Major Brian Shul, USAF (Ret.) SR-71 Blackbird 'Speed Check'
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Length: 5min 59sec (359 seconds)
Published: Sat Dec 31 2016
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My favorite Blackbird story:
The "Blackbird" routinely flew up to 80,000 feet (officially). In the U.S., the airspace normally used by commercial airliners is between 18,000 and 60,000 feet; all flights between those altitudes must have a clearance from air traffic control. Flights above 60,000 feet are in uncontrolled airspace, and therefore do not need a clearance, but you gotta go thru controlled airspace to get there. The story goes that a newbie air traffic controller got a request for clearance one day from an aircraft using call sign "Aspen," which is what all Blackbirds flying out of Beale AFB used on training missions. The request was for "clearance to 60,000 feet." The new controller, unaware he was speaking to a Blackbird pilot, assumed someone was trying to prank him. After all, the only commercial airliner capable of climbing to 60,000 feet was the Concorde, which did not operate routinely in California.
The young controller's response to what he thought was a gag radio request? With a clearly derisive note in his voice he said, "Roger Aspen; if you can get to 60,000 feet you're cleared." To which the Aspen pilot replied with the bland, almost bored tone of all professional pilots, "Roger Center, descending to 60,000."
QUICK POST THE OTHER ONE
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 I 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 refuelling 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 levelled 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
edit: when I saw this 'Speed Check' story was being reposted I knew it would get attention like it always does so I went to the highest commented version of this post in the past and copied/pasted this top & and gilded comment. It worked. I haven't even read this story! I might have to now though
Doesn't matter how many times I see this posted, I read it every time and every time the hair on my arms stands up. Great story.
I'm a simple man, I see a SR-71 speed check post, I upvote.
I got to hear Brian speak at a small conference a while back. Before he spoke, the conference was pretty boring and I was getting ready to sneak out. Some of the people I was with were nodding toward the door like they were planning to ditch too. Just then Brian took the podium and started telling his Blackbird stories. The mood in the room lifted right away. Everyone was transfixed and laughing. I happily stayed for the whole thing and got to talk with him afterward. He's a great storyteller and has lived quite an amazing life.
Cool to hear the story verbalised.
What in the name of fuck is that shirt.
There were a lot of things we couldn’t do in a Cessna 152, but we were the slowest 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 '52 . Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. dreary, maybe. Even straight up boring.
But there was one day in our Cessna experience when I would have to say that it was pure fun to be the slowest guys out there, at least for a moment - but because of the definition of "slow"- probably much longer.
It occurred when Ol' Frank and I were flying our final training lesson. I needed another 420 hours in the C152 to complete my training and get my pre-solo sign-off. Somewhere over Santa Monica we had passed the hundred-hours mark.
We had made the turn in Arizona and the plane was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and I was starting to feel pretty good about myself, not only because I would soon be flying real $100 burger-runs but because I had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months since starting at Embry Riddle.
Wallowing across the barren deserts 2500 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the city border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the mighty Cessna. I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Frank in the right seat. There he was, passed out around 20 minutes ago, tasked with monitoring my navigation skills. This was good practice for him for when he eventually had enough hours to apply to Mesa. 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, mostly saying "ROGER WILCO" unprompted on tower frequency.
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 we were on the ground, however. Frank 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 flight schools where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for a cascade of "YER ON GUARD". He understood that and allowed me that luxury. Just to get a sense of what Frank 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 (probably for hours), we were now in the traffic pattern and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.
We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Quicksilver pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed.
Center replied: November Charlie 175, I’m showing you at thirty 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 Ed Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, slightly pissed-off but professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the “ HoustonCentervoice.” 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 Houstoncontrollers, 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 John King, or at least like Mr Aviation 101. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.
Just moments after the Quicksilver's inquiry, a rogue Cri-Cri piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his groundspeed.
Cri-Cri, I have you at fifty-seven knots of ground speed. Boy, I thought, the Cri-Cri really must think he is dazzling his Quicksilver brethren.
Then out of the blue, a Piper Pacer pilot out of the local NORDO field came up on frequency. You knew right away it was an ex-FSX enthusiast because he sounded very cool on the radios.
Center, Pacer 635 Foxtrot Uniform ground speed check
Before Center could reply, I’m thinking to myself, hey, that Pacer has an uncoupled KLN-89 in that mostly barren cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout?
Then I got it, ol’ Piper 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 battered taildragger.
And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: Piper Foxtrot Uniform, Center, we have you at seventy-six on the ground.
And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the finicky PTT button, I had to remind myself that Ol' Frank was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done – in mere seconds we’ll be out of the control zone and the opportunity will be lost. That Pacer must die, and die now. I thought about all of my Microsoft Flight Simulator training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew, and also how to drop sand-bags out of an ultralight.
I was torn. Somewhere, 2500 ft above Santa Monica, there was a pilot screaming into his QT Halos.
Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Frank and I had become a crew.
Very professionally, with a TSO'd hungover drawl, Frank spoke:
Los Angeles Center, Cessna 420, can you give us a ground speed check?
There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. 420, 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 annoyed.
But the precise point at which I knew that Frank 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 Frank was a god.
And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the HoustonCentervoice, when L.A.came back with:
Yeah, OK there, Cessna 420, I'm sure your iPad with ForeFlight is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one. Also you've not responded to a single one of my calls for the past ten minutes and I've got a number for you to call once you're on the ground.
It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the weekend-warriors had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Land-O-Matic, and more importantly, Frank had hit the 1000 TT mark and now his phone had been ringing off the hook from regionals desperate for FOs.
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 most insufferable guys out there.
(Thanks /u/LlamaExtravaganza)
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 plane 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 we 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 “ HoustonCentervoice.” 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 Houstoncontrollers, 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. 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 HoustonCentervoice, 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.
i never get tired of this story