Early in the morning of October 27, 1962, four of us followed the normal preflight routine: briefing, physical exam, breakfast of steak and eggs. We suited up with the help of the PSD techs. While pre-breathing 100 percent oxygen for one hour prior to takeoff, we studied the target folder, and once more reviewed the Green Card. The Green Card displayed the navigation log on one side with oxygen consumption predictions and fuel consumption log on the reverse side.
Thirty minutes before takeoff, the PSD team squeezed us into the pressure suits. The outer garment protected the pressure suit laces from catching on the various switches, knobs and handles in the cockpit. I then strapped on my shoulder holster with my long-time companion, the.357 Magnum. For years I carried this same gun on my missions.
I took a deep breath and held it so no ambient air could enter my lungs, and I changed the walk-around oxygen bottle for a full one. The air-conditioned van carried the pilots to the already preflighted U-2.
We were met at the aircraft ladder by a calm, softly smiling Rudy Anderson, the Mobile Control Officer. I climbed up the ladder and into the “office,” as the cockpit was known. The PSD guys were doing their thing, snapping and connecting everything. A PSD tech switched me to the aircraft oxygen system. I held my breath while he performed the QD (quick disconnect) and safety clipped it. I checked with a firm pull on the connection to ensure it was latched. I fastened the lap belt and shoulder harness over the pressure suit and oxygen hoses. We certainly didn't want those hoses or anything else in the way during a seat separation and ejection. The PSD tech performed a “press to test” and a surge of oxygen inflated all the pressure suit capstans and breathing bladders. Suddenly it was very crowded in that small cockpit. The final check of the face seal determined it was properly seated and securely fastened. The PSD tech patted my helmet indicating “all okay” and then he turned it over to Rudy. Rudy connected his headset and mike with a click and switched us to “hot mike” so we could talk while running the checklist. I heard the sharply amplified sounds of my own breathing through the headset.
Rudy was Chief of U-2 Flight Standardization, and since I was an FNG (fairly new guy), I didn't joke around. I had to concentrate on the immediate task of preparing for engine start and launch. We went through the entire checklist, and then through the last chance recheck of crucial oxygen system and every connection. Rudy untied the string on the TOP SECRET folder and laid out in the proper places the maps, Green Card, pencils, dividers and plotter. One final scan of the cockpit and Rudy gave another pat on the helmet, then clicked off the hot mike. He backed off, and the maintenance tech rolled the ladder away. I waited for clearance to start. I waited and waited and waited.
After an excruciatingly long period, I finally got the signal. The signal was not to start but to get out of the cockpit and stay on oxygen. Somebody “up the line” was trying to decide whether we launched or not. PSD rolled the ladder back, brought a walk-around oxygen bottle and unhooked me from the aircraft system. I left the cockpit and climbed down the ladder to the ramp. A short time later back at PSD I was told the White House had scrubbed the mission. We were directed to leave one airplane and one pilot ready to go if clearance was received.
In a situation like that our unwritten rule was that the Mobile Control Officer was always the spare pilot and would normally be the next to fly. When the mission was scrubbed, I would not fly if there was a reschedule. With that mission cancelled, Rudy automatically became the next pilot. Some of us mildly protested, but Rudy prevailed. He reminded us of the unwritten rule and jokingly, that he was also the senior guy.
After changing out of the pressure suit and back into a normal flying suit, I went back to the visiting family quarters where we were housed. It was only a short time later that Rudy and the next Mobile Control Officer, Ed Emerling, received the call to return to the flight line for what was to be Rudy's final mission.
For lack of something better to do, a few of us headed for the on-base golf course. My golf game was lousy, and I wasn't enjoying it at all. But it did beat sitting around waiting for tomorrow. When I arrived back at the house a couple hours later, I learned Rudy was missing. Ed Emerling, as the Mobile Officer, went back to his position at the flight line just in case Rudy might return. Perhaps, we thought and hoped, the aircraft had radio failure or some other problem. Ed waited until the time that fuel would have been exhausted, then gave up and came back to the house. What followed was a somber evening, if not sober, watching television news.
