A Cold War secret that many took to their graves

For more than ten years they worked diligently in a strange box-like building on the hill above the local airport. The building had no windows (except in the cafeteria) and was full of secrets.

They wore protective white suits and had to pass through air filtration chambers before entering the "clean room" where their equipment was stored.

They communicated in codes.

Few knew the true identity of the "customer" they met in the smoky, wood-paneled conference room where the phone lines were encrypted. When they traveled, they sometimes used false names.

At one point in the 1970s, more than a thousand people were working on a secret project in Danbury, Connecticut. Although they had long working hours and intense deadlines, sometimes missing family holidays and anniversaries, they could not tell anyone – not even their wives and children – what they were doing.

They could not tell anyone - not even their wives and children - what they were doing

Among them were engineers, scientists, designers and inventors — "real spies," 78-year-old Fred Mara recalls in an interview with the Associated Press.

He met for Sunday coffee with other former colleagues from the Perkin-Elmer Corporation at a mall in Danbury.

Gray-haired and hearing-impaired, they have been meeting there for the past 18 years. For several hours they discuss golf and politics, illness and grandchildren. And until recently, they were forbidden to talk about the biggest achievement of their professional life.

Hexagon was declassified in September

"Ah, Hexagon," says Ed Newton, gleefully uttering a word whose mention in public still feels almost treasonous.

Dubbed the Big Bird, it was considered the most successful spy satellite program of the Cold War era.

From 1971 to 1986, a total of 20 satellites were launched, each carrying 96 km of film and sophisticated cameras that orbited the Earth taking huge panoramic photos of the Soviet Union, China and other potential enemies. The images were returned to the Earth's atmosphere in capsules that flew over the Pacific Ocean, where they were picked up by Air Force C-130 aircraft using special hooks.

The KH-9 hexagon was genius. The fact that out of 20 launches, 19 were successful is astonishing. And so is the human story of a 45-year-old secret.

They can finally talk

Hexagon was declassified in September. Mara, Newton and others can now tell the world what they did all those years in the "office".

Fever about engaging in a project

"My name is Al Gayhart and I make spy satellites for a living," the 64-year-old retired engineer told a stunned waiter at his local tavern as soon as he learned the top secret had been declassified. He proudly repeats that line every chance he gets.

"It was extremely demanding, exciting and the greatest experience of my life," says Gejhardt, who was hired right out of college and was one of the youngest members of the Hexagon "fraternity."

He describes the great excitement as the teams pored over blueprints and worked through countless technical problems, with the help of "calipers and higher education" (there were no computers), knowing they were part of such a complicated space project. The intensity would increase as the launch approached and during the day when the "customers"—the CIA and later the Air Force—arrived for briefings. At least once, former President George HW Bush, then director of the CIA, came to Danbury to tour the works.

Although other companies were part of the project – Eastman Kodak made the film and Lokid Korp. Satellite - cameras and optical systems were made by Perkin-Elmer, then the largest employer in Danbury.

The FBI questioned family members, neighbors and former employers, and job candidates were questioned about everything

Retired engineer Paul Brickmeyer, 70, remembers even the first briefing on Hexagon after Perkin-Elmer was awarded the secret job in 1966.

Looking at his XNUMX or so colleagues, Brickmeyer thought, "Is this even possible to do?"

The rush to hire people to work on the project attracted the attention of top engineers from all over the Northeast.

Waiting for approval was a surreal experience as the FBI "fired" questions from family members, neighbors and former employers, and job candidates were interrogated about everything from gambling habits to sexual orientation.

"They wanted to make sure we couldn't be bribed," says Mara.

"I thought they were crazy"

Obtaining a permit could take up to a year. During this time, the employees worked on relatively minor tasks, with no one knowing what they were actually hired for. Jozef Prusak (76) spent six months in the building. When he was finally informed about Hexagon, Prusak, who had worked as an engineer on earlier civilian space projects, wondered if he had made the biggest mistake of his life.

“I thought they were crazy,” he said. They envisioned a satellite 18 meters long and weighing 13 tons, providing film at a speed of 200 inches per second. Such precision and complexity was incredible."

A few years later, after numerous successful launches, they showed him what Hexagon could do – a photo of his house in the Fairfield subdivision.

They showed him what Hexagon could do – a photo of his house in the Fairfield subdivision

"That was light years before Google Earth," Prusak said.

