SR71

*By Brian Shul, Retired SR-71 Pilot via Plane and Pilot Magazine*

 

 

As a former SR-71 pilot, and a professional keynote speaker, the

question I'm most often asked is "How fast would that SR-71 fly?" I can

be assured of hearing that question several times at any event I attend.

It's an interesting question, given the aircraft's proclivity for speed,

but there really isn't one number to give, as the jet would always give

you a little more speed if you wanted it to. It was common to see 35

miles a minute. Because we flew a programmed Mach number on most

missions, and never wanted to harm the plane in any way, we never let it

run out to any limits of temperature or speed. Thus, each SR-71 pilot

had his own individual "high" speed that he saw at some point on some

mission. I saw mine over Libya when Khadafy fired two missiles my way,

and max power was in order. Let's just say that the plane truly loved

speed and effortlessly took us to Mach numbers we hadn't previously seen.

 

So it was with great surprise, when at the end of one of my

presentations, someone asked, "what was the slowest you ever flew the

Blackbird?" This was a first. After giving it some thought, I was

reminded of a story that I had never shared before, and relayed the

following.

 

I was flying the SR-71 out of RAF Mildenhall, England, with my

back-seater, Walt Watson; we were returning from a mission over Europe

and the Iron Curtain when we received a radio transmission from home

base. As we scooted across Denmark in three minutes, we learned that a

small RAF base in the English countryside had requested an SR-71

fly-past. The air cadet commander there was a former Blackbird pilot,

and thought it would be a motivating moment for the young lads to see

the mighty SR-71 perform a low approach. No problem, we were happy to do

it. After a quick aerial refueling over the North Sea, we proceeded to

find the small airfield.

 

Walter had a myriad of sophisticated navigation equipment in the back

seat, and began to vector me toward the field. Descending to subsonic

speeds, we found ourselves over a densely wooded area in a slight haze.

Like most former WWII British airfields, the one we were looking for had

a small tower and little surrounding infrastructure. Walter told me we

were close and that I should be able to see the field, but I saw

nothing. Nothing but trees as far as I could see in the haze. We got a

little lower, and I pulled the throttles back from 325 knots we were at.

With the gear up, anything under 275 was just uncomfortable. Walt said

we were practically over the field---yet; there was nothing in my

windscreen. I banked the jet and started a gentle circling maneuver in

hopes of picking up anything that looked like a field. Meanwhile, below,

the cadet commander had taken the cadets up on the catwalk of the tower

in order to get a prime view of the fly-past. It was a quiet, still day

with no wind and partial gray overcast. Walter continued to give me

indications that the field should be below us but in the overcast and

haze, I couldn't see it. The longer we continued to peer out the window

and circle, the slower we got. With our power back, the awaiting cadets

heard nothing. I must have had good instructors in my flying career, as

something told me I better cross-check the gauges. As I noticed the

airspeed indicator slide below 160 knots, my heart stopped and my

adrenalin-filled left hand pushed two throttles full forward. At this

point we weren't really flying, but were falling in a slight bank. Just

at the moment that both afterburners lit with a thunderous roar of flame

(and what a joyous feeling that was) the aircraft fell into full view of

the shocked observers on the tower. Shattering the still quiet of that

morning, they now had 107 feet of fire-breathing titanium in their face

as the plane leveled and accelerated, in full burner, on the tower side

of the infield, closer than expected, maintaining what could only be

described as some sort of ultimate knife-edge pass.

 

Quickly reaching the field boundary, we proceeded back to Mildenhall

without incident. We didn't say a word for those next 14 minutes. After

landing, our commander greeted us, and we were both certain he was

reaching for our wings. Instead, he heartily shook our hands and said

the commander had told him it was the greatest SR-71 fly-past he had

ever seen, especially how we had surprised them with such a precise

maneuver that could only be described as breathtaking. He said that some

of the cadet's hats were blown off and the sight of the plan form of the

plane in full afterburner dropping right in front of them was

unbelievable. Walt and I both understood the concept of "breathtaking"

very well that morning, and sheepishly replied that they were just

excited to see our low approach.

 

As we retired to the equipment room to change from space suits to flight

suits, we just sat there-we hadn't spoken a word since "the pass."

