zotero/storage/8DZ9PGGS/.zotero-ft-cache

Flying the World's Fastest Jet
by
Brian Shul
Midland Publishing Limited Earl Shilton, Leicester, England

This book is for my parents who encouraged and supported my desire to fly, and waited patiently for
twenty years until/ was through.
Acknowledgments
M y grateful thanks to the following people who helped me in a variety of ways to create this book: Colonels Nevin Cunningham and Tom Alison for their permission to photograph the jet i n its local habitat; Major Benny Dennis for his superb airmanship i n the T-38 who could always "put me there" for the picture; Sergeant "Ange" Strickland for Pace Chase coordination; Bill Witzke, George Hall and Bob Townsend for their expertise, encouragement and fri endship; Master Sergeant M i ke Haggerty, Ferrari Color Lab, a n d Katie Bowles i n assisting with photogra phic slides; Fran Crawford a n d M ike Connors for their time in proof reading; Captain Ed "Otto" Pernotto, a veritable encyclopedia of military knowledge and good friend; Pa u l Farsai for taking a chance and keeping the faith; Lieutenant Colonel Walt Watson for gracious consent to use his name a n d for being there; Janet a n d Elsie for taking care of a l l their "boys"; and a loving thanks to Sheila O'Grady, without whose talents and perseverance this book could not have happened.

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Contents

Preface

13

........................................

lntroduction

15

................................

CHAPTER I

First Meeting

19

...............................

The l nterview 19 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Day

Four 20 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Interview Sim 26 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

CHAPTER II

In Preparation

28

..............................

The Guy in Back 28 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

In the Box 30 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

In Thrust We Trust 34 . • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

CHAPTER Ill

In Preparation

36

..............................

The

"B" 36 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Preflight 38 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

suit

up 39 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

The

Launch 43 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Aerial

Refueling 54 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

The

Accel 59 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

The Deep Blue 65 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Systems 69 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

The

Suit 71 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Night 74 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Recovery 7 6 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

CHAPTER IV

Going Operationa1

84

.......................

Supporting Cast 88 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Weather 9 2 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

En

Route 100 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

The Unpredictable 104 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

MIG

Runner 106 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

The Return 108 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

".113 "The High Untrespassed Sanctity of Space. . .

East 113 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

West 113 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

A Crew Finishes 117 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

CHAPTER V

Companion Trainer....................119

Pace

Chase 119 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

CHAPTER VI

On Display.................................123 The Rare Show 129 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

CHAPTER VII

The Legacy.................................135

Final

Roar 1 4 1 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Photography Notes...................146

Preface
We at Midland Publishing are delighted to have the opportunity of working with our friends at Mach 1, who have maintained a position for the past five years as the world's leading publisher of high quality aviation prints a n d calendars. Their commitment to excellence has been exemplified by working with only the most accomplished aviation photographers in the world.
Brian ShuI came to the attention of Mach 1 two years ago through their exposure to his exceptional SR-71 photos, and it became a p parent that the man behind the images possessed a love for photography exceeded only by his love for life itself. Here was a man who had been told that he would never fly again after a near fatal crash in the jungle of Southeast Asia, yet he went on to become an inspiration to many.
While learning of his ability to bring his experience to life through words, it was only natural that his two talents of photogra phy and writing should be combined to create this on e-of-a-kind book. We are proud to bring to our readers this work of love and passion so eloquently expressed in the following pages.
We hope that you too, will be inspired by his outstanding photography and his experience as an SR-71 pilot.
The Directors of Midiland Publishing Limited

Introduction
I n 1966, I was sti ll in high school. That sa m e year the SR-71 Blackbird was already being brought on line in the U .S. Air Force inventory. For the next quarter of a century, this unique aircraft roamed the globe perform ing its role as a n intell igence gathering platform for the U nited States. When it was first introduced into service, it was the fastest, highest flying air-breathing jet the world had ever seen. When it retired in 1990, the sa m e could still be sa id.
Working i n secrecy, chief SR-71 designer Kelly Johnson, and his team of experts built a n a i rplane in the 1960s that both mystified a n d im pressed the aviation world. The end product showed what could be achieved when talent and ded icated effort were not impeded by constant budgetary constraints. The SR-71 represents the blending of engineering genius, the wi llingness to break new ground, a n d superb project management. It was impossible to be associated with this a i rcraft a n d not feel the intense pride and dedication which went into every aspect of its construction.
M y association with this a i rcraft, and subsequent love for it, occurred late in the plane's mil itary life. In 1983 I came to Bea l e Air Force Base, California ready to begin training in a jet I had long considered out of my reach. I knew it was the world's fastest plane, but that didn't begin to really describe this black machine, this sensuous design of blended metals a n d elegant l i nes. The SR-71 had a l u re for pilots a l l its own; it had an exciting combination of grace, speed, a n d danger. It was affectionately ca lled "The Sled" by those who flew it. Here was a plane with a mission, a n d the heart to perform it with i m punity.
This is not a story of the making of the SR-71 , nor is it a technical digest of the many intriguing facts and figures about the plane. (For a comprehensive book deta iling its history and capabil ities, I highly recommend Blackbird, by Paul F. Crickmore, Osprey Publishing Limited, 1986.) Instead, this book is one man's view ofwhat it was like to fly the world's fastest jet. I never imagined I would someday fly the SR-71. It was yet another exciting chapter in a life already blessed with many rewarding experiences.
This is a love story too, because I could not fly this airplane and not love it. I have purposely avoided certa i n specifics throughout the text, because they are not the focus of this story. The reader won't find secrets revealed in this book. Someday,

someone will declassify bits of information about this jet, publish them, and then it won't matter to anyone anymore. I could never write that book. As one who shared intimate secrets with the a i rplane, I feel less inclined to reveal all that she could do. Most of the men who flew her feel the sa m e way. To fly this jet, and fly it well, meant esta blishing a personal relationship with a fusion of tita nium, fuel, stick and throttles. It meant feeling the airplane ca m e a l ive a n d had a personality all her own. To betray her confidences now would be unthinkable.
My experiences and those of my back-seater are no more and no less than those of many other men who strapped themselves into this black aircraft. Our experiences were more typical than exceptional ofthe many who went before us a n d the few who flew the jet after us. My back-seater and I were always grateful for the opportunity to serve our country in this particular way.
Few aviators ever got the chance to fly the SR-71. In over twenty years of service, a total of only 314 Air Force aviators flew the Blackbird. (In the same time period over 6,000 Air Force aviators flew the F-4 Phantom 11.) I was one of only 152 Air Force pilots to fly the SR-71 during its lifetime. The following pages describe a little of what that was like.

The cockpit was my office. It was a place where I experienced many emotions and learned many lessons. It was a place of work, but also a keeper of dreams. It was a place of deadly serious encounters, yet there I discovered much about life. I learned about joy and sorrow, pride and humility, and fear, and overcoming fear. I saw much from that office that most people would never see. At times it terrified me, yet I could always feel at home there. It was my place, at that time in space, and the jet was mine for those moments. Though it was a place where I could quickly die, the cockpit was a ,lace where I truly lived.

Sled SR-71, SR, Blackbird, HABU, Lady in Black, The Jet...

CHAPTER I
First Meeting
When I was a boy, I built a plastic model of the SR-71. It was not my favorite model. It was big and fit awkwardly among my other models of fighter jets. It didn't come equipped with menacing looking rockets or bombs that I could paint and hang from the wings. Finally, the black color made the excessive glue, which I so ardently applied, a l l the more obvious as it oozed along the seam of the fuselage. As I studied the finished product, I wasn't impressed.
Many years later, I found myself standing proudly next to my fighter jet at the Cleveland National Airshow. I had flown a demonstration flight earlier in the day, and I enjoyed talking with the crowd around my plane. While I stood there, I heard the public add ress system a n nounce that the SR-71 would arrive in a few minutes to make a low pass. I had always wanted to see this strange a i rcraft in person, so I perched myself on top of my jet for a better view. I was a fighter pilot in the Tactical Air Command (TAC) , a n d didn't want anyone to think I was too interested in a Strategic Air Command (SAC) a i rcraft. The SR-71 was from SAC where most airplanes were big and non-maneuverable. The SR-71, though, was the world's fastest jet, a n d pilots do respect speed, so I watched.
It arrived precisely on time. As the black a i rcraft grew closer, I noticed it was pointed on every end. It had a sinister look that suggested more than just cameras were carried on board. When it reached show center, the pilot pushed his throttles to maximum power. From half a mile away, the sound vibrated the open canopy I was grasping. Two long plumes of fla m e extended symmetrically from the rear of the black jet. Its nose pointed upward 45 degrees from the horizon as it started a steep climb. Then this a i rcraft, closer in size to a Boeing 727 than a fighter, accelerated effortlessly until, i n mom ents, it was a dot. I was im pressed.
THE INTERVIEW
The 9th Strategic Reconnaissance Wing (9th SRW) carefully selected its SR-71 pilots. Each volunteer for this special duty subm itted an information package to the 1st Strategic Reconnaissance Squadron (1st SRS), where it was thoroughly eva l uated. To

be competitive, a pilot needed a high level of flying experience i n jet aircraft, a n excellent record, and the endorsement of his commander. I f the squadron were interested, it arranged a one week interview at Beale Air Force Base with the applicant. Beale, located near Ma rysvi lle, California, was the home of the SR-71 a n d the only base where training was conducted. I was excited when I learned I would get an interview. I wasn't even sure if this were the kind off lying I could do, but I was eager to find out.
The interview was a well-orga n ized week of activities designed to evaluate the ca ndi date, a n d in turn, enabled the ca ndi date to evaluate his own desire to join the progra m . Flying the SR-71 wasn't a job for every pilot. During the first two days of the interview, the pilot applicant completed an astronaut physical. The afternoon of day three, he spent in the SR-71 simulator getting fa miliar with the cockpit and learning more about the mission of worldwide reconnaissance. G etti ng a close look at the jet and observing a launch were scheduled for the fourth day. The final day the applicant spent at the 1st SRS, meeting squadron members a n d talking flying. By this point, the applicant knew if this busi n ess were for him or not. For me, the first two days were easy, the third challenging and the fifth a pleasure. Of the five days, the fourth day stood apart from all the rest.
If I were going to fly this aircraft, I wanted to touch it and inspect it personally. Seeing the jet up close was essential, much like a concert pianist inspecting the piano before the concert. The turning point of my interview week and the moment when I made my decision to fly the SR-71 occurred on the afternoon of day four when I got to see the jet.
DAY FOUR
The 1st SRS Operations Officer escorted m e out to the hangar area to observe a n SR-71 launch. The launch included the engine sta rt, taxi a n d takeoff. We arrived early, and walked to an adjacent hangar to look at another SR-71 up close. Inside the hangar, there were no sounds of drills turning, compressors whining, or men shouting. Instead of the normal din encountered in this place ofwork, the hangar was silent. As the black jet sat ominously before me, I felt more as if I were in a museum than a hangar. The aircraft was bigger than I had imagined; it was long i n body. I i nstinctively looked toward the front cockpit. I t sat well forward o f the wings a n d engin es, as if at the tip of a long sword.

Only with a feeling closely resembling reverence could I approach this sin ister looking champion of speed.

