A pilot remembers the SR-71
In April 1986, following an attack on American soldiers in a Berlin disco, President Reagan
ordered the bombing of Muammar Qaddafi's terrorist camps in Libya. My duty was to fly
over Libya and take photos recording the damage our F-111's had inflicted. Qaddafi
had established a 'line of death,' a territorial marking across the Gulf of Sidra, swearing
to shoot down any intruder that crossed the boundary. On the morning of April 15,
I rocketed past the line at 2,125 mph.
I was piloting the SR-71 spy plane, the world's fastest jet, accompanied by a Marine Major
(Walt), the aircraft's reconnaissance systems officer (RSO). We had crossed into Libya and
were approaching our final turn over the bleak desert landscape when Walt informed me that
he was receiving missile launch signals. I quickly increased our speed, calculating the time it
would take for the weapons-most likely SA-2 and SA-4 surface-to-air missiles capable of Mach 5
to reach our altitude. I estimated that we could beat the rocket-powered missiles to the turn
and stayed our course, betting our lives on the plane's performance.
After several agonizingly long seconds, we made the turn and blasted toward the
Mediterranean. 'You might want to pull it back,' Walt suggested. It was then that
I noticed I still had the throttles full forward. The plane was flying a mile every 1.6
seconds, well above our Mach 3.2 limit. It was the fastest we would ever fly. I
pulled the throttles to idle just south of Sicily, but we still overran the refueling
tanker awaiting us over Gibraltar.
Scores of significant aircraft have been produced in the 100 years of flight,
following the achievements of the Wright brothers, which we celebrate in
December. Aircraft such as the Boeing 707, the F-86 Sabre Jet, and the
P-51 Mustang are among the important machines that have flown our skies.
But the SR-71, also known as the Blackbird, stands alone as a significant
contributor to Cold War victory and as the fastest plane ever-and only 93
Air Force pilots ever steered the 'sled,' as we called our aircraft.
The SR-71 was the brainchild of Kelly Johnson, the famed Lockheed designer who created
the P-38, the F-104 Starfighter, and the U-2. After the Soviets shot down Gary Powers'
U-2 in 1960, Johnson began to develop an aircraft that would fly three miles higher and
five times faster than the spy plane-and still be capable of photographing your license plate.
However, flying at 2,000 mph would create intense heat on the aircraft's skin. Lockheed
engineers used a titanium alloy to construct more than 90 percent of the SR-71, creating
special tools and manufacturing procedures to hand-build each of the 40 planes. Special
heat-resistant fuel, oil, and hydraulic fluids that would function at 85,000 feet and higher
also had to be developed.
In 1962, the first Blackbird successfully flew, and in 1966, the same year I graduated
from high school, the Air Force began flying operational SR-71 missions. I came to
the program in 1983 with a sterling record and a recommendation from my commander,
completing the weeklong interview and meeting Walt, my partner for the next four
years he would ride four feet behind me, working all the cameras, radios, and electronic
jamming equipment. I joked that if we were ever captured, he was the spy and I
was just the driver. He told me to keep the pointy end forward.
We trained for a year, flying out of Beale AFB in California, Kadena Airbase in Okinawa,
and RAF Mildenhall in England. On a typical training mission, we would take off near
Sacramento, refuel over Nevada, accelerate into Montana, obtain high Mach over
Colorado, turn right over New Mexico, speed across the Los Angeles Basin, run up the
West Coast, turn right at Seattle, then return to Beale. Total flight time: two hours and
40 minutes.
One day, high above Arizona, we were monitoring the radio traffic of all the mortal
airplanes below us. First, a Cessna pilot asked the air traffic controllers to check his
ground speed. 'Ninety knots,' ATC replied. A Bonanza soon made the same request.
'One-twenty on the ground,' was the reply. To our surprise, a navy F-18 came over
the radio with a ground speed check. I knew exactly what he was doing. Of course,
he had a ground speed indicator in his ****pit, but he wanted to let all the bug-smashers
in the valley know what real speed was 'Dusty 52, we show you at 620 on the ground,'
ATC responded.
The situation was too ripe. I heard the click of Walt's mike button in the rear seat. In his
most innocent voice, Walt startled the controller by asking for a ground speed check
from 81,000 feet, clearly above controlled airspace. In a cool, professional voice, the
controller replied, Aspen 20, I show you at 1,982 knots on the ground.' We did not hear
another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.
The Blackbird always showed us something new, each aircraft possessing its own unique
personality. In time, we realized we were flying a national treasure. When we taxied
out of our revetments for takeoff, people took notice. Traffic congregated near the
airfield fences, because everyone wanted to see and hear the mighty SR-71 you could
not be a part of this program and not come to love the airplane. Slowly, she revealed
her secrets to us as we earned her trust.