We didn't fly for a couple of days, and we in the detachment didn't have any idea about our forthcoming participation in the momentous events played out on daylong television news. We received word the Commander in Chief of Strategic Air Command, General Thomas Powers, was flying into McCoy to talk with us pilots. Wow! Must be something really big for “The Man” to come down.
We speculated that Washington would order surgical air strikes to at least take out the SAM site that bagged Rudy. Maybe we would activate protective ECM (Electronic Countermeasures) to jam the other sites so they couldn't pick us up on their radars. Wrong on both counts. We would continue overflights but without ECM. Our leaders were not about to compromise the ECM equipment that would have to protect our strategic strike force bombers in case we went to nuclear war. That appeared more likely with each passing moment.
We flew exposed and vulnerable as hell. The next day we went in force, five aircraft flying parallel courses about twenty miles apart, staggered with five-minute separation. Our flight plan carried us directly to Cuba from the east tip to the west, bending fifteen to twenty degrees to follow the curvature of the island. This time we did take off and launch in radio silence. I was third in the order and therefore, in the middle flight track. Things went well, and to my left Guantanamo Bay slipped quietly by. The weather was great, and I felt good regardless of my uncertainties about the intentions of the enemy below. We felt sure President Kennedy had sent word to Fidel Castro to lay off the U-2s, but we were not at all confident about the compliance with the directive.
Suddenly, over the radio in clear audio came an alarmed voice: “Green Arrow! Green Arrow! Green Arrow! I repeat, Green Arrow! Green Arrow!” I said aloud, “Damn! That sonofabitch is after another one of us.” That was the recall signal from the RC-121 monitoring our flights. I racked the airplane into an evasive hard left turn, heading for the nearest shoreline which was actually the south shoreline of Cuba, about 20 miles west of Guantanamo Bay. The airplane shuddered, and I eased up a bit and turned 90 degrees. For a few seconds I turned to the right then back to the left toward open water. Five or six very long minutes passed and I was out of range of the SAMs. Turning off the cameras, I flew east until clear of Cuba and headed for McCoy.
The mission was terminated for that day by the recall. From that point on, the missions ceased being a really fun thing to do. Although this particular mission ended in a recall, there were many others that went textbook.
Our equipment improved, and we became more knowledgeable about the intentions of the enemy. The shrieking of warning systems and the red signal, known as Oscar Sierra, alerted the pilot that a SAM was in the guidance mode. Following the launch, it was then locked on to the aircraft. We referred to the OS signal as the “OH SH*T” light on the right canopy rail. If that signal lit up, we were in deep you-know-what. Now, there's black humor at its best! That signal was definitely not something anyone wanted to hear at 70,000 feet.
The sweat brought about by trepidation of this nature is uniquely different from normal sweat caused by exertion or uncomfortable heat. Trepidation sweat has a singular pungent quality of its own, a particular scent that is unmistakable. It has been many years since my last combat mission over North Vietnam, but the leather pressure suit gloves I wore over Cuba and Vietnam have retained that distinctive scent to this day. Yes, I still have those gloves … somewhere.
U-2 Aircraft and Pilot Vanish
It seemed like all my personal episodes with the Lady in Black be
gan with a phone call, someone on the other end of the instrument muttering a few sentences that ended with “Get down to the squadron ASAP.” The phone calls always seemed to come within a couple of days after my return from a two or three month TDY to an odd-ball place halfway around the world where some nut was trying to take away his neighbor's cookies. The bottom line: It was not in the best interest of the US for that happen. The call then went out for the U-2s to go have a look. Other drivers were out reconning the places I had recently returned from; I was now eligible to leave again after a brief stay at home.