The skin of the a i rcraft was rough, resembling a fine grade of sandpaper i n places. Other parts of its body felt like smooth plastic. I began to realize that titanium d i d not cover every surface ofthe aircraft. The exterior was surprisingly irregular for an airplane built for speed; it had many grooves and expansion joints. The actual skin of the aircraft made up the shell of the fuel tanks. There were no bladd ers inside these fuel storage areas. Instead, as the a i rcraft reached its cruising speed a n d heated up, the skin expanded a n d tightly sealed the fuel inside the a i rplane. On the ground, fuel seeped through num erous joints and seams along the aircraft creating pools of fuel (JP-7) on the hangar floor. It was m essy, but not a fire hazard since J P-7 did not ignite easily. As I stood there near the mess of fluids oozing from the seams of the a i rcraft, I realized how closely the real SR-71 resem bled the glue stained model I had built as a boy.
The flared edge of the fuselage, ca lled the chine, curved back gracefully into the wings, creating a lifting body that helped reduce fuel consumption at high speeds. I closely inspected this beast with a mixture of awe a n d respect and realized the Blackbird was more than an assembly of aircraft parts; it had a strong presence, more powerful than any a i rplane I had ever known. I studied the spikes: the large black cones leading into the engine intakes. Their tips were sharp to the touch. I understood little about their function, oniy that they were part of an advanced inlet design. The immense engines alluded to speeds above Mach 3 (Mach 1 equals he speed of sound.)
Looking up into the back end of the jet, I noticed the huge afterburner (AB) sections of the J-58 engines. Most fighter jets have afterburners. It is an extended section of the engine that produces augmented thrust beyond normal 100 percent m i litary power. The normal throttle range is from idle power to m i litary power. The throttles then slide over a detent to engage the afterburner. The afterburner range goes from minimum to maximum afterburner, or mm AB to max AB. When the pilot sel ects afterburner, raw fuel is dumped into the burner section ofthe engine. When the fuel ignites, the afterburner lights off, giving the aircraft a surge of power. Depending on the size of the engine, a long flame extends from the tail end. I began to wonder what full AB would feel like in this jet, from a cockpit located 100 feet forward of the engines. I also wondered if I would ever think flying three times the speed of sound as routi ne. I left that quiet hangar and felt a nervous anticipation as I imagined piloting this beast. The crew had arrived i n their support van at a nearby ha ngar, a n d it was time to watch a n SR-71 1aunch.
The sights a n d sounds of the start sequence resem bled a combination of a NASA space launch a n d a Daytona 500 pit crew i n action. The start cart used to turn the

The Buick V-8 Start Cart.
Tetraethyl Borane ignites JP-7 and with a burst of flame a n SR-71 engine is started.

main engine shaft consisted of two Buick V-8 automobile engines i n ta ndem. A chemical agent ca lled Tetraethyl Borane (TEB), was used to ignite the fuel during engine start a n d whenever afterburner was selected. Because of the extrem e tem peratures experienced a t high speeds, the fuel was designed to resist ignition under normal conditions. As the J-58 engine spooled up, the pilot signaled he was going to start the number one engine. Easing the throttle to the idle setting caused the TEB to hit the combustion chamber of the engine and an emerald green fla m e burst out o f the burner section. The J-58 reached i d l e power a m idst the noise of the screaming Buicks. The sound of floored V-8s seemed out of place next to this futuristic-looking flying machine. The uproar reached its climax as the Buick V-8s reached their top RPM and the engine sta bilized i n idle. This sequence was repeated for the number two engine. After both engines were started, the start cart wound down and the steady pitch of idling J-58s superseded all other sounds. This controlled chaos was normal start procedure for every flight.
While many people scurried beneath a n d around the Blackbird, I was escorted to a radio-equipped blue car that was always present when an SR-71 taxied. SR-71 crews referred to this vehicle as the mobi l e car. Able to communicate with the crew of the a i rcraft a n d other agenci es, the mobile crew one pilot and one Reconnaissance Systems Officer (RSO) could offer assistance when necessary and h e l p coordinate flight changes. The mobi l e also scanned the taxiways and runway for any debris or objects that could present a hazard to the SR-7 1 . The mobile crew removed anything larger than the size of a dime found in the path of the jet. With nitrogen filled tires riding at 400 psi, the SR-71 could easily blow a tire if it rolled over any hard objects.
The jet taxied out with an entourage of vehicles: maintenance trucks, the physiological support van a n d the mobile car. Prior to takeoff, the pilot performed an engine run in a designated area near the runway.
I watched and listened as the pilot ran each engine up to military power and checked the RPM a n d tem peratures to insure all was wel l . At 30,000 pounds of thrust, only one engine was run up to military power at a time. The jet's exhaust kicked up a whirlwind of dust and debris behind the run up area. The sound of the engines set this day apart. The gutty roar of the J-58s grabbed my insides and tugged at me. This engine sound was born from 1950s technology a n d was a trademark of the Century Series fighters I was born too late to fly. The older jets were loud, big, a n d built solidly. New technology em erged in the 1970s and I had flown a i rcraft with the newer fan jets. These engines were more fuel efficient but they didn't sound the

I n the run-up area, a Sled waits for ta keoff. On takeoff roll, the Sled roared in full afterburner like no other.

same, nor were they as rugged. The SR-71 stood before me as something out of the past. It had all the defiance and pride of the older jets, the kind that had made a 10-year-old boy i n 1958 want to fly. As this sound penetrated my ears, I again felt that sa m e desire. I worried little now about space suit d iscomfort or what affect this assignment would have on my career or my personal life. The Blackbird was talking to me and I was listening.
I stood ha lfway down the runway to watch the takeoff. The pilot lit the afterburners and I heard two distinct booms that sounded like cannons in the distance. As the jet passed me, the thund erous, piercing sound ofthe engines at maxi m u m power was not so much heard as it was felt. The sound vibrated my body a n d reached in and grabbed my soul. It had me. Here was a jet built long ago, sti ll flying the same mission for which it had been designed. It could go places other airplanes couldn't, and bring back intelligence information vital to our nation. It was playing for keeps a n d still winning. I wanted to be a part of it.
INTERVIEW SIM
Day four of the interview had been the most inspiring, but day three had been the most challenging. It consisted of a fa milia rization and evaluation in the SR-71 simulator (sim). A one hour briefing preceded the simulator session. An SR-71 instructor pilot { I P) reviewed a wealth of information about the switches, l evers, and gauges in the cockpit. As I gazed intently at the cockpit drawings and tried to absorb my instructor's words, I found myself fi lled with wonder at glimpsing at the inside of an a i rcraft that had been so secret for so long.
Armed with my sparse knowledge of cockpit switchology, I climbed into the SR-71 simulator. The IP was going to evaluate my flying skills, or so I thought. He was actually going to test my stress capacity. Even with the previous hour's instruction, I felt unprepared to properly fly this sim, but I wasn't going to let him know that. Everyone wanted to look good, and fighter pilots would rather die than look ba d . I was about to die.
With a death grip on the stick and eyes scanning frantically across a hosti l e instrument panel, I devoted half m y strength to appearing unflustered and i n control. The I P baited me with easy man euvers a n d I gained a n a rtificial sense o f con­ fidence. He told me I was doing well and asked if I would like to try Mach 3 speed. Already overloa ded, I uttered a weak response and hoped it sounded positive. Again the instructor gave me a n easy scenario and I found it a bit surreal to see the

Mach ind icator read 13.' Throughout it all, the i nstructor questioned me, testing my recall and adaptability to a new cockpit. The stress level mounted. I was told I was doing well at Mach 3. As I was ga ining some confidence, I was asked if I would like to try to mainta i n Mach 3 flight without the aid of the stability augmentation system (SAS). Most high performance aircraft have this system, and normally it is never turned off in flight. The SAS helps jets remain stable at break-neck speeds. My instructor assured m e it was quite all right. As I turned the SAS off I thought, 11Th ese guys must be terrific pilots to fly like this!" I mainta ined control for three seconds, then the sim died. With a disheartening 11thud" a l l gauges stopped functioning and the lights flickered off. With both hands clutching the stick, I stared blankly at frozen cockpit instruments. In a grave tone, my instructor announced I had broken the simulator. 11My God," I thought, 11they trusted me with all this secret information and I broke the million dollar sim!" With a long face and more shaking of his head, my i nstructor quietly asked m e to get out of the sim and added he was doubtful if they could fix it anytime soon. All present agreed they had never seen anyone do anything like this before. I was barely able to walk. Drenched in sweat, I retreated to the cold silence of the briefing room. I sat there feeling a lot like the kid who just wrecked Dad's car. While I was imagining my instructor and the sim technicians discussing my lack of flying ability, they were, in fact, having quite a chuckle. This was all part of the stress test. Years later the sa m e i nstructor confided in me that I had done very well i n that phase of the interview, a n d h e had strongly endorsed my selection for training.

CHAPTER II
In Preparation
THE GUY IN BACK
The SR-71 carried a crew of two although some days it seemed like the crew carried the airplane. The man in front was the pilot and did all the flying. The man sitting four feet behind the pilot wore the wings of a n Air Force navigator a n d was the RSO. He managed the sophisticated navigation and sensor equipment, but his duties went far beyond navigating and activating cameras. He handled the electronic defensive systems, operated four radios continuously, and was a flight engineer when the pilot needed a problem resolved. There were days, too, when he was a cheerleader and a coach. How well the guy in back (GIB) balanced these tasks directly affected the mission.
There was a distinct division of duties between cockpits, but the nature of the jet a n d its mission required a coord inated effort by the crew in a l l phases of operations. Pilot a n d RSO were paired at the start of training a n d remained a crew throughout their tour, normally flying only with each other. I got to know my RSO very wel l . I was lucky; not only was he extremely competent, h e was a good fri end, too. Most pilots felt this way about their RSOs. To me, my back-seater was the best RSO in the squadron, a n d it was a privilege to fly with him. His name was Walt Watson, a n d he was the only black man ever assigned to fly the SR-71.
I always felt a little sorry for Walt because he couldn't see much from the back seat. His head was normally down while he performed a m u ltitude of tasks. His job satisfaction came from perform ing his mission well a n d getti ng the pictures. Sometimes we didn't understand what the other was going through, but we always depended on each other. During four years of sharing a myriad of emotions with the jet and each other, we formed a bond of mutual respect and friendship that will last the rest of our lives. Walt used to say that we lasted longer together than most ma rriages.

A crew is formed: Brian and Walter, the fighter pilot and the engineer.
It was a two man airplane. A large part of the training was devoted to teaching us how to fly in concert from two completely different cockpits.

I N THE BOX
It took close to eleven months to complete training in the SR-71. While the second half of training was mostly flying the jet and accruing flight hours, the first half of training was torturous because of the many hours spent in the simulator. M y RSO informed me he enjoyed simulator sessions as much as he enjoyed root canal work.
Flying an aircraft close to the edge of its performance envelope meant things got scary in a hu rry when even the slightest malfunction occurred. Simulator training gave Sled crews experience with nearly every type of malfunction before it happened to them in actual flight. Although everyone agreed with this objective, it was hell stumbling our way through the learning process. The sweat-soaked-blank­ stare-at-a-dying-instrument-panel look, introduced during the interview sim, was relived often.
Most crews were senior Captains or Majors with ten years flying experience. They were selected to fly the SR-71 because they were experienced and they were good. They d i dn't feel either during many days in the sim. At their former units they were all accustomed to being the top performers. It wasn't an easy process to watch both engine tem peratures a n d pilots egos reach breaking points during stressful moments in the sim. Everyone was humbled in the sim, or the box, as it was commonly ca lled. With a sma l l num ber of crews on station at any one time, we would admi nister simulator sessions to others when our training was completed. Supervising sims was a two-man job. An instructor RSO sat at a large console equipped with the readouts of the back-seater's cockpit instruments. The instructor pilot sat directly behind the pilot, surrounded with a complete selection of switches designed to wreak havoc on aircraft systems and bring crews to their knees. The pilot and his instructor, and the RSO a n d his instructor, were in separate simu lators and a l l four people communicated through hea dsets hooked into the intercom system.
The key to a successful simulator mission, indeed, the key to a successful aircraft mission, was clear and concise communication between the crew. Simple as this sounds, relaying information between cockpits with few similar gauges required some forethought. Communication became more critical when the sim was coming apart. During such em ergencies, I needed to relay to my RSO the precise nature of the problem so he could read the necessary corrective steps from the proper checklist. As I struggled to identify the malfunction, critical seconds passed, creating a d ditional problems. M a ny a hilarious uttera nce ca m e forth from the front cockpit in the heat of a session, leaving the guy in back totally confused. One time I became

There was much to learn, a n d the books couldn't leave the building.
A sim instructor reviews students. It will encompass the entire western U nited States - plenty of time for the instructor to create multiple emergencies.
The sim instructor reaches for the 'fa il' switches, ensuring a miserable time for the guys in the box.

so engrossed in describing ind ications to my RSO, my words became unintelligible. I had no clue why the sim was out of control. I pressed on undaunted with even more words, similar to raising my voice to a foreigner in hopes he will better understa nd my language. My instructor mercifully put the sim on freeze. I turned around and realized Walt had climbed out of his simulator cockpit and, along with my instructor, was peering over my shoulder. Tota lly frustrated, Walt asked to be shown the gauges with the new names.
The communication problem had to be solved. Walt a n d I spent hours sitti ng on the floor of his den, learning to speak to each other in shorthand about emergency procedures. This was no easy task. Walt was an engineer who wanted details; I was a fighter pilot who talked in adverbs. Eventually we got better and progressed well through the sim phase.
The turning point for us ca m e when we did a simple thing that affected the rest of our days in the Blackbird. We had the sim to ourselves one day, and decided to show each other the details of what went on in the other man's cockpit. Walt eagerly put me in his seat, and for an hour he showed me all the RSO had to contend with. His workload was more overwhelming than I had thought. I then introduced him to the front seat and let him try driving for a while. He was exhausted. We got more from those few hours than any previous sim we had. We looked at each other's job differently and walked out of the simulator building with a new understa nding of each other as professionals and friends. The thread of mutual respect woven that day enabled us to get through many trying flights later.
Not all of our tra i n ing took place in the simulator. We learned about SR-71 systems in special classes with only the instructor, the pilot a n d the RSO i n attendance. Only a few crews entered training each year, so aca d emic classes were small. We learned fascinating things about the airplane. For example, JP-7 served not only as a fuel, but as a coolant and a hydraulic fl uid as well. Some of the Blackbird's systems had to withsta n d extreme temperatures that resulted from high Mach. Fuel was routed around these systems to absorb heat a n d carry it away. The engine oil was thick like peanut butter before start, but then flowed smoothly when heated up. The jet expa nded three to four inches under the heat of sustained high speed. Joints were designed into the airplane to accommodate this expansion in flight. U nder normal temperatures on the ground, the jet leaked fuel profusely from these joints. Throughout our training, the jet's personality continued to grow as we learned more about the genius of its construction.

