SR-71

nice :)
 
Superb, those guys rock.
 
Interesting shots. There is a helluva lot of info on these planes that makes super reading.
 
Superb thanks for posting made my day:)
 
I spent many a summer at the mildenhall airshows, the SR71 was always the show stopper, everybody stood still and watched while it did it's display

Thanks for posting that
 
The flight manual was declassified a few years ago and is easily obtained online from the freedom of information pages of the CIA. http://www.foia.cia.gov/
(Just look up 'A12 flight manual' or 'A12 oxcart'- and look for the PDF that is 459 pages long)

The pages on inertial navigation(p232) show a destination map reference for a place that supposedly did not exist, but does now.
Someone forgot to remove this: 37.15N, 115.49W Just pop this into Google maps.
This is for the eastern flight approach to Area51.

If you just put in A12 to the search there are various missions detailed, not all of them can be downloaded though, and descriptions of the cameras used.
 
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wack61 said:
I spent many a summer at the mildenhall airshows, the SR71 was always the show stopper, everybody stood still and watched while it did it's display

Thanks for posting that
Click to expand...

:plus1:
 
Just been having a look myself.

Operation Blackshield were the flights over Vietnam. Some of the flight logs are 30 to 50 pages long of targets identified on 1 pass which took less than an hour to do.
Mission BX6847 was three passes, 132 pages of info minus headers and so on.

There was a document which detailed the development and production problems of the A12/SR71 but I can't find it. (It may be under YF-12 if I remember correctly) The CIA secretly used about 90% of the world's production of titanium building the fleet.
 
The following was written by a SR-71 pilot. He authored two great books on the fastest air-breathing plane in the world. The first one is “Sled Driver” which Brian Shul authored alone. Then the second one, “The Untouchables” by both Brian Shul and Walter Watson Jr. Both books have many, many incredible pictures and wonderful stories. It is such a shame that a magnificent airplane such as the SR-71 was decommissioned more because of politics in the US Air Force than its abilities.

People should really be giving Brian credit for the above text. It was plagiarized from “Sled Driver.”

by Brian Shul, from his book [tag]SLED DRIVER[/tag]

In April 1986, following an attack on American soldiers in a Berlin disco, President Reagan ordered the bombing of Muammar Qaddafi’s terrorist camps in Libya. My duty was to fly over Libya and take photos recording the damage our F-111s had inflicted. Qaddafi had established a ‘line of death,’ a territorial marking across the Gulf of Sidra, swearing to shoot down any intruder that crossed the boundary. On the morning of April 15, I rocketed past the line at
2,125 mph.

I was piloting the SR-71 spy plane, the world’s fastest jet, accompanied by Maj. Walter Watson, the aircraft’s reconnaissance systems officer (RSO). We had crossed into Libya and were approaching our final turn over the bleak desert landscape when Walter informed me that he was receiving missile launch signals. I quickly increased our speed, calculating the time it would take for the weapons-most likely SA-2 and SA-4 surface-to-air missiles capable of Mach 5-to reach our altitude. I estimated that we could beat the rocket-powered missiles to the turn and stayed our course, betting our lives on the plane’s performance.

After several agonizingly long seconds, we made the turn and blasted toward the Mediterranean. ‘You might want to pull it back,’ Walter suggested. It was then that I noticed I still had the throttles full forward. The plane was flying a mile every 1.6 seconds, well above our Mach 3.2 limit. It was the fastest we would ever fly. I pulled the throttles to idle just south of Sicily, but we still overran the refuelling tanker awaiting us over Gibraltar.

Scores of significant aircraft have been produced in the 100 years of flight following the achievements of the Wright brothers, which we celebrate in December. Aircraft such as the Boeing 707, the F-86 Sabre Jet, and the P-51 Mustang are among the important machines that have flown our skies. But the SR-71, also known as the Blackbird, stands alone as a significant contributor to Cold War victory and as the fastest plane ever-and only 93 Air Force pilots ever steered the ‘sled,’ as we called our aircraft.

As inconceivable as it may sound, I once discarded the plane.
Literally. My first encounter with the SR-71 came when I was 10 years old in the form of moulded black plastic in a Revell kit. Cementing together the long fuselage parts proved tricky, and my finished product looked less than menacing. Glue oozing from the seams, discoloured the black plastic. It seemed ungainly alongside the fighter planes in my collection, and I threw it away.

Twenty-nine years later, I stood awe-struck in a Beale Air Force Base hangar, staring at the very real SR-71 before me. I had applied to fly the world’s fastest jet and was receiving my first walk-around of our nation’s most prestigious aircraft. In my previous 13 years as an Air Force fighter pilot, I had never seen an aircraft with such presence. At 107 feet long, it appeared big, but far from ungainly.

Ironically, the plane was dripping, much like the misshapen model I had assembled in my youth. Fuel was seeping through the joints, raining down on the hangar floor. At Mach 3, the plane would expand several inches because of the severe temperature, which could heat the leading edge of the wing to 1,100 degrees. To prevent cracking, expansion joints had been built into the plane. Sealant resembling rubber glue covered the seams, but when the plane was subsonic, fuel would leak through the joints.

The SR-71 was the brainchild of Kelly Johnson, the famed Lockheed designer who created the P-38, the F-104 Starfighter, and the U-2.
After the Soviets shot down Gary Powers’ U-2 in 1960, Johnson began to develop an aircraft that would fly three miles higher and five times faster than the spy plane-and still be capable of photographing your license plate. However, flying at 2,000 mph would create intense heat on the aircraft’s skin. Lockheed engineers used a titanium alloy to construct more than 90 percent of the SR-71, creating special tools and manufacturing procedures to hand-build each of the 40 planes. Special heat-resistant fuel, oil, and hydraulic fluids that would function at 85,000 feet and higher also had to be developed.

In 1962, the first Blackbird successfully flew, and in 1966, the same year I graduated from high school, the Air Force began flying operational SR-71 missions. I came to the program in 1983 with a sterling record and a recommendation from my commander, completing the weeklong interview and meeting Walter, my partner for the next four years. He would ride four feet behind me, working all the cameras, radios, and electronic jamming equipment. I joked that if we were ever captured, he was the spy and I was just the driver. He told me to keep the pointy end forward.

