The time now was around 0715. The mobile crew had completed its cockpit checks and observed the PSD van arriving. The PSD technicians exited the van and headed up the steps to the cockpits with the crew’s in-flight materials in order to prepare each cockpit. The mobile crew headed inside the van to discuss the status of the plane, passing along any last-minute thoughts or information concerning the mission. If the crew chief needed to discuss things with the flyers, he also joined them in the van.
If any object happened to slip under the ejection seat and couldn’t be retrieved, the seat had to be pulled out. To recover lost objects, the crew chief seemingly stood on his head, with only his sprawling legs coming out of the cockpit—a sight to behold! Before anyone was allowed to go up the stairs to the cockpits, they had to rid themselves of all personal items, including watches, rings, coins, pens, pencils, badges, or anything else that could possibly end up on the cockpit floor. Dropping something on the floor of the cockpit in-flight was not good. Generally, a crewman could not retrieve it with the pressure suit on. For that reason, the pressure suits had large patches of Velcro sewn on to hold mission materials firmly in place. The flight crew’s checklist, pens, pencils, stopwatch, clipboards, and anything else necessary were mated with Velcro to adhere to the pressure suit or RSO’s clipboard.
Lying flat on their stomachs at the top of the ladder’s platform, PSD technicians reached inside the cockpits and moved hoses and connections to their correct positions, making it easier to attach each Habu’s pressure suit to the ejection seat. Back inside the PSD van, the mobile crew was waiting for the thumbs-up signal from atop the ladder. Following PSD’s signal, the flyers disconnected the cooling air supply hose from their pressure suits and exited the rear of the van, walking to the bottom of the steps. They climbed the stairs, bent over to clear the open canopy, and slowly made their way to a standing position on the cockpit floor.
First, the stirrups on each boot were connected to the ball at the end of the retraction cable. While standing on the cockpit floor, the pilot and RSO looked down to locate the ball connection coming from the bottom of the ejection seat. Most of the time, they could place the stirrup socket directly over the ball and forcefully shove their foot down, locking the connection. If that wasn’t successful, they had to sit down in the seat, reach to the floor, pull the retractable cable out, and forcefully lock it into the stirrup socket. On the rare occasion a crew member couldn’t lock the ball and socket together, it was up to PSD. The technician had to literally climb in the cockpit head first, between the crewman’s knees, to get to the retraction cable on the cockpit floor and then shove the two together. In the early days, PSD was an all-male unit; but later, females were allowed to enter the career field. Whenever a female PSD technician had to do this maneuver, you can well imagine all the grins and smiles it brought to those watching from the ground level.
Once the stirrups were attached, the remaining pressure suit connections were solely up to the technicans to accomplish. During training, we were instructed to put our arms out each side of the cockpit and not try to help. Methodically, the technicians reached down each side and connected the survival seat kit, located directly beneath the seat cushion, to each side of the pressure suit. The survival kit was a hard-shell seat pack containing an emergency oxygen supply and survival equipment. During ejection, emergency oxygen was turned on automatically or manually by pulling the “green apple” (a round, green ball about the size of a very small green apple), located on the right side of the crew member’s seat.
A technician then fastened the communication cord leading from the helmet to the aircraft’s communication system. The face heat electrical cord was next. The ventilation hose from the aircraft’s cooling air supply was connected to the pressure suit. The number one and number two (backup) oxygen hoses were connected and securely locked to the aircraft’s liquid oxygen system. Most important was securing the main lap belt to the ejection seat and the parachute fittings to each of the two parachute risers.
When they completed these connections, one technician read a challenge-and-response checklist while the other technician pulled and tugged on the appropriate connection to make sure it was secure and verbally responded “connected.” It was in the crew’s best interest to listen carefully and feel for the appropriate tugs as they went through their checklist.