J-58 casing glows red from intense heat. Amazingly, moments after shutdown, the inside casing of the engine is cool to the touch.
A night static engine run under a full moon. The whole base will hear the roar of the J-58.

I N THRUST W E TRUST
Jet pilots have a personal relationship with their engines. In flight the engines were my legs. Engines keep pilots alive and bring them back from the fray. I was particularly interested i n the SR-71's engines because they could take m e out to the edge of where air breathing jets could operate, and sustain me there in the face of hostile threats.
Two Pratt & Whitney JT11 D-20 engines powered the SR-71. The mil itary designation for the power plant was simply J-58. Without its two J58s, the Blackbird would never have been the thoroughbred it was. These engines supplied me with my only weapon: speed. I loved no part of this aircraft more.
I had a chance to view an engine up close before ever flying the jet. It was a brute. Built in the early 1960s, it was fashioned before the arrival of the lightweight metals of later years. Portions of the casing were molded with platinum and gold. Though slightly heavy by today's standards, it was an engine with heart that was built to last. I felt an increasing sense of confidence and awe about this mysterious jet; I wanted to feel those J-58s up at altitude where they belonged.
I had an opportunity to see the J-58 on a test sta n d during night engine runs. Few m i litary bases invited base personnel to attend the viewing of engine runs. Beale was the exception to this practice, because the J-58 in full power provided a unique spectacle to the crowd. Although infrequent, this event always drew crowds. Word spread through the Wing and notices appeared on bulletin boards noting the scheduled date and time. No one was admitted without ear plugs. I witnessed several, and each time I enjoyed watching the uninitiated crowd push close to the safety line in antici pation of the engine start. As the engine was taken up to full power, I watched the spectators take several la rge steps backward in unison, with slight traces of fear and awe on their faces. The sound was beyond deafening. Standing fifty feet away, my entire body vibrated from the high decibel level. I remember feeling the buzzing vibration of my cheek bone as I raised a ca mera against it. One night after the run was over, a n engine specialist took m e over to the engine and put his hand on the inside of the casing, where moments before I had witnessed an intense flame. He was pointing out another engineering marvel of the SR-71; the ceramic lining in the afterburner section could withstand extreme temperatures then cool quickly.
Seeing the brute power displayed at the engine runs convinced me the airplane could sustain speeds of Mach 3 and beyond.

Full thrust on takeoff- a sight and sound long remembered, once head.
" ..charging off the runway in thisjet was always exciting.I'd usually scare myself once in every five takeoffs. Well, maybe twice in five . . . . "

CHAPTER Ill
Training Flights
THE "B"
After six months of classroom academics and simulator tra ining, it was time to be formally introduced to the Sled. For the pi lot, the first few tra i n ing sorties were flown in the SR-71 B. This model of the SR-71 was modified with a raised rear cockpit, giving a n instructor pilot enough forward visibility to safely fly and land the jet from the rear seat. The instructor pilot was a n experienced crew member checked out to teach and evaluate others.
Generally, flying in the back seat of the B-model was not a fun experience. During l a n d i ng, even with the raised seat, the high nose angle of the jet interfered with the I P's view of the runway. In a d dition, he had to operate the complex navigational system found only in the rear seat of the Blackbirds. Often, RSOs were seen giving I Ps intensive briefings on back seat operations before B-model flights. The duties i n back usually kept t h e I P s o busy that t h e student pilot got most o f the stick time. Due to their high experience levels, squadron pilots had little trouble with learning to land and take off i n the SR-71; the true va lue of the B-model was in teaching technique a n d proper position for aerial refueling. Aerial refuel was a necessity on every mission. If pilots couldn't learn this task, they wouldn't graduate from training. The simulator wasn't equipped with a visual display so refueling could only be properly taught in flight.
Despite the B-model's i m portant role, pilots preferred flying the A. Flying the B meant o n e of two things a n d neither one was pleasant. First, the pilot could receive a checkride; a sortie flown with an evaluator in the back grading the pilot's performance. Second, the pilot could be the guy giving the checkride, so he'd be sitting in the cramped rear cockpit trying to understand systems he rarely saw. I n either case, he flew without his RSO, with whom he was used to flying. Because there was only one B-model at Beale, after initial training we rarely had to fly it.
The B-model also served as the vehicle used by civilian a n d military dignitaries for orientation sorties. They came with a variety of reasons justifying a special flight.

The "B", the only Sled on the ramp attempting to disguise itself as something less than beautiful.

Often authority much higher than the squadron approved these sorties. The VIPs were familiarized with the cockpit in the simulator, got outfitted with space suits a n d helmets, and went out for the ride of their l i ves. B-model l Ps really earned their pay when they took untrained civilians up on these flights. Afterwards, the VIPs received honorary patches and returned to their work places to claim momentary fame. They would never understand the deep personal attachment squadron members felt for the SR-71 or that many crew members silently resented their presence. Crews who flew the Sled had paid their dues through six months of strenuous training before their first flight. Crews often felt VIPs gained a flight without paying the price.
PREFLIGHT
The second half of the SR-71 training program was more to our liking than the first half since it consisted primarily of flying. We accumulated experience by flying the jet on tra i n i n g routes around the United States. After finishing with the B-model, it was nice to start flying with my RSO. Those first few flights made us appreciate our simulator training. The day before a mission, Walt and I looked over the maps and discussed t h e route. The n ext morning w e received a weather briefing covering the mission. Since our flights covered large areas, we were well informed about the weather all across the country. Of primary concern was the weather in the refueling area and at primary divert bases. On long flights, we frequently returned to home base a n d found the weather completely different from the cond itions in which we had left.
Following the weather briefing, we went to the Physiological Support Division (PSD) building. All the space suits were stored, checked, and repaired there. The building was also where we ate and dressed before being driven out to the jet. For years, crews were told to eat a high protein, low residue meal before flight. As more was learned about nutrition, people realized a continued d i et of steak and eggs before flying wasn't healthy over a long period of time. Even so, the small dining facility at PSD still had steak and eggs as its main entree right u p to the end of the SR-71 program. Other menu items were available, and each crew member learned, some- times the hard way, what to eat and what not to eat before high altitude flights. As air pressure decreased at higher altitudes, gases inside our bodies expanded, so we stayed away from foods that produced intestinal gas. Like other phases of training, choosing what to eat was a learning process and everyone's body was different. I only ate a cheese omelet once. I thought I was going to give birth i n

the cockpit passing through 52,000 feet. I finally settled on peanut butter sandwiches; they seemed to work fine for me. We occasionally had visitors at PSD. One morning a small group of cadets joined Walt and me for our preflight meal. They ordered steak and eggs to keep with tradition. They looked bewildered as I hit the peanut butter and Walt dined on frosted flakes. During the preflight meal, the crew chief ca m e to our small dining room to brief us on any problems with the jet. We were also notified if our tankers were having any problems.
The tankers were KC-135Q aircraft that were able to refuel the SR-71 in flight. They carried the J P-7 necessary for the fuel-thi rsty Sled. If they weren't going to be there with the gas, we weren't going. About an hour and a half before takeoff time we went to the locker room to take a mini-physical and get dressed for flight. A technician took our temperature, blood pressure and insured we could clear our ears. If one of the crew was unable to fly, the mobi l e crew would fill i n and fly the mission. In all the flights I observed, I never saw this happen. Scheduled crews rarely missed their turn in the Sled.
SUIT U P
Although the SR was configured so crews could fly without the space suit, we wore them on every flight. This procedure created a positive check of the a i rcraft's double oxygen system, and provided additional protection to the crew in case of ejection. Physiological Support Division technicians handled everything perta ining to the space suit. They helped the crews into their suits, ran all the checks, and then assisted the crews as they stra pped into the cockpits. PSD personnel were experts on the effects of high altitude flight on the human body. Their personal assistance a n d expertise a l l eviated many potential problems in the cockpit.
The loss of cabin pressurization and nitrogen evolution in the body were two da ngers that faced high altitude flyers. The space suit a n d cockpit protected us from these hazards. The ambient a i r pressure at high altitude is so low that u npressurized liquid evaporates in seconds. Without protection, human body fluids would boil away. At high altitude, the cockpit was pressurized to 25,000 feet. This meant that although the a i rplane might be flying at 75,000 feet, the cockpit would have the a i r pressure of 25,000 feet of altitude. The space suit provided backup protection if ca bin pressurization failed a t high altitude. If pressurization were lost, the space suit fi lled with air to provide the required air pressure on the body.
Another process happens at the low ambient pressure: nitrogen evolves from solid tissues into gas bubbles, usually near body joints. Sometimes the gas bubbles

Wearing space suit and helmet, a crew member is well dressed where few go.

can slip into the blood stream. This process is ca l l ed the bends, a n d can be painful or even fatal. The space suit provided a closed environment in which crews could breathe 100% oxygen. Face plates were closed before takeoff, so by the time a n SR-71 crew had finished aerial refueling, they had prebreathed pure oxygen for enough time to reduce the nitrogen i n their bodies. Breathing pure oxygen a l l the time reduced the amount of nitrogen in the body, thereby reducing the opportunity for the bends to occur at high altitude.
Because we wore the suits for hours at a time, we were meticulous about putting them on. The space suit left us somewhat immobile, and we could no longer do things most people took for granted. With the suit on, we couldn't scratch our noses, brush hair out of our eyes, or adjust irritating folds in our undergarments. Through painful experience, I developed my own procedure for suiting up that prevented irritations from cropping up later. Underneath the space suit, we wore one hundred percent cotton longjohns, socks, a n d glove inserts. I made sure there were no creases in my longjohns, a n d I didn't wear the glove inserts. The SR stick was fat enough without having another layer of material between my hand and the stick.
After changing into the longjohns i n the locker room, I went to the bathroom for the last time and walked into the next room where the PSD technicians had my space suit and helmet waiting. It was something like a rubber sweat suit, but heavier. I stepped into the rubber feet of the suit and rolled the suit up my legs. I carefully shook any wrinkles out. I slid my arms into the suit, and my head through the neck ring. A giant zipper, running up the center of my back, sealed me in the suit. Boots went on n ext, followed by gloves which clicked into metal rings at the ends of the arm sleeves. Before I put on my helm et, I stopped and took a deep breath. I knew my helmet was going to be on a long time before coming off again. With the helmet on, my head a n d neck had less freedom of movement. The weight of the suit seemed to gather at the ring around my neck, causing fatigue in the neck and shoulder muscles. The helmet weighed almost 12 pounds, and after a flight it was the first thing I wanted to take off. On one flight, an ear flap inside my helmet was folded over incorrectly. After the first refueling, I felt as if I was flying with a metal spike pounded into my left ear. Three and a half hours later I removed a helmet that had transformed itself into a torture device on my head.
Dehydration adversely affected our performance i n the cockpit, so drinking fluids was an im portant task. To keep us going, PSD provi ded packaged food a n d drinks for consum ption during our missions. Drinks were provided in plastic water bottles, a n d food was sealed in containers resem bling toothpaste tubes. A long plastic straw extended from the end of the tube. It was similar to the sports bottles bicycle racers drink from during a race. By looking in the cockpit mirror, I could guide the long

With suit check completed, an RSO rests before getting on the van. Note plastic tube food strap in upper arm pocket. Velcro pads on knees secured thick checklists to legs.

Donning the helmet at PSD. It's got to fit right.

