Written in 2011, Updated in 2022
In August 1979, I was on a tour of U.S. Air Bases in the Pacific with my Air Force customers. At Kadena Air Base on Okinawa, I was suited up and pressurized to "fly" in the SR-71 – the fastest, highest-flying, air-breathing aircraft ever built.
Preface
My Missive: In 2011, I received an email from a friend named Rich regarding the SR-71 Air Force reconnaissance plane nicknamed the Blackbird. It brought back memories of my own connection with the plane, and I wrote them down and included photos in this missive that I titled, "My Day in the Sun with the SR-71." I sent my missive in an email to a group of friends that I thought might enjoy it.
First Attachment: The article that Rich sent me is below my own story, and is titled, "Bye-Bye SR-71 Blackbird – An Interesting History Lesson," written by an SR-71 pilot. It is the story of the Blackbird that outran Qaddafi's surface-to-air missiles (SAMs) during a bomb damage assessment flight over Libya in 1986.
Second Attachment: My email kept circulating, and I received an SR-71 story from a guy I didn't know. His company supplied most of the titanium used to build these 'sleds,' as they were called by the pilots who flew them.
The story he sent me is titled, "Mach-3.18 In-Flight Breakup of an SR-71 Blackbird." It is a gut-wrenching story written by the Chief Test Pilot at Lockheed who built the plane. Amazingly, the pilot survived after being literally wrenched from his ejection seat and the disintegrating plane at supersonic speeds and extreme altitudes over New Mexico; however, the Lockheed flight-test specialist in the back seat did not make it.
Coda: My missive ends with a fitting song which pays tribute to the military wearing blue – the U.S. Air Force – that I so much enjoyed working with for many years, both my customers and the troops in the field around the world.
Prologue - The SR-71
The SR-71 Blackbird was a long-range (3,200 nautical miles without refueling), high-altitude (85,000 feet), high-speed (Mach 3.2) strategic reconnaissance aircraft developed and manufactured by Lockheed. It was operated by both the United States Air Force (USAF) and NASA from 1966-1999.
Mach 1 is the speed of sound, which under standard conditions is 768 mph. Mach 3 is three times the speed of sound, or about 2300 mph.
A nautical mile (nm) is 1.151 statute miles (miles), so 3,200 nm = 3,682 miles – more than enough range capability for the SR-71 to cross the U.S. (2,800 miles) without refueling.
In 1990, an SR-71 set the coast-to-coast speed record when it flew from Los Angeles to Washington, D.C., in 64 minutes, 20 seconds.
The SR-71 Blackbird
The SR-71 was developed as a black project during the 1960s by Lockheed's Skunk Works division.
A black project is a highly classified, top-secret military or defense project that is not publicly acknowledged by the government, military personnel, or contractors.
American aerospace engineer Clarence "Kelly" Johnson was responsible for many of the aircraft's innovative concepts. The SR-71 was one of the first aircraft whose shape was designed with a reduced radar cross-section.
Mission equipment for the reconnaissance role included signals intelligence sensors, side-looking airborne radar, and a camera. The SR-71 had a two-seat cockpit with the pilot in the front and the Reconnaissance Systems Officer or RSO in the back seat.
During its career, the SR-71 Blackbird gathered intelligence in some of the world’s most hostile environments. The SR-71 was conceived to operate at extreme velocities, altitudes and temperatures.
It was the first aircraft constructed with titanium, as the friction caused by air molecules passing over its surface at Mach 2.6 would melt a conventional aluminum frame. For weight and strength reasons, 85% of the plane was made of titanium. This expensive metal was used mostly on components that were exposed to the highest temperatures – the rest of the plane was made from polymer composites.
The aircraft entered service in January 1966. The first operational mission was flown from Kadena Air Base on Okinawa over Vietnam in March 1968.
During aerial reconnaissance missions, the SR-71 operated at high speeds and high altitudes, allowing it to outrace or entirely avoid threats. If a surface-to-air missile launch was detected, the standard evasive action was simply to accelerate and outpace the missile.
Of the 32 SR-71 aircraft that were built, 12 were lost in accidents. No Blackbird was ever lost or damaged due to hostile action – even though over 4,000 missiles were fired at the SR-71 during its service life.
