Fly Into Black
by Michael G. Crawford
Chapter Two
Lieutenant Deruse Deboune stared at the wavering vision before him, not yet adjusted to its shape nor its mysterious beauty. The flat black coloring and the lines of the craft were like something out of a classic science fiction novel. But this was not fiction, this was real. Turning to General Tom Marker, Deruse gifted him with the look of awe the General had seen five times before.
"What the hell is that?" asked Deruse in a low voice, his excitement cracking his voice like a pubescent teenager.
"It's what the President calls the SR-71. We call it the black bitch."
Deruse stared again at the sleek shape perched on the seemingly fragile landing gear. The aircraft's shape beckoned to him, bragging of its raw speed.
"Why bitch?"
"That's what you'll think after your first flight Deruse. She flys like a ground loving whore. Her control surfaces are made for altitude flying, not fighter jockey shit. You pull up on the column and hope she reacts in time. She'll drop into a landing from 10,000 feet in less than two minutes, and man if you don't have the gear and flaps down, you'll be buzzing the field at better than Mach 1."
When Deruse gave the General a look of disbelieve, Marker continued,
"Yeah, no shit. Deruse, that's the missed landing speed of every first flight in the bitch. We are putting our pilots through simulated landings from 20,000 feet, and they still complete their flare at 10,000. Hell if we hadn't thought to start the simulated landing program, we would have lost our first bird ten times over."
"How many are qualified?" Deruse asked, again in a low voice that the General recognized. Men like Deruse were built to be pioneers. Like Scott Cross, the X-15 pilot or Chuck Yeager the famous pilot of the X-1, they all wanted to be the first among their peers. If ten pilots had flown her, the young Captains's excitement over the new plane would be reduced by at least one half. But as it was, the General could see the answer to the question would put the newly vetted test pilot into seventh heaven.
"Four pilots, Deruse. You will be number five."
"Son of a bitch" said the test pilot. He licked his lips as if he could taste the experience, his eyes watering at the pride he felt in his selection.
"So we'll start you out on theory tomorrow, and in 30 days, you'll get a hand at the stick."
The young Lt. turned to stare at the General, his pain clearly visible in those watery eyes, and the General once again felt the pity for one of his men. This one had it as bad as the others. When Deruse reached 45, he would begin to eat himself alive as he realized that his years as a test pilot were coming to a close. And in that same year, 1989, he would find himself forcebly removed from the test program. Two years after that he would be dead, having augured in, flying some company plane beyond its flight envelope. At least that was the General's prediction. And because of this pity Tom Marker felt, he once again broke his own rules and said,
"But so you don't die of anxiety waiting for a flight in her, we'll suit up right now and I'll give you a thrill. Come on."
As he began to walk off to the operations building, he laughed to himself as the young pilot stood transfixed for a moment, not quite ready to leave the sight of the Blackbird as it shimmered in the heat of the California sun. Then with obvious reluctance, Deruse broke himself from the dreams in order to hurry to the reality.
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"Sit tight. You'll see why we are so paranoid in just a few minutes" was all that the General said, as the engines began their whine up.
Out the left side, Deruse could see the "crash cart" being pulled away by the ground crew. As he swiveled his head forward again, he watched as the crew chief gave the General the thumbs up, and then stepped out of the way. Then almost pondersouly, the SR-71 began to inch forward, Deruse noting that the throttles hadn't moved. Obviously this bird had a lot of power at idle.
Deruse forced himself to keep his hands off the flight column as it came back about a half an inch.
"Notice I have a little up elevator on, Deruse. The long nose on this bird is heavy, so we have to make sure the flight surfaces don't inadvertantly weight the nose wheel. If we don't keep up-trim, we buckle her feet, and I lose my job."
Deruse grinned at that, understanding that an aircraft as steeped in technology as this would cost enough to pay the entire USAF pay budget. He looked around the cockpit again, the ground never having very much interest to him. To his right, his pressure suited right arm lay on a console. At his finger tips were some controls he could only guess at since they hadn't yet been marked. He assumed they were the SR-71's "Specific Mission" controls. As of yet he could only guess at the mission. Shortly he would find out what the bird could do, and then his guessing would be over. The non-reflective black paint had already gave him a hint.
The exterior was designed for high speed, that was obvious, but recently certain black finishes also were used to cut down on the radar profile of an aircraft. Deruse was certain this was the case with this aircraft.
"Okay, Deruse. Take a look at the timer, it's sitting at the 3:00 position on the instrument panel. Found it? Okay. I'll start it off when we're on the takeoff roll. Keep an eye on airspeed and altimeter too."