Pilot confers with mobile crew prior to strapping into cockpit.

straw to my mouth through a small opening, designed i n the helmet for this purpose. Most crews took at least a water bottle. I norma lly carried a bottle of half water, half Gatorade. I tried the food once and decided I could do without it.
The suit was designed for sitting and cou l d be comforta ble once everything was on and adjusted properly. Most problems with comfort were best handled through prevention, a n d this meant attention to detail during suiting up. Techniq ues, discovered or passed on by others, helped make life more bearable in the suit. I learned I didn't have to adjust the rubber face seal, located i n the helmet, as tight as the PSD folks insisted. I could also raise my face plate if needed, as long as I held my breath to prevent introducing nitrogen into my body. This was rarely done because of the potential danger of going unconscious from the lack of oxygen. The face plate was heated similar to rear window defoggers installed on many cars. This heat cleared the fog that formed from heavy breathing or the vapor left by a n unexpected sneeze.
Often PSD allowed various groups of people to tour the facility and observe our routine. Walt a n d I have suited up in front of generals, military wives, a n d fourth graders, just to name a few. We got used to it a n d didn't allow the visitors to keep us from insuring everything was fitting just right. Sometimes we'd let the kids touch the space suit and they especially enjoyed seeing it inflate. Most people wanted their picture taken with this enigma of fasteners and hoses sitting in front of them. Once I put my helmet on and sat i n the van that would take us to the a i rpla ne, another phase of concentration began. I thought about the departure, the weather, and the rendezvous with the tanker.
THE LAUNCH
About an hour before takeoff, we would climb into the jet. The mobile crew had a l ready set u p the cockpits for us, and PSD technicians helped us through everything from climbing out of the van, to strapping us into the cockpit. They carried our water bottles, checklists, and flight manuals. After we climbed into the cockpit, we sat in our seats with our arms extended so the PSD technicians could reach a l l the con nections in the cockpit. Two to three PSD folks expertly snapped, hooked, tugged, pushed and inserted parts of our suits to the life support systems. I often felt like the queen bee with devoted worker bees scurrying about me.
The cockpit environment was fam i liar; the sim had been a realistic representation of the a i rcraft. I expected the instrument panel to look worn from age, similar to other

Tube food a n d water bottles await the crew. Visitors were numerous and one never knew who would be watching the suit-up.

m i litary jets I had flown. Normal ly, pi lots did a walkaround insp ection before climbing in the cockpit, and brought with them sweat, oil, and fuel on their gloves. Dirty gloves contributed to the deterioration of the cockpit and instruments. In contrast, SR-71 crews went directly from t h e van to t h e cockpit, skipping the walk- around. Special ists and the mobile crews performed the preflight inspections long before the flight crews arrived. Soiled hands rarely touched the SR-71's 20-year-old gauges. Clean space suit gloves worked in the SR-71 cockpit. Because of this, it looked newer than it actually was.
As good as the sim was, it couldn't prepare us for the sounds and the feel of the engine start. Even with the space suit and helmet on, the roar of the Buick V-8s winding up filled the cockpit. When the TEB exploded into the engine burner section, the jet awakened with a resounding thump I felt in the cockpit. I knew right away I had a tiger on a leash. Once in idle, a subtle vibration hummed through the jet which I could feel come up through the metal plates on the floor of the cockpit and into my boots. When all the pre-taxi checks were completed, the canopies were closed. It was a heavy canopy with a tight seal around the cockpit. When ever it was shut around me, I felt entombed within a maze of dials, levers, and gauges.
While taxiing the a i rcraft, the p i lot was continuously aware of the thrust generated by the J-58s. He kept the throttles in idle, and applied brakes to avoid overrunning the mobile car. The Sled always drew a crowd during the taxi to the runway. Even at Beale where it was a common sight, people stopped and watched the airplane roll past.
The engine run, from inside the cockpit, was nothing like listening to the overwhelming roar of the engines when standing outside. Inside the jet, it was relatively quiet. A solid vibration accompanied the hum of the finely tuned engines. Watching engine temperature gauges fluctuate radically, I always had faith in the J-58s because the rea d i ngs quickly settled to within a few degrees of ideal.
When all the pre-takeoff checks were complete, maintenance personnel hammered the chocks out from under rock hard tires. The crew chief saluted with a thumbs up, a n d everyone moved away from the jet; it was now ready to take the runway. During the last few moments before takeoff, Walt and I said little to each other as we silently reviewed the takeoff and climb in our minds. On a sunny day I felt on top of the world knowing i n moments many would watch, and even more would hear, our takeoff. We would soon be airborne ga ining more va luable experience. In contrast, there were nights when I watched rain batter the windscreen and felt they didn't pay me enough to do this.

Amidst a host of PSD technicians, a pilot carefully lowers himself into his office.
Sled crew runs through pre-start checkl ist. Though separated by only a few feet, each man's personal experiences during the flight could be worlds apa rt.

The final closing of the canopy prior to taxi. On our first few flights, slight feelings of cla ustrophobia would occur when the heavy lid was sealed.
Sled taxies from hangar. I m m ediately, the Astro-lnertial Navigation System will begin tracking stars even in broad daylight

Number one for ta keoff, a Sled driver sits behind thick protective glass and prepares to take the ru nway.
Like royal attenda nts, numerous vehicles escorted the Blackbird each time it taxied.
Flashing lights from SR-71 alerts mobile car that pilot is ready.

Regardless of the weather or the mission, our concentration was high during takeoff. During this phase of flight, I felt the a i rcraft was competing with m e to see who was i n control. Normally, Walt and I flew with the intercom in the cold 1mic' position since continuously listening to the other guy breathing was bothersome. With the intercom button, or mic, in this position, we didn't hear the other guy u n l ess we keyed the intercom button. If hot mic were selected, we could ta l k to each other without keying the intercom button. During takeoff we used hot mic to facilitate intercockpit commun ication i n case of a n emergency. With hot mic on, the RSO could usually tell by the pilot's increased rate of breathing if a malfunction were occurring. We were extra vigilant during takeoffs in this a i rplane. I had a theory that airplanes that crashed during landing were normally the result of pilot error. Airplanes that crashed on takeoff were usually caused by a sick airplane. I wanted to be ready if our airplane were going to be sick that day.
As the RSO counted down the seconds, I released brakes precisely for an on-time takeoff. Some pilots released brakes several seconds prior, to have the afterburners light right at takeoff time. This ca m e under the heading of "style points" between the squadron pilots and mattered little to anyone else. Raising the th rottles slightly a n d moving them past the m i litary power detent, the afterburners ignited, then stabilized (hopefully). At this point the pilot pushed the throttles as far forward as possi ble, entering the maximum afterburner range. There was no doubt if the burners were engaged or not. When the afterburners lit, the acceleration was i m mediate. Both afterburners needed to light off within two to three seconds of each other or the aircraft would veer sideways from the power differential, and quickly e n d up i n the grass. Normally, burner lights were not simultaneous, a n d I was rocked to one side of the cockpit, then the other, as each afterburner kicked in. With this kind of power, the takeoff roll was both short and fast. I n less than 5000 feet we were airborne at 200 knots.
I m m ediately after ta keoff, I reached for the landing gear handle. With the wheels extended, we cou l dn't go faster than 300 knots without exceeding the gea r l i m iting speed. I promptly raised the gear to prevent this from ha ppening. As the wheels were up a n d I passed the departure end of the runway, I a l ready h a d between 350 a n d 400 knots. I gently p u l l e d the nose skyward climbing i n full afterburner. Because of the length of the forwa rd fuselage, too abrupt a pull on the stick could result in overshooting the desired pitch angle. When this happened the momentum of the rising nose was difficult to arrest. While those on the ground were impressed with a n extra steep climb, the pilot in the cockpit was even more astonished and was pushing forwa rd on the stick with both hands. With a little practice, climb tech n i ques were polished. Three m i n utes after I released brakes for ta keoff, I was leveling the jet at

There was no doubt by the crew when the burners lit. It was like a swift kick in the pants.
Passing in a blur of furious sound, the pilot quickly retracts the wheels before starting climb after takeoff

25,000 feet. Normally, m i litary jets performed full afterburner climb profi les only at airshows. We did them daily.
Once leveled off and out of afterburner, the jet flew much like a heavy fighter at subsonic speeds . The SR-71 normally launched with half a fuel load. A full load would have made it more difficult to abort the takeoff in case of emergency. Our first priority after ta keoff, was to rendezvous with a tanker a i rcraft that would fi l l us with fuel for the route a h ea d .
AERIAL REFU ELING
We normally refueled from our own fleet of KC-135Q tan kers. These Q-models had been fitted with special ranging equipment that helped facilitate the rendezvous with the SR-71. My RSO and the tanker navigator electronically worked in concert to help bring two planes togeth er at one preplanned spot i n the vast expanse of sky. The tankers were always a welcome sight because of the Sled's a ppetite for fuel. It was imperative to get the gas. Routes were planned with little margin for error concerning fuel. If we were progra m m ed for a full off-load of fuel from the tanker, and normally we were, we needed to get every drop.
I'd learned a i r-to-a ir refu eling in two other airplanes, the A-7 and the A-10. Refueling the SR was similar procedurally, but it was difficult and more demanding. First, the forward visibility in the Sled was worse than what most pilots were used to. The triangular shape of the forward window did not compare to the bubble canopy of a fighter. Second, wearing a space helmet caused bothersome reflections, and limited my peripheral vision. Third, the SR-71 fuselage was long and the refueling receptacle was well aft of the cockpit. Because of this, we had to fly the jet slightly underneath the KC-135. This position was uncomfortable, and it didn't allow me to see much in the way of outside references. Using outside references meant fi nding things to look at on the tanker that told me I was in position. For example, in the A-10, the refueling receptacle was i n the nose, so it was easy to watch the red, yellow, and green lines of the boom move in and out of its sleeve to tell us if we were in position. This system spoiled me because I didn't have to use the two rows of director lights on the underside of the tanker.
The d i rector lights blinked signals to the receiver pilot, i n d icating his position relative to the tanker. One row of lights indicated vertical position, the other fore a n d aft. The lights worked automatically once the refueling boom was inserted into our aircraft. I had never used these lights before, but now flying further under a tanker than was comforta ble, I depended on them. Just getti ng to the proper position so the tanker's boom operator could plug into my jet, was sometimes a chore. Initial attempts

Sled pilot eases the jet forward for crucial contact. When the Blackbird is in position, the tanker's boom operator will place the refueling nozzle into the SR-71's receptacle.

at refueling in the B-model were humbl ing. I soon learned if I lowered my seat, I could see everything much better. Even when it went smoothly, refueling in flight was extremely fatiguing for the pilot.
I was accustomed to being on the boom for just a few minutes to top off i n fighters. In contrast, SR-71 refuelings took fifteen minutes or more which could seem like an eternity. This time was needed because the airplane took on an incredible amount of fuel. During a normal refueling w e usually received over 11,000 gallons. This changed our gross weight by 70,000 pounds and caused a corresponding change i n the center of gravity of our a i rcraft.
At the slow 300 knot range in which we were flying to refuel, the feel of the jet became sluggish as the SR filled with fuel. At these gross weights and slower a i rspeeds, the SR-71 became thrust limited during the last few minutes of refu eling. In mil itary power, we would start to fall off the boom. A disconnect was highly undesirable since the jet was less responsive now a n d to reconnect was more difficult. It also meant wasting time on the refueling track and this could affect our overa l l mission timing. The solution was to light one afterburner with careful finesse. The fine art of pulling the throttle ever so slightly up and just into the minimum burner range was handed down from one generation of SR pilots to the next. The SR is the only a i rplane I know that required the use of afterburner to stay on the boom.
Using one afterburner caused another problem: asymmetrical thrust. Some pilots used a little rudder to handle the yaw. Others left the rudders alone, flew sideways, a n d looked out the front quarter panel to see forwa rd. The quarter panels were located on either side of the windshield. Only the left quarter panel was wired for defogging so we always lit the left burner to yaw right so we could use this feature if needed.
The most exciting moments on the refueling track were normally reserved for those fi nal few m i nutes in afterburner on the boom with a very heavy jet. Once I selected min AB and the TEB dumped in, there was a pause, then the airplane lunged sideways and started to charge up the boom. With the left burner sta bilized in min AB, I control led our fore and aft position with right throttle. With this method, the pilot controlled the a i rplane by leading the power inputs. It was l i ke flying a freight train because the a i rplane's i n ertia caused a lag between throttle input a n d aircraft response. It wasn't uncommon at this point for the director lights to resemble a pinball game, flashing from end to end as the fore and aft movements of the jet caused continual changes in relative position. I had to ignore the d irector lights, grit my teeth, and ca l l on every bit of my experience to get to the end of the refueling track with a full tank.

Somewhere igh a bove the wastelands of Nevada, contact is made, fuel is transferred, and a smile of satisfaction appears inside a space hel met.

Sled driver's view of the approaching KC-135Q. Director lights are visible on underside of tanker forward of wings. Dark rectangle near aft of tanker is boomer's window. Yellow line on tanker helped receivers line up with tanker, especially in bad weather.
Aerial refuleing from the tanker boom operator's vantage point. The small ANS window on the Blackbird is visible just behind the rear cockpit.

