Posted on 12/28/2016 8:20:44 PM PST by BulletBobCo
This may be the single greatest aviation story ever told, it’s about the iconic SR-71 Blackbird whose full operating specs are still classified to this day. The story, from the now out-of-print book Sled Driver by former SR-71 jockey Brian Shul (available used on Amazon for just $700). Here’s the ultimate aviation troll:
There were a lot of things we couldn’t do in an SR-71, 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 asked Center for a readout 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. “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 readout? 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.
Roger that submareemer! Been there and done that.
How cool is this! SR71 assembly at Skunk Works c. 1965. It looks like a scene out of Star Wars in the Rebel Alliance X-Wing fighter Bay.
True or not, I enjoyed the story.
At 68 years on this planet I do occasionally ask myself about regrets over things I might have done, but didn’t. I admire all pilots, have great envy and hold them all in very high regard.
In 1970 I started with flying lessons in Seattle, but I ran out of money and good weather and my then career began to shoot upward, so I didn’t have time anymore.
I have had a blessed life, all considered, but I will always wish I had gone the aviation route. I married a pilots daughter over 45 years ago....that will have to do. ;>)
You pilots are so very fortunate......God bless you all.
Thanks for the link. Great story. (2nd one)
I am green with envy! And I thot I hitched a few remarkable rides.
Way cool personal story!!
another good one:
http://foxtrotalpha.jalopnik.com/the-sr-71-blackbirds-most-spectacular-flyover-was-also-1719654907
More like 45 years.
it’s probably BS.
It is the word of the actual pilot and copilot of the SR-71. You would have to believe they both lied, and authorized putting it into a book based on their experience, to accept it as BS.
Military aircraft like this fly above class A airspace so civilian Air Traffic Controllers have no responsibility over them.
Correct. The tower was only reporting the groundspeed as measured on their radar equipment in response to a REQUEST FROM the SR-71 crew.
In addition, performance capabilities are classified info.
Yes, but there are things that you cannot hide. Like altitude and groundspeed measured by civilian radar. The pilots responding with their 'more accurate' speed revealed nothing that was not already known. That was proven by the tower response that he knew the SR-71's 'equipment' was more accurate. Most of that was due to the fact that not all airports had the most advanced radar equipment recently installed (because that is an impractical and almost impossible thing to do/expect). It gave away information that could only prove that the tower's equipment gave a different speed than the SR-71's, and any idiot could figure out that the SR-71 had more accurate equipment.
FWIW, I worked as historian on the X-30, which was being designed to go Mach 25. Since we had no wind tunnels capable of testing even a model at that speed, the aircraft was to be the test instrument itself.
At General Dynamics they put me (NOT a pilot) in the sim.
I have the distinction of crashing the Aerospace Plane 3 times at only 10,000 mph in less than five minutes.
“The Space Shuttle was faster than a SR-71,”
The space shuttle did not have engines. ;-)
“nasa may have one or two for whatever reason,”
The CIA has several very specialized models of the SR-71 which fly regularly but they do not talk about them.
Even a neater story!!
well, not the kind that breath air, at any rate.
The Space Shuttle did have engines. It had to turn backwards and fire them to reduce speed and fall out of orbit. These engines were nothing compared to the two solid rocket boosters with 1 million pounds of propellant or the Main Booster with over a half million gallons of liquid propellant.
“The Space Shuttle did have engines.”
Of course, you are correct. Please let me rephrase:
The space shuttle did not have air-breathing engines that could operate in the atmosphere. ;-)
“How cool is this! “ Over the top.
BTW in San Diego at the Air Museum at Balboa Park there is a 71 mounted on a pedestal out front.
Another good one...
Lufthansa pilot: (in german) “Lufthansa flight xyz, requesting approach heading for frankfurt.”
Frankfurt Air Traffic: “In English, please.”
Lufthansa pilot: (in english) “I am a German pilot, in a German plane, flying into a German airport. Why must I speak in english?”
British Airways pilot on same frequency: “because you lost the bloody war, mate! “
CC
If I remember correctly, there is one at the air museum at March Air Reserve Base near Perris, CA and east of Riverside, CA. The museum is on the east side of Hwy 215.
Was just watching a vid on Youtube about the SR71. I comeback to F and here is this thread.
;-)
Not much of a story but Bill mentioned that in all its glory the 71 would hiccup once in a while - rarely - but when it did happened (one engine missing a beat) the airframe would move sideways violently and ones head would slam into the side of the cabin. It was then that they also appreciated their space helmets shock absorber design and capabilities.
Also the ladies would do most anything to get the pilots to take a pair of their panties aloft so they could boast mac 3+ (fastest panties on earth) status. I do not know the specifics of their leverage for compliance but it must have been fun.
From “Skunk Works” by Ben Rich there is a whole chapter on the SR71(Habu) this is one of my favorites...
Lt. Colonel William Burk Jr. (Air Force pilot) In the fall of ’82, I flew from Mildenhall on a mission over Lebanon in response to the Marine barracks bombing. President Reagan ordered photo coverage of all the terrorist bases in the region. The French refused to allow us to overfly, so our mission profile was to refuel off the south coast of England, a Mach 3 cruise leg down the coast of Portugal and Spain, left turn through the Straits of Gibraltar, refuel in the western Mediterranean, pull a supersonic leg along the coast of Greece and Turkey, right turn into Lebanon and fly right down main street Beirut, exit along the southern Mediterranean with another refueling over Malta, supersonic back out the straits, and return to England. Because Syria had a Soviet SA-5 missile system just west of Damascus that we would be penetrating (we were unsure of Syria’s intentions in this conflict), we programmed to fly above eighty thousand feet and at Mach 3 plus to be on the safe side, knowing that this advanced missile had the range and speed to nail us. And as we entered Lebanon’s airspace my Recon Systems Officer in the rear cockpit informed me that our defensive systems display showed we were being tracked by that SA-5. About fifteen seconds later we got a warning of active guidance signals from the SA-5 site. We couldn’t tell whether there was an actual launch or the missile was still on the rails, but they were actively tracking us. We didn’t waste any time wondering, but climbed and pushed that throttle, and said a couple of “Hail Kellys.” We completed our pass over Beirut and turned toward Malta, when I got a warning low-oil-pressure light on my right engine. Even though the engine was running fine I slowed down and lowered our altitude and made a direct line for England. We decided to cross France without clearance instead of going the roundabout way. We made it almost across, when I looked out the left window and saw a French Mirage III sitting ten feet off my left wing. He came up on our frequency and asked us for our Diplomatic Clearance Number. I had no idea what he was talking about, so I told him to stand by. I asked my backseater, who said, “Don’t worry about it. I just gave it to him.” What he had given him was “the bird” with his middle finger. I lit the afterburners and left that Mirage standing still. Two minutes later, we were crossing the Channel.
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