A pilot’s story about the SR-71 the Black Bird
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 joke d 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.
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 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 'f eel 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 m e 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 minimum 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.