By Any Means Necessary: America's Secret Air War in the Cold War

By Any Means Necessary: America's Secret Air War in the Cold War

5.0 3
by Burrows
     
 

Burrows (science and environmental reporting, New York U.) details the clandestine air missions run by the United States against the Soviet Union, North Korea, China, and other rivals during the Cold War. Focusing on the individuals involved in the missions as much as on military details, he explains how many of these missions were shot down or otherwise lost, but… See more details below

Overview

Burrows (science and environmental reporting, New York U.) details the clandestine air missions run by the United States against the Soviet Union, North Korea, China, and other rivals during the Cold War. Focusing on the individuals involved in the missions as much as on military details, he explains how many of these missions were shot down or otherwise lost, but covered up by the U.S. government in order to keep the missions secret.

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Editorial Reviews

Francis Gary Powers Jr.
Burrows puts the history of America's secret air war during the Cold War into a clear perspective.
Publishers Weekly
When a Chinese fighter collided with an American EP-3E Aries II reconnaissance plane on April 1, 2001, it was merely the most recent incident in a long string dating back to the end of WWII. Burrows (Deep Black), a professor of journalism at New York University and founder and director of its Science and Environmental Reporting Program, uses a host of personal interviews among his many sources, and details for the first time the secret American reconnaissance missions against the Soviet Union, China, North Korea and North Vietnam. The specter of Communist aggression coupled with the threat of nuclear war meant that America had to have accurate knowledge of enemies and their military capabilities. But Burrows also examines the issue of intelligence gathering from the Soviet viewpoint. Having been attacked by erstwhile ally Germany without provocation and having seen the atomic bombs dropped on Japan, the Soviets were understandably edgy when American planes began buzzing their borders and occasionally flying directly over their airspace. Frustrated, the Soviets struck back. From 1950 to 1969, Soviet fighters shot down 16 American planes in situations that resulted in loss of life. An appendix provides a chronological listing of these planes and the names of the crew members who perished. Most planes were converted bombers or tankers, crammed with all sorts of electronic eavesdropping devices. The whole game was generally called "ferreting." Nikita Khrushchev's joy when U-2 pilot Francis Gary Powers was captured after his plane was downed on May 1, 1960, is understandable. The Soviets announced the capture, but the Americans never apologized directly and still haven't. The ultimate tragedyin this cat and mouse game befell the families of the missing airmen who were often executed if captured alive. Burrows is to be congratulated for superb research and stellar writing in this first look behind the secret curtain of intelligence gathering. 16 pages of photos not seen by PW. (Oct.) Forecast: This book, driven by interest in the still-fresh Chinese incident and by its pwn merits, should be a breakaway bestseller. Look for Burrows all over the media and for massive review coverage. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
When World War II ended, the Cold War began. Its frontline warriors were the pilots and crews who flew air reconnaissance missions against Communist-bloc countries. For this purpose, bombers were converted to aerial spy work, often with disastrous results for the crews. As crews were lost or shot down, an effort was finally made to improve the planes and organize air reconnaissance into one unit the Strategic Air Command (SAC). Formed under Curtis LeMay, it provided not only air reconnaissance but immediate military response to any country that might attack the United States. Higher-flying aircraft, like the U-2, made air reconnaissance safer for crews, but surveillance with total safety wasn't achieved until satellites were launched. Burrows (journalism, New York Univ.; Deep Black: Space Espionage and National Security) tells the story of Cold War air reconnaissance with emphasis on the individuals involved, the sacrifices they made, and the way the U.S. government turned a blind eye to those who served. A fascinating book that public and academic libraries will want to purchase, especially in view of the recent spy plane episode with China. Grant A. Fredericksen, Illinois Prairie Dist. P.L., Metamora Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A passionate look at the hidden role played by aerial spying during the Cold War. The Cold War ended just a little over a decade ago, and it will probably be many years before its complete history is set down. But here, Burrows (Journalism/NYU; This New Ocean, 1998, etc.) fills in some of the blanks by providing a detailed account of aerial intelligence between 1950 and 1970. Far from providing just a technical history, the author highlights the stories of the aviators and crew who risked (and occasionally suffered) capture, torture, and death in the service of a country that was often oblivious to their existence. Many readers will be surprised to learn that no fewer than 163 airmen died as a result of reconnaissance missions, most of which were not acknowledged at the time. To this end, much of this story reads as an oral history provided by the surviving pilots, including many harrowing tales of survival and imprisonment. However, Burrows does not neglect the technical dimensions of aerial intelligence, such as the development of the SR-71 Blackbird, which replaced the famed U2, and the dawn of the satellite era, which largely, but not completely, supplanted the use of spy planes. Burrows is also careful to place aerial spying in its larger institutional and political contexts. His chapter on General Curtis LeMay and the Strategic Air Command is chilling, but made comprehensible by his attention to the atmosphere of Cold War paranoia that prevailed at the time. Burrows rightly emphasizes the benefit of the knowledge gained from aerial intelligence but downplays the tensions produced by the illegal over flights of other nations' territory. An unquestionably valuable service,well-written and tremendously informed, for the families of airmen lost during the Cold War-and for everyone else now beginning to process the meaning of that part of recent history.

