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Text File | 2010-01-09 | 7KB | 143 lines

[Excerpted from the book _Sled Driver: Flying the World's Fastest Jet_
by retired USAF fighter pilot Brian Shul.]


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
plan, 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 HoustonCenterControllers, 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.

"Ah, Twin Beech:  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 important,
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.