As a former SR-71 pilot and professional keynote speaker, the question I hear most often is, “How fast would that SR-71 fly?” But there isn’t one number: the jet always seemed willing to give you a little more. Thirty-five miles a minute was common.
On most missions we flew a programmed Mach number and, unwilling to harm the plane, never pushed its temperature or speed limits. Every SR-71 pilot therefore had his own personal high. Mine came over Libya, when Khadafy fired two missiles our way and maximum power became necessary. Let’s just say the plane effortlessly took us to Mach numbers we hadn’t seen before.
So I was surprised when someone at a presentation asked, “What was the slowest you ever flew the Blackbird?” That was a first. After thinking about it, I recalled a story I had never shared.
My back-seater, Walt Watson, and I were returning to RAF Mildenhall, England, from a mission over Europe and the Iron Curtain when home base called. As we crossed Denmark in three minutes, we learned that a small RAF airfield had requested a fly-past. Its air cadet commander, a former Blackbird pilot, thought seeing the mighty SR-71 make a low approach would inspire the young lads. We were happy to oblige.
After a quick aerial refueling over the North Sea, we set off to find the field. With his sophisticated navigation equipment, Walter vectored me toward it. Descending to subsonic speed, we found ourselves over dense woodland in a slight haze. Like many former WWII British airfields, this one had a small tower and little surrounding infrastructure.
Walt said we were close and I should see it. I saw nothing but trees.
We descended a little farther, and I pulled the throttles back from our 325 knots. With the gear up, anything below 275 was uncomfortable. Walt said we were practically over the field, yet there was still nothing in my windscreen. I banked into a gentle circle, searching for anything resembling an airfield.
Below us, the commander had assembled the cadets on the tower’s catwalk for a prime view. It was a quiet, windless day under partial gray overcast. Walt kept telling me the field should be beneath us, but I couldn’t pick it out through the haze. As we circled and searched, we kept slowing. With our power back, the waiting cadets heard nothing.
Something in my training finally told me to cross-check the gauges. As I saw the airspeed slide below 160 knots, my heart stopped. My adrenaline-filled left hand shoved both throttles fully forward. We weren’t really flying anymore; we were falling in a slight bank.
At that instant, both afterburners lit with a thunderous roar of flame—what a joyous feeling—and the aircraft dropped into full view of the astonished observers.
Suddenly, 107 feet of fire-breathing titanium shattered their quiet morning. We leveled and accelerated in full afterburner on the tower side of the infield, much closer than expected, in what could only be described as an ultimate knife-edge pass. We quickly reached the field boundary and headed back to Mildenhall without further incident.
Neither of us spoke during the next fourteen minutes.
Our commander met us after landing. We were certain he was about to take our wings. Instead, he shook our hands enthusiastically. The cadet commander had called it the greatest SR-71 fly-past he had ever seen, especially the surprise and precision of a maneuver he could describe only as breathtaking. Some cadets’ hats had blown off. The sight of the aircraft’s planform dropping in front of them in full afterburner was unbelievable.
Walt and I understood “breathtaking” very well that morning. We sheepishly suggested they were simply excited by our low approach.
In the equipment room, changing from space suits to flight suits, we sat in silence. We hadn’t exchanged a word since the pass.
Finally, Walter looked at me. “One hundred fifty-six knots. What did you see?”
Trying to find my voice, I stammered, “One hundred fifty-two.”
Another silence.
“Don’t ever do that to me again!”
And I never did.
A year later, we were having lunch at the Mildenhall Officers’ Club when we overheard an officer telling some cadets about an extraordinary SR-71 fly-past. By then, the story included children falling off the tower and screaming as the jet’s heat singed their eyebrows.
Seeing our HABU patches as we stood holding our lunch trays, he asked us to confirm that it had happened.
Walt shook his head. “It was probably just a routine low approach; they’re pretty impressive in that plane.”
Impressive indeed.
I had no idea, when I first told that story to an audience, that it would become one of my most requested. It’s ironic that people are so interested in how slowly the world’s fastest jet can fly. Whatever your speed, keep that cross-check up—and keep your Mach up, too.
