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The Fastest Guys Out There

2009-03-06 15:02:59

Being from Burbank, with Dad having access to the Skunk Works, I always

considered the legendary Lockheed SR-71 to be a kind of hometown product, much

in the same way that residents of Vidalia, Georgia look upon their onion. Now,

the SR-71 is a classified and very expensive hometown product, but it s a

hometown product nevertheless. I got a kick out of this little tale of aviation

one-upmanship. - Wes

Written by Brian Schul - former sled 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 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 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.

in 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.