Refueling was the most physically intense part of the entire flight for me. This was in di rect contrast to my RSO's workload during refueling. I can remember hanging on the boom with a death grip on the stick, sweat in my eyes, turbulent weather, and o n e engine in burner. I asked my backseater how many minutes w e h a d left o n the track, hoping it would soon be over. Walt said he'd check in a moment as he was enjoying some butterscotch pudding tube food. I wanted to kill, but reserved myself for the four and a half excruciating minutes I had left on the boom. There really wasn't much Walt could do to help me on the boom except give me a countdown of fuel and time to completion. It was my baby, but Walt did help with encouraging words at times and mostly sat anxiously amidst the grunts and groans coming from the front seat.
Darkness, clouds, turbulence, a tanker without a functioning autopilot or a new boomer all contributed to making life difficult for Sled pilots in need of gas. Refueling was one of the phases of flight where everyone who flew the airplane had one or more humbling stories to tell. Some days the airplane just drove right in and hooked up as easy as getting a drink at a drive-in. That so many refuelings were accomplished safely in the airplane was a tribute to the skills and experience level of the SR pilots who flew them. Even in the best of conditions, aerial refueling was always an intricate ballet of men a n d machines with little margin for error. Some days everything went right on the boom and I was an ace. Other days I thought someone had dumped a box of snakes in the cockpit and nothing went right. This vital procedure occurred two to four times each mission and made for many a sore arm at the end of the day.
THE ACCEL
After we got our fuel load, I eased the jet back, swung clear of the tanker and lit the burners. I felt myself pushed back into the seat as the afterburners lit off and the airplane accelerated forward. This was a comfortable feeling because we were heavy with fuel at dangerously slow a i rspeeds for the Sled. The tanker crews always enjoyed watching the SR accelerate past them. The SR was a drooling tiger off the leash, streaming fuel from full tanks, in full burner, blazing toward the unknown.
In fu l l afterburners, we went into what we termed the dipsy maneuver. The d i psy maneuver was a gentle climb to just under 35,000 feet, followed by a gentl e p u s h on t h e stick, nosing the a i rcraft down h i l l to help i t accelerate through Mach 1. We didn't want to bottom out below 30,000 feet because regulations didn't a l low sup ersonic flight below this a ltitude in the continental U n ited States. The pilot accomplished all this while the RSO obtained a clearance

Streaked with fuel, a satisfied Blackbird leaves the refueling track 65,000 pounds heavier than when it arrived.
An SR-71 clears a tanker and goes to full afterburners to build precious speed.

from Air Traffic Control, first to climb, and then to descend. Once the maneuver was started, it was hard to knock off. During traini ng, the smoothness of our climb was in the hands of the FAA. We were another subsonic target on the a i r traffic controller's screen, flying at altitudes used by everyday commercial traffic. Sometimes a i r traffic controllers would not clear us to climb because of conflicting airline traffic. This was disconcerting as we were burning about one ton of fuel per minute in full power.
Once the jet was stable in a shallow dive, I engaged only partial autopilot controls because this maneuver was usually best when hand flown. We needed to push the airplane through the sound barrier before starting the climb. Because of its size and weight, the a i rplane always seemed to hesitate going faster than the speed of sound. It went supersonic with a heavy groan. Once there, it wanted to stay there. I began the climb at 450 knots a n d we were soon at Mach 1.1 with the airplane accelerating quickly. We reached Mach 2 swiftly, and the altimeter effortlessly wound up through 40,000 feet. This acceleration a n d climb required intense concentration because I had to check a multitude of thi ngs. My backseater helped by ca lling out checkpoints i n the climb. Walt was also busy updating the navigation system a n d checking sensors because he was about to begin the meat of his mission.
As we passed through 50,000 feet, the sky began to turn a darker blue. I could spend little time enjoying the view though, as I was busy checking off speeds, altitud es, a n d temperatures. One of the most im portant jobs the pilot had was the monitoring of spike and door positions.
Large cones in the intakes, ca l l ed spi kes, controlled a i rflow into the SR-711S engines. The spikes, under computerized control, worked with the air bypass doors to help the engine operate at supersonic speeds. Aircraft travelling at supersonic speeds create a shock wave. Engines can't digest shock waves; if they try, flameouts occur. The inlet must slow a i r to subsonic speeds before it passes through the engine. The door vents, located on the engine housing just aft of the spikes, helped regulate the a i rflow i n this process. The pilot manually operated the doors.
At higher Mach num bers, the spikes moved aft automatically as the airspeed increased. If needed, the pilot could take control of the spikes manually. The spikes controlled the shock waves at the threshold of the engine intakes. If a shock wave started moving back into the engine, the spike would push forward rapidly to relieve the aerodynamic disturbance. Whenever this occurred, the jet yawed violently with enough force to slam the pilot's head against the side of the cockpit. This put the jet in danger of going out of control, cost precious fuel to regain lost speed, and scared the hell out of both crew members. This aerodynamic disturbance was referred to as an unstart.

THE DEEP BLUE
It felt good to level off at altitudes where I knew I owned the sky. If a l l was working well, I could relax for a moment as I retarded the th rottles slightly from the maximum burner position, to mainta i n the progra mmed Mach. Relax is a relative term; triple- sonic flight thirteen m i les high requi res unrelenting attention. After the stress of the takeoff, the refu eli ng, and the acceleration, I always felt a sense of ca lm, once level i n the steel blue sky.
The Blackbird loved being u p high. She ca m e into her own up there a n d never ceased to impress me with what she could do. Because of the design of the inlet system, the faster the jet flew the more efficient it became. Better range was atta i n ed by increasing the speed. This was the opposite of other jets I had flown, where fuel flow increased at higher speeds. Once the SR-71 was at cruise speed, I continually adjusted the throttles back to keep the speed down. The jet cruised i n afterburner, but rarely was maximum power needed.
Our training flights took us over much of the western half of the U nited States. A typical sortie out of Bea l e included a rendezvous with a tanker over Nevada, accelerating to Mach 3 across Wyoming a n d leveling above 75,000 feet over Montana. We'd turn right approaching South Dakota, roll out in Colorado, a n d zip south to New Mexico. There we'd begin another right turn that would carry us through Arizona and straight to southern California, then out over the ocean and fi nally up to the Seattle area where we'd prepare to descend back to M a rysvi lle, California. This was a nice tour i n two and a half hours.
To more fully understa nd the concept of Mach 3, imagine the speed of a bullet coming from a high powered h u nting rifle. It i s travelling at 3 100 feet per second as it leaves the muzzle. The Sled would cruise easily at 3200 feet per second, with power to spare. There was a lot we cou l d n't do in the a i rpla n e, but we were the fastest guys on the block a n d frequently mentioned this fact to fellow aviators. I'll a lways remember a certa i n ra dio exchange that occurred o n e day as Walt a n d I were screaming across southern California 13 miles high. We were monitoring various ra dio transmissions from other a i rcraft as we entered Los Angeles Center's a i rspace. Though they d i d n't really control us, they d i d monitor our movement across their scope. I heard a Cessna ask for a readout of its groun dspeed. "90 knots," Center replied. Mom ents later a Twin Beech required the same. "120 knots," Center answered. We weren't the

only one proud of our speed that day as a l most instantly a n F-18 smugly transmitted, "Ah, Center, Dusty 52 requests groundspeed readout." There was a slight pause. "525 knots on the ground, Dusty." Another silent pause. As I was thinking to myself how ripe a situation this was, I heard the fa miliar click of a ra dio transmission coming from my back-seater. It was at that precise moment I realized Walt and I had become a real crew, for we were both thinking in unison. "Center, Aspen 20, you got a ground speed readout for us?" There was a longer than normal pause. "Aspen, I show one thousand seven hund red and forty-two knots." No further inquiries were heard on that frequency.
When we flew at low altitudes and skimmed by clouds, we sensed our speed by how fast the clouds swept by. When we were high above the earth, we had little physical cues that made us feel we were flying at great speed. I got a real scare one time high over Nevada, and it vividly showed me what our speed looked like. About the only traffic we were told we might see above 70,000 feet, was an errant weather balloon. Although they were a rare sight, they were a hazard to a i rcraft. I never thought I would see one, but I did. First it appeared as a speck on my windscreen, then it instantly beca m e a giant ball off to my right. There was no time to make a n evasive turn or even think about turning. I could only watch in terror as it whisked passed us. I quickly looked in the mirror and saw the balloon flutter wildly from the passage of our shockwave. I n a n instant, it beca m e a speck again. The entire episode took only a few seconds. By the time I informed Walt what I had just seen, it was long gone. That was the fastest I've ever seen anything move by me. I preferred to keep a sense of our speed by simply watching my distance measuring equipm ent (DME) click off a mile every two seconds.
Altitude could be deceiving too. Once as we made a run across Colorado, I noticed a range of snow-ca pped mountains that I thought extended from Pikes Peak i n Colorado, to the border of New Mexico. I was used to flying military jets between 30,000 and 40,000 feet, and my eyes were calibrated to that scale. Upon close inspection, I realized I was looking at the segment of Rocky Mountains extending from Colorado to the Ca nadian border. I was ga ining an entirely new perspective on the world below.
Once at altitude, the view from the cockpit was spectacular but normally went unap preciated because cockpit duties monopolized my attention. As my flight time in the jet increased, I occasionally took a few seconds to look outside. Even though these moments were brief, my memory of them was lasting.

SYST E M S
Though the RSO was responsible for navigation, I l i ked to keep u p with our position throughout the flight. This was difficult to do by simply looking out the window. Computerized summaries of detailed information about our flight were provided but I wanted a concise, easy to read depiction of my route of flight and its geography. Knowing precise latitude and longitude wasn't as i m portant to me as knowing whether to turn right or left. Besides, I had Walt, an encyclopedia of information, to tell me details if I needed them.
After attempting different methods of cockpit housekeeping, I ca m e up with a system I l i ked. I used a n old high school geography book to trace a n outline of the western U nited States and the state boundaries. Next I drew an a pproximation of our route, marking points where we would turn, refuel, and begin descents. This handmade map fit into a four by six-inch plastic protector that I put on my knee board. With my system, I could glance down, see where I was heading, and when the next turn would be.
Although this system was simple, it was va luable because it kept me oriented at high altitude and helped me make quick assessments of where to land if we had an emergency. When we started flying operational missions, I continued with my atlas­ on-a-knee system. There was no room for a wrong turn then, and my knee drawings were a va luable tool for instant orientation.
Fortunately, my backseater operated a more sophisticated navigation system. The Astro-ln ertial Navigation System (ANS) was a phenomenal system and we considered it our third crew member. Much like R2D2 in the Star Wars movies, it was placed into a special compartment behind the RSO's cockpit. It had its own cooling system that was kept within a few degrees of its prescribed temperature. The ANS could track up to 300 stars in broad daylight through its glass porthole atop the fuselage. It started functioning as soon as the a i rcraft left the hangar. It was a critical part of the mission; if it coughed, we turned around. Tapes describing our route of flight were fed into the ANS before takeoff, and once a i rborne, it interfaced with the autopilot system. The RSO spent a substantial time monitoring, checking, updating, a n d sometimes, just plain figuring out the ANS. It was a remarkable system and didn't fail often. I thought the ANS should have had its own little space Suit.
Most people were under the impression the autopilot did all the flying, and the pilot sat there and monitored the gauges. The pilot did monitor the gauges all the time but he also controlled the airspeed and altitude. He regulated the Mach with the throttles

throughout the flight a n d adjusted altitude by delicately moving a thu mb-wheel control on the autopilot. The autopilot helped by controlling the ground track and told the jet when to turn along the route. Turns were made without the pilot making inputs on the stick.
We normally cruised i n a very slight climb throughout the flight. As the jet became lighter due to fuel consum ption, altitude was increased gently to optimize the range. As the a i r became thin ner, less fuel was required to achieve the sa m e thrust. Outside air temperature had the greatest influence on fuel consumption. Even though our forecasters were good, upper level tem peratures were difficult to predict accurately. Warmer than standard tem peratures at high altitude hurt performance by increasing fuel consumption. Colder than normal temperatures were a blessing and helped us (make' gas en route. We could tell from cockpit indications, if the outside air temperature was different from what had been forecast. We used this information to seek the optimum altitude with the best temperature.
In addition to monitoring fuel quantity, mainta ining the proper Mach, a n d adjusting altitude, I h a d several other cockpit chores: adjusting the center of gravity (CG), and closely monitoring engine temperatures and the positions of the spikes a n d the a i r bypass doors. The a i rcraft's center of gravity changed as fuel was burned. I continually monitored a n d adjusted it. To maintain an optimum CG, I transferred fuel forward or aft by operating fuel boost pumps. This not only provided a more stable airplane, but also reduced the drag.
By reducing drag, we saved fuel. Another way we reduced drag was by insuring the control surfaces were properly tri m med. Following the refueling, the rudders were sometimes out of alignment because they had been trimmed to offset flying with one burner lit. I checked rudder alignment by looking through a small periscope located at the top of the cockpit. I pushed the periscope into the slipstream a n d could see the rear o f the a i rcraft. If I could see the rudd ers offset, I trimmed them flush with the vertical ta il.
Engine tem peratures were important to watch. Sometim es, they wandered out of the safe band, and I adjusted them back into the desired range with a lever in the cockpit. Spikes and air bypass door gauges warranted a million looks per flight, as mentioned earlier. If a spike were as little as an inch off, the inlet was operating inefficiently costing va luable fuel, a n d the likelihood of an unstart increased.
At the low altitudes, the jet required a strong arm to muscle the stick around. At high altitude, the pilot flew the a i rplane from the neck up. The pilot still controlled altitude a n d a i rspeed, but control inputs could not be abrupt. Flying faster than a speeding bullet made any control i n put noticea ble. We could hand-fly the jet above

