); a “pen” that could fire a .38-caliber tear gas cartridge; and a specially modified version of the Walter PPK—James Bond’s gun. Among the photographic and agent communications equipment developed and produced by OTS were cameras disguised as cigarette lighters and wristwatches and a complete radio station in an attaché case.17
Audio surveillance gadgets included briefcases and attaché cases equipped with recording equipment; clandestine listening devices disguised as batteries, appliance plugs, and other innocuous items; and hot-miked telephones—telephones wired to permit the mou
thpiece to be activated even with the handset in the hung-up position. To help with surreptitious entry were such OTS products as assorted lock-picking devices, a kit to make key impressions, and an electronic stethoscope to aid in safecracking. There were also means for destroying equipment or cryptographic material (a combustible notebook), for producing explosions (explosive flour), or for incapacitating an adversary’s automobile (the gas tank pill, battery destroyer, or tire spike).18
OTS also produced a variety of means to open envelopes, including a flaps and seals kit, and a flaps and seals hot plate, which provided a portable heat source to aid in steaming open envelopes. In addition, there was the dead-drop device—an aluminum spike that could be unscrewed to insert microfilm or other material, rescrewed, and then driven into the ground—as well as a hollow coin that could be opened only by applying pressure to a specific point on one side of the coin.19
DEVELOPMENT AND ENGINEERING
Schlesinger’s brief tenure in early 1973 as director was also marked by the April transformation of the Office of Special Projects into the Office of Development and Engineering (OD&E). The change in title reflected a change in mandate. Whereas OSP’s sole responsibility had been the development of satellite systems, OD&E was to provide engineering and system development support for the entire agency, with the Office of Research and Development focusing on “exploratory development.”20
Along with the new name came a new director for the office. Leslie Dirks, who had become OSP’s deputy director in September 1970 when John McMahon was assigned to head the ELINT office, became the first head of the office.21 Despite its more extensive responsibilities, OD&E’s primary business remained the same—development of satellite reconnaissance systems.
By the time Dirks assumed office, both the HEXAGON/KH-9 and RHYOLITE programs were well established. All three HEXAGON missions in 1972 had been successful, with the last staying in orbit for ninety days. The first of those missions was part of stepped-up U.S. reconnaissance activities designed to provide an updated survey of Soviet strategic forces in preparation for final negotiations on the Strategic Arms Limitation Treaty. On April 23, the first 1973 mission was in its forty-fifth day.22
The first RHYOLITE continued to monitor telemetry from Soviet ICBM and SLBM tests. In June 1969, testing of a new SLBM, the SS-N-X-8, began and continued for several years. In October 1970, SS-9 Mod-4 tests resumed after a six-month hiatus, and by November 5, there had been four more. An October 1972 national intelligence estimate noted that the Soviets were continuing to test the Mod-3 version of the SS-11, which then constituted 60 percent of the Soviet ICBM force. The Soviets also began testing the Mod-2 version of the SS-N-6 Sawfly in 1972.23
The second RHYOLITE was launched March 6, 1973, and once its checkout was complete, a two-satellite constellation was established. The second RHYOLITE apparently was placed south of the Horn of Africa to receive telemetry from liquid-fueled ICBMs launched from Tyuratam toward the Kamchatka Peninsula impact zone.24 Both were kept busy by Soviet ballistic missile tests for years to come.
But OD&E was doing more than living off its past accomplishments. It was working on a follow-on to RHYOLITE, code-named ARGUS, which became the subject of an internal intelligence community battle and ultimately was killed by Congress.25 Most important, OD&E was proceeding with the KENNAN program, which promised to provide imagery in “near real-time”—as the satellite passed over its target—via a television-like electro-optical system. That program represented another victory for the directorate and Program B over their rivals in the Air Force Office of Special Projects (Program A)—but one obtained only through the intercession of some prominent scientists. KENNAN was also part of Bud Wheelon’s legacy and a personal triumph for Dirks, whose work on developing a real-time capability went back to the earliest days of the directorate.