Standing left to right: Major/Navigator, Lt/Maintenance, Col William Hayes, Lt Col Wheaton, Hospital commander, Major Mahaffey, Lockheed Tech Rep Mike Cupito, Major/Maintenance, Airman/PSD. Kneeling left to right: Major Charlie Kern, Major Leo Stewart, Major/Navigator, Capt/Maintenance, MSgt John Hillman, Crew Chief.
Can't say I didn't ask for it though; I loved the job and I loved the aircraft. That's how my day started on July 28, 1966.
Upon arrival at the squadron, I was told a U-2 and its pilot had gone missing on a Cuban overflight mission. I had heard nothing about a missing U-2 so I was completely in the dark regarding the dilemma of Capt Robert “DD” Hickman and his aircraft. That would soon change; I was appointed to the Accident Investigation Board and briefed on all aspects of the situation. The Commander of the SR-71 wing at Beale AFB, California, Col Bill Hayes, was en route to Davis Monthan AFB to serve as the Board President. However, the initial overview would commence without him in order for Maintenance personnel to begin their records inquiries for the history of the aircraft as quickly as possible.
The initial briefing to the Board was very sketchy as we had little to go on at this early stage. Lt Col Tony Martinez, Commander of the 4028th SRS, briefed a dozen people including the wing safety officer, operations officer, pilots and maintenance officer, several of whom would become Accident Investigation Board members.
Col Martinez began the briefing with the scant facts known at this time:
• Capt Hickman had departed Barksdale AFB, Louisiana, location of the wing's Detachment OL-19, on Tuesday, July 28, 1966 at 0400 on a Cuban overflight mission to verify the island's adherence to the accords reached by the US, Soviet Union and Cuba following the Cuban Missile Crisis of October 1962.
• Capt Hickman's flight appeared to progress normally, including practice intercepts by F-104s from Homestead AFB, Florida. A turn by the U-2 to a planned southerly heading had put it on course to Key West, Florida. Hickman had checked in by radio with the F-104 flight and commented that he would “see them next week.”
• He then turned to the penetration heading from which point, twelve minutes later, he would “coast in,” meaning he would enter airspace directly over the Cuban coastline. At this specific point, the flight plan called for a turn back to the east. The turn was never made, and the aircraft continued on its last heading for nearly 3,000 miles, until it crashed near the top of a 14,000 foot mountain, 150 miles southeast of La Paz, Bolivia. Something had gone terribly wrong in that twelve-minute period between Key West and the planned easterly turn at the Cuban coastline.
• During its journey southward, the aircraft had overflown a US air base in Panama, and had been intercepted, somewhat, by a high altitude B-57 seeking a visual on the obviously stricken U-2 pilot. However, the B-57 could only close to about 10,000 feet below and was unable to report anything useful for our purposes.
As the initial briefing continued, more information came in during the day. A school teacher, whose classroom was on the ground track of the U-2, reported seeing the aircraft in an estimated 45 to 60 degree dive, trailing “smoke” and making a screaming noise. Her class was outside the school on recess, so the teacher was able to witness the last few seconds of the doomed flight. Almost immediately, a wing broke off and the aircraft did a half roll just before it disintegrated as it struck the mountainside in a steep dive at an estimated 400 knots.
The teacher reported the crash up the chain, first to her local police officials who then reported it to the Bolivian military authorities who then reported it to the American Embassy. Somehow the aircraft was identified as a US plane. Through US channels, the report filtered down to us.
The first indication to US authorities that there was trouble with Hickman's aircraft was when it failed to make the easterly turn at Cuban “coast in.” US radars had tracked it on its southbound course and handed it off to Air Traffic Control, then to Panama Control for the attempted B-57 intercept.
At that point, all the US could do was to advise those countries in South America in the flight path that the ill-fated U-2 was headed south and would finally run out of fuel and crash. The where was only an educated guess, and not a very good one. The when would be approximately ten hours from takeoff, making it about 1700 local time on South America's west coast, 1400 in Bolivia.
