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202
My TOP
SECRET
Life
By
Kevin Ahearn
For
Erica
USAFFSS Vets:In writing '202', I am not writing the history of USAFSS or of the 6901st, but going back into the head of this 17-year old NYC punk on his quest to become a Radio Intercept Analyst, and then discovering so much more, about the Air Force, about life, and about himself.I write to be read, but the last thing I want to do is list a series of events that reads like 'old man memoirs'. 202 is not the story of my life, but a story IN my life. A tale to be read, not just by guys who were there, but their children and grandchildren.USAFFSS and the 6901st are gone forever, yet no STORY exists about what we went through and contributed to America.I will stick to the truth as I experienced it, without fudging the facts and will not use my writing to grind an axe on the Air Force or to settle scores from nearly 50 years ago.In starting Part II, I have found myself going back to what you've already read and revising, of setting the reader up for things to come.I thank you for reading and welcome any suggestions you may have.Danke.Kevin
'There's somethin' happening here. What it is ain't exactly
clear.'
Buffalo
Springfield's 'For What it's Worth'
Throughout the Cold War versus the Soviet Union, Kelly Air Force Base,
a sprawling complex outside San Antonio, Texas, served the full inventory of
combat and transport aircraft, including the massive B-52 Bomber, America's
prime nuclear deterrent.
Also at Kelly was the headquarters and primary tech school of the USAF
Security Service, the top secret 'electronic trip-wire'; the first to alert
the dashing young President in the event of a full scale attack by the Russian
Communists.
Future
intelligent analysts were chosen from the top .5% of enlisted personnel, a
prized collection of college drop-outs. Rarely did a candidate come straight
from high school graduation.
Because I'd
set an iguana lizard loose in 7th period study hall, I was not allowed to
attend my high school graduation. Two weeks later, I was in the Air Force.
I'd taken a
battery of tests, but being colorblind, electronics was out. My mechanical
skills were lousy and I didn't want a desk in administration. That left
leftovers: cook, cop, and...intelligence.
"Two-Oh-Two,
Radio Intercept Analyst," I said to the recruiter. "What's
a Two-Oh-Two?"
"I
don't know," he said. "It's classified."
"Okay.
I'll take it."
At Lackland Air Force Base in Texas, I barely got through basic
training. Then I got my orders.
In
September of 1963, across the United States, thousands upon thousands of high
school graduates attended their first college class. At Kelly Air Force Base,
28 new students ('jeeps') reported for their initial briefing.
Only one of
us was black, a devout Baptist 'parachute rigger' who'd reenlisted to become a
202. He didn't graduate. Only seven would.
We faced a
huge map of Russia and its satellite countries in Eastern Europe marked with
symbols like a gigantic gameboard--an alien world stretching across eleven
time zones bristling with fighter planes, bombers, and missiles. Soon enough,
we'd be seeing it all in our sleep.
"A
Two-Oh-Two in the most unique, most important, most secret job in the Air
Force. You're going to be spying on
the Soviet Union, and if you tell anyone what you're doing...ten years in
Leavenworth!"
The first
202s were CIA agents.
In 1951,
Radio Free Europe, a radio station set up to penetrate the 'Iron Curtain', began
launching hydrogen-filled balloons from western Europe to drift eastward.
The
balloons carried two to seven pounds of 'propaganda leaflets'-- including
messages of support and encouragement to citizens suffering under communist
oppression, satirical criticisms of communist regimes and leaders, information
about dissident movements and human rights campaigns, and messages expressing
the solidarity of the American people with the residents of Eastern European
nations.
Over five
years, 590,415 balloons carried 301,636,883 leaflets, posters, books, and
other printed matter from West Germany to Czechoslovakia, Hungary and Poland.
From day
one, the Communists protested vigorously and began shooting down the balloons
with anti-aircraft fire and fighter planes, just as the planners had hoped.
The
'leaflet campaign' was cited as 'a major part of the post-WWII psychological
warfare battle between East and West'.
Such was
the 'cover story' to mask the greatest intelligence gathering operation in
history. The CIA had set up 'listening posts' across West Germany, Scotland,
Crete, Turkey, Iran and Pakistan to monitor Soviet communications. Staffed
with Russian linguists and radio intercept operators, the data was passed to
the analysts.
As the
Soviet air defense system tracked the balloons, CIA 'Sherlocks' mapped out the
entire network. Had war broken out, B-52 bombers, loaded with H-bombs, would
follow routes avoiding Red radar to nuke Moscow, Leningrad and other Russian
cities.
At the end
of the 'leaflet campaign,' the Air Force Security Service took over the
listening posts. The B-52 bomber crews would now be counting on us.
"To
become a Two-Oh-Two, you must learn how to think like one," said our
instructor that first day. "The 'Sherlock' goes his own way, using his
'cipher brains' beyond theories and figures to discover truth."
With that
he wrote nine single digit numbers on the blackboard.
