Pietenpol-List: FW: I was piloting the SR-71 spy plane

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Original Posted By: "Ray Krause"
Hi Guys,Not exactly Piet related (speeds are a bit different) but something thatappeared on another list I thought you may be interested in.Don't know who wrote it or even if it's true but it sure captures thespirit.CheersPeterWonthaggi Australia*In April 1986, following an attack on American soldiers in a Berlin disco,President Reagan ordered the bombing of Muammar Qaddafi's terrorist camps inLibya. My duty was to fly over Libya and take photos recording the damageour F-111s had inflicted. Qaddafi had established a 'line of death,' aterritorial marking across the Gulf of Sidra, s wearing to shoot down anyintruder that crossed the boundary. On the morning of April 15, I rocketedpast the line at2,125 mph. I was piloting the SR-71 spy plane, the world's fastest jet,accompanied by Maj. Walter Watson, the aircraft's reconnaissance systemsofficer (RSO). We had crossed into Libya and were approaching our final turnover the bleak desert landscape when Walter informed me that he wasreceiving missile launch signals. I quickly increased our speed, calculatingthe time it would take for the weapons-most likely SA-2 and SA-4surface-to-air missiles capable of Mach 5-to reach our altitude. I estimatedthat we could beat the rocket-powered missiles to the turn and stayed ourcourse, betting our lives on the plane's performance. After severalagonizingly long seconds, we made the turn and blasted toward theMediterranean. 'You might want to pull it back,' Walter suggested. It was then that I noticed I still had the throttles fullf orward. The plane was flying a mile every 1.6 seconds, well above our Mach3.2 limit. It was the fastest we would ever fly. I pulled the throttles toidle just south of Sicily, but we still overran the refueling tankerawaiting us over Gibraltar. Scores of significant aircraft have beenproduced in the 100 years of flight following the achievements of the Wrightbrothers, 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 machinesthat 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 thefastest plane ever-and only 93 Air Force pilots ever steered the 'sled,' aswe called our aircraft. As inconceivable as it may sound, I once discardedthe plane. Literally. My first encounter with the SR-71 came when I was 10years old in the form of molded black plastic in a Revell kit. Cementing together the long fuselage parts proved tricky, and my finishedproduct looked less than menacing. Glue,oozing from the seams, discoloredthe black plastic. It seemed ungainly alongside the fighter planes in mycollection, and I threw it away. Twenty-nine years later, I stood awe-struckin a Beale Air Force Base hangar, staring at the very real SR-71 before me.I had applied to fly the world's fastest jet and was receiving my firstwalk-around of our nation's most prestigious aircraft. In my previous 13years as an Air Force fighter pilot, I had never seen an aircraft with suchpresence. At 107 feet long, it appeared big, but far from ungainly.Ironically, the plane was dripping, much like the misshapen model I hadassembled in my youth. Fuel was seeping through the joints, raining down onthe hangar floor. At Mach 3, the plane would expand several inches becauseof the severe temperature, which could heat the leading edge of the wing to1,100 degrees. To prevent cracking, expansion joints had been built into theplane. Sealant resembling rubber glue covered the seams, but when the planewas subsonic, fuel would leak through the joints. The SR-71 was thebrainchild of Kelly Johnson, the famed Lockheed designer who created theP-38, the F-104 Starfighter, and the U-2. After the Soviets shot down GaryPowers' U-2 in 1960, Johnson began to develop an aircraft that would flythree miles higher and five times faster than the spy plane-and still becapable of photographing your license plate. However, flying at 2,000 mphwould create intense heat on the aircraft's skin. Lockheed engineers used atitanium alloy to construct more than 90 percent of the SR-71, creatingspecial tools and manufacturing procedures to hand-build each of the 40planes. Special heat-resistant fuel, oil, and hydraulic fluids that wouldfunction at 85,000 feet and higher also had to be developed. In 1962, thefirst Blackbird successfully flew, and in 1966, the same year I graduatedfrom high school, the Air Force began flying operational SR-71 missions. Icame to the program in 1983 with a sterling record and a recommendation frommy commander, completing the weeklong interview and meeting