In 1963, Dirks and several colleagues began pondering whether the United States could launch a truly secret reconnaissance satellite, one that could be kept secret not only from the American public but from the Soviet Union as well. An April 1963 memo from OSA deputy director James Cunningham to John Parangosky, his deputy for technology, argued that if, in the future, the United States relied solely on the heavy reconnaissance satellites under development, “an intense Soviet effort will seriously reduce our coverage and may deprive us of coverage completely.” 26
Cunningham believed that specter justified development of “a backup covert system which would rely, above all, on concealment” and “be kept on the shelf until needed.” Requirements of a covert system would include a clandestine and preferably mobile launch system, silent launch and operations, and radar cross-sections that did not show up on Soviet radar screens. Although the resolution of the photographs would be inferior to that of the more conventional systems, it was believed that “useful coverage can be obtained.”27
But Dirks and his colleagues quickly concluded that a secret satellite in low-earth orbit was not feasible. The Soviet space detection and tracking network would easily pick up the launch and orbit of the satellite. An alternative was to place the spacecraft in a much higher parking orbit, bringing it down only when needed. Possibly the Soviets would miss or be confused by this unusual maneuver. But this strategy also had a fatal flaw. As the film sat in space, unused, it would begin to degrade. By the time the secret satellite received NRO’s call, the entire film supply might be worthless.28
The alternative to film brought Dirks and his colleagues full circle to the concept of a television-type imagery return system, which had been suggested in the 1950s by Merton Davies and Amrom Katz of the RAND Corporation.29 The desirability of such a system had not been forgotten, despite the success of CORONA and the failure of SAMOS. Whether or not such a satellite could be kept secret from Soviet space watchers, it could send back timely data. The Cuban missile crisis was one dramatic example of the potential value of “real-time”—an example appreciated by both Bud Wheelon and a young Leslie Dirks. One day they visited AT&T’s Bell Labs in New Jersey to take a peek at something the company was working on, a special dispensation from Bell Labs president and PFIAB member William Baker, whose organization didn’t ordinarily allow outsiders to see work in progress. The two CIA officials saw work being done on charge-coupled devices (CCDs), which AT&T hoped would serve as key technology in videophones.30
Such technology was not mature in 1963, but Dirks realized that it might be in 1973. Over the rest of the decade and into the next, he and other OSP staffers, including Robert Kohler and Julian Caballero, kept the project alive, looking for advances in technology that would permit such a system and seeking support for research into areas relevant to its development.31
By the end of the 1960s, several crises had demonstrated the limitations of film-recovery systems for warning of imminent attacks and the monitoring of the wars that followed. There was an appreciation that existing satellite imagery sensors were “rigid and unresponsive on timely basis.”32
On June 5, 1967, Israel launched a series of devastating air strikes on Egyptian air bases. The attacks followed the mid-May withdrawal of U.N. troops from the Sinai and Gaza, the closure of the Suez Canal to Israeli shipping, the blockade of the Straits of Tiran, and the U.S. government’s assessment that a serious international effort to open the canal was unlikely.33
Over the next six days, Israeli forces racked up devastating victories against Egyptian, Syrian, and Jordanian air and ground forces on three fronts. By noon on June 5, Egypt had lost 309 of its 340 serviceable aircraft, including all thirty of its TU-16 bombers that could be used against cities. Three Israeli Defense Force armored corps broke into Egyptian territory, took the Gaza Strip, and penetrated to the heart of the Sinai.34
In response to the Jordanian strafing of a small Israeli airfield, the Israeli air force struck back, catching thirty Jordanian planes on the ground. Israeli ground forces rolled through to the West Bank in a matter of days. Syria had also struck against Israel on the opening day of the war,
bombing an oil refinery, Israeli positions at the Sea of Galilee, and an air base. An Israeli air strike followed, all but eliminating the Syrian air force. On June 9, Minister of Defense Moshe Dayan instructed the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) to seize the Golan Heights, from which Syria had been conducting artillery attacks in peacetime. By noon the next day, the Syrian town of Kuneitra had fallen into IDF hands, and the road to Damascus was open.35
From the beginning of the war, the United States was monitoring events as closely as possible. But neither CORONA nor KH-7/GAMBIT satellites made a contribution. A KH-7 had been launched the day before the war. In addition, a CORONA mission that began May 9 continued for sixty-four days, including the entire period of the war. In an attempt to get better coverage, technicians altered the orbit of one of the satellites, but the returned film was apparently of poor quality. Not surprisingly, former Defense Secretary Robert McNamara later did not recall that satellite reconnaissance played any role in U.S. intelligence gathering during the war.36
Former JCS chairman Maxwell Taylor, then a member of the PFIAB, was among those whose interest in the possible value of real-time photography was stimulated by the war. After a July briefing by Helms, he sent the CIA a series of questions concerning intelligence collection capabilities in the context of the Six-Day War, leading Dirks, then head of OSP’s Design and Analysis Division, to explain CORONA capabilities during crisis situations. In a memo, Dirks noted that “I particularly emphasized the problems associated with using recovery film type systems in a crisis situation.”37 During a joint CIA-NSA-DIA briefing on August 31, Taylor indicated his continuing interest in the question of satellite reconnaissance in crisis situations. In particular, he inquired about the relationship between technological developments and the prospect of obtaining imagery in near real-time to support decisionmakers during a crisis.38