Finally, Walter looked at me and said, "One hundred fifty-six knots.

What did you see?" Trying to find my voice, I stammered, "One hundred

fifty-two." We sat in silence for a moment. Then Walt said, "Don't ever

do that to me again!" And I never did.

 

A year later, Walter and I were having lunch in the Mildenhall Officer's

club, and overheard an officer talking to some cadets about an SR-71

fly-past that he had seen one day. Of course, by now the story included

kids falling off the tower and screaming as the heat of the jet singed

their eyebrows. Noticing our HABU patches, as we stood there with lunch

trays in our hands, he asked us to verify to the cadets that such a

thing had occurred. Walt just shook his head and said, "It was probably

just a routine low approach; they're pretty impressive in that plane."

Impressive indeed.

 

Little did I realize after relaying this experience to my audience that

day that it would become one of the most popular and most requested

stories. It's ironic that people are interested in how slow the world's

fastest jet can fly. Regardless of your speed, however, it's always a

good idea to keep that cross-check up...and keep your Mach up, too.

Great story!!

 

Remember myself seing one on of them badboys taking of from the airport in Bodø in the north of Norway many years abo. It came fast, and we saw it only for a few seconds before it dissapered into the low clouds with one hell of a sound. Short after I guess they used the afterburner to rapidly gain height, since we heard something like an explotion that lasteded for a long time. Built my first plane kit a short while after that. It was of a black plane..

 

Did a altavista search to see if there was a photo of it from Bodø, and no, I found a page for it: http://www.wvi.com/~sr71webmaster/bodo.html

 

The date seems right to my recollection that it landed there in the summer of 1985. This pic from 1981 is just as I remember it, but my memories is with sound..

Great story, what professionalism they demostrated by keeping their cool. I would of piss my pants. I love the blackbird greatest recon bird ever.

 

Great story, what professionalism they demostrated by keeping their cool. I would of piss my pants.

 

Yes, thats why there is pilotes, Chuck Norris , and the rest of us..

...

Honestly given the choice of flying the SR-71 or the space shuttle, I think I'd take the Blackbird.

Honestly given the choice of flying the SR-71 or the space shuttle, I think I'd take the Blackbird.

That would be a tough one, but I think the Shuttle would edge ahead.

That would be a tough one, but I think the Shuttle would edge ahead.

Not for Me, you fly the blackbird the shuttle is just the worlds most expensive glider. Plus to fly the space shuttle you have to work for NASA, and their PC bullshit and ass-covering is way

worse then the military. I know because a couple of friends of mine used to work for NASA. You know what NASA stands for, "Need Another Seven Astronauts".

On a serious note there are some very smart and dedicated individuals working there but I've been told by more then one person that it is a managerial cluster fcuk.

Great story. Great piece of history.

Do you think we will ever see planes as crazy?

I have wanted a copy of Sled Drivers (book this story was taken from) for many many years but just haven't been able to pony up the $$$. It is the ultimate coffee table book!

 

http://www.sleddriver.com/

 

Another story:

 

There were a lot of things we couldn’t do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment. It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plan in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet. I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn’t match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury. Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.

 

We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied:

 

November Charlie 175, I’m showing you at ninety knots on the ground.

 

Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the “Houston Center voice.” I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country’s space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that… and that they basically did. And it didn’t matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.

 

Just moments after the Cessna’s inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his groundspeed.

 

Ah, Twin Beach.

I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed.

 

Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren.

 

Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios.

 

Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check

 

Before Center could reply, I’m thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol’ Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He’s the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet.

 

And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion:

 

Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground.

 

And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done – in mere seconds we’ll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now.

 

I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn. Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet.

 

Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke:

 

Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?

 

There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request.

 

Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground.

 

I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice:

 

Ah, Center, much thanks,

We’re showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money.

 

For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A. came back with,

 

Roger that Aspen,

Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours.

 

You boys have a good one.

 

It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day’s work.

 

We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast. For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there.