We trained for a year, flying out of Beale AFB in California, Kadena Airbase in Okinawa, and RAF Mildenhall in England. On a typical training mission, we would take off near Sacramento, refuel over Nevada, accelerate into Montana, obtain high Mach over Colorado, turn right over New Mexico, speed across the Los Angeles Basin, run up the West Coast, turn right at Seattle, then return to Beale.
Total flight time: two hours and 40 minutes.

One day, high above Arizona, we were monitoring the radio traffic of all the mortal airplanes below us. First, a Cessna pilot asked the air traffic controllers to check his ground speed. ‘Ninety knots,’
ATC replied. A twin Bonanza soon made the same request. ‘One-twenty on the ground,’ was the reply. To our surprise, a navy F-18 came over the radio with a ground speed check. I knew exactly what he was doing. Of course, he had a ground speed indicator in his cockpit, but he wanted to let all the bug-smashers in the valley know what real speed was. ‘Dusty 52, we show you at 620 on the ground,’ ATC responded.

The situation was too ripe. I heard the click of Walter’s mike button in the rear seat. In his most innocent voice, Walter startled the controller by asking for a ground speed check from 81,000 feet, clearly above controlled airspace. In a cool, professional voice, the controller replied, ‘Aspen 20, I show you at 1,982 knots on the ground.’ We did not hear another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.

The Blackbird always showed us something new, each aircraft possessing its own unique personality. In time, we realized we were flying a national treasure. When we taxied out of our revetments for take off, people took notice. Traffic congregated near the airfield fences, because everyone wanted to see and hear the mighty SR-71.
You could not be a part of this program and not come to love the airplane. Slowly, she revealed her secrets to us as we earned her trust.

One moonless night, while flying a routine training mission over the Pacific, I wondered what the sky would look like from 84,000 feet if the cockpit lighting were dark. While heading home on a straight course, I slowly turned down all of the lighting, reducing the glare and revealing the night sky. Within seconds, I turned the lights back up, fearful that the jet would know and somehow punish me. But my desire to see the sky overruled my caution, and I dimmed the lighting again. To my amazement, I saw a bright light outside my window. As my eyes adjusted to the view, I realized that the brilliance was the broad expanse of the Milky Way, now a gleaming stripe across the sky. Where dark spaces in the sky had usually existed, there were now dense clusters of sparkling stars. Shooting stars flashed across the canvas every few seconds. It was like a fireworks display with no sound.

I knew I had to get my eyes back on the instruments, and reluctantly I brought my attention back inside. To my surprise, with the cockpit lighting still off, I could see every gauge, lit by starlight. In the plane’s mirrors, I could see the eerie shine of my gold spacesuit incandescently illuminated in a celestial glow. I stole one last glance out the window. Despite our speed, we seemed still before the heavens, humbled in the radiance of a much greater power.
For those few moments, I felt a part of something far more significant than anything we were doing in the plane. The sharp sound of Walt’s voice on the radio brought me back to the tasks at hand as I prepared for our descent.

The SR-71 was an expensive aircraft to operate. The most significant cost was tanker support, and in 1990, confronted with budget cutbacks, the Air Force retired the SR-71. The Blackbird had outrun nearly 4,000 missiles, not once taking a scratch from enemy fire. On her final flight, the Blackbird, destined for the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum, sped from Los Angeles to Washington in 64 minutes, averaging 2,145 mph and setting four speed records.

The SR-71 served six presidents, protecting America for a quarter of a century. Unbeknownst to most of the country, the plane flew over North Vietnam, Red China, North Korea, the Middle East, South Africa, Cuba, Nicaragua, Iran, Libya, and the Falkland Islands. On a weekly basis, the SR-71 kept watch over every Soviet nuclear submarine and mobile missile site, and all of their troop movements.
It was a key factor in winning the Cold War.

I am proud to say I flew about 500 hours in this aircraft. I knew her well. She gave way to no plane, proudly dragging her sonic boom through enemy backyards with great impunity. She defeated every missile, outran every MiG, and always brought us home. In the first 100 years of manned flight, no aircraft was more remarkable.

With the Libyan coast fast approaching now, Walt asks me for the third time if I think the jet will get to the speed and altitude we want in time. I tell him yes. I know he is concerned. He is dealing with the data; that’s what engineers do, and I am glad he is. But I have my hands on the stick and throttles and can feel the heart of a thoroughbred, running now with the power and perfection she was designed to possess. I also talk to her. Like the combat veteran she is, the jet senses the target area and seems to prepare herself. For the first time in two days, the inlet door closes flush and all vibration is gone. We’ve become so used to the constant buzzing that the jet sounds quiet now in comparison. The Mach correspondingly increases slightly and the jet is flying in that confidently smooth and steady style we have so often seen at these speeds. We reach our target altitude and speed, with five miles to spare.

Entering the target area, in response to the jet’s new-found vitality, Walt says, ‘That’s amazing’ and with my left hand pushing two throttles farther forward, I think to myself that there is much they don’t teach in engineering school.

Out my left window, Libya looks like one huge sandbox. A featureless brown terrain stretches all the way to the horizon. There is no sign of any activity. Then Walt tells me that he is getting lots of electronic signals, and they are not the friendly kind.

The jet is performing perfectly now, flying better than she has in weeks. She seems to know where she is. She likes the high Mach, as we penetrate deeper into Libyan airspace. Leaving the footprint of our sonic boom across Benghazi, I sit motionless, with stilled hands on throttles and the pitch control, my eyes glued to the gauges.
Only the Mach indicator is moving, steadily increasing in hundredths, in a rhythmic consistency similar to the long distance runner who has caught his second wind and picked up the pace. The jet was made for this kind of performance and she wasn’t about to let an errant inlet door make her miss the show. With the power of forty locomotives, we puncture the quiet African sky and continue farther south across a bleak landscape.

Walt continues to update me with numerous reactions he sees on the DEF panel. He is receiving missile tracking signals. With each mile we traverse, every two seconds, I become more uncomfortable driving deeper into this barren and hostile land.

I am glad the DEF panel is not in the front seat. It would be a big distraction now, seeing the lights flashing. In contrast, my cockpit is ‘quiet’ as the jet purrs and relishes her new-found strength, continuing to slowly accelerate. The spikes are full aft now, tucked twenty-six inches deep into the nacelles. With all inlet doors tightly shut, at 3.24 Mach, the J-58s are more like ramjets now, gulping 100,000 cubic feet of air per second. We are a roaring express now, and as we roll through the enemy’s backyard, I hope our speed continues to defeat the missile radars below.