"You
smart-ass college boys know all about number sequences. What's the last number
and why?"
Like I had
a prayer? As the rest of the class did the math, I decided to make my own
code, seeing the numbers as words, printing them out in block letters...
EIGHT,
FIVE, FOUR, NINE...
"Zero!"
I shouted out. "The numbers are in alphabetical order."
Our
instructor was pissed and hoped I'd ace the first test, which would mandate a
write-up so he could 'get' me for solving his pet puzzle.
Later that
week, we started on simple-substitution cryptograms, not unlike the kind in
newspapers' puzzle sections. I had never seen one before, but my
highly-competitive parents took great pains to teach me Scrabble.
I knew all about alphabet frequency and letter groupings.
In ten
seconds, I scanned the first coded 'military message', noticing the two and
three-letter groupings, identifying the letter 'e', then hit the long word.
"Reinforcements'!"
I shouted out, breaking the code.
The whole
class looked at me.
"Elementary,
my dear Watsons," I said.
Roger Wilco.
Remember that obnoxious, wise-ass punk from 3rd grade, always clamoring for
attention? I hadn't changed much.
After the
third week of class, we began to lose guys. I never saw them go; they were
just gone. UFOlogists wrote about
the 'Men in Black,' a mysterious government agency who 'cleaned up' after
'flying saucers'. I began to wonder if the Air Force didn't have 'Men in Blue'
whose sole mission was to make 202s 'disappear.'
After 'boot
camp', Kelly was the 'real' Air Force and I'd spend a lot of free time down
near the runways watching the planes taking off and landing. The school's
first sergeant was full of enthusiasm and made us feel as special and as
needed as bomber pilots.
Unlike
ordinary colleges and universities, we had no textbooks and never got any
homework. We weren't even allowed to talk about class unless we were in a
secure area.
Turn it
off, turn it on until it became a reflex.
Becoming a
202 meant buying into the mindset---get it fast, get it right. Who?, What?,
Where?, How? and Why? were not enough. What does this mean?
Not what is, but where it's going.
Logical inference, deductive reasoning, electronic detective work against the
biggest, most dangerous military machine in the world--What 99.99% of America
didn't 'need to know,' we were going to find out.
Then came
that Friday no American ever forgot. We were about to break for lunch when a
sergeant burst into the class.
"Everyone
outside, now!" he ordered.
"Double-time!"
The whole
school emptied out and to stand at attention on the tarmac. In a slight Texas
drizzle, all eyes zeroed in on the main runway. Like freight trains with
wings, the B-52s rumbled down and lifted up, one after another.
It didn't
take a 202 to figure out that...
"President
Kennedy has been shot," said an anxious captain. "Return to the
barracks and await further orders."
The Air
Force had gone to 'Yellow Alert', and were ready to go to 'Red'.
We went to
our rooms in shock. Not to listen to the radio or to wait for the next
newspaper as our parents might have; we watched it all unfold on
black-and-white television.
Kelly was
only our primary school, designed to weed out the wannabees. By the last week,
half were gone. One by one we were called in to meet with a group of officers
and guys in suits.
At
seventeen, I'd never been arrested. No drinks or drugs. I didn't even know how
to drive or screw. And wouldn't learn how to do either for much too long. The
Air Force knew all about the iguana and that (Surprise, surprise!) my parents
had sent me to see a psychiatrist for a while.
However
'intelligent' a 202 candidate may be, he'd be useless unless he had a 'Top
Secret Codeword' security clearance. The FBI had sent a Japanese-American
agent to interview my former teachers and my neighbors, including the batty
old lady three houses down. When told I had joined the Air Force, she asked,
"Whose air force?"
More than a
few were surprised that I had survived the school at Kelly, but the next round
would be much harder. And just four hours up the road.
Because it
was responsible for nuclear weapons, Kelly's security was high and tight 24/7.
Goodfellow Air Force Base in San Angelo, Texas, had an old runway, few
airplanes, but plenty of barbed wire. 'Goodbuddy' was a Security Service
training wing
By the AF
Specialty Code, 203s were Russian-speaking linguists who had attended American
colleges and then came here. 292s were radio intercept operators,
'Ditty-boppers' who carried their cumbersome gear on their belts. "Gee, I
wish I had a set of
earphones," I'd say in jest. Now half the world can't function without
being plugged in.
We all got
security badges, black-and-yellow with our photograph. Legend had it that two
'weather analysts', 'flash-dashers' whose training only lasted seven weeks,
decided to 'play with the APes' , the Air Police at the school entrance, by
switching badges. Within seconds, both were on the floor with guns to their
heads and never seen again.
Every
weekday morning after breakfast in the chow hall, we'd walk along the fence to
the security gate. All around us was the flat, barren, dusty Texas prairie
except for a single squiggly tree maybe half a mile away.
I can still
see it.
One
afternoon, coming back from lunch, our 202 group approached a dozen officers,
2nd lieutenants training to be Watch Officers coming out of class. Standard
Operating Procedure called for us to salute them and they would return the
mandatory courtesy.
