A military pilot named Brian Shul shares an amazing story of his experience in the air with a new partner. For once, we can actually say flying a fighter jet is rocket science but that doesn’t mean they don’t have “moments”… you’ll see what I mean below:
There were a lot
of things we couldn’t do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block
and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact.
People often asked
us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the
first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even
cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to
say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a
moment.
It occurred when
Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the
jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over
Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and
the jet was performing flawlessly.
My gauges were
wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about
ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because
we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months.
Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the
coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many
humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.
I was beginning to
feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good
view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different
radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions,
when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital.
It had been
difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire
flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the
division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on
talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however.
Walt was so good
at many things, but he couldn’t match my expertise at sounding smooth on the
radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons
where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that
and allowed me that luxury.
Just to get a
sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and
monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was
from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their
sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in
uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to
descend into their airspace.
We listened as the
shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground
speed. Center replied: “November Charlie 175, I’m showing you at ninety knots
on the ground.”
Now the thing to
understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a
rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact
same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred
to it as the “Houston Center voice.”
I have always felt
that after years of seeing documentaries on this country’s space program and
listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all
other controllers since then wanted to sound like that, and that they basically
did. And it didn’t matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it
always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice
had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely,
over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they
sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne.
Better to die than
sound bad on the radios.
Just moments after
the Cessna’s inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior
tone, asking for his ground speed. “I have you at one hundred and twenty-five
knots of ground speed.” Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is
dazzling his Cessna brethren.
Then out of the
blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right
away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios.
“Center, Dusty 52
ground speed check”. Before Center could reply, I’m thinking to myself, hey,
Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is
he asking Center for a readout?
Then I got it, ol’
Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the
Mojave knows what true speed is. He’s the fastest dude in the valley today, and
he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And
the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration
than emotion: “Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground.”
And I thought to
myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for
the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios.
Still, I thought, it must be done – in mere seconds we’ll be out of the sector
and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought
about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well
as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the
integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.
Somewhere, 13
miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then,
I heard it.
The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: “Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?” There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. “Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground.”
I think it was the
forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to
deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling.
But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really
good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in
his most fighter-pilot-like voice: “Ah, Center, much thanks, we’re showing
closer to nineteen hundred on the money.”
For a moment
Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the
Houston Center voice, when L.A.came back with, “Roger that Aspen, Your
equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one.”
It all had lasted
for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the
Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before
the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold
of being a crew. A fine day’s work. We never heard another transmission on that
frequency all the way to the coast.
For just one day,
it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there.
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