We are approaching a turn, and this is good. It will only make it more difficult for any launched missile to solve the solution for hitting our aircraft. I push the speed up at Walt’s request. The jet does not skip a beat, nothing fluctuates, and the cameras have a rock steady platform.

Walt received missile launch signals. Before he can say anything else, my left hand instinctively moves the throttles yet farther forward. My eyes are glued to temperature gauges now, as I know the jet will willingly go to speeds that can harm her. The temps are relatively cool and from all the warm temps we’ve encountered thus far, this surprises me but then, it really doesn’t surprise me.
Mach 3.31 and Walt are quiet for the moment.

I move my gloved finder across the small silver wheel on the autopilot panel which controls the aircraft’s pitch. With the deft feel known to Swiss watchmakers, surgeons, and ‘dinosaurs’ (old-time pilots who not only fly an airplane but ‘feel it’) I rotate the pitch wheel somewhere between one-sixteenth and one-eighth inch, location a position which yields the 500-foot-per-minute climb I desire. The jet raises her nose one-sixth of a degree and knows I’ll push her higher as she goes faster. The Mach continues to rise, but during this segment of our route, I am in no mood to pull throttles back.

Walt’s voice pierces the quiet of my cockpit with the news of more missile launch signals. The gravity of Walter’s voice tells me that he believes the signals to be a more valid threat than the others.
Within seconds he tells me to ‘push it up’ and I firmly press both throttles against their stops. For the next few second I will let the jet go as fast as she wants.

A final turn is coming up and we both know that if we can hit that turn at this speed, we most likely will defeat any missiles. We are not there yet, though, and I’m wondering if Walt will call for a defensive turn off our course. With no words spoken, I sense Walter is thinking in concert with me about maintaining our programmed course.

To keep from worrying, I glance outside, wondering if I’ll be able to visually pick up a missile aimed at us. Odd are the thoughts that wander through one’s mind in times like these. I found myself recalling the words of former SR-71 pilots who were fired upon while flying missions over North Vietnam. They said the few errant missile detonations they were able to observe from the cockpit looked like implosions rather than explosions. This was due to the great speed at which the jet was hurling away from the exploding missile. I see nothing outside except the endless expanse of a steel blue sky and the broad patch of tan earth far below.

I have only had my eyes out of the cockpit for seconds, but it seems like many minutes since I have last checked the gauges inside.
Returning my attention inward, I glance first at the miles counter telling me how many more to go until we can start our turn. Then I note the Mach, and passing beyond 3.45, I realize that Walter and I have attained new personal records. The Mach continues to increase.
The ride is incredibly smooth.

There seems to be a confirmed trust now, between me and the jet; she will not hesitate to deliver whatever speed we need, and I can count on no problems with the inlets. Walt and I are ultimately depending on the jet now – more so than normal – and she seems to know it. The cooler outside temperatures have awakened the spirit born into her years ago, when men dedicated to excellence took the time and care to build her well. With spikes and doors as tight as they can get we are racing against the time it could take a missile to reach our altitude. It is a race this jet will not let us lose. The Mach eases to 3.5 as we crest 80,000 feet. We are a bullet now – except faster.

We hit the turn, and I feel some relief as our nose swings away from a country we have seen quite enough of. Screaming past Tripoli, our phenomenal speed continues to rise, and the screaming Sled pummels the enemy one more time, laying down a parting sonic boom.

In seconds, we can see nothing but the expansive blue of the Mediterranean .I realize that I still have my left hand full-forward and we’re continuing to rocket along in maximum afterburner. The TDI now shows us Mach numbers not only new to our experience but flat out scary. Walt says the DEF panel is now quiet and I know it is time to reduce our incredible speed. I pull the throttles to the min ‘burner range and the jet still doesn’t want to slow down. Normally, the Mach would be affected immediately when making such a large throttle movement. But for just a few moments, old 960 just sat out there at the high Mach she seemed to love and, like the proud Sled she was, only began to slow when we were well out of danger.
I loved that jet.

[tags]SR-71, breaking the sound barrier, Mach 1 and over, fastest jet ever, jobs in minneapolis, milwaukee jobs, sioux falls employment, fargo jobs, Minneapolis jobs, Wichita jobs, Oklahoma jobs, Peoria Jobs, jobs in peoria [/tags]
 
I have another 2 if anyone is interested :D

David
 
it used to leak fuel on the ground because the panels didn't fit correctly as they would expand so much in the heat of flight. they would refuel as soon as they were up
 
SR-71 Disintegrates Around Pilot During Flight Test

From Aviation Week & Space Technology

By Bill Weaver

Among professional aviators, there's a well-worn saying: Flying is
simply hours of boredom punctuated by moments of stark terror. And
yet, I don't recall too many periods of boredom during my 30-year
career with Lockheed, most of which was spent as a test pilot.

By far, the most memorable flight occurred on Jan. 25, 1966. Jim
Zwayer, a Lockheed flight test reconnaissance and navigation systems
specialist, and I were evaluating those systems on an SR-71 Blackbird
test from Edwards AFB, Calif. We also were investigating procedures
designed to reduce trim drag and improve high-Mach cruise
performance. The latter involved flying with the centre-of-gravity
(CG) located further aft than normal, which reduced the Blackbird's
longitudinal stability.

We took off from Edwards at 11:20 a.m. and completed the mission's
first leg without incident. After refuelling from a KC-135 tanker, we
turned eastbound, accelerated to a Mach 3.2-cruise speed and climbed
to 78,000 ft., our initial cruise-climb altitude.

Several minutes into cruise, the right engine inlet's automatic
control system malfunctioned, requiring a switch to manual control.
The SR-71's inlet configuration was automatically adjusted during
supersonic flight to decelerate air flow in the duct, slowing it to
subsonic speed before reaching the engine's face. This was
accomplished by the inlet's centre-body spike translating aft, and by
modulating the inlet's forward bypass doors. Normally, these actions
were scheduled automatically as a function of Mach number,
positioning the normal shock wave (where air flow becomes subsonic)
inside the inlet to ensure optimum engine performance.

Without proper scheduling, disturbances inside the inlet could result
in the shock wave being expelled forward--a phenomenon known as an
"inlet unstart." That causes an instantaneous loss of engine thrust,
explosive banging noises and violent yawing of the aircraft--like
being in a train wreck. Unstarts were not uncommon at that time in
the SR-71's development, but a properly functioning system would
recapture the shock wave and restore normal operation.


