OCTOBER 25, 1962
Captain Jerry McIlmoyle sat in the cramped cockpit of his U-2 spy plane on the runway at McCoy Air Force Base in Orlando, Florida. It was 10 a.m., and the sun was baking the tarmac, causing the thirty-two-year-old pilot to sweat inside his skintight pressure suit and fishbowl-size helmet. Beads of perspiration ran from his tightly cropped hairline down his forehead and into his bright blue eyes. Another U-2 pilot performed one last equipment check, including inspection of the hose running from the pressure suit to the oxygen supply that ran through the pilot’s emergency seat pack. This connection was of particular importance because Jerry would be flying at an altitude no other aircraft could reach—an incredible thirteen miles above Earth. Should something go wrong and the cockpit lose pressure, the flight suit would inflate, providing Jerry’s last line of defense against the dangerously thin air of the stratosphere. Without a pressurized cockpit or a functioning pressure suit, Jerry’s blood would literally begin to boil, and death would soon follow.
Once the final flight check was completed and the canopy lid sealed, Jerry taxied toward the runway’s centerline. The wingspan on the superlight aircraft was so long—103 feet—pogo sticks were needed to keep each wing from nearly scraping the ground. Once at the centerline he engaged the brake and checked that the directional gyro read the same as the runway’s compass direction. He then ran the engine up to 80 percent of its maximum RPMs because anything higher would cause the aircraft to start sliding down the runway with its brake locked. Next he checked that all systems were in good operating order and then released the brake, advanced the throttle to 100 percent, and barreled down the runaway, pogo sticks dropping away. When the airspeed indicator passed seventy knots, he began pulling back on the yoke, and the plane became airborne as its speed hit one hundred knots. The rumble of wheels on the runway faded away, and he raised the landing gear. He continued to pull on the yoke and began a forty-five-degree climb.
Airspeed rose to 160 knots. Soon the plane was invisible to the naked eye, its blue coloring the perfect camouflage against the sky. In just thirty minutes the young airman from McCook, Nebraska, had climbed to 72,000 feet, where he could clearly see the curvature of Earth. He had reached his cruising altitude and eased back on the speed, carefully keeping it between 100 and 104 knots. Forty-five minutes later, he had entered the airspace over the island of Cuba.
Now, just east of the capital city of Havana, he maneuvered his plane into position for overflight of his first target. This air force pilot, however, wasn’t dropping bombs—in fact his plane carried no weapons at all. Instead, he was after photos of Soviet military installations that included nuclear missiles capable of reaching and destroying cities throughout the United States.
The cockpit was quiet, and Jerry felt calm, even peaceful, despite having entered enemy airspace and knowing Soviet radar was tracking him. This was his third flight over the Communist country in just the last few days, and he focused totally on flying the aircraft, getting the photos, and returning home safely.
Jerry flicked the switch on the cockpit sensor control panel and activated the cameras. Once certain he had photographed target number one, he altered course to the southeast and in approximately forty minutes arrived and filmed his second target. The mission was going as planned, and the clear skies were holding over the 780-mile-long island covered with hills and lush green jungle.
The third and final objective was near the town of Banes, on the northeastern coast of the island. When Jerry arrived, he had been over Cuba for approximately one hour and fifteen minutes. Once over the target he started filming, got the photos he needed, shut the camera off, and started to make his turn for home, thankful for a safe and successful run.
That’s when he saw them. Through his tiny rearview mirror, two contrails stretched from Earth all the way toward his aircraft.
He was under fire.
One surface-to-air missile (SAM) had already exploded above and behind him, sending fiery shrapnel in all directions and streaks of white light against the blue sky, a deadly starburst. The second missile exploded a mere second after Jerry first looked into his rearview mirror, this one causing an explosion perhaps 8,000 feet above the plane. The blast sent a burst of adrenaline coursing through the pilot’s body, even though he could not hear or feel the impact. His muscles clenched, and his entire body felt as if it were shrinking. This was a natural, physiological survival response. But Jerry knew it was fruitless as he had no place to hide.
Was a third missile streaking up beneath him—out of sight?
He craned his neck around as best he could in the cumbersome helmet and flight suit but did not see a third contrail. Then he made an instant decision. He banked the plane and, during the turn, flicked the cameras on—he wanted to get the contrails and starbursts on film. Despite the near miss of the missiles and the adrenaline, Jerry felt calm. Seeing the explosions meant to kill him but not hearing or feeling a thing was a surreal experience—like watching the movie of your life from the front row. But this was all too real.
He had his pictures. Now it was time to get the hell out of there.
He turned the aircraft once again for home and took a deep breath, relieved to be looking north toward a horizon where ocean met sky. Less than two minutes had passed since he noticed the contrails.
On the flight home he replayed those intense moments again and again in his mind, still trying to come to grips with what had just happened.
Just a second or two more over his last target and he probably would have been blown out of the sky. It was the initial turn toward home that had saved his life. The Russians had likely aimed the SAMs at a location ahead of the U-2 in the direction it was then flying, but Jerry had changed course in the nick of time. Just one piece of shrapnel hitting the U-2 in the engine could have blown it to pieces. And even if the shrapnel missed the engine, a hit to just about any other area would have crippled the fragile plane, sending it tumbling thirteen miles down before it smacked into the Cuban earth.
Jerry wondered why the red light intended to warn him that a missile was locked onto his aircraft had not come on. The device that activated it had adequately warned him more than once during the flight, by displaying a yellow light in the cockpit, that the Soviets were painting him with radar. But the light never changed to red to indicate an incoming missile. He tried to put himself in the enemy’s position. Maybe the Soviets had turned off their guidance systems to deprive him of a warning? They could’ve gambled that they could hit him without it. Either way, it was a miracle he was alive.