After the initial briefing, we headed home to pack a week's worth of clothes, civvies and working uniform, and reported back to the squadron. We loaded our team of Accident Investigation Board members, baggage and necessary equipment, on “Old Shakey,” a C-124 Globemaster that flew us as far as Panama. There we transferred the team and gear to a C-130 Hercules capable of operating at 13,000 foot elevation of the runway serving La Paz, Bolivia. The C-130 flight was also noisy and long, but the loadmaster was used to it and was prepared with a good supply of ear plug protectors for his passengers.
In La Paz, we were met by a group Bolivian soldiers with vehicles and drivers necessary for the grueling trip to the crash site. The arrival at La Paz was a shock to most of us; we had not given much thought to stepping out into the thin air over 2.5 miles above sea level. As soon as the airplane had depressurized, we immediately felt the discomfort. We grabbed our bags and started down the ramp. By the time we were on the ground, everyone gasped for breath. Lesson One: Take it slow and easy up here. We were also met at the aircraft by the legendary Col Ed Fox, USAF Air Attache at the US Embassy, Bolivia. For the past several years Col Fox had been a personal friend and confidante to presidents of several South American countries, including Bolivia, as well as chiefs of state and high ranking military officers. No surprise, he had already been to the crash site to ensure there were no classified elements laying around the area. Not to be concerned with that, there was nothing left of the airplane larger than small fragments with the exception of the wing that had broken off at the root in flight seconds before impact and fluttered to the ground. It had been carried away by natives and was likely now serving proudly as a roof for someone's hut.
We left Col Fox, but would make a courtesy visit and informal briefing when our team gathered at his home prior to departing for the US. We headed for the hotel exhausted from simply moving around in the extreme altitude. Dinner and rest were the orders of the evening. We had set up a meeting the next day to strategize our next move. The following day would be “Action Day” and a very long one as well.
We prepared to drive and hike our way to the site. We were up at 0300, had a quick breakfast and were on the road by 0400 in three carryalls driven by Bolivian soldiers. The carryall in another life had been similar to a Chevy Suburban with three bench seats and cargo space at the rear. A rugged vehicle that could traverse almost any terrain, it was the only thing that could get us to the site. A couple of the Bolivian soldiers spoke English, but I was the only board member who had even a limited grasp of Spanish. Communication did not get too complicated between the groups, and hand signals were understood. Our first stop was a small, non-descript building that housed the radio station at the airport. As Board President, Col Hayes had to notify USAF officials we had arrived in Bolivia.
While he was inside the radio station, I scrounged for something I could use to make a couple of walking sticks, one for Col Hayes and one for me. The best I could come up with was two boards, about one by four inches that I somehow pried off an old, discarded pallet. At this altitude there were no trees, and few other sources of wood. Nada. Zip
.
Col Hayes’ message was sent, and we departed immediately for the crash site. Three hours into our journey, we came to a river which I learned was crossed by ferry boat. Ordinarily, the trip to the crash site would have been about six or seven hours drive; however, this day the ferry operator had decided to go to the village, or somewhere away from the boat. After waiting over an hour, the soldiers became impatient, to say nothing for the rest of us. One of them fired a full machine gun magazine over the ferry operator's house. As one might imagine, the response was immediate. The ferry operator came pedaling his bicycle furiously, with many apologies.
The ferries were a story unto themselves. They were river-powered downstream and mule-powered upstream. The operator and his helper loaded two ferry boats to accommodate our three carryalls and team members, then untied them as the current took the boats downriver. Meanwhile, the ferry boat driver steered to one side and his helper used a pole to help push the boat to the opposite side.
When the boat reached the target-side dock, the helper tossed a rope with a loop over a piling, and the stern was likewise secured. After the boat was unloaded, a mule pulled it back upstream, this time to a release point on the opposite side of the river. If all the pylons, including the emergency ones, were missed by the loop-thrower (probably unlikely with all their experience), the ferry would end up in a large lake a couple hundred miles south.
Remembering the Dragon Lady: The U-2 Spy Plane: Memoirs of the Men Who Made the Legend Page 36