On the planned test profile, we entered a programmed 35-deg. bank
turn to the right. An immediate unstart occurred on the right engine,
forcing the aircraft to roll further right and start to pitch up. I
jammed the control stick as far left and forward as it would go. No
response. I instantly knew we were in for a wild ride.

I attempted to tell Jim what was happening and to stay with the
airplane until we reached a lower speed and altitude. I didn't think
the chances of surviving an ejection at Mach 3.18 and 78,800 ft. were
very good. However, g-forces built up so rapidly that my words came
out garbled and unintelligible, as confirmed later by the cockpit
voice recorder.

The cumulative effects of system malfunctions, reduced longitudinal
stability, increased angle-of-attack in the turn, supersonic speed,
high altitude and other factors imposed forces on the airframe that
exceeded flight control authority and the Stability Augmentation
System's ability to restore control.

Everything seemed to unfold in slow motion. I learned later the time
from event onset to catastrophic departure from controlled flight was
only 2-3 sec. Still trying to communicate with Jim, I blacked out,
succumbing to extremely high g-forces. The SR-71 then literally
disintegrated around us.

From that point, I was just along for the ride.

My next recollection was a hazy thought that I was having a bad
dream. Maybe I'll wake up and get out of this mess, I mused.
Gradually regaining consciousness, I realized this was no dream; it
had really happened. That also was disturbing, because I could not
have survived what had just happened. Therefore, I must be dead.
Since I didn't feel bad--just a detached sense of euphoria--I decided
being dead wasn't so bad after all.

AS FULL AWARENESS took hold, I realized I was not dead, but had
somehow separated from the airplane. I had no idea how this could
have happened; I hadn't initiated an ejection. The sound of rushing
air and what sounded like straps flapping in the wind confirmed I was
falling, but I couldn't see anything. My pressure suit's face plate
had frozen over and I was staring at a layer of ice.

The pressure suit was inflated, so I knew an emergency oxygen
cylinder in the seat kit attached to my parachute harness was
functioning. It not only supplied breathing oxygen, but also
pressurized the suit, preventing my blood from boiling at extremely
high altitudes. I didn't appreciate it at the time, but the suit's
pressurization had also provided physical protection from intense
buffeting and g-forces. That inflated suit had become my own escape
capsule.

My next concern was about stability and tumbling. Air density at high
altitude is insufficient to resist a body's tumbling motions, and
centrifugal forces high enough to cause physical injury could develop
quickly. For that reason, the SR-71's parachute system was designed
to automatically deploy a small-diameter stabilizing chute shortly
after ejection and seat separation. Since I had not intentionally
activated the ejection system--and assuming all automatic functions
depended on a proper ejection sequence--it occurred to me the
stabilizing chute may not have deployed.

However, I quickly determined I was falling vertically and not
tumbling. The little chute must have deployed and was doing its job.
Next concern: the main parachute, which was designed to open
automatically at 15,000 ft. Again, I had no assurance the
automatic-opening function would work.

I couldn't ascertain my altitude because I still couldn't see through
the iced-up face plate. There was no way to know how long I had been
blacked-out, or how far I had fallen. I felt for the
manual-activation D-ring on my chute harness, but with the suit
inflated and my hands numbed by cold, I couldn't locate it. I decided
I'd better open the face plate, try to estimate my height above the
ground, then locate that "D" ring. Just as I reached for the face
plate, I felt the reassuring sudden deceleration of main-chute
deployment.

I raised the frozen face plate and discovered its uplatch was broken.
Using one hand to hold that plate up, I saw I was descending through
a clear, winter sky with unlimited visibility. I was greatly relieved
to see Jim's parachute coming down about a quarter of a mile away. I
didn't think either of us could have survived the aircraft's breakup,
so seeing Jim had also escaped lifted my spirits incredibly.

I could also see burning wreckage on the ground a few miles from
where we would land. The terrain didn't look at all inviting--a
desolate, high plateau dotted with patches of snow and no signs of
habitation.

I tried to rotate the parachute and look in other directions. But
with one hand devoted to keeping the face plate up and both hands
numb from high-altitude, subfreezing temperatures, I couldn't
manipulate the risers enough to turn. Before the breakup, we'd
started a turn in the New Mexico-Colorado-Oklahoma-Texas border
region. The SR-71 had a turning radius of about 100 mi. at that speed
and altitude, so I wasn't even sure what state we were going to land
in. But, because it was about 3:00 p.m., I was certain we would be
spending the night out here.

At about 300 ft. above the ground, I yanked the seat kit's release
handle and made sure it was still tied to me by a long lanyard.
Releasing the heavy kit ensured I wouldn't land with it attached to
my derriere, which could break a leg or cause other injuries. I then
tried to recall what survival items were in that kit, as well as
techniques I had been taught in survival training.

Looking down, I was startled to see a fairly large animal--perhaps an
antelope--directly under me. Evidently, it was just as startled as I
was because it literally took off in a cloud of dust.

My first-ever parachute landing was pretty smooth. I landed on fairly
soft ground, managing to avoid rocks, cacti and antelopes. My chute
was still billowing in the wind, though. I struggled to collapse it
with one hand, holding the still-frozen face plate up with the other.

"Can I help you?" a voice said.

Was I hearing things? I must be hallucinating. Then I looked up and
saw a guy walking toward me, wearing a cowboy hat. A helicopter was
idling a short distance behind him. If I had been at Edwards and told
the search-and-rescue unit that I was going to bail out over the
Rogers Dry Lake at a particular time of day, a crew couldn't have
gotten to me as fast as that cowboy-pilot had.

The gentleman was Albert Mitchell, Jr., owner of a huge cattle ranch
in north eastern New Mexico. I had landed about 1.5 mi. from his ranch
house--and from a hangar for his two-place Hughes helicopter. Amazed
to see him, I replied I was having a little trouble with my chute. He
walked over and collapsed the canopy, anchoring it with several
rocks. He had seen Jim and me floating down and had radioed the New
Mexico Highway Patrol, the Air Force and the nearest hospital.

Extracting myself from the parachute harness, I discovered the source
of those flapping-strap noises heard on the way down. My seat belt
and shoulder harness were still draped around me, attached and
latched. The lap belt had been shredded on each side of my hips,
where the straps had fed through knurled adjustment rollers. The
shoulder harness had shredded in a similar manner across my back. The
ejection seat had never left the airplane; I had been ripped out of
it by the extreme forces, seat belt and shoulder harness still
fastened.