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Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780374117474
Publisher:
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Publication date:
10/10/2001
Edition description:
1ST
Pages:
416
Product dimensions:
6.30(w) x 9.32(h) x 1.40(d)

Meet the Author

William E. Burrows is the author of the award-winning Deep Black: Space Espionage and National Security. He is a professor of journalism at New York University, and is the founder and director of its Science and Environmental Reporting Program.

Read an Excerpt

1 Death of a Ferret

The scene on the other side of the Plexiglas, far beyond the steady, rhythmic drone of the engines and the reach of the machine guns, was sublime. It could have been a classic Chinese scroll, a Song dynasty painting, come to life. Capt. John E. Roche, belted securely in the copilot's seat, took in a vast landmass shrouded in early morning fog. He couldn't make out the coastline, but he could clearly see several mountain peaks towering above the thick mist. Roche guessed that they were seventy to a hundred miles away. The mountains and the mist had an ethereal quality. But they were not Chinese. They were Siberian.

Roche, aircraft commander Capt. Stanley K. O'Kelley, and the others in this particular plane's crew had been told two days earlier, on the morning of July 27, that they were to take off the following night on a nine-hour mission. It was relatively short notice because they would be replacing another crew whose aircraft had developed mechanical problems. Planes and their crews always stayed together. Most planes had idiosyncrasies that took getting used to. So did most crews.

The day — July 27, 1953 — figured importantly in history and decisively in the fate of John Roche, Stan O'Kelley, and the other sixteen men who were now flying a United States military aircraft toward Soviet airspace. It was the day the armistice was signed that ended the Korean War.

It was understandable that the cease-fire was celebrated by long, boisterous parties at U.S. military bases throughout East Asia, including at Yokota Air Force Base outside of Tokyo, where O'Kelley and his crew were stationed. Booze was officially prohibited at the celebrations, but the only people who took that order seriously were the officers who issued it, and maybe they didn't, either. The parties at Yokota were thrown on the night of the 28th, as O'Kelley and his crew got ready to fly, and would cause a number of ground personnel to sleep later than usual the following morning because of a number of afflictions. Stan O'Kelley went to one of them, but he was a good aircraft commander who had a mission to fly in a matter of hours, so he left early and got some sleep.

In South Korea itself, however, the mood in the Air Force's crack fighter units — notably the Sabrejet-wielding Fourth and Fifty-first Fighter Wings — was somewhat different. The fighter fraternity was an intensely competitive, self-defined elite that traced its bloodline back to the legendary Eddie Rickenbacker's Hat in the Ring Squadron and Manfred von Richthofen, imperial Germany's fabled Red Baron, and his Flying Circus. Like their ghostly predecessors, the brotherhood kept score by kills. Five victories in the air conferred the status of ace on a man; ten made him a venerated double ace: a tiger. Capt. Joseph McConnell, Jr., won the Korean "ace race" with sixteen kills.

The armistice meant the fighter pilots would have to stop attacking enemy planes to run up their scores. But Capt. Ralph S. Parr, who flew a yellow-banded F-86F Sabrejet in the renowned Fourth Fighter Wing, needed only one more kill to join the pantheon of double aces. His fighter carried six machine guns in its nose that could chew an opponent to shreds. Parr and three other pilots in the wing were flying escort near the Yalu River on the afternoon of the 27th, just before the armistice took effect, when they spotted a twin-engine Soviet Ilyushin 11-12 transport, which he later reported had red stars on its wings, heading east. After making two identification passes, Parr pounced on the unarmed propeller-driven aircraft, guns blazing in long bursts. It blew up in midair. Parr's was the last kill of the Korean War.

In a heated exchange of diplomatic notes that started almost immediately, the Department of State chose to ignore the fact that the 11-12 was an airliner, not a combat aircraft, and instead insisted that it had been shot down over North Korea and was therefore fair game. The Soviet Foreign Ministry was just as adamant that it had been attacked over Manchuria, not North Korea, and was therefore technically out of bounds (though American fighter pilots, unable to suppress boyish exuberance, had routinely poached in the "priviledged sanctuary" that harbored MiGs north of the Yalu throughout the war). More to the point, the infuriated Russians maintained that the 11-12 was on a regularly scheduled civilian flight to Vladivostok and that the fifteen passengers (reportedly including advisers heading back to their country) and six crewmen on board had therefore been murdered well inside China in a "pirate-like attack." Evidence indicated that the 11-12 was in fact taking the most direct route from Lu-Shun in China to Vladivostok, which cuts across the extreme northeastern tip of North Korea. And that's where Parr bagged it. But the boundaries are so close that most of its wreckage apparently came down in China, and that's how the Russians, who were notoriously thin-skinned, made their case. They were undoubtedly in a vengeful mood.