Only one crew member, a Lockheed flight-test reconnaissance and navigation systems specialist, was killed in a flight accident (see the final story in this missive). The rest of the crew members ejected safely or evacuated their aircraft on the ground.
During 1988, the USAF retired the SR-71 largely for political reasons; several were briefly reactivated during the 1990s before their second retirement in 1998. NASA was the final operator of the Blackbird, retiring their aircraft in 1999.
As of 2022, the SR-71 still holds the world record it set in 1976 as the fastest and highest air-breathing manned aircraft.
Tour of the Pacific with My Air Force Customers in 1979
In the last half of the 1970s, I was working as a Systems Engineer for The Aerospace Corporation in El Segundo, CA. I am managing a contract with the Air Force, which deals with intelligence support to our tactical troops worldwide, in particular those in Europe, the Pacific and the U.S.
I had written a briefing on the results of the latest joint military exercise named Cope Pace in South Korea in the Fall of 1978. I spent three weeks with a few other engineers I took with me in the U.S. Intelligence Center in Seoul and at other U.S. military bases in the country. Our purpose was to analyze all of the intelligence data generated during the exercise to better support our tactical air and ground forces.
October 1978 in Seoul, South Korea, during Cope Pace: My military colleagues outside the Joint U.S./South Korean Intel Center are seeing me off. I am about to be flown by helicopter to brief the U.S. Army General in Uijeongbu* located 30 miles north of Seoul near the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ).
* The locale of the TV series MASH (Mobile Army Surgical Hospital) was near the town of Uijeongbu.
I am dressed in my Army-issue fatigues (with my non-issue turtleneck sweater and full-length leather coat, because it Is chilly out). [I was almost 'arrested' by the MPs on the base, because I was 'out of uniform.' But that is a story for another missive.]
In August 1979, I am invited to tour the Pacific with my Air Force counterparts while the Colonel presents my briefing to the U.S. Generals and their staffs in Hawaii, the Philippines, Japan and South Korea.
This was the only boondoggle of my entire career, since I had no official duties to perform on the entire trip – the Colonel wanted me along to back him up on technical details and as a reward for all of my hard work during the past year.
Neil, one of the Air Force Lt. Colonels that I travelled with, had formerly been the back seater (i.e., Reconnaissance Systems Officer or RSO) in the SR-71's based out of Kadena Air Base on Okinawa. On our way from Clark Air Base in the Philippines to Yokota Air Base near Tokyo in Japan, Neil arranges for us to stop over on Okinawa so he could visit his old stomping grounds.
Map of our stops on our tour of U.S. Air Force Bases in the Pacific in August 1979
Okinawa is a small island at the southwestern tip of the island chain below the major islands of Japan. We arrive on Okinawa in time for the weekly Friday night Strawberry Daiquiri party at the Officer's Club at Kadena Air Base.
Neil has arranged for our group to have a tour of the SR-71 and RC-135 reconnaissance facilities on the air base the following morning. Unbeknownst to me, he has also arranged for a big surprise!! I am to be suited up to 'fly' in the SR-71. During the daiquiri party, everyone is looking me over to see whose flight suit I would fit into – and I thought they were interested in my body!
The RC-135 reconnaissance aircraft, code-named RIVET JOINT, is a four-engine,
medium-weight reconnaissance aircraft designed and manufactured by Boeing.
The following morning, we start our tour in the dressing room for the crew of the SR-71. That is when I learn about my surprise after I am given a set of underwear to wear underneath the flight suit I will next be fitted into.
Because the SR-71 flies at near-space altitudes*, the two crew members need to be in a pressurized flight suit.
* A common definition of space is known as the Kármán Line, an imaginary boundary 62 miles above mean sea level. In theory, once this line is crossed, the atmosphere becomes too thin to provide enough lift for conventional aircraft to maintain flight. Although the 90,000-foot maximum altitude achieved by an SR-71 is far from 62 miles, the air is so thin that it qualifies as near-space.
The SR-71 flight suit was used by the astronauts on the first Apollo space flights, which began in 1968, until new spacesuits were designed.
