Dragon Lady: A History of the 1960 U-2 Spying Incident

By Fergus Mason

Espionage thrillers make great edge of your seat films--but when they're true, things get a little more...chilling. At the height of the Cold War in 1960, an American U-2 spy plane was shot down over the Soviet airspace. What follows is a tale of cover-up, lies, and, of course, spying.

With page turning suspense, this book looks at the incredible true history of one of the United States greatest spying stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookCaps
• Release date: Nov 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311065704

Book preview

HistoryCaps Presents:

Dragon Lady:

A History of the 1960 U-2 Spying Incident

By Fergus Mason

© 2011 by Golgotha Press, Inc./HistoryCaps

Published at SmashWords

www.bookcaps.com

About HistoryCaps

HistoryCaps is an imprint of BookCaps™ Study Guides. With each book, a brief period of history is recapped. We publish a wide array of topics (from baseball and music to science and philosophy), so check our growing catalogue regularly (www.bookcaps.com) to see our newest books.

Introduction

Peshawar International Airport, Pakistan – May 1, 1960

The USAF jeep cruised along the taxiway towards the military section of the airport. The front seat passenger, uncomfortable in his stiff flight suit, paid no attention to the row of Pakistan International Airlines planes lined up in front of the departure gates. The elegant Constellations and heavy Boeing 707s held no interest for him; he was more concerned with the wind that swept the high plateau. Even in May it was cold, adding an unpleasant edge to the predawn damp, but it didn’t seem too strong. The machine he’d be flying could be sensitive to wind but today was well within parameters.

The driver took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his tunic and lit one. He didn’t offer one to his passenger, who’d been breathing from a portable oxygen system for the last hour. The jeep continued on, passing the service vehicle park and general aviation buildings. Up ahead was the Pakistan Air Force area, a complex of hangars and ammunition bunkers that housed a squadron of F-86 Sabre fighters. Since just after nightfall the previous day it had played host to another aircraft as well, an American one. The visitor was too big to fit in the base’s hangars, so the floodlights around the military dispersal area had been turned off to hide it from casual observers. As they passed beyond the brightly lit civil terminal the driver flipped on his high beams. Dust drifted across the concrete, glowing briefly silver in the jeep’s lights. Now the pale gray surface was marked with curving lines of black rubber as they approached the wide pan where the aircraft waited. The driver slowed, and switched to sidelights to avoid dazzling the guards.

There were two rings of security around the plane. The outer cordon was made up of Pakistani troops from the elite Frontier Regiment, stationed at every road or taxiway leading to the dispersal area. The jeep pulled up at a checkpoint and one of the soldiers stepped forward, hand extended. Two more hung back, their G3 rifles pointing in the general direction of the jeep. The two Americans handed over their ID cards; the Pakistani scrutinized them closely with a small flashlight, then handed them back. You may proceed, he told them in flawless British-accented English. From his clipped speech the man in the flight suit guessed the soldier’s real rank was higher than the corporal’s chevrons on his sleeve indicated.

The jeep drove on, out onto the flat expanse of the dispersal pan. The second cordon was only fifty yards from the aircraft, and the dusty black silhouette of the tail fin loomed against the sky as they stopped again. The inner security ring consisted of half a dozen more jeeps drawn up in a rough circle with the plane in the middle. It would be easy to drive through the wide gaps, but the men in the jeeps had rifles to make that a bad idea. Now one of them flashed its lights and the driver pulled up beside it. Again their IDs were handed over. This time, the man who wore the USAF captain’s uniform, but wasn’t in the Air Force, handed the driver’s card back and slipped the passenger’s into his pocket. He wouldn’t be taking it on the flight.

The passenger leaned across the driver and asked, his voice muffled by the oxygen mask, Everything checked out?

The other man nodded. Sure. Refueling finished half an hour ago. She’s good to go.

Maybe, but no professional pilot would leave that decision to others. The jeep pulled up in front of one of the long, slim wings and the occupants climbed out. They clicked on their flashlights and started a slow, careful walk around of the plane. They each checked every access hatch was locked, every control surface was free to move and all the Plexiglas and glass panels were spotlessly clean. The jeep’s driver pulled out the red-flagged safety pins from the undercarriage and the various explosive devices mounted around the airframe, slotting each one into a numbered hole in a wooden block. That was the final visual check – if any holes in the block were empty the plane wasn’t ready to fly. With their flashlights they checked the underside for drips, and searched the concrete beneath the fuselage and wings for any fresh splashes of fuel, hydraulic fluid or lubricants.

Finally they were done. Three more men joined them from the surrounding jeeps and the group collected round the ladder that led up to the narrow cockpit. The man in the flight suit struggled out of the field jacket he’d worn against the cool air and handed it to the driver. Then he made a final check of his pockets to make sure all identifying documents had been removed. The driver nodded approvingly and reached into his own pocket. Here’s the dollar.

He held out his hand and the pilot took the silver coin with an angry scowl. "Goddamn thing. Who