Funny story I found.... ---------------- 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 "HoustonCenterVoice." 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 HoustonCenterControllers, 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. "Ah, Twin Beach: 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 reply 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 HoustonCentervoice, 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.
The speed is amazing. Many years ago as a "bug-smasher" instructor down on the gulf coast, I would encounter situations where the F-15s would be returning from supersonic flights out over the Gulf in the Warning Areas. I could call midfield downwind and be told that I was # 2 behind a guy of 20 mile final - and not even have to extend my downwind. I was impressed.
Do I dare add my input here? When I was flying my old restored 1942 liason plane down to the Merced Antique fly-in I encountered some headwinds near Weed, Ca. I found that it was impossible to clear a hill and at the time I was looking at two girls on horseback a few hundred feet below me on a trail in the lee of the hill. I kept looking at them for a LONG TIME and noticed that I wasn't going anywhere and I wasn't maintaining altitude. I headed for a lower spot and seriously thought about where I was going to put my clunker down. I checked the groundspeed with my trusty computer and realized that it was an astounding 40 MPH " on the ground". I remained aloft by finding an up-draft coming out of the canyon and slithered my way to Dunsmir. Switches
A long, long time ago, sometime in the mid '70's I was flying out of Republic field (FRG) where I learned to fly. The wind was pretty stiff that day from the North and traffic was landing and departing on rwy 32 which was the usual rwy in use at FRG. A lone cub out north of the field calls in (must have had an electrical system put in so he could operate out of Republic) for landing and is given the traditional: "Report right downwind over the 3 stacks rwy 32". Wind being what is was, the cub pilot thought he'd like to pull a gag on the controller and said: "Heck! Why don't we just back up onto 14?" He could've don it too in that wind! A good laugh was had by all. The second anecdote happened when I was flying from Centennial airport (APA, south of Denver) to Concord, Calif. (Buchannan) for our Comanche convention around 1982 or 3. I took the northern route across Wyoming and the winds were ferocious! For some reason the ride was very smooth but I was not making any headway showing only 80 knots on the DME. This is a 160 knot airplane. Since this was our annual convention, Comanche aircraft, both singles and twins, were strung out all across the country and it was not unusual to hear center working many Comanches. One controller even asked what was going on with all the Comanches heading west to which I mentioned to him our convention. Somewhere over Wyoming, one controller dials me up and says: "Comanche 99P, slow speed by 10 knots, you're gaining on traffic 12:00 - your altitude westbound." To which I replied: "Negative. I'm only doing 80 knots as it is with all this wind. I certainly don't want to slow down any." The controller then asked the other aircraft (also a Comanche) "Comanche 24P increase your speed by 10 knots." To which he replied: "Now don't you think I would do that if I could?" The controller, obviously not knowing anything about the performance of the aircraft he was working just gave up and issued the instruction: "Comanche 24P and 99P, resume normal Comanche speed" I laughed so hard tears were running down my cheeks. BTW, some hundred or so miles west the wind began to abate and I saw the DME slowly increase. When it hit 100 knots, you could probably hear me cheering all the way down on the ground. Even though there were still 60 knots on the nose. Planeflyr.
Brian Shul wrote those words in his book "Sled Driver". One very fine book with fantastic photos with an inside perspective in flying the greatest airplane ever built. "Untouchables"; "Summer Thunder"; and "Blue Angels..A Portrait of Gold" are all equally impressive. N Dennis
That's the most awesome story I've read in a while! Anyone read the account of the pilot who ejected at Mach 2 when his SR-71 broke up?
yes. The last I heard was that they were still trying to put him back together. Naw. I read about some time back but I don't know how he is now. JAMES, who is Admiral THRAWN ? That title cracks me up because it sounds so British and closer to the HMS Pinafore . Switches
Admiral Thrawn is a fictional character created by author Timothy Zahn for his trilogy of Star Wars novels written in the early 90's. The name Thrawn was cleverly chose because the translation, from medieval Scottish / old English, is "twisted" or "crooked". The Thrawn trilogy - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia Anyone know how I can get a copy of Sled Driver? Or contact the author? I've seen a few copies for sale second-hand on Amazon, all at $200+. 2 Libraries have it in Australia, both in other states.
Have you checked out these links? It looks like you can still buy the book ($427) and a number of other interesting items (prints, etc) https://galleryonepublishing.com/BlackbirdStores/ https://galleryonepublishing.com/sleddriver/index.html
Entertaining story; I know my father, an old Cessna pilot, would have gotten a kick out of it, as well as the Comanche story.
Bump, just because it's a good story. My son was talking about the SR-71 last night so I dug this post up to find him the story. EDIT: Found another, thought I'd share: SR-71 Blackbird 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. 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. After several agonizingly long seconds, we made the turn and blasted toward the Mediterranean. 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 . ‘You might want to pull it back,’ Walter suggested. It was then that I noticed I still had the throttles full forward and we’re continuing to rocket along in maximum afterburner. 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 .
Amazing! I am wondering with today's technology how much faster can get planes to go. Its incredible that the SR-71 was developed in the 1960's and still is the fastest plane ever made.
I remember hearing the SR-71s on the radio in Northern California in the late '80s. Actually, we didn't hear the SR-71, just the controller. It was always cool to hear the controller say "Aspen six-zero, upon entering controlled airspace, descend and maintain flight level four five zero." "Sled Driver" is a great book, BTW. I know someone who has a copy.
If you cant a get a copy of sled driver pick up The Skunk works. A fantastic book that has a good deal of SR71 info/stories inside