I also noted that one of the two lines that supplied oxygen to my
pressure suit had come loose, and the other was barely hanging on. If
that second line had become detached at high altitude, the deflated
pressure suit wouldn't have provided any protection. I knew an oxygen
supply was critical for breathing and suit-pressurization, but didn't
appreciate how much physical protection an inflated pressure suit
could provide. That the suit could withstand forces sufficient to
disintegrate an airplane and shred heavy nylon seat belts, yet leave
me with only a few bruises and minor whiplash was impressive. I truly
appreciated having my own little escape capsule.

After helping me with the chute, Mitchell said he'd check on Jim. He
climbed into his helicopter, flew a short distance away and returned
about 10 min. later with devastating news: Jim was dead. Apparently,
he had suffered a broken neck during the aircraft's disintegration
and was killed instantly. Mitchell said his ranch foreman would soon
arrive to watch over Jim's body until the authorities arrived.

I asked to see Jim and, after verifying there was nothing more that
could be done, agreed to let Mitchell fly me to the Tucumcari
hospital, about 60 mi. to the south.

I have vivid memories of that helicopter flight, as well. I didn't
know much about rotorcraft, but I knew a lot about "red lines," and
Mitchell kept the airspeed at or above red line all the way. The
little helicopter vibrated and shook a lot more than I thought it
should have. I tried to reassure the cowboy-pilot I was feeling OK;
there was no need to rush. But since he'd notified the hospital staff
that we were inbound, he insisted we get there as soon as possible. I
couldn't help but think how ironic it would be to have survived one
disaster only to be done in by the helicopter that had come to my
rescue.

However, we made it to the hospital safely--and quickly. Soon, I was
able to contact Lockheed's flight test office at Edwards. The test
team there had been notified initially about the loss of radio and
radar contact, then told the aircraft had been lost. They also knew
what our flight conditions had been at the time, and assumed no one
could have survived. I briefly explained what had happened,
describing in fairly accurate detail the flight conditions prior to
breakup.

The next day, our flight profile was duplicated on the SR-71 flight
simulator at Beale AFB, Calif. The outcome was identical. Steps were
immediately taken to prevent a recurrence of our accident. Testing at
a CG aft of normal limits was discontinued, and trim-drag issues were
subsequently resolved via aerodynamic means. The inlet control system
was continuously improved and, with subsequent development of the
Digital Automatic Flight and Inlet Control System, inlet unstarts
became rare.

Investigation of our accident revealed that the nose section of the
aircraft had broken off aft of the rear cockpit and crashed about 10
mi. from the main wreckage. Parts were scattered over an area
approximately 15 mi. long and 10 mi. wide. Extremely high air loads
and g-forces, both positive and negative, had literally ripped Jim
and me from the airplane. Unbelievably good luck is the only
explanation for my escaping relatively unscathed from that
disintegrating aircraft

Two weeks after the accident, I was back in an SR-71, flying the
first sortie on a brand-new bird at Lockheed's Palmdale, Calif.,
assembly and test facility. It was my first flight since the
accident, so a flight test engineer in the back seat was probably a
little apprehensive about my state of mind and confidence. As we
roared down the runway and lifted off, I heard an anxious voice over
the intercom.

"Bill! Bill! Are you there?"

"Yeah, George. What's the matter?"

"Thank God! I thought you might have left." The rear cockpit of the
SR-71 has no forward visibility--only a small window on each
side--and George couldn't see me. A big red light on the
master-warning panel in the rear cockpit had illuminated just as we
rotated, stating, "Pilot Ejected." Fortunately, the cause was a
misadjusted micro switch, not my departure.

Bill Weaver flight tested all models of the Mach-2 F-104 Starfighter
and the entire family of Mach 3+ Blackbirds--the A-12, YF-12 and
SR-71. He subsequently was assigned to Lockheed's L-1011 project as
an engineering test pilot, became the company's chief pilot and
retired as Division Manager of Commercial Flying Operations. He still
flies Orbital Sciences Corp.'s L-1011, which has been modified to
carry a Pegasus satellite-launch vehicle (AW&ST Aug. 25, 2003, p.
56). An FAA Designated Engineering Representative Flight Test Pilot,
he's also involved in various aircraft-modification projects,
conducting certification flight tests.
 
Man, I just looked up the books on amazon.

Holy cow they are rare/pricy now!
 
Willid1 said:
The following was written by a SR-71 pilot. He authored two great books on the fastest air-breathing plane in the world. The first one is “Sled Driver” which Brian Shul authored alone. Then the second one, “The Untouchables” by both Brian Shul and Walter Watson Jr. Both books have many, many incredible pictures and wonderful stories. It is such a shame that a magnificent airplane such as the SR-71 was decommissioned more because of politics in the US Air Force than its abilities.

People should really be giving Brian credit for the above text. It was plagiarized from “Sled Driver.”

by Brian Shul, from his book [tag]SLED DRIVER[/tag]

In April 1986, following an attack on American soldiers in a Berlin disco, President Reagan ordered the bombing of Muammar Qaddafi’s terrorist camps in Libya. My duty was to fly over Libya and take photos recording the damage our F-111s had inflicted. Qaddafi had established a ‘line of death,’ a territorial marking across the Gulf of Sidra, swearing to shoot down any intruder that crossed the boundary. On the morning of April 15, I rocketed past the line at
2,125 mph.

I was piloting the SR-71 spy plane, the world’s fastest jet, accompanied by Maj. Walter Watson, the aircraft’s reconnaissance systems officer (RSO). We had crossed into Libya and were approaching our final turn over the bleak desert landscape when Walter informed me that he was receiving missile launch signals. I quickly increased our speed, calculating the time it would take for the weapons-most likely SA-2 and SA-4 surface-to-air missiles capable of Mach 5-to reach our altitude. I estimated that we could beat the rocket-powered missiles to the turn and stayed our course, betting our lives on the plane’s performance.

After several agonizingly long seconds, we made the turn and blasted toward the Mediterranean. ‘You might want to pull it back,’ Walter suggested. It was then that I noticed I still had the throttles full forward. The plane was flying a mile every 1.6 seconds, well above our Mach 3.2 limit. It was the fastest we would ever fly. I pulled the throttles to idle just south of Sicily, but we still overran the refuelling tanker awaiting us over Gibraltar.