Mach 3 if the autopilot failed, as long as the stability augmentation systems were functioning. This required a concentrated effort and happened to us one day over Europe. I ended up hand-flying the a i rplane through the second half of the mission a n d I was able to hold it steady enough for the sensors to function effectively.
By the time I came to the program, the SR-71 had been fitted with a triple computer system that helped manage flight systems. This system was a va luable addition to the a i rcraft, but the computers did not fly the jet for me. Technicians told us the computers were highly reliable a n d the possibility of a l l three failing simultaneously was zero. I think the guys who issued that statement were bri lliant engineers, but they never flew jets. Several months later, a crew was returning from Central America at high Mach a n d nearly had to eject. All three computers, amazingly enough, had failed simultaneously, and the aircraft was almost uncontrollable. It pitched u p and the pilot was barely able to level it. It pitched u p a second time, a n d he m i raculously wrestled the jet to a semblance of controlled flight. He informed his RSO that if there were one more oscillation, he wouldn't be able to control it, and they would have to eject. At that moment, a l l three computers reset, and they were able to continue flying and landed safely. The RSO had a serious discussion with the computer specialists after that sortie.
THE S U IT
Flying i n the space suit wasn't as uncomfortable as it looked. They were efficient i n design and superbly mainta ined by PSD, so w e rarely had any problems with them. A main valve controlled the amount of airflow to the suit. It was located on the front of the space suit and controlled the amount of air circulating through the space suit. Running a i rflow up to high was normally not done, because it inflated the suit slightly, taking up room in the cockpit. The suit torso contained flotation devices that increased the bulk of the space suit. After long hours of flight, I would increase the airflow to feel cool air gush across my body. Two separate rh eostats controlled suit tem perature, and heat to the face plate. The Suit Heat rheostat controlled the temperature of the air circulating in the suit. The Face Heat rheostat was used when the face plate on the helmet fogged up. It increased the flow of warm air across the face plate causing vapor to dissipate.
I had the added problem of wearing glasses. The stems were shortened, and the glasses were fixed to a small T-bar at the top of the helmet, held securely with Velcro. Occasionally the lenses fogged up, a n d I a l leviated this problem by increasing airflow through the suit. Other than this, the glasses were never a problem. I never realized

how often I adjusted my glasses or scratched my face until I put on a space helmet. On the first few flights, I tried to scratch my face only to find my fingers interrupted by a face plate I had forgotten was there.
The helmet had an adjustable dark visor to protect from the bright sun at high altitude. Using the dark visor was not always helpful. Bright sunlight caused glare on the gauges and provided a large contrast to the shade in the cockpit. Pulling the dark visor down made reading instrum ents nearly impossible under these conditions. The solution was lowering the sunshades to block the sun and wearing the visor in the up position. The sunshades were similar to the sun visors found in automobiles. They could be moved in a variety of positions a n d even expanded to cover a greater area. As the jet proceeded through different phases of flight, the pilot continually repositioned the shades to block glare so he could clearly see important instruments. Refueling on a sunny day was one time where the dark visor was used.
The only serious problem I encountered with my space suit was when I lost suit heat in the middle of a sortie. The cockpit did not have vents to provide warm air like other airplanes. With the suit heat inoperative, the overall cold wasn't too bad on my body, because the space suit offered some protection. But my hands began to feel the numbing cold and I was starting to lose the feel of my fingers through the gloves. I remembered from tra i ning that the windows in the cockpit heated to about 550 degrees Fahrenheit when cruising at Mach 3. We were going faster than that so I knew the windows must be warm even on the inside. I placed my gloved hand against the window. In seconds, my hand was not just warm, it was hot. With care, I was able to complete the mission by intermittently wa rming my hands by gently placing them against the windows.
N IGHT
Part of our training included learning to fly the SR-71 at night. Night flying in any aircraft was challenging, but it was even more difficult in the Sled. The airplane's cockpit lighting had changed very little since it was first built, and the old-style system did not uniformly illum inate all the gauges. If the lights were turned u p so the dimmest gauge could be easily read, the cockpit flooded with light that bounced off the inward canting of the side windows and the sharp-angled front windscreen. The windscreens became mirrors reflecting the cockpit scene back to me, and obstructed my ability to see out. By turning the lights down low, I reduced these distracting

reflections and could more easily see i m portant things like other a i rcraft, or the runway. I had to make a trad e-off between being able to read all the instrum ents, or being able to see outside. During aerial refueling, I spent most of the time staring at the tanker's di rector lights a n d didn't need to study cockpit gauges, so the lights remained dimmed. Once we started the acceleration maneuver, I turned the cockpit lighting up. We weren't as concerned with seeing and avoiding other traffic at the altitudes we frequented. Above 50,000 feet, the sky was ours. My cockpit beca m e a womb of brightly lit instrum ents climbing into the black sky. With no outside references, I sometimes felt as if we were in the simulator instead of the jet.
Whether the moon was full or i n its last quarter, it dominated the sky. High above the haze and pollution of the earth's atmosphere, its light was so intense, I had to squint when I looked outside. I could see more of the moon's surface and its craters and textures than I had ever seen from the ground. Sometimes I had to use the sunshades to block the moonlight's glare from disrupting my view of the gauges.
I described ea rlier how fuel seeped through the minute seams outlining the panels composing the surface of the jet. Although little leakage occurred when the skin heated up and sealed the seams, some fuel remained on the surface. Through the periscope, I could see the moon's incandescent image shimmering in the residual fuel. The top of the aircraft glowed in the eerie light, like a wet street after a downpour. Although this was beautiful, I was more intrigued by the sights in a dark sky on a certain night when there was no moon at all.
It happened during the early hours ofthe morning, while Walt and I were over the Pacific, having passed t h e northwest coast o f the United States. We were heading, i n a round about way, back towa rd Beale. Our jet was running smoothly a n d we would soon be home resting our weary bodies after another training mission. With no moon above and no lights from the ocean below, the night was darker than usual. Out of habit, I peered outside through the glare of the cockpit lighting and noticed the faint glimmer of stars. To fully see the night sky, I would have to turn down important cockpit lights to reduce the glare on my windows. I was reluctant to turn my lighting too far down because I didn't want to be in an awkward position if something were t o go wrong with t h e airplane.
Desire to see the stars overruled my caution a n d I began to turn the lights down one at a time, carefully leaving a few critical gauges well lit. My eyes adjusted to the lower level of light and I gradually saw more stars through the remaining reflections on the windows. On impulse, I flicked the remaining lights off, then quickly back on. An

image flashed through my head of a teenager driving down a dark country road who flicks his head lights off for a seconds is enveloped by darkness, then flicks them back on. I chuckled at the comparison. The jet reassured me as it purred rock solid, so I turned the remaining lights off. I was i m mediately startled; were those the lights of another a i rcraft out to my right? My disbelief soon turned to awe as I realized in the calm darkness, that what I saw was not the bright lights of any man-made vehicle, but the brilliant expanse of the Milky Way Unlike the view from the ground, at 78,000 feet there were few spaces unlit in the sky. Shooting stars appeared and faded every few seconds. The spectacle was mesmerizing, but I knew I must bring my eyes back to the flight instruments. When I did, I discovered my entire cockpit bathed in starlight bright enough to illuminate all the gauges. I needed no cockpit lighting a n d revelled in the ghostly sight of my space suit dimly lit in the starlight.
Feeling I was stealing precious moments from a jealous jet, I glanced once more outside. With all those clusters of light, it seemed as if there should be sounds. My experience told me sounds went with great displays of light. City lights coexist with the sounds of traffic, and rockets firing and exploding coincide with the display of fireworks. Even a planeta rium has music and na rration accompanying the sequence of stars. In contrast, this sight was a symphony of silence. I became very aware ofthe sound of my own breathing. For a brief moment I was more than a n Air Force pilot on a training flight. Our incredible speed beca m e insignificant as the jet seemed to stand still before the heavens. I was part of something larger a n d more profound. I felt a joy to be at this place, at this time, looking at these stars.
Walt's voice crackled over the intercom, jolting me back to the tasks at hand with a reminder of our upcoming descent. I turned the lights back up and left that peaceful yet powerful scene. As we started down, I d i dn't know that this was the last time I would experience this concert of stars. Although I flew on dark a n d moonless nights again, they were never routine enough to turn off the lights and cruise by starlight.
RECOVERY
We descended from high altitude between two to four times during one flight, usually to meet a tanker holding at 20,000 to 25,000 feet. The descent had to begin by the preplanned point in the flight or else we risked overrunning the tanker at the rend ezvous point. Since the descent took a couple hundred miles to complete correcting for a late start down was difficult. Most crews had zipped past the tanker

"We did Nebraska in 7Y2 min utes today. I think that's the best way to do Nebraska. "
SLED P I LOT

at one time or another, helpless at slowing the aircraft any quicker. After taking on fuel, we would climb back to altitude to continue our mission or cruise back to the base.
I pulled the throttles out of afterburner to military power as soon as we reached the planned descent point. Once the afterburners were disengaged there was no choice; the jet was definitely coming down. A steep angle of descent was required to keep an adequate amount of air flowing through the engines. Bringing the jet down from altitude was not as hectic as taking it up, but it required every bit as much attention. The SR didn't slow down easily. No drag devices like flaps, spoilers or air brakes existed, so it cut through the air like a sharp knife. A senior crew told us one technique (flying this airplane seemed like just one big collection of techniques) for slowing the plane down: fully open one air bypass door and spill engine air overboard. This caused drag a n d helped slow the a i rcraft down. I tried it and it worked. With the dumping of air from the bypass doors and the forward movements of the spikes as the airspeed slowed, the jet made noises that weren't heard any other time. I felt as if she hated coming down.
Once subsonic, the jet was again like a big fighter, with its inlet system operating much like that of other airplanes. Normally, training flights were planned to give the pilot extra fuel to practice some landing patterns. Pilots appreciated this because they knew they wouldn't get much landing practice during real missions. RSOs weren't too thrilled with numerous patterns though. There wasn't much for them to do except notice just how hot their space suits became at low altitude.
The jet was stable on final approach, but required the pilot to plan a h ea d . At close to 200 knots approach speed, there was not much opportunity to make last m i nute corrections. After cruising in clear skies at altitude for most of the flight, coming back to bad weather for landing could be a jolt to a fatigued body. In the landing pattern, the jet was surprisingly agile for its size, and when it was low on fuel, it responded rapidly to changes in power settings, even at low airspeed. We never pressed the fuel, which meant we never tried to squeeze in one more pattern if we had a little <20>xtra gas. The airplane guzzled gas at an alarming rate at low altitudes.
Our sim instructors warned us about the opening shock of the large drag chute on landing, a n d it was every bit as strong as advertised. The drag chute was nice to have, because it shortened our landing roll. It was especially handy when we were forced to land at an emergency airfield along our route. Not a l l a i rports built their runways as long as those in Strategic Air Command. After landing I looked through the periscope to determine if the chute were sti l l inflated before jettisoning it. If the chute had deflated before I released it, the buckle connecting the chute to the a i rplane might hit the ta il.

Passing by Mount Lassen<65> the rigors of the mission are over and the crew heads south for landing at Beale.

Once we taxied off the runway, the mobile car guided our path back to the hangar. It was only then I began to feel the drain of the past several hours. Popping off the gloves and loosening the helmet felt great. My body, which had been on a d renaline most of the past several hours, now began to feel stiff a n d fatigued. It was a good fatigue; exhaustion that was the result of meaningful effort.
Taxiing into the shutdown area, we were always greeted by a large number of maintenance people, technical representatives, mobile crew, PSD, and any visitors who were being escorted on the ramp. Normally following a flight, we were hungry a n d couldn't wait to get out of our space suits. No matter what our mission, we always felt relief, joy a n d satisfaction each time we returned. Each mission flown increased the bond of trust a n d respect between pilot a n d RSO. In the Blackbird, I experienced a greater sense of accomplishment at the end of a good flight, than i n any other jet I had flown.
It was hard to sleep after a long mission, even though I was exhausted. It took a while for the adrenaline to subside. Often I would stay u p late into the night feeling my inner ears pop and squeak from the effects of long hours of breathing one hundred percent oxygen.
As we progressed through our tra i n ing flights, I began to feel more comforta ble i n the jet. Most o f us would never be completely comforta ble in the a i rplane because we d i dn't get to fly it more than one or two times a week. She would ta l k to me in flight, and the more I got to know her, the more she'd tell me. She had many secrets, and it seemed as if she enjoyed sharing them with me in her own time.

She was a n armful in the landing pattern, but pilots rarely rushed to put her on the ground.
". . . Some mornings I'd see more of the United States in three hours than most folks would see in a lifetime. . . . "
SLED RSO

Large drag chute was deployed on every landing, greatly reducing the landing distance.

Sled taxis in after flight. Open drag chute doors can be seen on top rear of jet.
An RSO sta rts to shed the suit after a long flght.
The traditional handshake after each flight. Many tight bonds of friendship formed from years of flying together.