One moonless night, while flying a routine training mission over the Pacific, I wondered
what the sky would look like from 84,000 feet if the ****pit lighting were dark. While
heading home on a straight course, I slowly turned down all of the lighting, reducing the
glare and revealing the night sky.
Within seconds, I turned the lights back up, fearful that the jet would know and somehow
punish me. But my desire to see the sky overruled my caution, I dimmed the lighting
again. To my amazement, I saw a bright light outside my window. As my eyes adjusted
to the view, I realized that the brilliance was the broad expanse of the Milky Way, now a
gleaming stripe across the sky.
Where dark spaces in the sky had usually existed, there were now dense clusters of
sparkling stars. Shooting stars flashed across the canvas every few seconds. It was like
a fireworks display with no sound.
I knew I had to get my eyes back on the instruments, and reluctantly I brought my attention
back inside. To my surprise, with the ****pit lighting still off, I could see every gauge, lit
by starlight. In the plane's mirrors, I could see the eerie shine of my gold spacesuit
incandescently illuminated in a celestial glow. I stole one last glance out the window. Despite
our speed, we seemed still before the heavens, humbled in the radiance of a much greater
power. For those few moments, I felt a part of something far more significant than anything
we were doing in the plane. The sharp sound of Walt's voice on the radio brought me back to
the tasks at hand as I prepared for our descent.
The SR-71 was an expensive aircraft to operate. The most significant cost was tanker
support, and in 1990, confronted with budget cutbacks, the Air Force retired the SR-71.
The SR-71 served six presidents, protecting America for a quarter of a century.
Unbeknownst to most of the country, the plane flew over North Vietnam, Red China,
North Korea, the Middle East, South Africa, Cuba, Nicaragua, Iran, Libya, and the
Falkland Islands. On a weekly basis, the SR-71 kept watch over every Soviet nuclear
submarine and mobile missile site, and all of their troop movements. It was a key factor
in winning the Cold War.
I am proud to say I flew about 500 hours in this aircraft. I knew her well. She gave way
to no plane, proudly dragging her sonic boom through enemy backyards with great impunity.
She defeated every missile, outran every MiG, and always brought us home. In the first
100 years of manned flight, no aircraft was more remarkable.
The Blackbird had outrun nearly 4,000 missiles, not once taking a scratch from
enemy fire.
On her final flight, the Blackbird, destined for the Smithsonian National Air and
Space Museum, sped from Los Angeles to Washington in 64 minutes, averaging
2,145 mph and setting four speed records.
In April 1986, following an attack on American soldiers in a Berlin disco, President Reagan
ordered the bombing of Muammar Qaddafi's terrorist camps in Libya. My duty was to fly
over Libya and take photos recording the damage our F-111's had inflicted. Qaddafi
had established a 'line of death,' a territorial marking across the Gulf of Sidra, swearing
to shoot down any intruder that crossed the boundary. On the morning of April 15,
I rocketed past the line at 2,125 mph.
I was piloting the SR-71 spy plane, the world's fastest jet, accompanied by a Marine Major
(Walt), the aircraft's reconnaissance systems officer (RSO). We had crossed into Libya and
were approaching our final turn over the bleak desert landscape when Walt informed me that
he was receiving missile launch signals. I quickly increased our speed, calculating the time it
would take for the weapons-most likely SA-2 and SA-4 surface-to-air missiles capable of Mach 5
to reach our altitude. I estimated that we could beat the rocket-powered missiles to the turn
and stayed our course, betting our lives on the plane's performance.
After several agonizingly long seconds, we made the turn and blasted toward the
Mediterranean. 'You might want to pull it back,' Walt suggested. It was then that
I noticed I still had the throttles full forward. The plane was flying a mile every 1.6
seconds, well above our Mach 3.2 limit. It was the fastest we would ever fly. I
pulled the throttles to idle just south of Sicily, but we still overran the refueling
tanker awaiting us over Gibraltar.
Scores of significant aircraft have been produced in the 100 years of flight,
following the achievements of the Wright brothers, which we celebrate in
December. Aircraft such as the Boeing 707, the F-86 Sabre Jet, and the
P-51 Mustang are among the important machines that have flown our skies.
But the SR-71, also known as the Blackbird, stands alone as a significant
contributor to Cold War victory and as the fastest plane ever-and only 93
Air Force pilots ever steered the 'sled,' as we called our aircraft.
The SR-71 was the brainchild of Kelly Johnson, the famed Lockheed designer who created
the P-38, the F-104 Starfighter, and the U-2. After the Soviets shot down Gary Powers'
U-2 in 1960, Johnson began to develop an aircraft that would fly three miles higher and
five times faster than the spy plane-and still be capable of photographing your license plate.
However, flying at 2,000 mph would create intense heat on the aircraft's skin. Lockheed
engineers used a titanium alloy to construct more than 90 percent of the SR-71, creating
special tools and manufacturing procedures to hand-build each of the 40 planes. Special
heat-resistant fuel, oil, and hydraulic fluids that would function at 85,000 feet and higher
also had to be developed.
