Pilot's notes on SR71

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-111's 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 >> 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 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 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, 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 >> 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 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. >> >> San Diego Aerospace Museum >> 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 is 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 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. >>