The next day, the 28th, O'Kelley, Roche, and their navigators, 1st Lts. Edmund J. Czyz, Lloyd C. Wiggins, the radar navigator, and James G. Keith, the nose navigator, had gone to the mission planning room. This mission would require three navigators because their plane's precise location at any given moment would be supremely important. Czyz, the chief navigator, used standard celestial navigation and dead reckoning. Wiggins would keep track of where they were with radar. And Keith, sitting in the glassed-in nose, would watch for landmarks. If Czyz and Wiggins couldn't agree on exactly where they were, Jim Keith had the tie-breaking vote.

Maj. John Norton, an operations officer, had handed O'Kelley a file containing precise instructions for the mission itself. It laid out the course of the flight on an aerial navigation chart in a series of coordinates and bearings, each of them at a specific altitude. Once the nature of the mission was absorbed, Roche left the room, followed a short time later by O'Kelley. The navigators stayed behind to plot details on their own charts.

At about 10:45 that night, with everyone dressed in flight gear, O'Kelley's crew had sat on wooden folding chairs in a Quonset hut that served as a briefing room for a final explanation of what was supposed to happen. "We were to fly out from Yokota," Roche would later recall in a written deposition, "climb on course to Wajima Homer (a radio station check point on a small island off the Japanese coast north of Nagoya), then on a course of approximately 315 degrees, climbing to an altitude of approximately 18,500 feet. Upon reaching a position of 133 degrees east longitude and forty degrees north latitude, we were to climb to an altitude of 25,000." They were instructed to follow that course until they reached a control point over the Sea of Japan at 5:30 a.m. on the 29th. It would be forty minutes after sunrise on a beautiful morning. From there, O'Kelley or Roche would make a series of right turns at precisely calculated intervals, which would keep them on a track off the coast of North Korea and then Siberia.

That, at any rate, is what John Roche said for the record after the incident that ended the flight. And most of it was true. But because the nature of his work required a special security clearance, and no doubt because he was coached by Air Force Security Service personnel, Roche understood that certain facts had to be left out of the story. Those facts had to do with the real reason they were flying to Siberia, not the "official" one, and so Roche's account would have to be "sanitized" (which is the intelligence world's fastidious way of saying censored).

After the navigation briefing O'Kelley and the others had gone to a routine meeting with Capt. James H. Keeffe, the unit's weather officer. He had told them there would be thunderheads and some rain as they headed out of Japanese airspace, but that there would be clear skies and only ground fog the rest of the way out and back. The fog would not be a problem. Whatever Keeffe's military specialty, he savored the excitement of combat missions and had hitched rides on more than a dozen of them. He had planned to go on this one, too, but since it was his wife Sandy's birthday, he decided to stay behind and celebrate the occasion with dinner and dancing, maybe at one of the lingering armistice parties. The decision to honor his wife instead of his ego probably saved his life.

Keeffe's presentation had been followed by one from a captain named Gorman, an intelligence officer, who explained what they were supposed to do that night. Then Gorman had gotten down to worst-case scenarios. O'Kelley and the others had heard this part so many times they had it memorized. If they had to crashland or bail out and were captured, Gorman had told them, lamely, they should demand to be taken to the American ambassador in Moscow. "Keep insisting on seeing him or talking to him," he had advised. The nature of their work made the suggestion seem like black humor. The cover story, Gorman had explained yet again, was that they were on a routine training mission in a B-29-type aircraft and that there were more than the usual number of crewmen on board because some were trying to increase their monthly flying time. Finally, as usual, he had warned them to keep strict radio silence starting at one hundred miles outbound from Yokota. Except for short, coded position reports every half hour indicating they were all right, which would be sent to a National Security Agency listening post, relayed from there to Far East Air Force Headquarters, and then sent to operations, they were to stay off the air until they reached that point coming home.

In the event they did go down in Siberia and bailed out or survived a crash landing, every man in the crew carried a silk scarf, known in the fraternity as a "blood chit," that said in Russian its bearer was a member of the U.S. Air Force and a substantial reward would be paid for his safe return. But everyone in the fraternity knew that a substantial penalty, say execution on the spot, would be paid to any Russian who was caught protecting an American airman. There was no delusion on that one.

Copyright © 2001 William E. Burrows

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