The pressure suit made the pilot’s cockpit somewhat snug with just enough room for comfort. Headroom between the canopy sides was limited, as the canopy narrowed upward. Front cockpit visibility was restricted slightly because of the helmet and the small window panes surrounding the canopy. The pilot used movable, metal shades on each side of the canopy sill, called “bat wings,” to block out the brilliant sunlight above seventy thousand feet. The RSO’s cockpit was considerably roomier. In the back seat, he had two small window panes on each side of the canopy and the ability to also see directly beneath the aircraft through an optical viewsight. The RSO’s windows had shades that could be pulled down. All the cockpit switches and buttons were easily accessible and enlarged where necessary to accommodate the pressure suit gloves.
Most people expect to find the SR-71’s cockpit filled with an array of exotic instrumentation because the plane itself looks so futuristic. They’re disappointed to find the cockpit consists of basic round dials and gauges. The large attitude directional indicator (ADI) was the pilot’s primary attitude reference source. It received gyro inputs from either the astroinertial navigation system (ANS) or inertial navigation system (INS), depending on the position in which the pilot placed the switch. The INS provided a backup attitude and heading mode of operation in case the ANS failed. Most of the switches and gauges were grouped throughout the cockpit according to their particular system (i.e., electrical, fuel, air conditioning, inlets) for ease of locating and manipulating.
The ejection seat was usable from zero speed and altitude (called a “zero/zero” ejection seat) to the maximum speed and altitude of the aircraft. The seat was a rocket-propelled, upward-ejecting unit. Unlike most Air Force jet fighter aircraft with ejection seats, you can not eject through the SR-71 canopy. After a sharp tug on the ejection seat D-ring (an oversized ring that accommodated both pressure suit hands) between your legs, the canopy unlocked and was thrust free from the aircraft. To preclude a disaster from happening (like being ejected into the canopy) there was an interlock device installed that wouldn’t allow the seat to eject until the canopy was removed. If the seat didn’t fire after pulling the ejection seat D-ring, the procedure was to reach to the left side of the seat and pull the canopy jettison T-handle, an alternate means of removing the canopy. If the canopy was still in place, the last option was to manually open the canopy locking lever and hope cockpit pressurization would push it off.
If pulling the ejection seat D-ring removed the canopy but didn’t fire the seat, a secondary ejection T-handle, located also on the left side of the seat, could be pulled to initiate an ejection. However, it was necessary to have first pulled the D-ring between the knees in order for the T-handle to be operative. One big warning: when the secondary T-handle was used, the seat catapult fired immediately, whether the canopy was on or off.
Both the front and rear cockpit ejection sequences were independent of each other, which necessitated coordination between both crew members. Unfortunately, military crew members in other aircraft have been killed from colliding with each other’s ejection seats or canopies when they’ve ejected simultaneously. It was standard operating procedure for the pilot in command to be the last one to eject. However, in actual practice it didn’t always work out that way.
After pulling on the ejection seat’s D-ring, there was a 0.3-second delay to remove the canopy, and then a catapult gas charge was fired to initiate seat ejection from the cockpit. The gas charge had a duration of 0.15 second—sufficient to raise the seat above the canopy sills, at which point a wire lanyard attached to the floor of the cockpit was pulled, igniting the seat’s rocket motor. The rocket motor provided sufficient thrust and duration (0.5 second) to eject the seat approximately three hundred feet above the aircraft.
Although the ejection seat was certified for zero/zero capability, the odds of a successful ejection increased as altitude and airspeed increased, giving the parachute sufficient time to fully deploy. To aid in low-airspeed and/or low-altitude ejections, the parachute incorporated an extraction gun that fired a metal slug, pulling the thirty-five-foot-diameter parachute into the airstream for immediate opening.
In a low-altitude ejection (below fifteen thousand feet), pressure-actuated (aneroid) initiators cut the foot-retraction cables, opened the lap belt and shoulder harness, and activated the seat-man separator, pushing the crew member free of the seat with a sling-shot action. A lanyard automatically deployed the main chute after seat-man separation. From the instant the crew member pulled on the D-ring to eject, the entire process was designed to get him to a fully blossomed parachute, even in a worst-case scenario of being totally unconscious.
