The world was stunned when Francis Gary Powers was downed over the Former Soviet Union flying the Lockheed U-2 in 1960. In context, the U.S. has conducted more than 50,000 such ‘surveillance’ flights since WWII, using aircraft carrying national colors and designations (U.S. Air Force, Navy, etc.), flying ‘mostly’ in international airspace. The U-2 was an unmarked spy plane. Dangerous stuff. I can’t say more: this arena remains highly classified.

The CIA, who commissioned the U-2 in 1955, and its brilliant designer Kelly Johnson at Lockheed’s ‘Skunk Works’ in Burbank, California, thought its ability to fly high would keep it safe. True, for a while.

The Soviets knew it was there, from their radar. They bagged it with SAMs—surface-to-air missiles. While learning, they downed some of their own fighters attempting interception via dive/pull-up/Keplerian zoom. They didn’t care. In the FSU, as in today’s Russia, people are expendable, objects of the State. Similar U.S. tests showed the F-106 as the best interceptor. One tumbled past the U-2’s nose at high (classified) altitude, taking tens of thousands of feet to recover. Fresh underwear, please.

Secrets don’t keep. As details leaked, the U-2 intrigued the world. Its height capability (still classified) and endurance (~12 hours) stunned insiders. Everyone wondered about its design, performance and flight characteristics. As a pilot with thousands of hours in sailplanes (gliders much like the U-2—high-aspect-ratio wings, but no noisy fire hazard), I was curious. I act on my curiosities.

“U-2: Geopolitical/military past and technological/aerospace present mix in the imagination. What is it? Complex, high-altitude observation system that happens to be an airplane? Demonstration of Lockheed’s skills? Powered sailplane? All the above. Pilots worldwide wonder about this mystical beast . . . ”

That’s how my report started, words to accompany my photos taken at Beale AFB, near Sacramento, California, and in the cockpit, very (classified) high. I had that elixir, an ‘exclusive:’ first photojournalist to fly, photograph and write about one of the world’s most famous yet mysterious aircraft. I was in aviation and journalism heaven . . . very high.

One of freelancing’s rare joys is unearthing and controlling a scoop—if you’re lucky, properly connected, with a cooperative editor. How did I get into that cockpit, assigned by a major world publication?

I called the U.S. Air Force Strategic Air Command (SAC) in Omaha, Nebraska. Connected to Public Affairs—they treat polite journalists kindly—I asked to fly, write about and photograph their U-2. They said they’d consider it; they didn’t say ‘no’ and they extended hope. A definite ‘maybe.’

I called the managing editor: “SAC is considering my request.” He said he’d review my story and pix. I conveyed that conditional acceptance to SAC. I had the matched set. I reported to Beale AFB, checked into the BOQ and talked to U-2 and SR-71 pilots of the 9^th Strategic Air Wing that evening at the bar. Great stories. They love to fly. But . . . intimidating.

Next morning, after the traditional high-protein/low-bulk breakfast, flight physiology conducted a medical. Approved, my instructor, astronaut-in-embryo CAPT Denny Gagen, USAF, indoctrinated me in this difficult, fascinating airplane. I noted the central, bicycle landing gear with tiny wheels, much like a sailplane, the untwisted wing that stalls from root to tip, right now, without warning, though tiny leading-edge ‘bumps’ give a warning burble at critical airspeed. An unforgiving piece.

The proposed flight was briefed. Laced into a pressure suit, I pre-breathed O2 for an hour to avoid the ‘bends’—a risk after sudden decompression, when nitrogen in the blood creates bubbles at the joints that deliver excruciating pain. We rode in a van, carrying portable O2 units, and strapped into the two-seat CT-2. Final checklist. Engine startup, taxi in waddling gait on the bicycle gear, wings supported by ‘pogo’ outriggers.

Takeoff: rotate at 85 knots and pull up to 60° for climbout, the Pratt & Whitney J-75 producing a reliable 17,000 pounds thrust without afterburner. As we rotate, the ‘pogo’ wheels fall from their sockets for ground-crew recovery.

Three hours over the Sierra. It flies like a sailplane: smooth, easy, needs rudder to coordinate, non-assisted controls. The airframe is fragile. Don’t ‘pull’ more than ~2G, though higher-G gusts can be tolerated in updrafts. At maximum altitude, the ‘window’ between departure (stall) and tuck is two knots. So: a gentle hand on the yoke, meticulous airspeed control.

Landing is a challenge: energy management is crucial. Fly a flat approach: this bird floats in ground effect. We approach at stall speed +10%, not stall +25% fighters use. Another U-2 pilot, alongside in a pickup, calls altitude and attitude, ensuring touchdown at correct, two-point attitude: “Two feet, nose high; one foot, on attitude; touchdown.” Though back from near space, I will never come down from this flight.

The late Ernest Gann, a renowned flying writer, got into that cockpit years later. I scooped him. Hold the applause. I was lucky. SAC accepted me because it was no longer TOP SECRET. They processed my film and kept some photos; they knew that a huge pilot audience would read the piece as potential recruits; the magazine took my exclusive.

Why not name the publication where my original article appeared? Because, when I asked permission to excerpt my own text, they demanded a fee larger than the pittance they paid me to write it. Such sweet people. So this article uses none of my original material. Imagine violating a copyright by plagiarizing oneself!

Let us now mourn the end of an era: the Space Shuttle. With the 2011 Atlantis launch, it’s over. It was the E-ticket ride of a lifetime, atop millions of Newtons of main-engine thrust, including rocket energy from the two solid-state boosters that launched it. The experience was memorable and engaged hundreds of millions of earthbound mortals and a few lucky astronauts. This pilot was fortunate to see one small step in its history.