He reflected appreciatively on his years of arduous training, which had helped him stay calm and given him the presence of mind to get the contrails on film. Jerry had been in the air force since 1951, long enough to know that without the pictures, some might doubt him, and he thought it imperative that the decision-makers, as well as his fellow pilots, understand the increased risk. He knew how important these black-and-white images would be, as his experience marked the first time during this growing Cuban crisis that any American airman had been fired upon.
A sense of peace washed over Jerry as he saw the green landmass of Florida far in the distance. Despite the close call with the SAMs, his relief at cheating death blended with a feeling of serenity, a sensation he almost always experienced when flying the U-2. The silence made him feel like the only man alive, and when cruising and not taking photos, he could be alone with his thoughts and felt closer to God. There was a radio in the cockpit, but that could only be used in code, and only to alert friendly military aircraft of his entry and exit from Cuban airspace. At times Jerry felt more astronaut than pilot, sealed off from the earth below. Many pilots who entered the U-2 program washed out not just because of the myriad dangers and challenges associated with flying in the stratosphere but also because of the isolation they felt, particularly on long missions. These spy planes flew alone, never in squadrons, and secrecy was paramount.
Upon his landing at McCoy, members of the Physiological Support Team helped Jerry out of the cockpit and removed his helmet, welcoming him home. They then escorted him into an air-conditioned van for the drive to the building where he would do his usual postflight intelligence debriefing. He wanted to make sure that he had every detail right. Jerry stepped out of the van into a blast of hot air generated by the burning Florida sun. He began to sweat again. He entered the building and then an office where several men from the American intelligence community awaited him. Shown a chair, he sat down but could not get comfortable. Jerry knew he was about to give his superiors information they did not want to hear. But he also realized that he simply had to come out and say it. He stared at the men in the room, took a deep breath, and spoke.
“I was shot at over Cuba.”
The intelligence men stared hard at Jerry and then looked at each other, as if having a telepathic conversation.
“Are you sure?” one of the men asked, furrowing his brow.
“Yes, sir, I took pictures of the missiles’ contrails,” Jerry replied with confidence. “They stretched from the ground all the way behind and above my aircraft.” He went on to explain in detail how he maneuvered the plane to secure pictures, the location from which the missiles had been fired, and the approximate distance of the starbursts from his plane. The intelligence officers scribbled away on notepads, recording each detail. After an hour of questioning, the officers excused McIlmoyle and thanked him for his time. Jerry returned to his quarters, while the debriefing notes went immediately to the Pentagon.
Back at the barracks where the pilots lived, Jerry felt obliged to give his fellow U-2 drivers, as they were called, fair warning. He repeated the details of how he had eluded two SAMs and got photos.
Some of the pilots took him at his word; others peppered him with questions. One of McIlmoyle’s flying mates did not appear overly concerned by the details of his near-death experience in the skies over Cuba. Major Rudy Anderson asked no questions as the answers might allow fear and hesitation to enter his mind. Any realization that the enemy had fired missiles—thereby turning surveillance missions into combat missions in a defenseless aircraft—might lead Anderson to perform his duties with extra caution instead of based on his instinct and training. Anderson could not let that happen. He was ready to push himself to the limit and separate himself from the pack. Rudy Anderson was determined to fly more missions over Cuba than the other ten members of his squadron during the increasingly volatile showdown between the United States and the Soviet Union.
THE NEXT MORNING, as Jerry walked out of the Psychological Support Center, about to head across the tarmac, he heard a booming voice behind him.
“I’d like to have a word with you.”
Jerry turned. He did not know the man, but he knew what his heavily decorated uniform represented. He was a three-star general and had flown down from Washington, DC, that very morning for one purpose: to deliver a stern message to Jerry, which he did without preamble.
“There was nothing on your film,” said the general. “Therefore you were not shot at.”
Stunned, Jerry began to protest. “But I got those pictures.”
The general was unmoved. “You were not shot at, so we are going to destroy your intelligence report. Is that okay with you?”
For a moment, McIlmoyle forgot he was speaking to a three-star general. His temper rose. He knew what he had seen. He knew what he had experienced.
“No, it’s not okay,” Jerry replied firmly, “because I know I was fired on.”
The general shot the captain a piercing look. He had not flown from the nation’s capital for argument or debate. “Well that’s what we are going to do, because we don’t think you were.”
Jerry shook his head in frustration. “Do whatever you want, but I know what happened.”
The general stood stock-still, then slowly, subtly shook his head no, all the while staring into Jerry’s eyes.
The message was delivered.
McIlmoyle was outraged, but he was no fool. The general was so many ranks above him, further argument would be fruitless and downright dangerous for his military career. Jerry held his tongue and walked away, not sure why this general was so adamant that he had not been shot at. But it hardly mattered: a general had flown all the way to Florida to tell him in person. That was all he needed to know.
NOT UNTIL MANY years later, when Jerry himself was a brigadier general working in Washington, was he able to confirm what he had known all along: the Soviets had in fact launched two SAMs at his U-2. At this time Jerry was in charge of the nuclear codes, serving under newly elected president Ronald Reagan. He had just briefed the president, and some CIA people were also at the meeting. When the discussion adjourned, one of the CIA men said to Jerry, “If there’s anything we can do for you, just ask.”
Jerry asked. He explained about the incident over Cuba many years earlier and inquired if the CIA men could locate the photo analysts who examined the film he had taken on that October day in 1962.
It took a few phone calls, but the CIA found the analyst who had studied the photos Jerry took decades before. The analyst called Jerry and after introducing himself, said, “Sir, you were most definitely fired on with two SAMs.”