Upper left: I am dressed in the underwear of one of the SR-71 pilots, waiting to don his flight suit. The Colonel who presents my briefing is to the left of me. The former RSO Neil is taking all of the photos, another surprise present for me.
Upper center: I am being fitted into my flight suit. My Air Force counterpart on my contract, Major Andy, is on the left.
Upper right: I am encased in the suit waiting for the next step.
Lower left: I am ready to try on the helmet.
Lower center: My helmet is being placed on my head before being attached to my suit. I love all of the attention.
Lower right: Lifting up the flight suit so the helmet can be attached. The suit is VERY heavy.*
* The suit itself weighs 28 pounds. The parachute and survival systems weigh 64 pounds – when they are added, the total weight will be 92 pounds!!
Upper left: Having the gloves attached, and thankful that I am not too claustrophobic.
Upper right: Strapped into the pressurizing equipment and being pressurized. Notice the strap from my crotch to my neck, which is necessary when the flight suit balloons out during pressurization.
Lower left: Now that my suit if fully pressurized,, I am handed the 'urine' tube, which if I were a male, I would have put on when I donned my underwear. They didn't have female pilots 'way back then,' so they didn't have to worry about the additional plumbing issues.
Lower right: Yours truly in the pilot's seat of the SR-71.
By the time I am taken out to the SR-71, I have been depressurized and removed from my flight suit. Although willing and able, I realize that I will not get to actually fly in the plane. Understandably, the government has restrictions on civilian passengers at that time.
Leaking Fuel: One thing that struck me when I first saw the SR-71 in person is that there were large vats inside the hangar underneath the plane to collect the constantly leaking fuel.
An SR-71 leaking fuel on the tarmac.
Since the plane flew at over three times the speed of sound (Mach 3+), its fuselage and fuel tanks needed to expand with the heat caused by the high speeds and the lack of pressure at high altitudes.
Fuselage panels were manufactured to fit only loosely when the aircraft was on the ground. Proper alignment was achieved as the airframe heated up and expanded several inches. Because of this, and the lack of a fuel-sealing system that was flexible and durable enough to handle the air frame’s expansion at extreme temperatures, the aircraft continuously leaked fuel while on the ground. The plane would stop leaking once the aircraft came up to temperature during flight.
Epilogue
Looking back, I realize that on this trip, I was at the epitome of my career in the Space and Defense Industry. I had a job that I loved, I travelled frequently over much of the world, and I was respected by my customers and colleagues for what we accomplished. Why did I ever take that promotion?
Postscript – In 1965, I Wanted to Be an Astronaut
Although in 1979 I wore an astronaut's spacesuit and was pressurized for flight (albeit in an SR-71), the truth is that 14 years earlier, I really wanted to become an astronaut. In early 1965 after I completed my Master’s Degree in Electrical Engineering, I heard that NASA was taking applications from female engineers who wanted to go into space. There were no female astronauts at that time.
My then husband approved of my decision and encouraged me to go for it. However, when I inquired about signing up, I was told that I had to have a PhD in Engineering in order to even be considered as a candidate (this was not a requirement for male astronauts).
After working my way through undergraduate and graduate schools (with the help of three scholarships) and struggling against the sex discrimination* that was present then, I wasn’t ready to get a PhD just to even be able to apply to be an astronaut.
* An example of the sex discrimination I faced in school was that my advisor in graduate school told me I would never get a PhD in his department, in spite of having a 3.5 grade point average – he didn't think that I was serious about being an engineer because I had been pregnant and had a baby during mid-term exams.
* Another example is when an assistant professor in one of my classes in my final term in undergraduate school gave me a D- in the course. He happened to be dating one of my roommates at the time, and she told me later that he didn't believe that I could get through electrical engineering school without cheating.
I realize now that, even if I had a PhD, I never had a chance of becoming an astronaut at that time – especially the first female astronaut – because I had a year-old son.
December 1965: Myself with my son Mike (age 2)
I was born 20 years before my time.
• The first American astronaut, Sally Ride, didn’t go into space until 1983 (the first two females into space were Soviet cosmonauts in 1963 and 1982). She had a PhD in physics. She died in 2012 at age 61 of pancreatic cancer.