Walter, mypartner for the next four years. He would ride four feet behind me, workingall the cameras, radios, and electronic jamming equipment. I joked that ifwe were ever captured, he was the spy and I was just the driver. He told meto keep the pointy end forward. We trained for a year, flying out of BealeAFB in California, Kadena Airbase in Okinawa, and RAF Mindenhall in England.On a typical training mission, we would take off near Sacramento, refuelover Nevada, accelerate into Montana, obtain high Mach over Colorado, turnright over New Mexico, speed across the Los Angeles Basin, run up the WestCoast, turn right at Seattle , then return to Beale. Total flight time: two hours and 40 minutes. One day, high above Arizona, we were monitoringthe radio traffic of all the mortal airplanes below us. First, a Cessnapilot asked the air traffic controllers to check his ground speed. 'Ninetyknots,' ATC replied. A twin Bonanza soon made the same request. 'One-twentyon the ground,' was the reply. To our surprise, a navy F-18 came over the radio with aground speed check. I knew exactly what he was doing. Of course, he had aground speed indicator in his cockpit, but he wanted to let all thebug-smashers in the valley know what real speed was. 'Dusty 52, we show youat 620 on the ground,' ATC responded. The situation was too ripe. I heard the click of Walter'smike button in the rear seat. In his most innocent voice, Walter startledthe controller by asking for a ground speed check from 81,000 feet, clearlyabove controlled airspace. In a cool, professional voice, the controllerreplied, 'Aspen 20, I show you at 1,982 knots on the ground.' We did nothear another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast. TheBlackbird always showed us something new, each aircraft possessing its ownunique 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 seeand hear the mighty SR-71. You could not be a part of this program and notcome to love the airplane. Slowly, she revealed her secrets to us as weearned her trust. One moonless night, while flying a routine trainingmission over the Pacific, I wondered what the sky would look like from84,000 feet if the cockpit lighting were dark. While heading home on astraight course, I slowly turned down all of the lighting, reducing theglare and revealing the night sky. Within seconds, I turned the lights backup, fearful that the jet would know and somehow punish me. But my desire tosee the sky overruled my caution, and I dimmed the lighting again. To myamazement, I saw a bright light outside my window. As my eyes adjusted tothe view, I realized that the brilliance was the broad expanse of the MilkyWay, now a gleaming stripe across the sky. Where dark spaces in the sky hadusually existed, there were now dense clusters of sparkling stars. Shootingstars flashed across the canvas every few seconds. It was like a fireworksdisplay 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 thecockpit lighting still off, I could see every gauge, lit by starlight. Inthe plane's mirrors, I could see the eerie shine of my gold spacesuitincandescently illuminated in a celestial glow. I stole one last glance outthe window. Despite our speed, we seemed still before the heavens, humbledin the radiance of a much greater power. For those few moments, I felt apart of something far more significant than anything we were doing in theplane. The sharp sound of Walt's voice on the radio brought me back to thetasks at hand as I prepared for our descent. The SR-71 was an expensiveaircraft to operate. The most significant cost was tanker support, and in1990, confronted with budget cutbacks, the Air Force retired the SR-71. TheBlackbird had outrun nearly 4,000 missiles, not once taking a scratch fromenemy fire. On her final flight, the Blackbird, destined for the SmithsonianNational Air and Space Museum, sped from Los Angeles to Washington in 64minutes, averaging 2,145 mph and setting four speed records. The SR-71served six presidents, protecting America for a quarter of a century.Unbeknownst to most of the country, the plane flew over North Vietnam, RedChina, North Korea, t he Middle East, South Africa, Cuba, Nicaragua, Iran,Libya, and the Falkland Islands. On a weekly basis, the SR-71 kept watchover every Soviet nuclear submarine and mobile missile site, and all oftheir troop movements. It was a key factor in winning the Cold War. I amproud to say I flew about 500 hours in this aircraft. I knew her well.Shegave way to no plane, proudly dragging her sonic boom through enemybackyards with great impunity. She defeated every missile, outran every MiG,and always brought us home. In