Begood
Full Access Member
This is knida long, but a good read.
uite a story. Hope you haven't read this yet.
> It's a beauty, and well
> written.
>
> Forest - good story and I sniffled a bit. But I must make you
> envious with a quick story: While at Holloman AFB, in test pilot
> status 1970, after Nam 1st tour, a SR-71 landed and I met the pilot.
> After a few drinks at the club with him and his GIB, the discussion
> was on the new vertical instruments he wasn't familure with yet. I had
> over 1000 hrs in vertical instruments in the F-106, and begged him to
> take me up and log it up to an inst. test flt. his GIB agreed. And it
> happened. Your turn to cry - Al
>
> Forrest Fenn wrote: Al, if you don't cry when you read this, you're a
> sorry [Edited by Moparts - Keep it clean] and never were a good fighter pilot.
>
> In April 1986, following an attack on American soldiers in a Berlin
> disco, President Reagan ordered the bombing of Muammar Qaddafi's
> terrorist camps inLibya. 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). Wehad crossed into Libya and were approaching
> our final turn over the bleak desert landscape when Walter informed me
> that he was receiving missile launchsignals. 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 wasflying 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 refueling 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 contributorto 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 molded 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,
> discolored 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, Ihad 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 thehangar 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 transmissionon 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 takeoff,
> 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, 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 theirtroop 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 finger 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 seconds, 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.
Bill.
uite a story. Hope you haven't read this yet.
> It's a beauty, and well
> written.
>
> Forest - good story and I sniffled a bit. But I must make you
> envious with a quick story: While at Holloman AFB, in test pilot
> status 1970, after Nam 1st tour, a SR-71 landed and I met the pilot.
> After a few drinks at the club with him and his GIB, the discussion
> was on the new vertical instruments he wasn't familure with yet. I had
> over 1000 hrs in vertical instruments in the F-106, and begged him to
> take me up and log it up to an inst. test flt. his GIB agreed. And it
> happened. Your turn to cry - Al
>
> Forrest Fenn wrote: Al, if you don't cry when you read this, you're a
> sorry [Edited by Moparts - Keep it clean] and never were a good fighter pilot.
>
> In April 1986, following an attack on American soldiers in a Berlin
> disco, President Reagan ordered the bombing of Muammar Qaddafi's
> terrorist camps inLibya. 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). Wehad crossed into Libya and were approaching
> our final turn over the bleak desert landscape when Walter informed me
> that he was receiving missile launchsignals. 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 wasflying 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 refueling 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 contributorto 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 molded 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,
> discolored 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, Ihad 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 thehangar 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 transmissionon 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 takeoff,
> 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, 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 theirtroop 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 finger 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 seconds, 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.
Bill.