• Judith Resnik (the fourth woman, and second American woman) went into space in 1984. She died on her second mission in the Space Shuttle Challenger disaster in 1986 at age 36 due to a structural failure during the ascent phase after launch, which killed all seven crew members. She had a PhD in electrical engineering.
• As of March 2022, there have been 72 women who have made it into space, including 57 American women. The first mother went into space in 1984.
Post Postscript – My Missive Was Published
My favorite magazine is Rolling Hills Living, which is published monthly solely for the residents of Rolling Hills, CA, where I live. The publisher often includes missives that I write, and "My Day in the Sun with the SR-71" was in the January 2013 issue.
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First Attachment
Bye-Bye SR-71 Blackbird – An Interesting History Lesson
By Major Brian Shul, SR-71 Pilot
In April 1986, following an attack on American soldiers in a Berlin disco, President Reagan ordered the bombing of Muammar Qaddafi's terrorist camps in Libya. My duty was to fly over Libya and take photos recording the damage our F-111's had inflicted.
Qaddafi had established a 'line of death,' a territorial marking across the Gulf of Sidra, swearing to shoot down any intruder that crossed the boundary. On the morning of April 15, I rocketed past the line at 2,125 mph.
I was piloting the SR-71 spy plane, the world's fastest jet, accompanied by a Marine Major Walter Watson (Walt), the aircraft's reconnaissance systems officer (RSO). We had crossed into Libya and were approaching our final turn over the bleak desert landscape when Walt informed me that he was receiving missile launch signals. I quickly increased our speed, calculating the time it would take for the weapons – most likely SA-2 and SA-4 surface-to-air missiles capable of Mach 5 – to reach our altitude. I estimated that we could beat the rocket-powered missiles to the turn and stayed our course, betting our lives on the plane's performance.
After several agonizingly long seconds, we made the turn and blasted toward the Mediterranean. 'You might want to pull it back,' Walt suggested. It was then that I noticed I still had the throttles full forward. The plane was flying a mile every 1.6 seconds, well above our Mach 3.2 limit. It was the fastest we would ever fly. I pulled the throttles to idle just south of Sicily, but we still overran the refueling tanker awaiting us over Gibraltar.
Scores of significant aircraft have been produced in the 100 years of flight following the achievements of the Wright brothers, 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 machines that 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 the fastest plane ever – and only 93 Air Force pilots ever steered the 'sled,' as we called our aircraft.
The SR-71 was the brainchild of Kelly Johnson, the famed Lockheed designer who created the P-38, the F-104 Starfighter, and the U-2. After the Soviets shot down Gary Powers' U-2 in 1960, Johnson began to develop an aircraft that would fly three miles higher and five times faster than the spy plane – and still be capable of photographing your license plate. However, flying at 2,000 mph would create intense heat on the aircraft's skin. Lockheed engineers used a titanium alloy to construct more than 90 percent of the SR-71, creating special tools and manufacturing procedures to hand-build each of the 40 planes. Special heat-resistant fuel, oil, and hydraulic fluids that would function at 85,000 feet and higher also had to be developed.
In 1962, the first Blackbird successfully flew, and in 1966, the same year I graduated from high school, the Air Force began flying operational SR-71 missions. I came to the program in 1983 with a sterling record and a recommendation from my commander, completing the weeklong interview and meeting Walt, my partner for the next four years. He would ride four feet behind me, working all the cameras, radios and electronic jamming equipment. I joked that if we were ever captured, he was the spy and I was just the driver. He told me to keep the pointy end forward.
We trained for a year, flying out of Beale AFB in California, Kadena Air Base on Okinawa , and RAF Mildenhall in England. On a typical training mission, we would take off near Sacramento, refuel over Nevada, accelerate into Montana, obtain high Mach over Colorado, turn right over New Mexico, speed across the Los Angeles Basin, run up the West Coast, turn right at Seattle, then return to Beale. Total flight time: two hours and 40 minutes.
One day, high above Arizona, we were monitoring the radio traffic of all the mortal airplanes below us. First, a Cessna pilot asked the air traffic controllers to check his ground speed. 'Ninety knots,' ATC replied. A Bonanza soon made the same request. 'One-twenty on the ground,' was the reply. To our surprise, a navy F-18 came over the radio with a ground speed check. I knew exactly what he was doing. Of course, he had a ground speed indicator in his cockpit, but he wanted to let all the bug-smashers in the valley know what real speed was. 'Dusty 52, we show you at 620 on the ground,' ATC responded.
