Random Thought of the Day

I got in trouble with the law again for riding my unicycle on Fremont street.

Did they melt your Rubik's cube?

Quote: rxwine

Did they melt your Rubik's cube?

No, but I like that.

Was weirding out to military history, kinda drifted into Area 51 and X-plane stuff. Was reading about the people and experiences in the program and came across this number. Thought Babs especially might enjoy it, it's a cute read.

"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 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."

Speed?
When the SR71 B Blackbird made its retirement flight from Vandenberg to DC it set aviation records. It was retired because the Aurora took its place.

At that speed it could circle the Earth in about 13 hours, if it had the fuel.

PS, the folks in the space station should have chimed in, going 17,150 miles per hour

Face,

One of my all-time favorite stories. He tells it so well, I had to read it again as you have it; you MADE my morning.

Fwiw, he is on the aviation circuit, and there's a video of him telling it, and this is a virtual transcript of how it goes.

I had to learn that voice, Fwiw. When I first started talking, I sounded like Delilah In The Night. The pilots flirted with me, but they didn't really listen and snap to. The guys had to teach me That Voice.

And yeah, every pilot tries to sound like Yeager, even to letting the West Virginia accent creep into their New Yawk or Bahston or Texasss voice.

Likewise, That Voice includes total calm, complete confidence, even if your knees just gave way in shock (happened to me once; I will tell the story if you want).

Quote: beachbumbabs

Likewise, That Voice includes total calm, complete confidence, even if your knees just gave way in shock (happened to me once; I will tell the story if you want).

Yes please, I want to hear it.

Quote: beachbumbabs

Likewise, That Voice includes total calm, complete confidence, even if your knees just gave way in shock (happened to me once; I will tell the story if you want).

Well, duh. Always down to read life experiences.

I get it, though, as much as a desk jockey can. As much as I enjoy my sims, it takes it to a whole other level when you get in a squad with actual former pilots. Usually comms go like "Yeah, uh...Hogg 4-1, they're pinned in the valley. Best bet is to head north to the dam, swing around, and come through low. You got, uh... AA all down the right of the val; the armor that's got em pinned in dead in town." You know, like WWII type visual fighting just calling out landmarks, being spoken by some dips#$% using common speech like myself. You just wing it and it's cool af, but the Real Guys? Jesus Christ. They make it so as though you're legit in theatre. Ain't but 1G in my desk chair, but I promise there's a number of us huffing and puffing as if we're trying to stay conscious. Admittedly, I can't even f#$% with these guys, the Real Guys. I like rolling with 1 or 2, but get a squad and I can't cope. It's too real and they use alllll the comms and systems they got. I usually wind up orbiting at Angels 15 out of SAM range, using the litening pod to act as a quasi-AWACS lol.

And that's just the former Hog pilots. Get some Navy boys up in the F-15 (F-18 hasn't been released yet) and scuffling with SU-27's and 33's while all this Hog s#$% is going on below, and you just about come away with a bit of PTSD. More than once I've made my final sortie touchdown in just my drawers, as the stress of simulated war had left my pj's soaked with sweat.

Talk. I'll listen =)

Who do you call? Mr Peanut, that's who.