These SR-71 Blackbirds
Discussion
knight said:
One of the good things about being in my forties is having been able to see the SR71 flying on more than one occaision, both at Mildenhall and Greenham/Fairford shows 
Saw the SR71 fly at Mildenhall too - twice I think - just awesome.I remember the commentary that went along the lines of "The crew have to throttle back at this point - otherwise the display will end in Germany".
Miss the Mildenhall airshows - have spent a lot of time in the US but have never encountered anything similar to the "SAC Wet Burger".
hornetrider said:
Is there ever a bad time for this?
There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71 Blackbird (The Air Force/NASA super fast, highest flying reconnaissance jet, nicknamed, "The Sled"), 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 who asked Center for a read-out 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 in 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 read-out? 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.
Moral of the story, never willy wave with a blackbird pilot. There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71 Blackbird (The Air Force/NASA super fast, highest flying reconnaissance jet, nicknamed, "The Sled"), 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 who asked Center for a read-out 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 in 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 read-out? 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.
knight said:
One of the good things about being in my forties is having been able to see the SR71 flying on more than one occaision, both at Mildenhall and Greenham/Fairford shows
I was also fortunate enough to see one of the last few airshow displays of a SR-71 in it's final year of USAF service, in 1997.
Tango13 said:
This is the original un-embelished version taken straight from the book...
<snip>
I have a vague recollection that there are two editions of the book. The text was substantially rewritten in the second (much more expensive) limited edition; possibly some more pictures were added. Not sure about that last bit. <snip>
Seight_Returns said:
Miss the Mildenhall airshows - have spent a lot of time in the US but have never encountered anything similar to the "SAC Wet Burger".
- sigh* I miss Mildenhall airshows too, although not sure if that's due to the aircraft or that one year I hooked up with a rather fit lass whose dad was PAVE LOW driver... he didn't like me... but was a very happy 4 months...
Jandywa said:
hornetrider said:
Is there ever a bad time for this?
There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71 Blackbird (The Air Force/NASA super fast, highest flying reconnaissance jet, nicknamed, "The Sled"), 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 who asked Center for a read-out 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 in 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 read-out? 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.
Moral of the story, never willy wave with a blackbird pilot. There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71 Blackbird (The Air Force/NASA super fast, highest flying reconnaissance jet, nicknamed, "The Sled"), 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 who asked Center for a read-out 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 in 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 read-out? 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.
BTW I think he meant 'enunciation' not 'alliteration' above. I wouldn't bother pointing it out to him in person mind.
Tango13 said:
I earlier posted photographs taken from the actual book that cost me £250 for a third edition. So yes, I can provide custard if you really want it! I have no doubt that the exchange actually took place and the interweb has blown the actual truth out of all reality!
Does mentioning the (excessive) price of the book make this statement more credible?The stories in 'Sled' are inspirational. I love the idea of just letting the 'bird fly as fast as she wants to go over Libya, but does anyone have any idea just how fast and high the SR71 actually went? (So not the officially quoted figures.)
The story is deliberately vague about this I guess!
The story is deliberately vague about this I guess!
I often wonder when the enemy launched the missiles they chanted....
Where be that Blackbird to? I know where he be,
He be up yon in da sky , And he be after me!
Now I sees he, And he sees I,
Buggered if I don’t get ‘en
With a gurt big missile I’ll knock ‘im down
Blackbird I’ll ‘ave he!
La la la la la la
La la la la la la
‘Ow’s ‘E Father?
Alright!
But in an Iraq accent of course
Where be that Blackbird to? I know where he be,
He be up yon in da sky , And he be after me!
Now I sees he, And he sees I,
Buggered if I don’t get ‘en
With a gurt big missile I’ll knock ‘im down
Blackbird I’ll ‘ave he!
La la la la la la
La la la la la la
‘Ow’s ‘E Father?
Alright!
But in an Iraq accent of course
chilistrucker said:
never seen one of these, and duxford is not far from me,
hmmmmm
Go and have a look even with out the blackbird, Duxford is a very cool museum. All of the storeys do not prepare you for how cool, interesting and detailed the blackbird is. I managed to spend a good hour looking at it and would like to go back to see what I missed. hmmmmm
Did the Lockheed SR-71 blackbird ever fly reconnaissance missions over the falkland islands? YES...
I've seen this asked many times and I know the answer is YES. In 1982, at 20 years old, I was an electrician's apprentice for a contractor in So California.
It was a small company in Corona, CA and one weekend I was asked to meet my boss early Monday morning to carpool with him to a jobsite in Palmdale, CA. That morning, the first thing he said to me was that he wasn't going to tell me anything about the job details were until we arrived. It turned out to be at Edwards AFB / Skunkworks facility. Installing control and power wiring from a security guard shack approx. a 1/4 mile down a fenceline to a junction box and connecting to a controller/motor for a gate opener. Giving security personell the ability to open & close a rolling chain-link fence gate section that would separate hangars from the runway areas.