The situation was too ripe. I heard the click of Walt's mike button in the rear seat. In his most innocent voice, Walt startled the controller by asking for a ground speed check from 81,000 feet, clearly above controlled airspace. In a cool, professional voice, the controller replied, 'Aspen 20, I show you at 1,982 knots on the ground.' We did not hear another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.
The Blackbird always showed us something new, each aircraft possessing its own unique 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 who wanted to see and hear the mighty SR-71 could not be a part of this program and not come to love the airplane. Slowly, she revealed her secrets to us as we earned her trust.
One moonless night, while flying a routine training mission over the Pacific, I wondered what the sky would look like from 84,000 feet if the cockpit lighting were dark. While heading home on a straight course, I slowly turned down all of the lighting, reducing the glare and revealing the night sky. Within seconds, I turned the lights back up, fearful that the jet would know and somehow punish me. But my desire to see the sky overruled my caution, and I dimmed the lighting again. To my amazement, I saw a bright light outside my window. As my eyes adjusted to the view, I realized that the brilliance was the broad expanse of the Milky Way, now a gleaming stripe across the sky. Where dark spaces in the sky had usually existed, there were now dense clusters of sparkling stars. Shooting stars flashed across the canvas every few seconds. It was like a fireworks display 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 the cockpit lighting still off, I could see every gauge, lit by starlight. In the plane's mirrors, I could see the eerie shine of my gold spacesuit incandescently illuminated in a celestial glow. I stole one last glance out the window. Despite our speed, we seemed still before the heavens, humbled in the radiance of a much greater power. For those few moments, I felt a part of something far more significant than anything we were doing in the plane. The sharp sound of Walt's voice on the radio brought me back to the tasks at hand, as I prepared for our descent.
The SR-71 was an expensive aircraft to operate. The most significant cost was tanker support, and in 1990, confronted with budget cutbacks, the Air Force retired the SR-71. The SR-71 served six presidents, protecting America for a quarter of a century. Unbeknownst to most of the country, the plane flew over North Vietnam, Red China, North Korea, the Middle East, South Africa, Cuba, Nicaragua, Iran, Libya, and the Falkland Islands. On a weekly basis, the SR-71 kept watch over every Soviet nuclear submarine and mobile missile site, and all of their troop movements. It was a key factor in winning the Cold War.
I am proud to say I flew about 500 hours in this aircraft. I knew her well. She gave way to no plane, proudly dragging her sonic boom through enemy backyards with great impunity. She defeated every missile, outran every MiG, and always brought us home. In the first 100 years of manned flight, no aircraft was more remarkable. The Blackbird had outrun nearly 4,000 missiles, not once taking a scratch from enemy fire.
On her final flight, the Blackbird, destined for the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum, sped from Los Angeles to Washington in 64 minutes, averaging 2,145 mph and setting four speed records.
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Second Attachment
Mach-3.18 In-Flight Breakup of an SR-71 Blackbird
By Bill Weaver, Chief Test Pilot, Lockheed
Among professional aviators, there's a well-worn saying: Flying is simply hours of boredom punctuated by moments of stark terror. But I don't recall too many periods of boredom during my 30-year career with Lockheed, most of which was spent as a test pilot. By far, the most memorable flight occurred on January 25, 1966.
Jim Zwayer, a Lockheed flight-test specialist, and I were evaluating systems on an SR-71 Blackbird test from Edwards. We also were investigating procedures designed to reduce trim drag and improve high-Mach cruise performance. The latter involved flying with the center-of-gravity (CG) located further aft than normal, reducing the Blackbird's longitudinal stability.
We took off from Edwards at 11:20 a.m. and completed the mission's first leg without incident. After refueling from a KC-135 tanker, we turned eastbound, accelerated to a Mach 3.2 cruise speed and climbed to 78,000 ft., our initial cruise-climb altitude.