the first 100 years of manned flight, noaircraft was more remarkable. With the Libyan coast fast approaching now,Walt asks me for the third time if I think the jet will get to the speed andaltitude we want in time. I tell him yes. I know he is concerned. He isdealing with the data; that's what engineers do, and I am glad he is. But Ihave my hands on the stick and throttles and can feel the heart of athoroughbred, running now with the power and perfection she was designed topossess. I also talk to her. Like the combat veteran she is, the jet sensesthe target area and seems to prepare herself. For the first time in twodays, the inlet door closes flush and all vibration is gone. We've become soused to the constant buzzing that the jet sounds quiet now in comparison.The Mach correspondingly increases slightly and the jet is flying in thatconfidently smooth and steady style we have so often seen at these speeds.We reach our target altitude and speed, with five miles to spare. Enteringthe target area, in response to the jet's new-found vitality, Walt says,'That's amazing' and with my left hand pushing two throttles fartherforward, I think to myself that there is much they don't teach inengineering school. Out my left window, Libya looks like one huge sandbox. Afeatureless brown terrain stretches all the way to the horizon. There is nosign of any activity. Then Walt tells me that he is getting lots ofelectronic signals, and they are not the friendly kind. The jet isperforming perfectly now, flying better than she has in weeks. She seems to know where she is. She likes the high Mach, as we penetratedeeper into Libyan airspace. Leaving the footprint of our sonic boom acrossBenghazi, I sit motionless, with stilled hands on throttles and the pitchcontrol, my eyes glued to the gauges. Only the Mach indicator is moving,steadily increasing in hundredths, in a rhythmic consistency similar to thelong 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 anerrant inlet door make her miss the show. With the power of fortylocomotives, we puncture the quiet African sky and continue farther southacross a bleak landscape. Walt continues to update me with numerousreactions he sees on th e DEF panel. He is receiving missile trackingsignals. With each mile we traverse, every two seconds, I become moreuncomfortable driving deeper into this barren and hostile land. I am gladthe 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 jetpurrs and relishes her new-found strength, continuing to slowly accelerate.The spikes are full aft now, tucked twenty-six inches deep into thenacelles. With all inlet doors tightly shut, at 3.24 Mach, the J-58s aremore like ramjets now, gulping 100,000 cubic feet of air per second. We area roaring express now, and as we roll through the enemy's backyard, I hopeour speed continues to defeat the missile radars below. We are approaching aturn, and this is good. It will only make it more difficult for any launchedmissile to solve the solution for hitting our aircraft. I push the speed upat Walt's re quest. The jet does not skip a beat, nothing fluctuates, andthe cameras have a rock steady platform. Walt received missile launch signals. Before he can say anything else, myleft hand instinctively moves the throttles yet farther forward. My eyes areglued to temperature gauges now, as I know the jet will willingly go tospeeds that can harm her. The temps are relatively cool and from all thewarm temps we've encountered thus far, this surprises me but then, it reallydoesn't surprise me. Mach 3.31 and Walt are quiet for the moment. I move my gloved finder acrossthe small silver wheel on the autopilot panel which controls the aircraft'spitch. 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 thepitch wheel somewhere between one-sixteenth and one-eighth inch, location aposition which yields the 500-foot-per-minute climb I desire. The jet raisesher nose one-sixth of a degree and knows I'll push her higher as she goesfaster. The Mach continues to rise, but during this segment of our route, Iam in no mood to pull throttles back. Walt's voice pierces the quiet of mycockpit with the news of more missile launch signals. The gravity ofWalter's voice tells me that he believes the signals to be a more validthreat than the others. Within seconds he tells me to 'push it up' and Ifirmly press both throttles against their stops. For the next few second Iwill let the jet go as fast as she wants. A final turn is coming up and weboth know that if we can hit that turn at this speed, we most likely willdefeat any missiles. We are not there yet, though, and I'm wondering if