With the seizure of the Pueblo, interest in the U-2 story was reactivated. Although the two events differed in at least one important particular—the Pueblo was outside the territorial waters of North Korea, I had intruded right into the heart of Russia—there were obvious parallels. And some not so obvious, because they involved that portion of the U-2 story which had never been made public. I wondered how many Pueblo episodes would have to occur before we accepted the basic lessons we should have learned from the U-2 crisis.
This was one factor in my decision to go ahead with the book. There were others. My job was not risk-free; if anything happened to me, chances were the story would never be told. Too, and this was not the least of my considerations, in a few years my children would be reading about the U-2 incident in school. I wanted them to know the truth.
In the fall of 1968 I was contacted by John Dodds, editor-in-chief of Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc. Dodds was aware of the earlier negotiations for the book, and was anxious to publish my story if I was ready to write it. I was more than ready.
Sue and I flew to New York and talked to him. On our return to California I informed the agency of the Holt offer and, for the last time, asked permission to publish my account.
After waiting several weeks, my patience finally came to an end. Since they had helped perpetuate the Francis Gary Powers mercenary label, I’d play the part. Sarcastically I wrote to them that I was going to write the book, and while entertaining bids, and since they had been so anxious to suppress it, I’d be glad to consider their best offer.
It was, in its own way, my declaration of independence.
To my surprise, I did receive an answer, in the form of a telephone call asking me if I would be willing to come to Washington to discuss the matter. I did, informing them at the outset that I intended to accept the offer made by Holt, Rinehart and Winston.
Only then was I told the agency had no objection to my writing the book. While they, of course, couldn’t give such permission in writing, they did want me to know that they would be glad to do anything possible to assist me.
Although not ungrateful for their offer, I politely declined it. Undoubtedly access to their records would shed light on some of the more puzzling aspects of the U-2 episode. On the other hand, such cooperation would carry with it an unspoken obligation. This was to be my version of the story, not the agency’s. I was determined to tell it as I had lived it, and this, to the best of my ability, I have done.
As the writing of the book progressed, I made an interesting discovery. Although this may also sound like sarcasm, it isn’t. In suppressing the book for nearly eight years, the agency did me a favor. I could now tell the story far more fully and frankly than would have been possible in 1962.
I have omitted only a few particulars, and in fairness to the reader I will state their nature.
I have not included the actual altitude of the U-2. By now it may be presumed that Russia, Cuba, and Communist China all know it. Yet, just on the chance that it isn’t known and that the life of a pilot might be placed in jeopardy, it will go unmentioned.
I have not itemized the number of overflights, nor related what intelligence information was received. My reasoning on this matter remains the same as when I first withheld this information from the Russians. Having held it back through many hours of interrogation, I have no intention of giving it to them now for the price of a book.
I have not mentioned certain phases of my training, both in the Air Force and in the agency, which might still be in use and thus beneficial to an enemy.
I have not included the names of other pilots, agency personnel, or representatives of Lockheed and the many other companies involved in the U-2 program. It is not my business to “blow their cover.”
And I have omitted some matters which I feel could affect present national security.
These are the only things excluded.
In the fall of 1969, as the book was nearing completion, I did something else I had wanted to do for a very long time. I wrote a letter.
Dear Zigurd:
It’s been a long time since I last saw you standing in the window at Vladimir as I was being led away. As happy as I was to be leaving, there was a great sadness in me that you were remaining behind those bleak walls.
I’m sure you’ve heard that I was exchanged for Soviet spy Colonel Rudolf Abel. You probably have not heard much of what transpired after my release.
One of the things happening to me now is that I am writing my life story, to be published in the spring of next year. The research and reviewing of my journal and diary brought back memories, many of which I have tried to forget.
I am sending this letter to you in care of your parents, at the address you gave me the night before I left Vladimir. If you are allowed to correspond, I would like very much to hear from you. If the above-mentioned proves to be a good address, I will send you a copy of my book as soon as it is published. It will bring you up to date on the many things that have happened since I last saw you.
I hope your parents are well and happy. It would please me if you would convey to them my best wishes and my sincerest appreciation for the aid and kindness they showed me while we were at Vladimir.
Some weeks later I received the return receipt I had requested. The handwriting was familiar; it was signed by Zigurd. Although to date there has been no reply, I am immensely relieved to know that he is alive and apparently no longer in prison.
FIVE
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA JANUARY, 1970
Asked during a television interview what lessons for the future could be drawn from the U-2 crisis, James Hagerty, President Eisenhower’s press secretary, replied, “Don’t get caught.” Similarly questioned during an appearance before the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, Secretary of State Christian Herter phrased his response only slightly differently, “Not to have accidents.”
While not wishing to contradict such eminent spokesmen, I would like to respectfully submit that if these are the only lessons we’ve learned, we’re in trouble.
On May 1, 1970, a decade will have passed since “the incident over Sverdlovsk.” Ten years. That’s a long time to avoid facing the truth. For better or worse, the decade has been one of change, sometimes peacefully effected, often otherwise. Scarcely a government in the world remains the same as in 1960. During this period the national administration of the United States has changed four times, the directorship of the Central Intelligence Agency an equal number. It is no longer possible to suppress the facts of the U-2 episode with the excuse that they are still classified, not when time has made it all too apparent that in this case “classified” is only a synonym for “politically embarrassing,” and even that excuse has lost validity.
Hopefully, the passage of time has given us some perspective. Hopefully, too, we’ve matured enough in our attitudes to accept a few hard realities.
One is that we blundered, and badly, not only during the U-2 “crisis,” but long before it became a crisis.
We were unprepared for the possibility that a plane might go down in Russia. Yet that possibility had existed from the start of the program. A rocket wasn’t needed. A simple malfunction could have done it. That possibility should have been taken into consideration. It wasn’t.
We used a plane of which almost every part carried some indication of national identity. We loaded it with equipment which, should even a portion be discovered, would constitute conclusive proof of espionage intent. And we placed aboard it an explosive device insufficient to the task of destroying all evidence.