Another SR 71 Blackbird story.
> *The Incredible SR-71 - a Pilot Remembers
> *
>
> Here is a very interesting account of remembrances of a former pilot about
> the SR-71 and it's capabilities. The pilot's name, the author of this
> account, is unknown.
>
> 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-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). 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 I 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 week long 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.
>
> 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. Unbeknown 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.
>
> Submitted by Col PSC