Scores of significant aircraft have been produced in the 100 years of flight following the achievements of the Wright brothers, which we celebrate in December. Aircraft such as the Boeing 707, the F-86 Sabre Jet, and the P-51 Mustang are among the important machines that have flown our skies. But the SR-71, also known as the Blackbird, stands alone as a significant contributor to Cold War victory and as the fastest plane ever-and only 93 Air Force pilots ever steered the ‘sled,’ as we called our aircraft.

As inconceivable as it may sound, I once discarded the plane.
Literally. My first encounter with the SR-71 came when I was 10 years old in the form of moulded black plastic in a Revell kit. Cementing together the long fuselage parts proved tricky, and my finished product looked less than menacing. Glue oozing from the seams, discoloured the black plastic. It seemed ungainly alongside the fighter planes in my collection, and I threw it away.

Twenty-nine years later, I stood awe-struck in a Beale Air Force Base hangar, staring at the very real SR-71 before me. I had applied to fly the world’s fastest jet and was receiving my first walk-around of our nation’s most prestigious aircraft. In my previous 13 years as an Air Force fighter pilot, I had never seen an aircraft with such presence. At 107 feet long, it appeared big, but far from ungainly.

Ironically, the plane was dripping, much like the misshapen model I had assembled in my youth. Fuel was seeping through the joints, raining down on the hangar floor. At Mach 3, the plane would expand several inches because of the severe temperature, which could heat the leading edge of the wing to 1,100 degrees. To prevent cracking, expansion joints had been built into the plane. Sealant resembling rubber glue covered the seams, but when the plane was subsonic, fuel would leak through the joints.

The SR-71 was the brainchild of Kelly Johnson, the famed Lockheed designer who created the P-38, the F-104 Starfighter, and the U-2.
After the Soviets shot down Gary Powers’ U-2 in 1960, Johnson began to develop an aircraft that would fly three miles higher and five times faster than the spy plane-and still be capable of photographing your license plate. However, flying at 2,000 mph would create intense heat on the aircraft’s skin. Lockheed engineers used a titanium alloy to construct more than 90 percent of the SR-71, creating special tools and manufacturing procedures to hand-build each of the 40 planes. Special heat-resistant fuel, oil, and hydraulic fluids that would function at 85,000 feet and higher also had to be developed.

In 1962, the first Blackbird successfully flew, and in 1966, the same year I graduated from high school, the Air Force began flying operational SR-71 missions. I came to the program in 1983 with a sterling record and a recommendation from my commander, completing the weeklong interview and meeting Walter, my partner for the next four years. He would ride four feet behind me, working all the cameras, radios, and electronic jamming equipment. I joked that if we were ever captured, he was the spy and I was just the driver. He told me to keep the pointy end forward.

We trained for a year, flying out of Beale AFB in California, Kadena Airbase in Okinawa, and RAF Mildenhall in England. On a typical training mission, we would take off near Sacramento, refuel over Nevada, accelerate into Montana, obtain high Mach over Colorado, turn right over New Mexico, speed across the Los Angeles Basin, run up the West Coast, turn right at Seattle, then return to Beale.
Total flight time: two hours and 40 minutes.

One day, high above Arizona, we were monitoring the radio traffic of all the mortal airplanes below us. First, a Cessna pilot asked the air traffic controllers to check his ground speed. ‘Ninety knots,’
ATC replied. A twin Bonanza soon made the same request. ‘One-twenty on the ground,’ was the reply. To our surprise, a navy F-18 came over the radio with a ground speed check. I knew exactly what he was doing. Of course, he had a ground speed indicator in his cockpit, but he wanted to let all the bug-smashers in the valley know what real speed was. ‘Dusty 52, we show you at 620 on the ground,’ ATC responded.

The situation was too ripe. I heard the click of Walter’s mike button in the rear seat. In his most innocent voice, Walter startled the controller by asking for a ground speed check from 81,000 feet, clearly above controlled airspace. In a cool, professional voice, the controller replied, ‘Aspen 20, I show you at 1,982 knots on the ground.’ We did not hear another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.

The Blackbird always showed us something new, each aircraft possessing its own unique personality. In time, we realized we were flying a national treasure. When we taxied out of our revetments for take off, people took notice. Traffic congregated near the airfield fences, because everyone wanted to see and hear the mighty SR-71.
You could not be a part of this program and not come to love the airplane. Slowly, she revealed her secrets to us as we earned her trust.

One moonless night, while flying a routine training mission over the Pacific, I wondered what the sky would look like from 84,000 feet if the cockpit lighting were dark. While heading home on a straight course, I slowly turned down all of the lighting, reducing the glare and revealing the night sky. Within seconds, I turned the lights back up, fearful that the jet would know and somehow punish me. But my desire to see the sky overruled my caution, and I dimmed the lighting again. To my amazement, I saw a bright light outside my window. As my eyes adjusted to the view, I realized that the brilliance was the broad expanse of the Milky Way, now a gleaming stripe across the sky. Where dark spaces in the sky had usually existed, there were now dense clusters of sparkling stars. Shooting stars flashed across the canvas every few seconds. It was like a fireworks display with no sound.

I knew I had to get my eyes back on the instruments, and reluctantly I brought my attention back inside. To my surprise, with the cockpit lighting still off, I could see every gauge, lit by starlight. In the plane’s mirrors, I could see the eerie shine of my gold spacesuit incandescently illuminated in a celestial glow. I stole one last glance out the window. Despite our speed, we seemed still before the heavens, humbled in the radiance of a much greater power.
For those few moments, I felt a part of something far more significant than anything we were doing in the plane. The sharp sound of Walt’s voice on the radio brought me back to the tasks at hand as I prepared for our descent.

The SR-71 was an expensive aircraft to operate. The most significant cost was tanker support, and in 1990, confronted with budget cutbacks, the Air Force retired the SR-71. The Blackbird had outrun nearly 4,000 missiles, not once taking a scratch from enemy fire. On her final flight, the Blackbird, destined for the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum, sped from Los Angeles to Washington in 64 minutes, averaging 2,145 mph and setting four speed records.

The SR-71 served six presidents, protecting America for a quarter of a century. Unbeknownst to most of the country, the plane flew over North Vietnam, Red China, North Korea, the Middle East, South Africa, Cuba, Nicaragua, Iran, Libya, and the Falkland Islands. On a weekly basis, the SR-71 kept watch over every Soviet nuclear submarine and mobile missile site, and all of their troop movements.
It was a key factor in winning the Cold War.