But I held
back. The 202s saluted the officers, the officers saluted back. And when their
hands came down, then I saluted and
all those second lieutenants had to salute me.
I needed
that.
I was
constantly in trouble with the school and the squadron for 'chickenshit' stuff
and wound up pulling groups of 'extra duty', two hours at a shot almost every
day.
In the day
room closet I found an old dart board and darts and brought them back to our
three-man cubicle. Seven times we'd miss the board playing darts. When the
Squadron found out, I wasn't given some filler and a paint brush; the three of
us had to pay for the wall, in two
installments taken out of our meager paychecks.
San Antonio
had the Alamo and every airman turned tourist to see it. The San Angelo
'skyline' consisted of a single 6-story hotel, quite a comedown from New York
City. Mexico was a constant attraction. Gas dropped to 19.9
cents a gallon. Guys would pile in a car and head south to be with
prostitutes. An innocent Catholic, I didn't see my virginity as something 'to
be towed away at owner's expense.' Or was it because I was too cheap. Or
afraid? It would take me a while to work out things with women and girls.
On February 9th, 1964, a bunch of us gathered in the recreation room to
witness an event that would be watched by 73 million people across America:
the television premiere of The Beatles. Later
in the month, a 202 from Kentucky bet his paycheck against 7-1 odds that
Cassius Clay (Who?) would defeat Sonny Liston to become the heavyweight
champion of the world.
We spent a week on rudimentary Russian and I don't remember a word of
it. I'd taken the 'Language Test' in basic training to qualify for a linguist
job and failed it. Later I'd
learn German, then in Latin America, Spanish and Portuguese.
Soviet Air Defense Forces were known as Voyska
PVO Strany (National Air Defense Forces - Voiska
Protivovozdushnoi Oborony Strany).
(Mikoyan-Gurevich)
Mig-15s, 17s, 21s and the super-secret MiG-25, plus Yak
and Sukhoi fighter aircraft whose
mission was to shoot down attacking American B-52s. The 202s would know their
capabilities by rote. Where every airfield was and how long it would take each
squadron to get into the air. Because the 'Sherlocks' had broken the grid
codes, we got so good and fast that often we knew where Soviet aircraft were
going and why, even before the Red pilots did.
'Soviet Supreme Rocket Forces' rated a week and a half. The Russians
had the lead in long-range missile technology and the 'Space Race'. How many
operational intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBMs) did they have, where
were they and how quickly could they launch them?
We lost a couple more classmates, but not because of low test scores.
Seems the FBI discovered, not arrest records or divorce problems, but that
their families had friends or distant relatives living in Russia or Easter
Europe. That killed their Top Secret Codeword Clearance. Gone--The
'Men in Blue' made them disappear.
Every weekend, half the base would go into town, trying to score with
Texas women. Few succeeded. A classmate would marry one. Being a punk from
NYC, I got nowhere.
In the last week of school we filled out our 'dream sheet', where we
wanted to go. Most guys made Crete or England their first choice. 'The needs
of the Air Force come first,' we were told. Most of the class before us got
Pakistan. We got Germany. I was ordered to the 6901st Special Communications
Group in Zweibrucken, Germany.
With six others, I graduated and got my second stripe. At 18 years,
months and one week of age, I had become the youngest
full-fledged Radio Intercept Analyst in Air Force history.
I got a 30-day leave before reporting overseas. In uniform I felt proud
in front of my family and the neighbor. I visited my high school. My iguana
was the star of the biology lab. Everybody looked so young.
Four miles away, the World's Fair was in Flushing Meadow. A 'Universal
and International' exposition, its theme was 'Peace Through Understanding,'
dedicated to 'Man's Achievement on a Shrinking Globe in an Expanding
Universe'. Admission, in uniform was $2. I took full advantage.
The lavish IBM pavilion was a PR show to how computer circuits and
memory cores worked, to teach the principles of probability, logical structure
and abstraction, and to reassure the world that 'computers' would be
beneficial to all Mankind.
In the egg-shaped "Information Machine," a twelve-tier
"People Wall" hydraulically lifted 500 visitors up inside the
theater to watch a 15 minute show created using 14 synchronized projectors and
nine screens explained how both the human brain and the computer obtained
sensory information, fed it to the brain (central processor), and through a
program interpreted it to make some decision of what to do.
Seeing me in uniform, an IBM suit singled me out. "Did you know
that we are working on a program for the Sir Force that will instantly
translate Russian into English? Are you a part of that?"
No damn machine was ever going to outdo a 202! Had I told him what I
knew, I'd probably still be in Leavenworth.
On June 6th, 1964, 20 years to the day Americans had stormed the beaches on D-Day, I was on a flight to Germany. The Red Army and Air Force vastly outnumbered the democratic forces in Europe. If the Commies attacked, I could be the 'Paul Revere' of World War Three!
(To be continued)
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