Several minutes into cruise, the right engine inlet's automatic control system malfunctioned, requiring a switch to manual control. The SR-71's inlet configuration was automatically adjusted during supersonic flight to decelerate airflow in the duct, slowing it to subsonic speed before reaching the engine's face. This was accomplished by the inlet's center-body spike translating aft, and by modulating the inlet's forward bypass doors. Normally, these actions were scheduled automatically as a function of Mach number, positioning the normal shock wave (where air flow becomes subsonic) inside the inlet to ensure optimum engine performance.
Without proper scheduling, disturbances inside the inlet could result in the shock wave being expelled forward - a phenomenon known as an "inlet unstart." That causes an instantaneous loss of engine thrust, explosive banging noises and violent yawing of the aircraft, like being in a train wreck. Unstarts were not uncommon at that time in the SR-71's development, but a properly functioning system would recapture the shock wave and restore normal operation.
On the planned test profile, we entered a programmed 35-degree bank turn to the right. An immediate unstart occurred on the right engine, forcing the aircraft to roll further right and start to pitch up. I jammed the control stick as far left and forward as it would go. No response. I instantly knew we were in for a wild ride. I attempted to tell Jim what was happening and to stay with the airplane until we reached a lower speed and altitude. I didn't think the chances of surviving an ejection at Mach 3.18 and 78,800 ft. were very good. However, g-forces built up so rapidly that my words came out garbled and unintelligible, as confirmed later by the cockpit voice recorder.
The cumulative effects of system malfunctions, reduced longitudinal stability, increased angle-of-attack in the turn, supersonic speed, high altitude and other factors imposed forces on the airframe that exceeded flight control authority and the stability augmentation system's ability to restore control. Everything seemed to unfold in slow motion. I learned later the time from event onset to catastrophic departure from controlled flight was only 2-3 seconds. Still trying to communicate with Jim, I blacked out, succumbing to extremely high g-forces.
Then the SR-71 literally disintegrated around us. From that point, I was just along for the ride, and my next recollection was a hazy thought that I was having a bad dream. Maybe I'll wake up and get out of this mess, I mused. Gradually regaining consciousness, I realized this was no dream; it had really happened. That also was disturbing, because I COULD NOT HAVE SURVIVED what had just happened.
I must be dead. Since I didn't feel bad – just a detached sense of euphoria – I decided being dead wasn't so bad after all. As full awareness took hold, I realized I was not dead. But somehow I had separated from the airplane. I had no idea how this could have happened; I hadn't initiated an ejection. The sound of rushing air and what sounded like straps flapping in the wind confirmed I was falling, but I couldn't see anything. My pressure suit's faceplate had frozen over and I was staring at a layer of ice. The pressure suit was inflated, so I knew an emergency oxygen cylinder in the seat kit attached to my parachute harness was functioning. It not only supplied breathing oxygen, but also pressurized the suit, preventing my blood from boiling at extremely high altitudes. I didn't appreciate it at the time, but the suit's pressurization had also provided physical protection from intense buffeting and g-forces. That inflated suit had become my own escape capsule.
My next concern was about stability and tumbling. Air density at high altitude is insufficient to resist a body's tumbling motions, and centrifugal forces high enough to cause physical injury could develop quickly. For that reason, the SR-71's parachute system was designed to automatically deploy a small-diameter stabilizing chute shortly after ejection and seat separation. Since I had not intentionally activated the ejection system – and assuming all automatic functions depended on a proper ejection sequence – it occurred to me the stabilizing chute may not have deployed. However, I quickly determined I was falling vertically and not tumbling. The little chute must have deployed and was doing its job. Next concern: the main parachute, which was designed to open automatically at 15,000 ft. Again, I had no assurance the automatic-opening function would work.
I couldn't ascertain my altitude, because I still couldn't see through the iced-up faceplate. There was no way to know how long I had been blacked-out nor how far I had fallen. I felt for the manual-activation D-ring on my chute harness, but with the suit inflated and my hands numbed by cold, I couldn't locate it. I decided I'd better open the faceplate, try to estimate my height above the ground, and then locate that "D" ring. Just as I reached for the faceplate, I felt the reassuring sudden deceleration of main-chute deployment. I raised the frozen faceplate and discovered its uplatch was broken. Using one hand to hold that plate up, I saw I was descending through a clear, winter sky with unlimited visibility. I was greatly relieved to see Jim's parachute coming down about a quarter of a mile away. I didn't think either of us could have survived the aircraft's breakup, so seeing that Jim had also escaped lifted my spirits incredibly.
