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.
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.
