Thanks to SquareSpace for making this
video possible and for helping launch my new Mustard store. More on that after
this video. In the midst of the Cold War, two Mig-25s race to intercept a threat
along the Soviet border. They're the fastest interceptors ever built, and if
they really push their engines, they can reach an incredible Mach 3.2. But it's
not enough. Because what they're chasing can outrun and out-climb any threat. A
plane engineered to be invulnerable. The Cold War locked the United States
and Soviet Union into a tense a struggle for global influence and control. Both
sides poured enormous resources into military technologies. But getting an
upper hand means knowing your opponent's next move. And in the 1950s, little was
known about facilities deep within the Soviet Union. An extensive network of
radar stations, surface-to-air missile sites, and interceptor air bases kept the
Americans away. Until 1956, when U-2 spy planes began flying over the Soviet
Union. Neither fast nor stealthy, the U-2s had one critical advantage. At 70,000 feet,
they could fly above Soviet air defenses. U.S. President Eisenhower was even
assured, Soviet radars couldn't detect the U-2 at such high altitudes. But it
turns out, the Americans were wrong. The Soviets had tracked the U-2 since day one, and it was only a matter of time before they'd be able to shoot one down. Simply
flying high wasn't enough. Even before the U-2 began its surveillance missions,
there were already plans underway to replace it. Because true impunity over
Soviet airspace would need a combination of incredible speed, altitude, and stealth.
And this led the Americans to explore some pretty radical spy plane concepts,
like a ramjet powered aircraft that would be deployed from the bottom of a
supersonic B-58. But in 1959 the CIA chose Lockheed to develop the next
generation of spy plane. Meanwhile, the U-2 continued to fly over
the Soviet Union. But not for very long, because in the spring of 1960, a Soviet
surface-to-air missile finally managed to bring one down. The captured pilot and
wreckage were paraded around the Soviet Union used as proof of Western
aggression. As tensions rose, now more than ever the US needed a replacement
for the U-2. And what Lockheed developed, would be
unlike any aircraft ever built. A plane that nearly 60 years after its first
flight, remains the fastest air-breathing jet to ever fly. Lockheed's
highly-classified spy plane would be known as the A-12. Originally used by the
CIA for reconnaissance, the A-12 was also developed into an interceptor prototype,
armed with air-to-air missiles, along with a variant that could launch an
unmanned reconnaissance drone. But it was the SR-71 Blackbird, a variant developed
for the Air Force that would go on to serve for decades, while earlier versions
were quickly retired. The Blackbird could cruise at Mach 3.2 right near the edge
of space, and do it for hours on end. To achieve this, Lockheed's engineers had
to innovate pretty much everything from scratch. To sustain such incredible
speeds the SR-71 and its predecessors were powered by engines often described
as turboramjets. Below Mach 2 they functioned like conventional
after-burning jet engines. But above that, they behaved more like ramjets, as an
inlet cone adjusted to bypass air around the engine and directly into the
afterburner. At mach 3.2 the SR-71's exterior would heat up to beyond 500
degrees Fahrenheit, easily hot enough to soften aircraft aluminum. Lockheed
engineers used titanium for 92 percent of the aircraft, and in the 1960s this
required inventing entirely new fabrication technologies. It's unusual
shape did more than just spook UFO enthusiasts, it helped reduce its radar
signature as did its special black paint, which earned the SR-71 its Blackbird
name. The A-12 and SR-71 were first deployed
over North Korea and Vietnam, where they were unsuccessfully targeted by over 800
surface-to-air missiles. But the spy plane never flew into Soviet airspace. At
least not officially, because another shoot-down over the Soviet Union would
be catastrophic. So instead, the SR-71 flew along its
borders, using its powerful side-looking radar and cameras to peer hundreds of
miles into Soviet territory. And that frustrated the Soviets. In 1976, Viktor
Belenko defected to the west, by escaping the Soviet Union in his Mig-25. He
described the frustration of trying to intercept Blackbirds. The MiG's were
Mach 3 capable, but only for a few minutes at a time. Not for hours like the
Blackbird. Nor could they climb to reach the SR-71's incredible altitude. Even
their enormous R40 missiles lacked the guidance needed to strike the SR-71
head-on. For years, the Blackbirds were practically invulnerable. They could out
fly and out-climb any threat. But by the 1980s, Mig-31s were roaming the
skies, equipped with sophisticated radar and long-range R33 missiles. They posed
a legitimate threat, as did a new generation of Soviet surface-to-air
missiles. But the greatest threat to the Blackbird wasn't an enemy missile or jet.
It was itself. No Blackbird was ever lost on a mission, but more than a third of
the 50 built were destroyed in accidents. One literally disintegrated around its
pilots. They were also enormously expensive to operate. Each one siphoning
about 300 million dollars a year out of America's defense budget. A fleet of
special aerial refuelers and a small army of support and maintenance staff were
needed just to keep these planes mission ready. And advances in spy satellites
aerial drones and the SR-71 s inability to deliver surveillance data in real
time, diminished some of the plane's utility. Add to that, politics and
infighting for defense budgets and by the late 1980s, the SR-71's days were numbered. They were officially retired in 1998,
with two sent to NASA for testing. The technology behind the A-12 and SR-71 is
now well over fifty years old. Yet somehow these incredible planes
still speak to us. Not about the past, but the future. Leaving us with a sense of
wonder unlike any other in aviation history. A few months ago, I launched my
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It was fast
Some guy in Cessna or something asks how fast he is going and tower says like 10, then some dude in F18 or some such asks how fast he is going and tower says like 500 lol so the dudes in SR-71 ask the tower how fast they are going and the tower says oh like a million and the guy says actually a million and one lol. Everyone goes quiet.
It needs a Glaive Beam.
slowest: howfast?
Tower:like 10
slow: howfast?
Tower: like 12
N A V Y B O I: howfast?
Tower: like 50
N A V Y B O I: ha ha yes
SPACEMAN 2: howfast?
Tower: like 9000
SPACEMAN 2: more like 9001, amirite?
Tower: yeh u rite
SPACEMAN 1: did we just become best friends?
Thought it would be this 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 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 " 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 ground speed. "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.
It sas piloted by the x-men, ofc it was!
Why does this man pronounce every sentence with exactly the same inflection?