I am proud to say I flew about 500 hours in this aircraft. I knew her well. She gave way to no plane, proudly dragging her sonic boom through enemy backyards with great impunity. She defeated every missile, outran every MiG, and always brought us home. In the first 100 years of manned flight, no aircraft was more remarkable.

With the Libyan coast fast approaching now, Walt asks me for the third time if I think the jet will get to the speed and altitude we want in time. I tell him yes. I know he is concerned. He is dealing with the data; that’s what engineers do, and I am glad he is. But I have my hands on the stick and throttles and can feel the heart of a thoroughbred, running now with the power and perfection she was designed to possess. I also talk to her. Like the combat veteran she is, the jet senses the target area and seems to prepare herself. For the first time in two days, the inlet door closes flush and all vibration is gone. We’ve become so used to the constant buzzing that the jet sounds quiet now in comparison. The Mach correspondingly increases slightly and the jet is flying in that confidently smooth and steady style we have so often seen at these speeds. We reach our target altitude and speed, with five miles to spare.

Entering the target area, in response to the jet’s new-found vitality, Walt says, ‘That’s amazing’ and with my left hand pushing two throttles farther forward, I think to myself that there is much they don’t teach in engineering school.

Out my left window, Libya looks like one huge sandbox. A featureless brown terrain stretches all the way to the horizon. There is no sign of any activity. Then Walt tells me that he is getting lots of electronic signals, and they are not the friendly kind.

The jet is performing perfectly now, flying better than she has in weeks. She seems to know where she is. She likes the high Mach, as we penetrate deeper into Libyan airspace. Leaving the footprint of our sonic boom across Benghazi, I sit motionless, with stilled hands on throttles and the pitch control, my eyes glued to the gauges.
Only the Mach indicator is moving, steadily increasing in hundredths, in a rhythmic consistency similar to the long distance runner who has caught his second wind and picked up the pace. The jet was made for this kind of performance and she wasn’t about to let an errant inlet door make her miss the show. With the power of forty locomotives, we puncture the quiet African sky and continue farther south across a bleak landscape.

Walt continues to update me with numerous reactions he sees on the DEF panel. He is receiving missile tracking signals. With each mile we traverse, every two seconds, I become more uncomfortable driving deeper into this barren and hostile land.

I am glad the DEF panel is not in the front seat. It would be a big distraction now, seeing the lights flashing. In contrast, my cockpit is ‘quiet’ as the jet purrs and relishes her new-found strength, continuing to slowly accelerate. The spikes are full aft now, tucked twenty-six inches deep into the nacelles. With all inlet doors tightly shut, at 3.24 Mach, the J-58s are more like ramjets now, gulping 100,000 cubic feet of air per second. We are a roaring express now, and as we roll through the enemy’s backyard, I hope our speed continues to defeat the missile radars below.

We are approaching a turn, and this is good. It will only make it more difficult for any launched missile to solve the solution for hitting our aircraft. I push the speed up at Walt’s request. The jet does not skip a beat, nothing fluctuates, and the cameras have a rock steady platform.

Walt received missile launch signals. Before he can say anything else, my left hand instinctively moves the throttles yet farther forward. My eyes are glued to temperature gauges now, as I know the jet will willingly go to speeds that can harm her. The temps are relatively cool and from all the warm temps we’ve encountered thus far, this surprises me but then, it really doesn’t surprise me.
Mach 3.31 and Walt are quiet for the moment.

I move my gloved finder across the small silver wheel on the autopilot panel which controls the aircraft’s pitch. With the deft feel known to Swiss watchmakers, surgeons, and ‘dinosaurs’ (old-time pilots who not only fly an airplane but ‘feel it’) I rotate the pitch wheel somewhere between one-sixteenth and one-eighth inch, location a position which yields the 500-foot-per-minute climb I desire. The jet raises her nose one-sixth of a degree and knows I’ll push her higher as she goes faster. The Mach continues to rise, but during this segment of our route, I am in no mood to pull throttles back.

Walt’s voice pierces the quiet of my cockpit with the news of more missile launch signals. The gravity of Walter’s voice tells me that he believes the signals to be a more valid threat than the others.
Within seconds he tells me to ‘push it up’ and I firmly press both throttles against their stops. For the next few second I will let the jet go as fast as she wants.

A final turn is coming up and we both know that if we can hit that turn at this speed, we most likely will defeat any missiles. We are not there yet, though, and I’m wondering if Walt will call for a defensive turn off our course. With no words spoken, I sense Walter is thinking in concert with me about maintaining our programmed course.

To keep from worrying, I glance outside, wondering if I’ll be able to visually pick up a missile aimed at us. Odd are the thoughts that wander through one’s mind in times like these. I found myself recalling the words of former SR-71 pilots who were fired upon while flying missions over North Vietnam. They said the few errant missile detonations they were able to observe from the cockpit looked like implosions rather than explosions. This was due to the great speed at which the jet was hurling away from the exploding missile. I see nothing outside except the endless expanse of a steel blue sky and the broad patch of tan earth far below.

I have only had my eyes out of the cockpit for seconds, but it seems like many minutes since I have last checked the gauges inside.
Returning my attention inward, I glance first at the miles counter telling me how many more to go until we can start our turn. Then I note the Mach, and passing beyond 3.45, I realize that Walter and I have attained new personal records. The Mach continues to increase.
The ride is incredibly smooth.

There seems to be a confirmed trust now, between me and the jet; she will not hesitate to deliver whatever speed we need, and I can count on no problems with the inlets. Walt and I are ultimately depending on the jet now – more so than normal – and she seems to know it. The cooler outside temperatures have awakened the spirit born into her years ago, when men dedicated to excellence took the time and care to build her well. With spikes and doors as tight as they can get we are racing against the time it could take a missile to reach our altitude. It is a race this jet will not let us lose. The Mach eases to 3.5 as we crest 80,000 feet. We are a bullet now – except faster.

We hit the turn, and I feel some relief as our nose swings away from a country we have seen quite enough of. Screaming past Tripoli, our phenomenal speed continues to rise, and the screaming Sled pummels the enemy one more time, laying down a parting sonic boom.