“. . . five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . we have liftoff”—familiar words in my headset. I am about to fly the world’s biggest and costliest glider, the billion-dollar Space Shuttle—well, actually, the Shuttle Mission Simulator, or SMS—at NASA-Houston’s Manned Spacecraft Center. The SMS, a core element in astronaut training, simulated most Shuttle evolutions. For me: the RTLS (Return To Launch Site), flown only as a simulation, never in life. With the Shuttle’s retirement, it will never be undertaken. Just as well. It’s a full-fledged emergency.

The bird is poised on the ‘launch pad.’ Atop the ‘stack’—orbiter plus main-engine tank and boosters—I lie on my back in the cockpit, right hand on the stick, feet on the rudder pedals, the gantry visible in the left window.

Except for the ADI (Attitude/Direction Indicator) and compass, the cockpit instruments are unfamiliar, especially the vertical ‘ribbon’ indicators (I’m still a ‘round gauge’ or ‘clock shop’ pilot, though MFDs—Multi-Function Displays—are handy). Like the early astronauts, I’m the metaphorical ‘spam in a can,’ nothing to do until later. My instructor pilot is in the left seat. If he is anxious about how I will fly, he hides his emotions carefully.

Launch and initial flight are managed by quadruple-redundant computers (cynics say those computers had less processing power than a modern cell phone but they took man to the Moon and back successfully). We are just passengers, like it or not.

At an initial 350,000 FPM climb rate, it makes the U.S. Navy F/A-18 Hornet I flew at the Naval Strike Warfare Center, Fallon, Nevada, with a ‘mere’ 50,000 FPM, seem anemic in retrospect. But this is a test. I’m on trial, willingly. I am . . . crazy.

The test: a hand-flown Shuttle final approach. Here we go again. Repeat after me: “This is only a simulator. Relax. Only a simulator.” Yeah, right. The SMS duplicates well the rolling, rumbling sensation of raw launch thrust, tangible through the seat, visible in the shaking of the entire cockpit. Sensations of an altered reality invade my mind and body.

As we ‘ascend’ from launch, a booster rocket fails, as programmed, within the first three and a half minutes. Lacking sufficient thrust, we cannot attain orbit nor reach an alternate landing site such as the Azores or Africa. RTLS is our only salvation. First we must burn off fuel, flying more nearly vertical to stay within range of the Cape. Shuttle orientation is now reversed with thrusters, pointing us back to the Cape, timed so that MECO (Main-engine Cutoff) has left enough energy for a safe return. Tank and booster separation will occur over the Atlantic. I will hand fly the landing.

Now, the cockpit instruments indicate, we’re traveling in near space at Mach 10, but backwards to about 400,000 feet altitude, with ‘reverse’ thrust slowing us down. We stop, literally, and head home. Newton (Isaac: flowing locks, quizzical gaze), at 1G, waiting patiently 24/7, strikes again—we need him now. Reynolds (Osborne: bearded, serious mien) and Mach (Ernst: glasses, frown) are waiting to contribute their famous numbers, once enough virtual ‘air molecules’ flow over our virtual wings. Enough with this historical nonsense. Focus, concentrate.

The flight computer will position us for landing. Ahead: black space speckled with stars there is no time to identify, earth curvature, the Florida coast below. What a view! This is what Richard Branson’s Virgin Galactic will give civilians soon, at $200,000 per. We decelerate to subsonic, arriving at 10,000 feet, at 235 knots—landing-gear limiting speed—eight miles from touchdown. I select ‘down’ on the gear actuator and see a satisfying ‘three green’ indication, take the air-brake handle in my left hand to adjust airspeed and touch-down point. In the bag? Maybe.

What hath that computer wrought? It has placed us in the energy window that should put us ‘on the numbers’ at a cleverly simulated, virtual Cape Canaveral, with 16,000-foot main runway. Can I fly the approach competently, without prior stick time? Do I have delusions of adequacy? I yearn briefly for Edwards AFB’s 15,000 feet of concrete, plus 9,000 more of Rogers Dry Lake for undershoot. I glance at my instructor. He remains impassive, mercifully silent.

The distance/altitude equation yields a 4:1 glide angle, but it’s just another glider, right? Through the HUD (head-up display) I note a broken undercast at ~5,000 feet. We punch through and the runway lies ahead, in the clear. I want to float it on—like the delicate arrival of sailplanes I fly in the Sierra Nevada. It’s . . . just another glider. Not!

Minimal kinesthetic feedback through the stick, negligible ‘pull’ G forces and absent vestibular sensations makes control motions unnatural, somewhat like a video game. One must use visual cues, but the three-axis controls—pitch, roll and yaw—respond conventionally. I fly the HUD velocity vector at 185 knots, as required, flare over the threshold, alight on the centerline. The virtual drag chute deploys on touchdown, then departs as we decelerate smoothly to a stop.

Long pause. Resume breathing. Phew! I look over at my instructor. He is smiling.

In real life, the SMS let Shuttle crews experienced complete simulations of entire flights, liftoff to landing, the outside world represented faithfully—the launch pad, the sky field with stars in place, the earth-sky interface and every part of Earth the Shuttle overflew. Crews spent up to 480 SMS hours to train for each flight, starting at launch minus 480 days—16 months earlier. Serious stuff.

We are down on Cape Canaveral’s ‘runway’ after 22 nail-biting minutes. But one never really comes down from a space flight, even if only simulated.

The Space Shuttle: gone, but not forgotten. Former astronaut, astronomer Dr. George W. ‘Pinky’ Nelson said it: “This must be the best job in the world.” Or out of it.