Although not a true ejection out of the SR-71, the following story told by former Lockheed test pilot Bill Weaver is priceless for conveying the experience of departing a Blackbird at an altitude of fifteen miles and speed of Mach 3.2:
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 thirty-year career with Lockheed, most of which was spent as a test pilot.
By far, the most memorable flight occurred on 25 January 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 Mach 3.2 cruise speed, and climbed to seventy-eight thousand feet, our initial cruise-climb altitude.
Several minutes into the 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 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 airflow 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 thirty-five-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 don’t think the chances of surviving an ejection at Mach 3.18 and seventy-eight thousand eight hundred feet 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 two to three 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 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 fifteen thousand feet. 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 or 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, 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 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 faceplate 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 one hundred 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 three hundred feet 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 school.
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 did.
The gentleman was Albert Mitchell Jr., owner of a huge cattle ranch in northeastern New Mexico. I had landed about one point five miles 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, 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 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 seatbelts, yet leave me with only a few bruises and minor whiplash, was impressive. I truly appreciated having my own little escape capsule.
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 ten 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 sixty miles 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 redlines, and Mitchell kept the airspeed at or above redline all the way. The little helicopter vibrated and shook a lot more that I thought it should have. I tried to reassure the cowboy pilot I was feeling OK; 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 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, California. 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 (DAFICS, pronounced “daf-icks”), 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 ten miles from the main wreckage. Parts were scattered over an area approximately fifteen miles long and ten 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, California, 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 seat had illuminated just as we rotated, stating: “Pilot Ejected.” Fortunately, the cause was a misadjusted micro switch, not my departure.
I would like to comment on what actually inflates the pressure suit so the reader doesn’t get the wrong impression. Boyle’s Law of physics states: as outside pressure decreases around a sealed container, its volume has to increase. Just like a balloon that floats higher in the sky, it becomes larger and larger as it gains altitude. When you eject from an SR-71 at high altitude, the pressure suit’s sensitive pressure controller (located on the right side of the suit) closes up instantly, trapping the cockpit pressure of twenty-six thousand feet inside the suit. Boyle’s Law takes over and immediately inflates the pressure suit because of the inside/outside pressure differential. This is the rapid decompression (RD) all SR-71 crew members experienced and routinely practiced at eighty thousand feet in the altitude chamber at Beale. Mr. Tom Bowen at the Beale PSD facility, who is considered “Mr. Pressure Suit,” confirmed this is precisely what happens. He further added, however, that after the initial inflation of the suit, it will continue to stay inflated on the way down by the crew member’s normal breathing until he reaches a safe altitude.
As an outgrowth of Bill Weaver’s inability to see out of his faceplate from the ice buildup, future SR-71 ejection seats incorporated a battery pack that continued to keep the glass faceplate heated during the frigid descent. His inability to see outside the pressure suit helmet had to be both frustrating and scary.
The only difference between a low-altitude ejection and a high-altitude ejection sequence (above fifteen thousand feet) is that you remained strapped and locked into the seat during the free fall down to fifteen thousand feet. Once you ejected into the thin air at eighty thousand feet, the pressure suit inflated immediately, emergency oxygen was supplied for breathing, and the battery supplying face heat was activated. A stabilizing six-point-five-foot-diameter drogue chute attached to the top of the ejection seat kept the seat (and you) from tumbling during the long free-fall ride (about seven minutes) down to approximately fifteen thousand feet.