In seconds, we can see nothing but the expansive blue of the Mediterranean .I realize that I still have my left hand full-forward and we’re continuing to rocket along in maximum afterburner. The TDI now shows us Mach numbers not only new to our experience but flat out scary. Walt says the DEF panel is now quiet and I know it is time to reduce our incredible speed. I pull the throttles to the min ‘burner range and the jet still doesn’t want to slow down. Normally, the Mach would be affected immediately when making such a large throttle movement. But for just a few moments, old 960 just sat out there at the high Mach she seemed to love and, like the proud Sled she was, only began to slow when we were well out of danger.
I loved that jet.

[tags]SR-71, breaking the sound barrier, Mach 1 and over, fastest jet ever, jobs in minneapolis, milwaukee jobs, sioux falls employment, fargo jobs, Minneapolis jobs, Wichita jobs, Oklahoma jobs, Peoria Jobs, jobs in peoria [/tags]
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Fantastic stuff. I could read that all night...
 
Quality read :-) what a machine!


Sent from my iPad using Talk Photography Forums
 
Another one??

This is another really good story from "sled driver", about the slowest he's flown:

So it was with great surprise, when at the end of one of my presentations, someone asked, “what was the slowest you ever flew the Blackbird?” This was a first. After giving it some thought, I was reminded of a story that I had never shared before, and relayed the following.

I was flying the SR-71 out of RAF Mildenhall, England , with my back-seater, Walt Watson; we were returning from a mission over Europe and the Iron Curtain when we received a radio transmission from home base. As we scooted across Denmark in three minutes, we learned that a small RAF base in the English countryside had requested an SR-71 fly-past. The air cadet commander there was a former Blackbird pilot, and thought it would be a motivating moment for the young lads to see the mighty SR-71 perform a low approach. No problem, we were happy to do it. After a quick aerial refuelling over the North Sea , we proceeded to find the small airfield.

Walter had a myriad of sophisticated navigation equipment in the back seat, and began to vector me toward the field. Descending to subsonic speeds, we found ourselves over a densely wooded area in a slight haze. Like most former WWII British airfields, the one we were looking for had a small tower and little surrounding infrastructure. Walter told me we were close and that I should be able to see the field, but I saw nothing.

Nothing but trees as far as I could see in the haze. We got a little lower, and I pulled the throttles back from 325 knots we were at. With the gear up, anything under 275 was just uncomfortable. Walt said we were practically over the field—yet; there was nothing in my windscreen. I banked the jet and started a gentle circling manoeuvre in hopes of picking up anything that looked like a field. Meanwhile, below, the cadet commander had taken the cadets up on the catwalk of the tower in order to get a prime view of the fly-past. It was a quiet, still day with no wind and partial grey overcast.

Walter continued to give me indications that the field should be below us but in the overcast and haze, I couldn't see it.. The longer we continued to peer out the window and circle, the slower we got. With our power back, the awaiting cadets heard nothing. I must have had good instructors in my flying career, as something told me I better cross-check the gauges. As I noticed the airspeed indicator slide below 160 knots, my heart stopped and my adrenalin-filled left hand pushed two throttles full forward. At this point we weren't really flying, but were falling in a slight bank. Just at the moment that both afterburners lit with a thunderous roar of flame (and what a joyous feeling that was) the aircraft fell into full view of the shocked observers on the tower

Shattering the still quiet of that morning, they now had 107 feet of fire-breathing titanium in their face as the plane levelled and accelerated, in full burner, on the tower side of the infield, closer than expected, maintaining what could only be described as some sort of ultimate knife-edge pass. Quickly reaching the field boundary, we proceeded back to Mildenhall without incident. We didn't say a word for those next 14 minutes.

After landing, our commander greeted us, and we were both certain he was reaching for our wings. Instead, he heartily shook our hands and said the commander had told him it was the greatest SR-71 fly-past he had ever seen, especially how we had surprised them with such a precise manoeuvre that could only be described as breath taking. He said that some of the cadet’s hats were blown off and the sight of the plan form of the plane in full afterburner dropping right in front of them was unbelievable. Walt and I both understood the concept of “breath taking” very well that morning, and sheepishly replied that they were just excited to see our low approach.

As we retired to the equipment room to change from space suits to flight suits, we just sat there-we hadn't spoken a word since “the pass.” Finally, Walter looked at me and said, “One hundred fifty-six knots.
What did you see?” Trying to find my voice, I stammered, “One hundred fifty-two.” We sat in silence for a moment. Then Walt said, “Don’t ever do that to me again!” And I never did.

A year later, Walter and I were having lunch in the Mildenhall Officer’s club, and overheard an officer talking to some cadets about an SR-71 fly-past that he had seen one day. Of course, by now the story included kids falling off the tower and screaming as the heat of the jet singed their eyebrows. Noticing our HABU patches, as we stood there with lunch trays in our hands, he asked us to verify to the cadets that such a thing had occurred. Walt just shook his head and said, “It was probably just a routine low approach; they're pretty impressive in that plane.” Impressive indeed.
 
Nice.
 
Awesome.. Thanks for posting... :)

I grew up near Upper Heyford, but never got to see a Blackbird in the air. A mate of mine had the Revel model of the SR71 hanging by cotton threads from his bedroom ceiling (along with a number of other worthy models)..
 
Glad you are enjoying these stories, they still make me smile/laugh/hairs on the back of my neck stand up, despite having read them all many times, and yes I keep hoping to find a copy of Sled Driver in a charity bookshop one day.

I have one more story, it is a long version of the "Aspen 20 speed check" story seen in the article linked at the start of this thread, so most likely to have been seen already.

“ASPEN 20” – SR-71 – Groundspeed Check
Author: Unknown
Source: Leslie

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71 Blackbird (The Air Force/NASA super fast, highest flying reconnaissance jet, nicknamed, "The Sled"), but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane - intense, maybe, even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.

It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet. I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat.

There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury. Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him.

The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace. We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot who asked Center for a read-out of his ground speed. Center replied: “November Charlie 175, I'm showing you at ninety knots on the ground.”

Now the thing to understand about Center controllers was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the "Houston Center voice." I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country's space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios. Just moments after the Cessna's inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed in Beech. “I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed.”

Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. “Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check.” Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a read-out? Then I got it, ol' Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He's the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: “Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground.”

And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done - in mere seconds we'll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn. Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it - the click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: “Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?” There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. “Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground.”

I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: “Ah, Center, much thanks, we're showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money.” For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A. came back with, “Roger that Aspen. Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one.”

It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast. For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there.
 
Great stuff, thanks for posting. What an incredible aircraft - it's from the early 60's but still looks like it came from the distant future.
 
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