CHAPTER IV
Going Operational
There came a time, finally when tra ining was completed and we were ready to fly our first operational sortie. The SR-71 flew operational sorties from Beale, Okinawa i n the Pacific, and England. From these three locations, the SR could cover the globe. Normally the squadron had 10 to 15 mission-ready crews. This wasn't many pilots considering the scope of the mission. Squadron life after training meant spending most of a calendar year overseas. The crews accepted this hardship, a n d the frequency of leaving home for a month or two at a time was a burden for the families left behind. Crews couldn't talk about work and this increased their loved ones' anxiety. Sometimes, friends a n d family cou l d figure out where we were flying by watching the evening news.
Okinawa was the first stop for a new crew. Okinawa was a good place to start because the sorties were less comp lex, and the weather was generally better than i n Europe. When t h e SR-71 first c a m e to t h e island early i n the program, it did not go unnoticed by the locals. Intrigued by the ominous shape of the a i rcraft, Okinawans began calling it "Habu." The Habu was a poisonous black viper indigenous to the island, and residents felt the jet resembled the deadly snake. Squadron members adopted the nickname, and it stuck. A shoulder patch worn by SR-7 1 crew members simply read HABU. It had two stars at the top signifying the two men in the airplane. Crew members received their HABU patches only after they flew their first operational sortie.
When Walt and I returned from our first real mission in Okinawa, our mobile crew sadly informed us that the squadron supply of patches had run out, and we would have to receive ours later. As we tried to und ersta n d how this could happen, they reached into the leg pockets of our space suits and pulled out several HABU patches amidst much laughter. They told us how they had slipped them in our suits the day before, figuring we'd like to wear patches that had accompanied us on our first mission. It was a nice gesture.
After a full tour in Okinawa and a return to Beale, crews were prepared for sorties in the European theater. Crews flew simulator missions that depicted typical European routes. These routes were more complex and challenging because there were so many borders and associated restrictions to our flight path. In Europe we were forced to fly many more steep-banked turns at high Mach than in the Pacific. We also had to reduce our Mach to help increase our turn rate, and this was uncomfortable in high threat areas. These simulators were excellent preparation for this upcoming tour.

f"'
Once training was completed, the Jet took on a new look to the crew. Missions had a deadly serious purpose now.

My main objective during a mission was to keep the jet on the preplan ned route, sometimes called the black line. If we got off the black line, or if the jet m a l functioned, we came home. If the jet were seriously broken, we landed at one of the emergency airfields along the route. Either way, we never took the risk of having even one piece of the jet touch hostile soil.
Although getti ng the images gathered by the sensors was im portant, we avoided unnecessary risks. The unspoken word was that no part of this ai rcraft would ever fall into the other side's hands. As a pilot, I felt as if my life were in danger on every mission. Often the regime in which we flew harbored more potential danger than the other side's offensive abilities. I feared no one while flying the SR-71 i n pursuit of its mission. My confidence was born out of increased experience in the jet.
Many times we never saw the images we brought back. Our job was only to collect them; others interpreted them. Many peop l e were interested in receiving the product the jet brought back. These people included senior ranking members of the Department of Defense, the Defense Intelligence Agency, the Central Intelligence Agency, and even the President of the United Sates. Most of the time we never knew who these people were. If we did our job properly, everyone else was satisfied. Many days I felt as if I were sitting at the tip of the sword of a system that was larger in scope than I could imagine. There were many important people who took what we did seriously, but nobody took this work more seriously than the guy with his hand on the stick.
On rare occasions, the photo interpreters showed us the product of our labor. This gave us a better perspective of the process involved in interpreting hun dreds of feet of film, and an appreciation for the resolving power of cameras shooting through heat soaked windows. On one occasion after a mission in the Caribbean, the photo folks showed us some pictures they thought we would find interesting. They depicted parts of a gunnery range used by Cuban fighter jets to sharpen their strafing skills. On close inspection, the pictures revealed the targets were large silhouettes of SR-71s painted on cloth. We considered this a compliment of sorts. The n ext time over that route, I pushed the Mach up slightly to insure they would hear the boom.
Although the Sled was ahead of its time with stealth-like design, it was not invisible. At high Mach, extreme temperatures covered the aircraft l i ke a warm glove. This heat source did not go un noticed by countries that preferred not to have their pictures taken. The Sled also left a bold signature written across its flight path: a healthy sonic boom. Certain foreign governments didn't like this sound over their heads, but I wasn't too enamored with some of their practices and was always pleased to bring it to them.

The HABU patch was a prized collector's item. I t was also hard-earned by each crew member and seldom relinquished to souvenir hunters.

Emblem outside the SR-71 squadron building in England.

The run-up area in Okinawa. Sunny days like this were a lways welcome.

SU PPORTING CAST
At any one time, I knew I was one of a dozen or so pilots i n the world flying the Blackbird. After flying it for a while, I was also aware of the many people behind the scenes who made it possible for me to do my job. Launching one Sled on one sortie involved hun dreds of people, each performing their own special task that could ultimately affect the outcome of the mission. The number of people involved wasn't much smaller on training missions either. This concentration of effort for one flight impressed me and instilled in me a sense of purpose and pride I had rarely experienced in other endeavors.
Long before the crew ever arrived for their weather brief, maintenance people had been preparing the jet for flight. Lights aglow i n the hangar at midnight usually meant the jet would launch at 9 or 10 o'clock the n ext morning. The SR required more than the average jet to prepare for flight. Viscous lubricants that sustained high temperatures in flight needed to be preheated. The Tetraethyl Borane, used for starting the engines and igniting the afterburner, was loaded into the engine. This was a hazardous procedure because it could ignite on contact with oxygen . The tires a n d two tanks in the forwa rd nose were filled with nitrogen. Nitrogen stored i n the forward nose was used to pressurize the fuel tanks; it reduced the risk offuel vapors igniting from heat build up. This servicing of nitrogen gave the jet a mystical presence as white clouds of vapor streamed from its nose. Numerous diagnostic checks were run on the computers and the navigational systems. The SR-71 could be fitted with different noses, each providing a different reconnaissance capability. The proper nose was loaded onto the aircraft depending on what type of mission was being flown.
While maintenance was preparing the jet, mission planners were drawing the routes, making the maps, and producing computer printouts for the crew. Because of the special sensor-related duties the RSO performed, the information packet h e received was always a bit thicker than t h e pilot's. O n e of t h e plan ners would normally meet with the crew at the preflight meal and brief them on any special details.
Across the airfield, the men and women who flew the KC- 13SQ tankers were preparing for their mission. They were given orbit points where the rendezvous would occur, and the time they could expect to see the Blackbird arrive behind them. Sometimes three or four tankers would take part in one mission. The tankers launched many hours before the SR. They orbited, off-loaded the fuel, then returned, usually arriving home long after the Sled had landed. Tanker crews received little of the attention and praise others shared, but they were proud of their part in the SR-71's

The guys that kept us flying.
Long before the crew arrived, maintenance was doing its job. Here the large intakes are being inspected. The sharpness of the spike warranted tip covers.

missions. They knew they were essentia l . A boom operator once told me that the Sled was a relatively easy aircraft to refuel from his end. He added that no matter how many times he refueled it, the Blackbird was an imposing sight. While searching the empty sky behind the tanker, he would suddenly see this black shark looming out of the void. Every Sled pilot around knew what it felt like to be low on gas, far, far from home. During those times, the sight of one KC135 was nothing less than beautiful.
In add ition to all the Air Force people supporting the a i rcraft, a host of civilian specialists worked on the SR-71. Companies who had systems on the SR assigned technical representatives or tech reps, to work at Beale and the overseas detachments. Some of these systems were basic aircraft components like Goodyear tires. Other systems, produced by Honeywell or Singer, were more complex and sometimes classified. The crews got to know these folks well a n d learned a great deal from them about the magic in the airplane. Many of the tech reps worked on the program for many years and possessed va luable corporate knowledge the military lost to transfers and retirements.
At our detachment in England, regular Air Force maintenance specialists were replaced by civilian Lockheed employees. Ranging in age from late twenties to early sixties, this group of people handled the launch and maintenance ofthe jet daily. They dressed casually for work and could easily pass for a group of visitors that came to watch the jet ta keoff. On our first tour to England, I had a small problem in flight with an engine and wanted to talk with an engine man after landing. I was told I could talk with the chief who was somewhere around the back end of the airplane. I walked around the jet and the only person I could locate was a short, elderly man wearing grease and oil stained coveralls and wire frame glasses. I studied this slightly balding man wiping his hands in a fuel stained cloth. He had the face of a man who had seen and done much. He politely inquired if he could be of some assistance to me. He had a light in his eyes and a warmth to his smile that let me know I had found the chief. His name was "Doc," and that's all we ever knew him by. He had more years working on these engines than I had years of flying. He had been on the project back in "the old days" and knew more about how to fix and maintain the engines than anyone else around. Here was a man who truly loved his work. Over the years I deployed to England, I got to know Doc well. After many flights, I relished in the opportunity to confer with the master on matters of thrust immediately after climbing out of the jet. Doc was typical of the type of dedicated expert we were privileged to work with. Whenever I taxied the black beast out of the hangar on a rainy day, I felt the support,

Every landing required a chute, and every chute required a pick-up.

pride, a n d dedication of those people right there with me. They never got to fly the airplane, but I know that many of them loved her as much as I did.
Flying operational missions out of Beale usually meant keeping strange hours. M y neighbors wondered about me when I left for the base a t two o'clock in the morning. The people in the Marysville-Yuba City area, though, seemed to take pride in knowing that the world's fastest jet resided at 1their' Air Force base. They appreciated knowing I couldn't tell them details of where I was flying or what I was doing. They enjoyed the intrigue. On several occasions I stopped at the local 7 1 1 for a n orange juice on my way to work, sometimes after mid night. The sa m e man worked the graveyard shift, and he'd look up and smile. I'd say 1Good morning' as I walked to the refrigerated case. I n the beginni ng, h e was eager to tell m e that h e had a good idea what I was doing, a n d he wished me good luck. Above a l l, h e did not want me to reveal anything to him. I never could say much, because he did most of the talking. Sometimes, his assessment of my mission routing was surprisingly accurate. Later on, I'd come in and he'd say, 11SO, just going to work?" On these mornings we had an unspoken camaraderie; the two of us shared a few moments of the early morning hours. It gave him pleasure to insist I not pay for the juice.
W EATH E R
Our training at Beale prepared us for what we would be doing overseas, with one exception: weather. The central valley of northern California did not approximate the weather patterns of either Okinawa or England. Beale spoiled us with clear days and rare storm systems. Okinawa weather also could be wonderful at times, but it was unpredictable. Another factor complicated the weather equation; a small isla n d i n the Pacific didn't leave a pilot with many options for diverting someplace else i f the weather got ba d . England was more predictable; the weather was lousy a l l the time. After a few weeks in sunny California, I would find myself sitting in English fog on a n icy runway, preparing to launch into murky weather seldom seen at Beale.
Some days wh ile taxiing out of the hangar in England, I had a tough time seeing the mobile car through the fog. Experienced crews were tested time a n d time again, as they launched on missions in poor weather conditions. Weather rarely stopped our missions.
Flying high up in the stratosphere and managing complex systems produced enough tension for most, but sometimes the first few minutes of the flight were filled with the most excruciating tension of the day. I sat through a weather briefing one day in Okinawa that described a violent storm system. I was amazed at the fury nature could generate

Beale tanker displays nose art reflecting the local area. The camoflauge paint scheme was not popular with Sled pilots becase the darker airplane was harder to see in bad weather.
A pair of KC-135Qs taxi out well before the SR-71 would take off.

a n d that our mission was important enough to sti l l launch despite the extreme weather. The briefer listed the typhoon warnings but added our takeoff time would permit a safe launch. I remember thinking we should put this man through pilot training so he could get a new perspective on the word safe concerning flying in weather.
As Walt and I climbed into the jet, we noticed across the field flying had been cancelled for the day, a n d crew chi efs were tying down the F-15s. As I settled into the plane among an array of conn ections, I felt comfortable a n d secure in the cockpit and space suit, despite the threatening outside elements. A PSD specialist wiped ra indrops from the faceplate of my space helmet. After engine start, I engaged nose wheel steering by pushing a small button on the stick a n d taxied into the ra in. Watching the gray walls of clouds at the end of the runway planted a seed of anxiety in my cozy environment. As I turned the jet into the run-up area, I felt a sinking feeling of being slightly out of control. Even with brakes applied, the jet was sliding forward on the slippery film of rain soaked coral dust on the taxiway. Sitting i n front of 50 tons of titanium a n d fuel that was sliding toward the mobile car was not a good way to start the day.
Trailing a spray of mist from a wet runway, the Sled lifted off and smoothly pulled skywa rd. As I reached for the landing gear handle, the jet was engulfed in a tomb of swirling ra in. Dark gray clouds seemed to fi l l the cockpit. The plane accelerated unda unted by the elements, a n d I concentrated on the instruments before me.
Without outside visual references, my perception of the climb began to lag what the jet was actually doing. The acceleration in full burner, the high angle of climb, and the gentle turn onto the departure routing, took place while I was enveloped in the mass of gray clouds. My 1Seat-of-the-pants' feel of the a i rplane's ba n k angle a n d pitch attitude disagreed with what the instruments were saying. M y eyes read the instruments that sa i d one thing, but my body told me something different. This confusion between visual information and the body's sensation is called spatial disorientation. It can underm ine even the most experienced pilot and is difficult to shake once induced. The best cure is to find some clear sky, see the horizon, and get orientated.
As we climbed higher, the sky grew darker a n d heavy turbulence buffeted the jet. In these conditions, the Sled's fuselage flexed slightly, causing the front end of the plane to bend more than the rear section. From the cockpit, I felt a little like I was being bounced on the end of a tita nium diving board. Controlling the aircraft was not made any easier and Walt informed me we were slightly of course.
I was late in coming out of afterburner. Sweat pooled inside my gloves and my grasp tightened on the stick and throttles. I felt warm inside the space suit, and noticed fog forming my faceplate. Because I felt we were flying near up-side-down, the simple