I could also see burning wreckage on the ground a few miles from where we would land. The terrain didn't look at all inviting – a desolate, high plateau dotted with patches of snow and no signs of habitation. I tried to rotate the parachute and look in other directions, but with one hand devoted to keeping the face plate up and both hands numb from high-altitude, subfreezing temperatures, I couldn't manipulate the risers enough to turn.
Before the breakup, we'd started a turn in the New Mexico-Colorado-Oklahoma-Texas border region. The SR-71 had a turning radius of about 100 miles at that speed and altitude, so I wasn't even sure what state we were going to land in. But because it was about 3:00 p.m., I was certain we would be spending the night out here.
At about 300 ft. above the ground, I yanked the seat kit's release handle and made sure it was still tied to me by a long lanyard. Releasing the heavy kit ensured I wouldn't land with it attached to my derriere, which could break a leg or cause other injuries. I then tried to recall what survival items were in that kit, as well as techniques I had been taught in survival training. Looking down, I was startled to see a fairly large animal – perhaps an antelope – directly under me. Evidently, it was just as startled as I was, because it literally took off in a cloud of dust.
My first-ever parachute landing was pretty smooth. I landed on fairly soft ground, managing to avoid rocks, cacti and antelopes. My chute was still billowing in the wind though. I struggled to collapse it with one hand, holding the still-frozen faceplate up with the other. "Can I help you?" a voice said. Was I hearing things? I must be hallucinating. Then I looked up and saw a guy walking toward me, wearing a cowboy hat. A helicopter was idling a short distance behind him. If I had been at Edwards and told the search-and-rescue unit that I was going to bail out over the Rogers Dry Lake at a particular time of day, a crew couldn't have gotten to me as fast as that cowboy-pilot had.
The gentleman was Albert Mitchell, Jr., owner of a huge cattle ranch in northeastern New Mexico, and I had landed about 1.5 mi. from his ranch house – and from a hangar for his two-place Hughes helicopter. Amazed to see him, I replied I was having a little trouble with my chute. He walked over and collapsed the canopy, anchoring it with several rocks. He had seen Jim and me floating down and had radioed the New Mexico Highway Patrol, the Air Force and the nearest hospital.
Extracting myself from the parachute harness, I discovered the source of those flapping-strap noises heard on the way down. My seat belt and shoulder harness were still draped around me, attached and latched. The lap belt had been shredded on each side of my hips, where the straps had fed through knurled adjustment rollers. The shoulder harness had shredded in a similar manner across my back. The ejection seat had never left the airplane. I had been ripped out of it by the extreme forces, with the seat belt and shoulder harness still fastened. I also noted that one of the two lines that supplied oxygen to my pressure suit had come loose, and the other was barely hanging on. If that second line had become detached at high altitude, the deflated pressure suit wouldn't have provided any protection. I knew an oxygen supply was critical for breathing and suit-pressurization, but I didn't appreciate how much physical protection an inflated pressure suit could provide. That the suit could withstand forces sufficient to disintegrate an airplane and shred heavy nylon seat belts, yet leave me with only a few bruises and minor whiplash was impressive. I truly appreciated having my own little escape capsule.
An SR-71B trainer over the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California in 1994.
The raised second cockpit is for the instructor.
After helping me with the chute, Mitchell said he'd check on Jim. He climbed into his helicopter, flew a short distance away and returned about 10 minutes later with devastating news: Jim was dead. Apparently, he had suffered a broken neck during the aircraft's disintegration and was killed instantly. Mitchell said his ranch foreman would soon arrive to watch over Jim's body until the authorities arrived. I asked to see Jim and, after verifying there was nothing more that could be done, agreed to let Mitchell fly me to the Tucumcari hospital, about 60 mi. to the south.
