Operation Overflight by Curt Gentry, Francis Gary Powers

flight time, an aircraft has to be grounded for maintenance check. Flying back and forth from Turkey to Pakistan, time on the plane I’d counted on flying had run out.
    As substitute, on Saturday night U-2 number 360 was flown over.
    Following its emergency landing on the glider-club strip in Japan, number 360 had been returned to Lockheed’s Burbank, California, factory for repairs. Inasmuch as we were at that time short a U-2 at Incirlik, one of our planes also having been returned to Lockheed for maintenance, number 360 was sent to us.
    It was a “dog,” never having flown exactly right. Something was always going wrong. No sooner was one malfunction corrected than another appeared. Its current idiosyncrasy was one of the fuel tanks, which wouldn’t feed all its fuel. But not all the time, just occasionally. So the pilot was kept guessing.
    Saturday afternoon I again went to bed early, again to be awakened at two A.M. With my backup pilot, I had a good substantial breakfast—two or three eggs, bacon, toast. It was to be the lastfood I’d have until reaching Norway, some thirteen hours from now. The doctor checked me over, finding me in good shape. During prebreathing my backup and I were joined by the pilot who had ferried number 360 over the night before, a good friend whom we’ll call Bob.
    Bob had flown the April 9 overflight on which I was backup, and had been present when I finally asked the intelligence officer the long-avoided question. On this particular mission he would act as mobile control officer. Among his other duties, he would acknowledge when I used the radio code: single click indicating proceed as planned; three clicks meaning return to base.
    There was no need for additional briefing. I had studied the maps, knew the route. There had been a slight wind change, meaning navigation had to be corrected; otherwise the weather looked good. Because of 360’s fuel-tank problem, however, Colonel Shelton suggested that if, just before reaching Kandalaksha, I discovered I was running low on fuel, I could take a short cut across Finland and Sweden, thereby saving a few minutes’ time. As for alternate landing fields, he told me I could land in Norway, Sweden, or Finland—the first being preferable, the second less so, the third to be used only in dire emergency, but added, “Anyplace is preferable to going down in the Soviet Union.”
    As I was suiting up, I remembered that traveling bag, with wallet and clothing, and asked that it be put in the cockpit.
    â€œDo you want the silver dollar?” Shelton asked.
    Before this I hadn’t. But this flight was different. And I had less than complete confidence in the plane.
    â€œIf something happened,” I had previously asked the intelligence officer, “could I use the needle as a weapon?”
    He couldn’t see why not. One jab, and death would be almost instantaneous. As a weapon, it should be quite effective.
    â€œO.K.,” I replied. Shelton tossed it to me, and I slipped it into the pocket of my outer flight suit.
    Though with more than sufficient time to think about it since, I’m still not sure why this time I chose to take it.
    Could it have been premonition?
    About 5:20 A.M. , with Bob’s assistance, I climbed into the plane, the personal-equipment sergeant strapping me in.
    It was scorching hot. The sun had been up nearly an hour.
    Bob took off his shirt and held it over the cockpit to try to shield me from its rays.
    Takeoff was scheduled for six A.M. I completed my preflight check and waited. And waited. Six o’clock came and passed with no sign of a signal.
    The long underwear I was wearing was already completely soaked. Beneath the helmet, perspiration was running down my face in rivers. There was no way to wipe it off.
    Finally Colonel Shelton came out to explain the delay. They were awaiting approval from the White House.
    This was the first time this had happened. When