 

Another great story from The Untouchables

 

With the Libyan coast fast approaching now, Walt asks me for the third time if I think the jet will get to the speed and altitude we want in time. I tell him yes. I know he is concerned. He is dealing with the data; that’s what engineers do, and I am glad he is. But I have my hands on the stick and throttles and can feel the heart of a thoroughbred, running now with the power and perfection she was designed to possess. I also talk to her. Like the combat veteran she is, the jet senses the target area and seems to prepare herself. For the first time in two days, the inlet door closes flush and all vibration is gone. We’ve become so used to the constant buzzing that the jet sounds quiet now in comparison. The Mach correspondingly increases slightly and the jet is flying in that confidently smooth and steady style we have so often seen at these speeds. We reach our target altitude and speed, with five miles to spare.

 

Entering the target area, in response to the jet’s new-found vitality, Walt says, “That’s amazing…” and with my left hand pushing two throttles farther forward, I think to myself that there is much they don’t teach in engineering school.

 

Out my left window, Libya looks like one huge sandbox. A featureless brown terrain stretches all the way to the horizon. There is no sign of any activity. Then Walt tells me that he is getting lots of electronic signals, and they are not the friendly kind.

 

The jet is performing perfectly now, flying better than she has in weeks. She seems to know where she is. She likes the high Mach, as we penetrate deeper into Libyan airspace. Leaving the footprint of our sonic boom across Benghazi, I sit motionless, with stilled hands on throttles and the pitch control, my eyes glued to the gauges. Only the Mach indicator is moving, steadily increasing in hundredths, in a rhythmic consistency similar to the long distance runner who has caught his second wind and picked up the pace. The jet was made for this kind of performance and she wasn’t about to let an errant inlet door make her miss the show. With the power of forty locomotives, we puncture the quiet African sky and continue farther south across a bleak landscape.

 

Walt continues to update me with numerous reactions he sees on the DEF panel. He is receiving missile tracking signals. With each mile we traverse, every two seconds, I become more uncomfortable driving deeper into this barren and hostile land.

 

I am glad the DEF panel is not in the front seat. It would be a big distraction now, seeing the lights flashing. In contrast, my cockpit is “quiet” as the jet purrs and relishes her new-found strength, continuing to slowly accelerate. The spikes are full aft now, tucked twenty-six inches deep into the nacelles. With all inlet doors tightly shut, at 3.24 Mach, the J-58s are more like ramjets now, gulping 100,000 cubic feet of air per second. We are a roaring express now, and as we roll through the enemy’s backyard, I hope our speed continues to defeat the missile radars below.

 

We are approaching a turn, and this is good. It will only make it more difficult for any launched missile to solve the solution for hitting our aircraft. I push the speed up at Walt’s request. The jet does not skip a beat, nothing fluctuates, and the cameras have a rock steady platform.

 

Walt received missile launch signals. Before he can say anything else, my left hand instinctively moves the throttles yet farther forward. My eyes are glued to temperature gauges now, as I know the jet will willingly go to speeds that can harm her. The temps are relatively cool and from all the warm temps we’ve encountered thus far, this surprises me… but then, it really doesn’t surprise me. Mach 3.31 and Walt are quiet for the moment.

 

I move my gloved finder across the small silver wheel ion the autopilot panel which controls the aircraft’s pitch. With the deft feel known to Swiss watchmakers, surgeons, and “dinosaurs” (old-time pilots who not only fly an airplane but “feel it”) I rotate the pitch wheel somewhere between one-sixteenth and one-eighth inch, location a position which yields the 500-foot-per-minute climb I desire. The jet raises her nose one-sixth of a degree and knows I’ll push her higher as she goes faster. The Mach continues to rise, but during this segment of our route, I am in no mood to pull throttles back.

 

Walt’s voice pierces the quiet of my cockpit with the news of more missile launch signals. The gravity of Walter’s voice tells me that he believes the signals to be a more valid threat than the others. Within seconds he tells me to “push it up” and I firmly press both throttles against their stops. For the next few seconds I will let the jet go as fast as she wants.

 

A final turn is coming up and we both know that if we can hit that turn at this speed, we most likely will defeat any missiles. We are not there yet, though, and I’m wondering if Walt will call for a defensive turn off our course. With no words spoken, I sense Walter is thinking in concert with me about maintaining our programmed course.

