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.
Gawd, what an awesome story. Thanks for sharing it!
Yeah, but the space shuttle was really nothing more than a big, fat, expensive UPS truck. And not nearly as dependable.
Oh man - I could listen to/read about Blackbird all night long; and I have. I never had the chance to see one in flight, but saw one at an Edwards AFB air show in 1984 (IIRC). I was awestruck and I probably will never get the chance (in what’s left of my lifetime) to see anything to match it. It was sitting inside a hangar with drip pans all around it catching the gelatin-like fuel that was seeping out of every seam of the fuselage. A serious WTF sight until one hears the reason for it. Seeing it straight on, I instantly recognized a plausible explanation for some of those frequently reported UFO sightings out in the desert back in the day.
>> We attack submariners have many good stories, too,
“SubMareener, I show you at 17.5 knots, at sea level.”
I’ve had my run-ins with Naval Aviators over the years, but I do love them and it was my job to keep them airborne.....But damn it...You just can’t argue with a 71 jock! This story is awesome, and my sides now ache!!
http://aztecpressonline.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/Pg-14-Boneyard.jpg
Of course, lest we forget, there was this North American thingy called the X-15 ...
So a plane with a top speed of 1,190 mph could catch a plane idling at 1900mph and capable of doing well over 2,283 mph? A plane able to outrun SAMs over Libya?
That needs to be shared often ....:o)
Tom Clancy said that when SR-71 was revealed to the public, it only meant they had something faster.
bfl
I was stationed at Kadena 69-early 71 and they ran missions west from there with what locals called the “Habu.” SR-71s named for the island snake species.
I’d watch them take off and in what seemed like the blink of an eye, they were off west climbing and out of sight. When they landed, they came in from the west up high and did a deep slope 360 to land. Amazing plane.
It reminded me of a dragster someone was trying to drive legal speed through a school zone.
One of the things that never gets reported is that there is a network of radio monitors manned by civilians that monitors many frequencies around Area 51. I have heard recordings of stuff they have captured and it is interesting to say the least. A few communications along the lines of this story.
I visit NAS Fallon on a regular basis, home of the Navy Top Gun school. I always have a scanner on and recording when we go out there. Record some strange stuff.
I tend to believe the OP. The speed the Blackbird was going was not close to the classified speed and is the declassified max speed of an F-15. Altitude - different story.
Spoke to a retired U2 pilot at the Naval Air Museum in Pensacola Fl, said after one mission from Asia to America, he ran out of fuel over Michigan and when I asked where he landed he calmly replied, “Texas.”
Cool.
>>We attack submariners have many good stories, too, and someday they might even declassify our missions so we can tell them.
Yeah, but no one ever believes us. Unless they have their own set of dolphins.
Thanks. Somewhat cheaper than $700.
Cool. I made it as far as the LBJ Ranch (not the one in Texas) one Christmas (winter of love), but was west of Tri Province area in time for Chinese New Year. (No, I’m not John F’n Kerry.)
You squid have a fish that’ll do over 1,800 knots across the ground? Impressive...
I dunno. I heard the shuttle had the aerodynamic quality of Iraq. Or an ICED - Inter Continental Exploding Device.
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