I don't remember the exact date in 1982 but it was probably early to mid May. The Faukland Island conflict was just getting serious and I remember the boss and I discussing it on the drive. The job took 5 days. Keep in mind I had never heard of Skunkworks, a U2, a Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird, nothing before this.
Day 2 there were two U2 Spyplanes parked near our work area. The boss took the opportunity to fill me in on what they were, their history, etc. And clues me in to how it took a month to have everything about me and my background info cleared, verified and approved to enter and work at the facility. Very cool, yet very intimidating, right?
The boss had one of those real magnetic and friendly personalities. Real intelligent and funny as well. Day 2 around quitting time, the boss was obviously charming the information outta people again. He runs up to me and says something like, "they're gonna roll out the SR-71, wait till you see this". It was rolled out of the main hangar and I was so blown away. It was straight outta 'Star Wars' and just incredible. I was told not to stare at it but every chance I got, I looked. I was told they're gonna do some recon over the Faukland Islands on Thursday (day 4) and I was loving this jobsite. So cool.
Day 3 was all about digging the long conduit trench with the SR-71 parked right near me, engines on, all day. I had hearing protection but it was still loud. Techs were constantly monitoring it and every hour or so they would power up the afterburner mode for a few minutes. Incredible.
Day 4 we arrived at 6:00AM. Before I forget, let me add here that I remember the two U2's had flew in and out of the base once, maybe twice during the week. Where or why I don't know but it wasn't the Faulkland Islands. Maybe just training..? At 7:00AM they did final prep on the SR-71. Apparently the word gets around town quickly when the Blackbird will fly because many people lined the exterior fence of the base early. Kind of a spectacle as it well should be. After the SR is warmed up and lined up on the runway, two F-14s first take off as spotters. They do a wide circle and position themselves to come up from behind the SR, in the air, one on each side. The Blackbird starts to roll out as they get near and fly along side while the SR builds speed down the runway. Eventually the SR passes the F-14s and becomes airbourne, increasing power it quickly points nearly verticle, climbs and is out of sight in no time. Probably 8:15AM at that point and it seems like I remember it return with it's bright orange parachute around 4:45PM. Approx. 8.5 hours, the Faukland Islands are 7000 miles or so, one way. 3 hrs each way including refueling and a couple of hours for recon. Sounds like a great 8 hour work day. Fly around at Mach 3 at 70,000+ feet, 'kaboom' thru the sound barrier a couple of times, outrun a missle or two? I can dig it.
Day 5, gate work completed amd tested. Adventure completed. One more little side note... on day 4 or 5 there was an incident where one of the SR-71 or U2 pilots was temporarily detained after he was allegedly seen taking a photograph of the SR-71. It was out in the open, more or less. Not like he was sneaking around. As far as charges or any related outcome of trial or proceedings. I have no idea.
All a great experience for me. A few years later the SR-71's veil of secrecy was lifted and I was able to show people pics and learn more about that and other black projects. And share my story. Thanks for your time.
I've seen this asked many times and I know the answer is YES. In 1982, at 20 years old, I was an electrician's apprentice for a contractor in So California.
It was a small company in Corona, CA and one weekend I was asked to meet my boss early Monday morning to carpool with him to a jobsite in Palmdale, CA. That morning, the first thing he said to me was that he wasn't going to tell me anything about the job details were until we arrived. It turned out to be at Edwards AFB / Skunkworks facility. Installing control and power wiring from a security guard shack approx. a 1/4 mile down a fenceline to a junction box and connecting to a controller/motor for a gate opener. Giving security personell the ability to open & close a rolling chain-link fence gate section that would separate hangars from the runway areas.
I don't remember the exact date in 1982 but it was probably early to mid May. The Faukland Island conflict was just getting serious and I remember the boss and I discussing it on the drive. The job took 5 days. Keep in mind I had never heard of Skunkworks, a U2, a Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird, nothing before this.
Day 2 there were two U2 Spyplanes parked near our work area. The boss took the opportunity to fill me in on what they were, their history, etc. And clues me in to how it took a month to have everything about me and my background info cleared, verified and approved to enter and work at the facility. Very cool, yet very intimidating, right?
The boss had one of those real magnetic and friendly personalities. Real intelligent and funny as well. Day 2 around quitting time, the boss was obviously charming the information outta people again. He runs up to me and says something like, "they're gonna roll out the SR-71, wait till you see this". It was rolled out of the main hangar and I was so blown away. It was straight outta 'Star Wars' and just incredible. I was told not to stare at it but every chance I got, I looked. I was told they're gonna do some recon over the Faukland Islands on Thursday (day 4) and I was loving this jobsite. So cool.
Day 3 was all about digging the long conduit trench with the SR-71 parked right near me, engines on, all day. I had hearing protection but it was still loud. Techs were constantly monitoring it and every hour or so they would power up the afterburner mode for a few minutes. Incredible.