"We could clearly see the pool in my backyard."

There had been spy satellites before - Corona and Gambit, but none had the precision of the Hexagon, which took close-up pictures of Soviet missiles, submarines in harbors and air bases, even entire battalions training for war.

According to the National Reconnaissance Service, one photograph of the Hexagon covered a terrain of 370 nautical miles.

Initially, Hexagon missions lasted an average of 124 days, but as the satellites became more sophisticated, later missions lasted twice as long.

"At the height of the Cold War, we had an incredible ability to receive this kind of technical intelligence," says space historian Dwayne Day. "We had to know what they were doing and where they were doing it, especially if they were preparing to attack Western Europe. The hexagon created enormous stability because it meant that American policymakers were working blindly."

Silence as a matter of honor

Among other successes, Hexagon provided key information on strategic arms limitation negotiations between the US and the Soviet Union in the 1970s.

From the beginning, security was a major concern, especially in Danbury, where the intense activity of a relatively small company that had just been awarded a huge contract (the amount remains secret) made it obvious that something big was going on. In the factory it was not possible to hide the giant thermal vacuum chamber where the cameras were tested in extreme conditions that simulate space. There was also "shaking, rattling and rolling" of the room to simulate conditions during a launch.

"We were like people working on the first atomic bomb," recalls Oskar Berendson (87), who helped design the optical system.

"The question is how you hide an elephant," a National Reconnaissance Service report stated at the time. They settled on a simple answer: “What kind of elephant?” Employees were told to ignore any questions from the media and never confirm even the tiniest detail about what they were working on.

However, it was impossible to hide the launches at Vanderberg Air Force Base in California, and aviation magazines mentioned the Big Bird several times. In 1975, the TV show "60 Minutes" aired a feature on space reconnaissance, which described the world of "Alice in Wonderland", where American and Soviet intelligence officials know about the "eyes in the sky" of each other - and of other countries. However, no one has confirmed the programs or spoken publicly about them.

For Perkin-Elmer employees, the oath of secrecy was considered a matter of honor.

"We were like people working on the first atomic bomb," recalls Oskar Berendson, 87, who helped design the optical system. "It was more than an oath. We were entrusted with the security of our country. Is there greater trust?”

Even the wives, who could not contact their husbands or know where they were while they were on the road, largely privatized secrecy. They knew that their work was strictly confidential. They knew not to ask questions.

"We were born in the World War II generation," said Linda Bronico, who was told by her husband, Al, that she was just making test consoles and cables. "We all knew the slogan 'talking mouths sink ships.'"

And working for the Perkin-Elmer company was considered prestigious. They had good pay and benefits, golf and softball leagues, lavish summer outings (the company would rent out an entire amusement park for workers and their families), and flashy children's Christmas parties.

"We loved it," says Mara. "That was our life."

Nostalgia, relief, pride and sadness

For Mara and his former colleagues, uncovering the secret caused a jumble of emotions, from pride and nostalgia to relief – and in some cases, sadness.

Mayor Mark Bouton only revealed his father worked at the Hexagon when he was invited to speak at a reunion ceremony in October at the site of the former factory.

His father, Donald Bouton, also a former mayor, was too ill to attend and died a few days later.

Bouton says that for years he and the other children pestered their father - a designer - with questions about what he does. In the end, they realized that it was a forbidden topic.

"Since learning about Hexagon, my attitude towards it has completely changed," says Bouton. "He was no longer just a timid dad who had passionate opinions about everything. He was a Cold War warrior doing something extremely important for our nation."

Bouton says that for years he and the other children pestered their father - a designer - with questions about what he does

The ceremony was also bittersweet for Betty Osterweys. Not only did she uncover the mystery of her late husband's professional life, but she also learned what his last moments were like.

"All these years," she said, "I've wondered what really happened" on that fateful night in 1987 when she was told over the phone that her 53-year-old husband, Henry Osterweiss, who was contracting the project, had suffered a heart attack on the job. . His former colleagues consoled her somewhat by saying that death came quickly.

At her late husband's workplace, listening to the tribute, with her son, daughter and grandchildren by her side, Osterweiss is overwhelmed by the enormity of it all – the sacrifice, the secrecy, the pride.

"Knowing that it wasn't just a company that sells gadgets... that it was contracting work for the freedom and security of our country," she said.

“What a secret. What a legacy.”

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