[Rhodes22-list] ode to Flyboy Brad

[Bud]

Ed,
  that is a great read!!

-Bud

Tootle wrote:

>Brad,
>
>I received the following email, and I post it here for you and any others
>who fly...  Ed K
>
>An interesting article on the Blackbird, written by one of the pilots of
>this magnificent machine...
>
> Subject: SR-71
>
>Brian Shul's Sled Driver, his memoir of flying the SR-71, features
>exclusive photos taken by the author. The signed, limited edition
>book, available for $427, can be purchased by calling 888.777.8383
>or visiting Welcome To The World Of The Sled Driver.
>
>Much cheaper versions are available at
>http://www.amazon.com/Sled-Driver-Flying-Worlds-Fastest/dp/0929823087
>
>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 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, and 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 are 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 second 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.
>
>
>
>
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