By Any Means Necessary: America's Secret Air War in the Cold Warby Burrows
Unknown to the public and cloaked in the utmost secrecy, the United States flew missions against the Communist bloc almost continuously during the Cold War in a desperate effort to collect intelligence and find targets for all-out nuclear war. The only hint of the relentless, clandestine operations came when/b>
The "Blind Man's Bluff" of aerial espionage.
Unknown to the public and cloaked in the utmost secrecy, the United States flew missions against the Communist bloc almost continuously during the Cold War in a desperate effort to collect intelligence and find targets for all-out nuclear war. The only hint of the relentless, clandestine operations came when one of the planes was shot down. Many of the air force and navy flyers were killed on the top secret missions. But now, for the first time, award-winning historian William E. Burrows shows that others were captured by the Russians, Chinese, and North Koreans, and were tortured, imprisoned, and killed, while their loved ones grieved and their government looked the other way. In an effort to improve relations with Russia, Washington is still looking the other way, though it pretends otherwise.
Burrows has interviewed scores of men who flew these "black" missions, as well as the widows and children of those who never returned, all of whom want the full story finally told. He has done so with an eye to this story's immensely human dimension. By Any Means Necessary is not about airplanes, but about the people who've sacrificed their lives in the interests of national security.
- Farrar, Straus and Giroux
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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
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.
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I found By Any Means Necessary to be extremely interesting and informative. At the end of World War II America and the Soviet Union found themselves in a political conflict known as the Cold War. By Any Means Necessary deals with the military¿s role and explains the clandestine missions clouded in secrecy that were continuously flown over enemy territory to ¿ferret¿ enemy radar. The author does a very good job in providing solid background information on the Cold War and the reasons for America flying these dangerous ¿ferreting¿ missions. Basically during the Cold War America wanted to be prepared in the event of war with the Soviet Union, this means knowing the enemy¿s strengths and weaknesses. To do this the military flew countless reconnaissance missions and over the years compiled an impressive database that provided information such as location and strategic importance on Soviet bases, factories, railroads etc. This information didn¿t come cheaply and this is what the book is about. It describes these missions in a fascinating first hand account and really gives the reader a good perspective of what happened when the Soviets detected these illegal overflights. Many of the American planes were shot down and the crews never heard from again. In an attempt to avoid political embarrassment the government wrote these men and women off and told their families that their loved ones had died in routine training missions, not willing to reveal the truth or even give the deceased their due credit. I find the fact that our government was unwilling to send help to downed pilots in enemy territory and simply write off those who died, simply appalling. By Any Means Necessary was really an eye-opener. I liked this book and recommend it to anyone who is interested in military history and government coverups.
At the end of World War II we found ourselves faced with a new enemy, the Soviet Union. Unfortunately, we knew little about them and they made every effort to close their borders. When Russia obtained nuclear weapons, America and Russia scrambled to create strategic forces to assure annihilation of their enemy if they should be so stupid as to attack The Strategic Air Command (SAC) was formed for America's deterrent force (the first leg of the triad which later included land based ICBMs and Navy ballistic missile submarines). But SAC was faced with a real problem: what and where are the targets? We knew where the major cities were, but we did not want to attack the civilian population. Thus America began a series of bold incursions into Russia to find strategic targets. The British also contributed with some daring flights over Russia and Eastern Europe. The early spy planes were converted World War II prop driven relics that were easy prey for Mig-15 and Mig-17 fighters and several were lost with their crews. America replaced the aging prop planes with Boeing's RB-47, Martin's RB-57 and the famous U-2. Several of these planes were shot down, some over international waters. The spy missions later expanded to include radar mapping and gathering of electronic intelligence. We needed to know where radar sites were and what frequencies they were operating at in order for out bombers to penetrate. Many missions were also carried out against North Korea and China. Intelligence gathering flights continue today, but satellites now do much of the job. The most recent incident is the collision of a Navy intelligence plane and a Chinese fighter in early 2001. The author also covers the distress of the families of the missing men and the Governments continued veil of secrecy surrounding the loss of aircraft and crew. I had no idea that we had lost dozens of aircraft and hundreds of crewmen. This is a story that deserves to be told and read by all Americans.