Climbing out on a foggy day in England.
"Missions were intense from start to finish. It was the ultimate in job satisfaction. "
SLED P I LOT

task of reaching for the Face Heat knob was a struggle. The conflict waging between my senses was eased by Walt reassuring me we were level. Random lightning illuminated the a ngry clouds around me like flash bulbs popping off on a camera. Ra i n pelted the outside of the cockpit as if we were passing through a car wash. Surely I should be able to hear the racket caused by the punishing downpour, but the space helmet and the four inch thick glass in the cockpit muffled the outside sounds. Only the strained rhythm of my own breathing accompanied my struggle to right my tilted senses. I tried to engage the autopilot to reduce my workload, but the turbulent conditions caused it to kick off after each attempt. I watched the wrath of nature unfold just inches from where I sat a n d felt a great sense of comfort in the solid construction around me.
It seemed like an eternity before the jet broke free from the clouds and soared into a clear piece of sky. There had been no sense of motion wh ile we were in the gray mass below us, but now I instantly became aware of our speed as chunks of clouds sped by at 350 knots. As a spi nning top decel erates, it wavers and finally falls on its side. If this were recorded on film and then run backwards, the top would go from teetering to instant stabil ity as it reached the higher rate of revolutions. My brain accelerated in the sa m e way as we bolted from the clouds, and it immediately 3 l igned itself with our true flight orientation.
Breaking out on top of the weather was one of the untold joys of an aviator. In o n e short moment, relief and happiness replaced tension and exertion as the act of flying changed from a hellish nightmare to a bea utiful scene of white cloud tops a n d blue sky. I had been airborne a total of eight minutes and was exhausted. In another ten m i nutes I would be trying to hook up with the tanker in the clouds I saw form ing i n the refueling track. I said a couple of "Hail Kelly Johnsons" and realized I could trust the Sled more than the weatherman.
I always had a healthy respect for the forces of weather; flying the SR-71 only reaffirmed this respect. I often heard that some thunderstorms could build to 60,000 feet and the SR-71 made me a believer. Walt and I watched with amazement as we finally broke out into the clear at 72,000 feet one afternoon over the South China Sea.
We were cautious about penetrating bad weather, but we never worried much about flying in icing conditions. The jet's surfaces heated up from friction between the skin and the high speed passing over it. Even though there was no anti-ice system on the a i rcraft, no ice stuck to the a i rplane due to the normal buildup of heat. The SR had no weather radar and sometimes we ended up pen etrating some nasty weather.

After hours in a clear blue sky, coming back to a landing in poor weather was always a challenge. Glad to be on the ground; the last ten minutes of flight were the most draining in weather like this.

Ingestion of ice chunks into the engine was our main concern. Not only cou l d this damage the engine, it frequently could cause a flameout. Despite this hazard, the Sled just slammed right through icing conditions. It was a sol i d a i rpla ne, and when it was subsonic it exhibited a brute strength seldom found on today's high-tech jets. One day a KC-13SQ returned to Beale and the post-flight inspection revealed a light on the belly of the a i rcraft was missing. Fearing an SR-71 engine may have ingested the light during the refueling, the Blackbird was recalled from its mission. Sure enough, after landing, the crew chiefs found evidence of the tanker's lower rotating beacon in the Sled's engine. The SR had chewed it up, spit it out, and never lost a beat. The crew had neither seen nor felt anything unusual. The a i rcraft was one tough machine.
EN ROUTE
Long missions meant hunger and thirst crept into the cockpit with us. The good folks at PSD learned what tube food and drinks the crews preferred and had them ready when they suited up. I normally carried a small water bottle and Walt took water and a couple tubes of butterscotch pudding. There wasn't much time to relax during a mission, but I would usually find a minute to drink from my water bottle during the descent to meet the tanker. Walt liked taking a snack break while I was completing the refueling. As I was fighting to take on the last few gallons of fuel, Walt would tell me about the quality of the butterscotch pudding that day.
I liked Walt's sense of humor in flight. In this line of work humor helped diffuse any tension. Enclosed in a cocoon of tita nium and steel for hours at a time, we had to trust each other. A part of this included the man in back having faith that the guy in front would handle problems and fly the airplane skillfully. The RSO did not have any means to control the a i rplane if the pilot were incapacitated. If something happened to me, there was no option for Walt except to eject from the airplane.
One day, a simple problem made me realize the tenuous position Walt had, sitting in back with no stick. We were proceeding on a straight section of our route over Europe. This particular route had many turns, and the Mach had to be maintained precisely to prevent overshooting them. I decided to indulge in a quick drink from my water bottle before an upcoming turn. I put the long plastic straw to my helmet, located the opening and pushed, but nothing happened. Mildly frustrated, I pushed harder without success. I glanced in the mirror and found the straw in the right spot so with one final shove, I pushed for the last time. The straw instantly slipped into my

helmet, overshooting my mouth a n d poking my eye slightly. My eye began to tear profusely and at the same moment, Walt commanded a reduction in Mach to keep the turn ra dius under control. I forgot the water bottle and, seeing out of only one eye, concentrated on maintaining precise speed through t h e t u r n . My eye conti n u e d to tear as the airplane completed the turn remaining on course and on speed.
As I contemplated the possibility of finishing the mission and landing with one eye, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I saw a space helmet with a water bottle dangling out the lower section. I laughed out loud. Considering the seriousness of the business at hand, it was a ludicrous sight. Walt expressed his ignorance of what could be so funny at this particular moment. He added that he d i d n't want to know. I flew on one eye for a few hundred m i l es, then dried it out by using the Face Heat Switch.
From then on, I was careful when I performed even the simplest tasks. Later, when I achi eved a d vanced proficiency with the water bottle, I found the straw was an excellent device for scratching my face slowly, very slowly. I never did tell Walt what happened that day over Europe. His confidence in me would probably not increase i f he learned I had flown him through the stratosphere with a water bottle m my eye.
Checklists for both crew members were full of more information than anyone could possibly digest. In addition to these storehouses of knowledge, the guy in back carried additional manuals he could refer to when there was a problem. One morning over the South China Sea, a sensor light blinked in my cockpit, telling me the automated flight control system was malfunctioning. I attempted to reset the circuit to no avail, so Walt dove head first into the schematic diagrams stored i n his manuals in the back cockpit. The more we tried to correct the problem, the more it defied us. Soon it threatened to bring our mission to an early end. We were approaching a point where we either had the system on line and could continue, or we didn't have the system and would have to return. I hated turning back on any mission. Out offrustration, I used a technique that worked once in a T-28. I slammed my hand against the sensor switch and cursed loudly i n its d i rection. The channel reset, the light went out, and the jet performed flawlessly the rest of the day. So much for advanced engineering.
Most of the time the SR-71 was honest and rock solid, but when she got cranky at Mach 3, Walt and I had a bad day. Everyone else down the chain also had a bad day. Maintenance workers, tanker drivers, survei llance people, and rescue people, all had their days planned around our mission. All were affected when a sortie didn't go as planned. If we had a n a i rcraft ma lfunction, our first responsibility was to get the jet down safely. In many cases the malfunction put us on the edge of safety.

High rolling across the Pacific. I got a real sense of just how much water there is out there. Okinawa never looked so small.
"I wen t through the entire training program without one unstart. Over North Vietnam, during the war, we got SAM missile warnings and the next thing I knew the aircraft was rocked violen tly. Of course I thought we were hit by an SA-2. Turned out to be our first unstart. What a time to have it. . . "
SLED COMMANDER

THE U N PREDICTABLE
One night near the Korean coast, the airplane was humming along beautifully. As we began a turn to the South, I momentarily took note of a fleet of well-lit fishing boats below me. My helmet striking against the side of the cockpit jolted me from the ca l m . The number one engine spike had lost hydraulic power and sla m m ed forward, causing a violent unstart. Being i n the turn only made the unstart worse. The engine continued in a series of u nstarts as I wrestled to keep the jet under control a n d mainta i n o u r planned ground track. The increased yaw from the u nstarts forced u s slightly wide of the progra mmed turn. I'll always have a picture i n m y mind o f that moment. In a dark sky, with both hands on the stick and the jet shaking violently, I tried to follow the calm instructions of my backseater, and avoid pen etrating a sensitive area. Our sim training must have pa i d off as we luckily made it through one scary night. We limped home at subsonic speeds.
Even though the plane could be unpredictable, it seemed to perform its best on vital missions. The mission we flew over Libya was i m portant; we had both airplanes in England up in the air that day. Our profile was stringent because of the hostile threat expected. Libya was not too happy about a recent visit b y American F-1 1 1 fighter-bombers. W e had just cleared the coast of England, a n d were flying at normal altitudes in search of our first tanker. I spotted traffic head-on and slightly below us. It was the F-111s returning from a long night's work. One less jet and crew flew i n their formation. It was a silent moment. As the formation of fighter-bombers passed us, the lead a i rcraft rocked its wings, and I rocked ours in return.
All the way from England to Portugal our airplane gave us problems. It coughed a n d chugged, a n d let us know in many small ways it was going to be a pig that day. The doors a n d spikes rattled. It didn't make its time to climb a n d it burned more fuel that it was supposed to. The outside air temperatures were probably warmer than forecasted, and the jet was just not feeling good or accelerating as it should. Near Portugal we hit the tankers, then scooted across the Mediterranean area. The North African coast impressed me with its size. I was used to skipping across territories in a rapid fashion, but this leg was taking forever, even at high Mach. Checkpoint after checkpoint passed with disappointing aircraft performance. Walt pointed out that we weren't where we needed to be with our fuel remaining. Begi nning the climb to our last checkpoint before the hot zone, I knew Walt wasn't confident about the airplane's ability to get up to our programmed speed in time to make our pass.

I knew this was a n i m portant mission; I wanted the jet to make it. I began moving the doors carefully, adjusting switches slowly, and talking to the a i rplane in a way known only to Gypsies, witch doctors, and single-seat fighter pilots, hoping things would i mprove. The airplane respon ded. It started to sound and feel different. All vibrations ceased, the doors q u i eted and the spikes became rigid. As we reached our last checkpoint, we were where we needed to be in speed and altitude. I sa i d to Walt, "Hang i n there. This jet is beginning to feel right." The a i rplane wasn't seriously broken, yet all of a sudden it was flying differently. As we crossed the target area, it was smooth as silk; not one vibration, not one unstart. As soon as we departed the hot zone, a few ann unciators lit up in Walt's cockpit showing two missiles had been fired at us. We turned north, and our speed, altitude, and turn defeated the threat. Once we headed towards home, the airplane again began to perform poorly. It was as if it knew. After land ing, we wrote up numerous malfunctions for maintenance. The a i rplane amazed me with ten minutes of smooth flying over Libya. After flying a number of sorties i n the a i rplane, most pilots couldn't help thinking the a i rplane had a heart and spirit of its own.
M IG RUNNER
With an array of sensors i n the rear seat, the RSO monitored many incoming signals during the flight. We were always a l erted to signals indicating a hosti l e threat, either from a su rface-to-a i r missile, or a fighter aircraft. Although we felt confident about the SR-71, we never took lightly any signals indicating a threat. The other side's threats were not a surprise to us, but they caused a face-off. They knew we were there, and we knew they were looking at us. We knew they would activate certain a i r defense systems, a n d they knew that i t wasn't going to stop us from coming. Most of the time, it simply was not politica lly expedient for the other side to attempt to shoot us down, especially if they felt there were little chance of success. Although this was normally the case, we carried the memory of the 1981 incident with us all the time. I n that year the North Koreans claimed violation of their a i rspace a n d fired a surface-to-air missile at an SR-71. It missed, but the crew witnessed the detonation of the missile from where they sat in the cockpit. We knew to expect the unexpected.
In areas we visited frequently, we ca m e to expect distinct reactions. If we flew near air bases equipped with the latest Soviet M IG fighters, we expected to see the M IGs run i ntercepts on us. From all I had read, I knew this was common. No matter how good they were, they would have difficulty putting a n a i r-to-air missile on a target moving faster than Mach 3. Normally we could only tell electronically that a n

Ferrying the Jet from Beale AFB to England, my three hours of flying in darkness were rewarded by a spectacular sunrise over Iceland.