At two thousand feet above the landing surface, the crew member pulled the survival kit release handle on the right side of the seat. This action released the survival kit to fall while still attached to a twenty-five-foot lanyard. As it dropped to its limit, the jerking force activated a carbon-dioxide cylinder, inflating the life raft. The survival kit contained standard Air Force survival items: a one-man life raft, day/night flares, desalinization kit, emergency UHF radio with spare batteries, first-aid kit, thermal blanket, fishing gear, survival manual, and maps. Tethered between you and the survival kit was the inflated one-man life raft, ready for a water landing.
The SR-71’s reliable ejection seat, along with the pressure suit, made escaping from the worst situation a strong possibility. Ejections from the SR-71 have ranged from sea level to Mach 3 and over seventy-five thousand feet. No Air Force crew members have died ejecting from an SR-71. There have been only four deaths associated with the Blackbirds since their first flight in 1962. Their names are Walter Ray (CIA), Jack Weeks (CIA), Ray Torick (Lockheed flight test), and Jim Zwayer (Lockheed flight test). These early flyers were on the leading edge and are the true heroes of our Blackbird program.
Prior to Engine Start
After the PSD technicians were finished, each crew member began his own individual interior cockpit checklist. As soon as the crew chief saw PSD personnel coming down the stairs, he put his headset on and plugged his communication cord into the nose wheelwell communications box. He checked in with the pilot and RSO, asking, “Ground to cockpit, how do you read?” Crews responded with “loud and clear,” or something to that effect. If there were no problems up to this point, the crew chief would typically say, “Everything’s good down here; ready to start engines when you are.” The pilot replied with an estimated time.
This is when most crews would idly chat with the crew chief. Once the pilot was ready to start engines, the atmosphere became professional and the checklist script was cast in stone. As the mobile crew observed the pilot getting close to engine start, they returned to the mobile car and monitored the UHF radios in case they were summoned with a problem. They positioned the car directly in front of the SR-71 and waited. By watching the crew chief’s actions, the mobile crew knew precisely how far along in the checklist the flight crew was.
The primary reason Habus had to fly as a formed crew on operational sorties was because crew coordination was paramount to mission success and safety of flight. Communication between the pilot and RSO was continuous when accomplishing checklist items. Verbal coordination between the pilot and RSO was required for any of the following circumstances: going off interphone, going off aircraft oxygen or opening the faceplate, changing the programmed mission navigation, changing the attitude reference, pressing the indicator and warning lights test buttons, autopilot engagement or disengagement, and changing the fuel panel settings or fuel transfer operation. These operations had all the potential for a bad outcome without prior coordination.
The RSO was required to monitor the aircraft attitude, altitude, and airspeed and to advise the pilot of a potentially dangerous situation. This role was particularly important during critical phases of flight involving substantial changes in aircraft attitude, altitude, and speed. The pilot and RSO individually had the capability to either be on “hot mike” or “cold mike” for conversation. In hot mike, the other crew member could hear him constantly, just like a one-way telephone conversation. If both Habus were in hot mike, then it was like a normal two-way phone conversation. In cold mike, the crew member had to activate a push-to-talk switch in his respective cockpit in order to communicate.
We’re ready to begin the cockpit checks using the pilot’s abbreviated checklist. The checklist steps in the following chapters contain abbreviations exactly as written in the actual checklist. I did this for authenticity. I omitted all checklist steps applicable to the SR-71 trainer, since it was not an operational aircraft. You can find the entire pilot’s SR-71 checklist in Appendix D. The RSO had a different checklist for preflighting his cockpit. At the start-engine point, the pilot and RSO checklists were the same.
Most aircraft have specific flow patterns throughout the cockpit to help crew members memorize all the switches and gauges that they have to check before every flight. During the preflight cockpit check, a crew member basically touches every switch in the cockpit, confirming it’s in the correct position and/or testing its particular function to ensure it works as advertised. In the SR-71 cockpit, the flow pattern began down the left side of the cockpit console, moved to the front instrument panel, and finally included all the items on the right side of the cockpit console. Remember, the mobile crew had already been in both cockpits and completed the entire preflight checklist while the flyers were suiting up.