Waltwill call for a defensive turn off our course. With no words spoken, I senseWalter is thinking in concert with me about maintaining our programmedcourse. To keep from worrying, I glance outside, wondering if I'll be ableto visually pick up a missile aimed at us. Odd are the thoughts that wanderthrough one's mind in times like these. I found myself recalling the wordsof former SR-71 pilots who were fired upon while flying missions over NorthVietnam. They said the few errant missile detonations they were able toobserve from the cockpit looked like implosions rather than explosions. Thiswas due to the great speed at which the jet was hurling away from theexploding missile. I see nothing outside except the endless expanse of asteel blue sky and the broad patch of tan earth far below. I have only hadmy eyes out of the cockpit for seconds, but it seems like many minutes sinceI have last checked the gauges inside. Returning my attention inward, Iglance first at the miles counter telling me how many more to go until wecan start our turn. Then I note the Mach, and passing beyond 3.45, I realizethat Walter and I have attained new personal records. The Mach continues toincrease. The ride is incredibly smooth. There seems to be a confirmed trust now, between me and the jet; she willnot hesitate to deliver whatever speed we need, and I can count on noproblems 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 outsidetemperatures have awakened the spirit born into her years ago, when mendedicated to excellence took the time and care to build her well. Withspikes and doors as tight as they can get we are racing against the time itcould take a missile to reach our altitude. It is a race this jet will notlet us lose. The Mach eases to 3.5 as we crest80,000 feet. We are a bullet now - except faster. We hit the turn, and Ifeel some relief as our nose swings away from a country we have seen quiteenough of. Screaming past Tripoli, our phenomenal speed continues to rise, and thescreaming Sled pummels the enemy one more time, laying down a parting sonicboom. In seconds, we can see nothing but the expansive blue of theMediterranean .I realize that I still have my left hand full-forward andwe're continuing to rocket along in maximum afterburner. The TDI now showsus Mach numbers not only new to our experience but flat out scary. Walt saysthe DEF panel is now quiet and I know it is time to reduce our incrediblespeed. I pull the throttles to the min 'burner range and the jet stilldoesn't want to slow down. Normally, the Mach would be affected immediatelywhen making such a large throttle movement. But for just a few moments, old 960 just sat out there at the high Mach sheseemed to love and, like the proud Sled she was, only began to slow when wewere well out of danger. I loved that jet. Brian Shul *________________________________________________________________________________

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Original Posted By: "Gboothe5"
Thanks, Gary. No hurry, since I have not started the wing, yet!Ray Krause----- Original Message -----

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Original Posted By: dmott9(at)aol.com
Sorry if these already came through, but if not, here are the photospertaining to my post of yesterday of my exhaust/muffler/heat muff combo.Douwe________________________________________________________________________________Subject: Re: Pietenpol-List: FW: I was piloting the SR-71 spy plane

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Original Posted By: Peter W Johnson
Major Brian Shul is the author of Sled Driver, a fascinating account of his experiences as a pilot of the SR-71 Blackbird. The book has been out of print for two years now, but now you can buy one of the 3,500 limited edition copies=94signed by Shul and other SR-71 legends=94here. There are only a few left, so hurry up.-----Original Message-----

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Original Posted By: Douwe Blumberg
Douwe,I love the shape of your cowl. So many of the "aircraft engine" Piets look a little odd in the front. (don't kill the messenger)Can't wait to see it in person with that very cool exhaust stack set-up!!!Dan HelsperPuryear, TN-----Original Message-----

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Original Posted By: "Peter W Johnson"
Peter, I had read that on the 'net before but I read and enjoyed it again. I just can't imagine going that fast and that high. My limit (in a propellor driven aircraft) was about 25,000 feet and 300 knots -- a lot slower and lower than the article describes. C----- Original Message -----