I have vivid memories of that helicopter flight, as well. I didn't know much about rotorcraft, but I knew a lot about "red lines," and Mitchell kept the airspeed at or above red line all the way. The little helicopter vibrated and shook a lot more than I thought it should have. I tried to reassure the cowboy-pilot I was feeling OK, and there was no need to rush. But since he'd notified the hospital staff that we were inbound, he insisted we get there as soon as possible. I couldn't help but think how ironic it would be to have survived one disaster only to be done in by the helicopter that had come to my rescue. However, we made it to the hospital safely – and quickly.
Soon, I was able to contact Lockheed's flight test office at Edwards. The test team there had been notified initially about the loss of radio and radar contact, then been told the aircraft had been lost. They also knew what our flight conditions had been at the time, and assumed no one could have survived. I explained what had happened, describing in fairly accurate detail the flight conditions prior to breakup. The next day, our flight profile was duplicated on the SR-71 flight simulator at Beale AFB, Calif. The outcome was identical. Steps were immediately taken to prevent a recurrence of our accident. Testing at a CG aft of normal limits was discontinued, and trim-drag issues were subsequently resolved via aerodynamic means. The inlet control system was continuously improved and, with subsequent development of the Digital Automatic Flight and Inlet Control System, inlet unstarts became rare.
Investigation of our accident revealed that the nose section of the aircraft had broken off aft of the rear cockpit and crashed about 10 miles from the main wreckage. Parts were scattered over an area approximately 15 miles long and 10 miles wide. Extremely high air loads and g-forces, both positive and negative, had literally ripped Jim and me from the airplane. Unbelievably good luck is the only explanation for my escaping relatively unscathed from that disintegrating aircraft.
Two weeks after the accident, I was back in an SR-71, flying the first sortie on a brand-new bird at Lockheed's Palmdale, Calif. assembly and test facility. It was my first flight since the accident, so a flight test engineer in the back seat was probably a little apprehensive about my state of mind and confidence.
As we roared down the runway and lifted off, I heard an anxious voice over the intercom.
"Bill! Bill! Are you there?"
"Yeah, George. What's the matter?"
"Thank God! I thought you might have left."
The rear cockpit of the SR-71 has no forward visibility – only a small window on each side – and George couldn't see me. A big red light on the master warning panel in the rear cockpit had illuminated just as we rotated, stating, "Pilot Ejected." Fortunately, the cause was a misadjusted micro switch, not my departure.
Bill Weaver beside an SR-71
Postscript
Lockheed test pilot Bill Weaver passed away on July 28, 2021, at the age of 92. Weaver was born on December 6, 1928 in the Hollywood Hospital in Los Angeles. He had a long successful career as a test flight pilot. He was still flying into his 80s.
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Coda – A Special Song
I could not find a more fitting song to end my missive than the Anthem of the U.S. Air Force, "Off We Go Into the Wild Blue Yonder," sung by the U.S. Air Force Heritage of America Band. I truly loved the years I spent working with my Air Force customers and the guys in uniform in the field around the world. And here are the lyrics to go with the YouTube video of the song below them.
Off we go into the wild blue yonder,
Climbing high into the sun;
Here they come zooming to meet our thunder,
At 'em boys, Give 'er the gun! (Give 'er the gun now!)
Down we dive, spouting our flame from under,
Off with one heckuva roar!
We live in fame or go down in flame.
Hey! Nothing'll stop the U.S. Air Force!
Minds of men fashioned a crate of thunder
Sent it high into the blue
Hands of men blasted the world asunder,
How they lived God only knew!
Souls of men dreaming of skies to conquer
Gave us wings ever to soar,
With scouts before and bombers galore, Hey!
Nothing'll stop the US Air Force!
Here's a toast to the host of those
Who love the vastness of the sky,
To a friend we send a message
Of his brother men who fly.
We drink to those who gave their all of old,
Then down we roar
to score the rainbow's pot of gold.
A toast to the host of men we boast, the US Air Force.
Zoom!
Off we go into the wild sky yonder,
Keep the wings level and true!
If you'd live to be a grey-haired wonder,
Keep your nose out of the blue! (Out of the blue, boy!)
Flying men guarding the nation's border,
We'll be there, followed by more,
In echelon we carry on! Hey!
Nothing'll stop the US Air Force!
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