Day 4 we arrived at 6:00AM. Before I forget, let me add here that I remember the two U2's had flew in and out of the base once, maybe twice during the week. Where or why I don't know but it wasn't the Faulkland Islands. Maybe just training..? At 7:00AM they did final prep on the SR-71. Apparently the word gets around town quickly when the Blackbird will fly because many people lined the exterior fence of the base early. Kind of a spectacle as it well should be. After the SR is warmed up and lined up on the runway, two F-14s first take off as spotters. They do a wide circle and position themselves to come up from behind the SR, in the air, one on each side. The Blackbird starts to roll out as they get near and fly along side while the SR builds speed down the runway. Eventually the SR passes the F-14s and becomes airbourne, increasing power it quickly points nearly verticle, climbs and is out of sight in no time. Probably 8:15AM at that point and it seems like I remember it return with it's bright orange parachute around 4:45PM. Approx. 8.5 hours, the Faukland Islands are 7000 miles or so, one way. 3 hrs each way including refueling and a couple of hours for recon. Sounds like a great 8 hour work day. Fly around at Mach 3 at 70,000+ feet, 'kaboom' thru the sound barrier a couple of times, outrun a missle or two? I can dig it.
Day 5, gate work completed amd tested. Adventure completed. One more little side note... on day 4 or 5 there was an incident where one of the SR-71 or U2 pilots was temporarily detained after he was allegedly seen taking a photograph of the SR-71. It was out in the open, more or less. Not like he was sneaking around. As far as charges or any related outcome of trial or proceedings. I have no idea.
All a great experience for me. A few years later the SR-71's veil of secrecy was lifted and I was able to show people pics and learn more about that and other black projects. And share my story. Thanks for your time.
aeropilot said:
gazapc said:
Seight_Returns said:
Note the casual reference in the link to overflights of the Falkland Islands. It doesn't state that it was during the 1982 conflict but have read references elsewhere of US photo reconnaissance assisting the UK during the conflict.
Where would they have flown from and to to overfly the Falklands ?
The Pentagon went to the extent of publically denying SR71 flights over the islands, maybe that tells us all we need to know about what did happen...Where would they have flown from and to to overfly the Falklands ?
http://www.flightglobal.com/pdfarchive/view/1982/1...
God knows how many tankers they would have needed to get it there, they could have hardly flown it from Ascension with no one noticing though.
So entirely possible. Whether it happened or not is another matter though.
Edited by 14rockn on Tuesday 8th October 08:15
I would not be at all surprised if the SR-71 (A-12.. can't remenber when the USAF got theirs) did overfly the Falklands during the '82 skirmish.
However I think 14rockn's post is somewhat fishy. I find it very hard to believe that 'his boss' who was working on installing a gate on site was able to find out a couple of days before hand that:
1) There would be an SR-71 mission
2) Where it was going.
or that people outside of the 'need to know' group knew before hand and so were able to line the perimeter fence.
That sort of information would have be classified way above pretty much everyone's pay grade. Nice story, but some exageration or embelishment going on IMHO.
Back on the original topic, it would be nice to know the 'real' max altitude and speeds acheived by the A-12/SR-71. I would not be surprised if significantly higher than the published figures.
I have a friend who did some test flights on our RN F-4s to investigate techniques for very high altitude (high planes, low satellites...) intercepts decades ago but he still won't tell me how high they went, other than 'very hight' and 'we had to wear pressure suits'. So I'm sure the SR-71 has some secrets that no one is telling on yet! (let alone the speeds and alt of Auroroa!)
However I think 14rockn's post is somewhat fishy. I find it very hard to believe that 'his boss' who was working on installing a gate on site was able to find out a couple of days before hand that:
1) There would be an SR-71 mission
2) Where it was going.
or that people outside of the 'need to know' group knew before hand and so were able to line the perimeter fence.
That sort of information would have be classified way above pretty much everyone's pay grade. Nice story, but some exageration or embelishment going on IMHO.
Back on the original topic, it would be nice to know the 'real' max altitude and speeds acheived by the A-12/SR-71. I would not be surprised if significantly higher than the published figures.
I have a friend who did some test flights on our RN F-4s to investigate techniques for very high altitude (high planes, low satellites...) intercepts decades ago but he still won't tell me how high they went, other than 'very hight' and 'we had to wear pressure suits'. So I'm sure the SR-71 has some secrets that no one is telling on yet! (let alone the speeds and alt of Auroroa!)
c7xlg said:
I have a friend who did some test flights on our RN F-4s to investigate techniques for very high altitude (high planes, low satellites...) intercepts decades ago but he still won't tell me how high they went, other than 'very hight' and 'we had to wear pressure suits'.
??I'd be gosmacked if that was true given that the Spey engined UK F-4K/M was rubbish at higher altitudes compared with the US J-79 engined version, and even those couldn't get anywhere near the altitudes a Lightning could get to.
I do recall a RAF F-4 pilot claiming the only non-Lightning partially successful intercept against a Concorde, but IIRC, that was in one of the J-79 engined F-4J versions flown by 74 Sqn...??
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