In 1962, the first Blackbird successfully flew, and in 1966, the same year I graduated
from high school, the Air Force began flying operational SR-71 missions. I came to
the program in 1983 with a sterling record and a recommendation from my commander,
completing the weeklong interview and meeting Walt, my partner for the next four
years he would ride four feet behind me, working all the cameras, radios, and electronic
jamming equipment. I joked that if we were ever captured, he was the spy and I
was just the driver. He told me to keep the pointy end forward.
We trained for a year, flying out of Beale AFB in California, Kadena Airbase in Okinawa,
and RAF Mildenhall in England. On a typical training mission, we would take off near
Sacramento, refuel over Nevada, accelerate into Montana, obtain high Mach over
Colorado, turn right over New Mexico, speed across the Los Angeles Basin, run up the
West Coast, turn right at Seattle, then return to Beale. Total flight time: two hours and
40 minutes.
One day, high above Arizona, we were monitoring the radio traffic of all the mortal
airplanes below us. First, a Cessna pilot asked the air traffic controllers to check his
ground speed. 'Ninety knots,' ATC replied. A Bonanza soon made the same request.
'One-twenty on the ground,' was the reply. To our surprise, a navy F-18 came over
the radio with a ground speed check. I knew exactly what he was doing. Of course,
he had a ground speed indicator in his ****pit, but he wanted to let all the bug-smashers
in the valley know what real speed was 'Dusty 52, we show you at 620 on the ground,'
ATC responded.
The situation was too ripe. I heard the click of Walt's mike button in the rear seat. In his
most innocent voice, Walt startled the controller by asking for a ground speed check
from 81,000 feet, clearly above controlled airspace. In a cool, professional voice, the
controller replied, Aspen 20, I show you at 1,982 knots on the ground.' We did not hear
another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.
The Blackbird always showed us something new, each aircraft possessing its own unique
personality. In time, we realized we were flying a national treasure. When we taxied
out of our revetments for takeoff, people took notice. Traffic congregated near the
airfield fences, because everyone wanted to see and hear the mighty SR-71 you could
not be a part of this program and not come to love the airplane. Slowly, she revealed
her secrets to us as we earned her trust.
One moonless night, while flying a routine training mission over the Pacific, I wondered
what the sky would look like from 84,000 feet if the ****pit lighting were dark. While
heading home on a straight course, I slowly turned down all of the lighting, reducing the
glare and revealing the night sky.
Within seconds, I turned the lights back up, fearful that the jet would know and somehow
punish me. But my desire to see the sky overruled my caution, I dimmed the lighting
again. To my amazement, I saw a bright light outside my window. As my eyes adjusted
to the view, I realized that the brilliance was the broad expanse of the Milky Way, now a
gleaming stripe across the sky.
Where dark spaces in the sky had usually existed, there were now dense clusters of
sparkling stars. Shooting stars flashed across the canvas every few seconds. It was like
a fireworks display with no sound.
I knew I had to get my eyes back on the instruments, and reluctantly I brought my attention
back inside. To my surprise, with the ****pit lighting still off, I could see every gauge, lit
by starlight. In the plane's mirrors, I could see the eerie shine of my gold spacesuit
incandescently illuminated in a celestial glow. I stole one last glance out the window. Despite
our speed, we seemed still before the heavens, humbled in the radiance of a much greater
power. For those few moments, I felt a part of something far more significant than anything
we were doing in the plane. The sharp sound of Walt's voice on the radio brought me back to
the tasks at hand as I prepared for our descent.
The SR-71 was an expensive aircraft to operate. The most significant cost was tanker
support, and in 1990, confronted with budget cutbacks, the Air Force retired the SR-71.
The SR-71 served six presidents, protecting America for a quarter of a century.
Unbeknownst to most of the country, the plane flew over North Vietnam, Red China,
North Korea, the Middle East, South Africa, Cuba, Nicaragua, Iran, Libya, and the
Falkland Islands. On a weekly basis, the SR-71 kept watch over every Soviet nuclear
submarine and mobile missile site, and all of their troop movements. It was a key factor
in winning the Cold War.
I am proud to say I flew about 500 hours in this aircraft. I knew her well. She gave way
to no plane, proudly dragging her sonic boom through enemy backyards with great impunity.
She defeated every missile, outran every MiG, and always brought us home. In the first
100 years of manned flight, no aircraft was more remarkable.
The Blackbird had outrun nearly 4,000 missiles, not once taking a scratch from
enemy fire.
On her final flight, the Blackbird, destined for the Smithsonian National Air and
Space Museum, sped from Los Angeles to Washington in 64 minutes, averaging
2,145 mph and setting four speed records.