There were plenty of things we couldn’t do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and enjoyed reminding our fellow aviators. People often asked whether that made the aircraft fun to fly. “Fun” wasn’t my first word for it. Intense, perhaps. Cerebral. But on one particular day, being the fastest guys out there was pure fun.
Walt and I were on our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to become Mission Ready, and somewhere over Colorado we passed that milestone. After turning in Arizona, with the aircraft performing flawlessly and my gauges exactly where they belonged, we were feeling good. Ten months of study, simulators, and humbling lessons had given us confidence, and real missions were just ahead.
The desert lay 80,000 feet below, and from the Arizona border I could already see California’s coast. At last, I felt ahead of the jet.
I almost felt sorry for Walter. He had little view of those incredible sights and was busy monitoring four radios. It was good practice: on an operational mission, a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital.
Giving up control of the radios had been difficult for me. Throughout my flying career, I had handled my own transmissions, but dividing duties was essential in this aircraft. I had adjusted, although I still insisted on doing the talking on the ground. Walt was good at many things, but sounding smooth on the radio was my specialty, polished by years in fighter squadrons where the slightest verbal miscue was grounds for beheading. He allowed me that luxury.
To appreciate what he was handling, I selected the frequencies and listened along. Most of the chatter came from Los Angeles Center, controlling traffic far below. We were in uncontrolled airspace and normally called only when descending into their sector.
A lone Cessna pilot’s shaky voice asked for a groundspeed check.
“November Charlie 175, I’m showing you at ninety knots on the ground.”
Center controllers always seemed to speak in the same calm, deep, professional tone, whether addressing a novice in a Cessna or Air Force One. It made everyone feel important. I called it the “Houston Center voice.” After years of space-program documentaries, I imagined every controller wanted to sound like those reassuring voices from Houston. Wherever we flew, it sounded like the same man.
Pilots, meanwhile, wanted to sound like Chuck Yeager—or at least John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radio.
Moments later, a Twin Beech asked for his groundspeed in a distinctly superior tone.
“Twin Beech, I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed.”
He must think he’s dazzling his Cessna brethren, I thought.
Then a Navy F-18 from NAS Lemoore joined in. You knew he was a Navy jock immediately: he sounded very cool.
“Center, Dusty 52, ground speed check.”
Before Center answered, I wondered why Dusty needed a readout when his million-dollar cockpit already had a groundspeed indicator. Then I understood. He wanted every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave to know what real speed looked like. He was the fastest guy in the valley, enjoying his new Hornet, and everyone ought to know it.
Center answered with its usual calm precision.
“Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground.”
Was this a ripe opportunity, or what?
My hand instinctively reached for the microphone, then stopped. Walt controlled the radios. In seconds we would leave the sector and lose our chance. That Hornet must die, and die now.
But all our simulator training had emphasized working as a crew. Taking over now would undermine the trust and division of duties we had spent months building. I was torn. Thirteen miles above Arizona, a pilot was screaming inside his space helmet.
Then I heard the microphone click in the back seat.
That was the moment I knew Walter and I had become a crew.
With perfect professionalism and no emotion, he said, “Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?”
The answer came without hesitation, as though this were an everyday request.
“Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground.”
I liked the forty-two best. Center delivered it so precisely, so proudly, that you knew he was smiling.
Then Walt keyed the microphone again, and I knew we would be friends for a long time.
In his best fighter-pilot voice: “Ah, Center, much thanks. We’re showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money.”
For a moment, Walter was a god.
And finally, a little crack appeared in the armor of that Houston Center voice.
“Roger that, Aspen. Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one.”
It lasted only moments. But in that memorable sprint across the Southwest, the Navy had been flamed, every mortal airplane on the frequency had bowed before the King of Speed, and, most importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of becoming a crew.
A fine day’s work.
We heard no further transmissions on that frequency all the way to the coast. For that one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there.
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u/realnanoboy 3h ago edited 2h ago
So is the SR71. That thing still looks like it's from the future.