Greg Meyer
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- Sep 27, 2001
- Messages
- 7,834
- Reaction score
- 19
Written by Brian Schul - former sled (SR-71 Blackbird) driver
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.
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.