 

To keep from worrying, I glance outside, wondering if I’ll be able to visually pick up a missile aimed at us. Odd are the thoughts that wander through one’s mind in times like these. I found myself recalling the words of former SR-71 pilots who were fired upon while flying missions over North Vietnam. They said the few errant missile detonations they were able to observe from the cockpit looked like implosions rather than explosions. This was due to the great speed at which the jet was hurling away from the exploding missile. I see nothing outside except the endless expanse of a steel blue sky and the broad patch of tan earth far below.

 

I have only had my eyes out of the cockpit for seconds, but it seems like many minutes since I have last checked the gauges inside. Returning my attention inward, I glance first at the miles counter telling me how many more to go until we can start our turn. Then I note the Mach, and passing beyond 3.45, I realize that Walter and I have attained new personal records. The Mach continues to increase. The ride is incredibly smooth.

 

There seems to be a confirmed trust now, between me and the jet; she will not hesitate to deliver whatever speed we need, and I can count on no problems with the inlets. Walt and I are ultimately depending on the jet now - more so than normal – and she seems to know it. The cooler outside temperatures have awakened the spirit born into her years ago, when men dedicated to excellence took the time and care to build her well. With spikes and doors as tight as they can get we are racing against the time it could take a missile to reach our altitude. It is a race this jet will not let us lose. The Mach eases to 3.5 as we crest 80,000 feet. We are a bullet now – except faster.

 

We hit the turn, and I feel some relief as our nose swings away from a country we have seen quite enough of. Screaming past Tripoli, our phenomenal speed continues to rise, and the screaming Sled pummels the enemy one more time, laying down a parting sonic boom.

 

In seconds, we can see nothing but the expansive blue of the Mediterranean. I realize that I still have my left hand full-forward and we're continuing to rocket along in maximum afterburner. The TDI now shows us Mach numbers not only new to our experience but flat out scary. Walt says the DEF panel is now quiet and I know it is time to reduce our incredible speed. I pull the throttles to the min 'burner range and the jet still doesn’t want to slow down. Normally, the Mach would be affected immediately when making such a large throttle movement. But for just a few moments, old 960 just sat out there at the high Mach she seemed to love and, like the proud Sled she was, only began to slow when we were well out of danger. I loved that jet.

And yes, in my opinion the SR71 is the greatest mechanical achievement of man thus far. The technology advancement that went into it, sheer power, engineering, and 100% success rate say it all.

 

Kinda makes me wonder what kind of cool shit we have now, and at the same time if we even do? With satellites is this kind of equipment even necessary?

AWESOME!!! Thank you both Fellippe and Emanon very much for that!

 

Would love to read more.

More stories, please! Fantastic reads.

More stories, please! Fantastic reads.

 

 

Love it!

Some great reads! I thought about joining up to fly fighters after college but with my hearing, I would have been kicked out. Would be the most kick ass job ever I think.

Awesome stories. Just think how long ago the SR71 and B2 bomber and the like were developed and what our military must have today waiting in the wings.

I do business with a guy who was an F18 pilot for the last 5 or so years and he mentioned that some of his buddies went 3 on 1 against the new F22 and said it was like shooting fish in a barrell for the F22. Said the F18's were a joke compared to the technology and abilities of the F22 and it easily defeated all 3. BUt god those stories about the SR71 are sick!

The blackbird was my favorite plane growing up and still it amazes me today.

Those stories are pretty good. Makes me want to buy the book now.

Those stories are pretty good. Makes me want to buy the book now.

I am fortunate to have a close family member who has not only flown the SR-71, but has logged more flight time than most in it. The jet was so secretive when it came out, not even his wife knew what he was doing, and our entire family did not know for more than a decade that he was one of the pilots behind it. He has never talked about his experiences with me, but through the family grape-vine I have heard some pretty cool stuff. To say that the Blackbird is an incredible machine is an understatement…that plane is just pure, 100% badasss!

 

Those are some great stories posted. I have always liked the “King of Speed” one.

 

fantastic thread.

 

thanks for the good read!

Did the Soviet Union ever conduct any spy plane flights over the United States?

Those stories are pretty good. Makes me want to buy the book now.

 

 

Never mind, decided I wont be buying the book. Its $440 on Amazon, and $427 on his website. I have never paid that much for a book, even during school I didnt have books that expensive.