Deruse's trained eye easily picked out the two instruments. In the process he received a pleasent surprise. Next to the standard military issue airspeed indicator was the Mach meter, marked .5, 1, 1.5, 2, 2.5, 3, 3.5, 4 in phospherescent paint. Just above Mach 3 a little orange mark ran up to Mach 3.5 and promptly turned to red at Mach 4. Obviously somebody's little joke. A part of his mind was ringing alarms though, and he found himself fidgeting. Something told him he really wasn't ready for this ride.
"Rolling" spoke the General quietly as the timer began to tick off.
Deruse noticed that the throttles advanced to a mark just below 50 percent as he felt the thrust build. Quickly the aircraft accelerated and in a breathtaking 5 seconds he felt that reassuring pitching motion as the nose came up. But the bird hung there for a second, then finally the gear folded up with a quiet "clunk". Then once again he had to resist the temptation to pilot the craft as the General backed off on the throttles, back to around 25 percent. His heart pounded now for he realized what this meant.
They had gone from 0 to 500 mph in 6 seconds and now were climbing at about 1000 feet per second. Then the General began a stiff 3 G turn back toward the field, and Deruse watched as the horizon moved up to a full ninety degrees at the peak of the turn. Then just as suddenly the horizon leveled. Now they were traveling Northeast away from the strip clocking along just below the sound barrier with the engines at idle.
In thirty seconds they were 5 miles away from Beale heading toward Nevada, cruising along at 30,000 feet.
The General banked the big jet again and Deruse got a glimpse of the barren terrain around Beale, and the lush land near Folsom lake to the South. As they gained even more altitude, he realized the General was making a leisurely spiral, much like a departing commercial airliner. They were heading for altitude while still remaining in sight of the base.
Then the General flattened the climb out, and the throttles came back again to near idle.
"I'll drop the gear and flaps for a second to show you what a ground hugger she is" said the General, and he felt the "thunk" again as the gear whined down into their extended position. The altimeter began ticking off now, winding counterclockwise at an alarming rate. The General then pitched the nose up, the stick coming well back into Deruse's lap. He then realized the maneuver was like putting slamming on the brakes. The elevators on the delta shaped body were acting like airbrakes, and the gear added additional drag. By pitching the nose up, the overall effect was to slow the smooth flying blackbird. As the airspeed dropped, the Altimeter clocked through 20,000 feet. She dropped as fast as she climbed.
Then the flaps indicator moved to 25 percent, and the airspeed dropped again in a big hurry. They were now falling like a rock, and the General moved the throttles back up to his favorite 25 percent mark again. As the Altimeter unwound another 10,000 feet, the General said,
"Now for a standard Beale departure" radioed the General and Deruse saw the throttles inch forward to the mark just above 25 percent and the flaps were once again retracted. The increased whine of the engines was barely perceptible, and Deruse shivered with excitement. This bird was highly overpowered. That meant speed, man, real speed.
Looking down at the instruments again, he saw the engines' rpm climb and he felt the push and ever so slight tremble as the plane accelerated through the sound barrier. Now smoothly gliding along at Mach 1.1, the General nosed the plane up into a 20 degree climb, inching the throttles up to 50 percent.
Deruse felt the change in pitch and the three G pressure as the plane suddenly changed direction. After the G peak he relaxed his muscles as the G-Suit stopped it restriction of blood flow.
"Suit ok?" asked the General obviously concerned about his passengers safety.
"No problem, General" replied Deruse realizing that the trip was going to be more than just a jaunt around the field.
As he had imagined, the blackbird flew easily at greater than the speed of sound, the Mach meter now reading Mach 1.3. He was a little concerned about the throttle settings though.
"What's this baby do full open, General?"
"You'll see shortly. We have to get some altitude, Deruse. This bird holds 105,000 pounds of our special JP-7 fuel. The fuel also acts as a coolant to the skin of the plane at higher speeds so we can't afford to burn it off too fast. It's like burning off the water in the radiator of your car."
"Coolant..." Deruse thought to himself. Damn he felt ignorant. Using fuel as coolant. The idea was as much a piece of science fiction as the airplane.
"Who built this thing" he asked, curiousity clearly in his tone.
"Lockheed Skunk Works, under VP Kelly Johnson. The A-11 announced by Johnson was an interceptor model, shorter, carried less fuel, and of course had less range. This bitch is slightly less manueverable but we have more wing area for longer endurance over target."
As the altimeter clocked up above 50,000 feet, Deruse glanced over at the timer. They had made a leisurely climb to 50,000 feet in two minutes.
Then out of the corner of his left eye he saw movement, and once again felt the increased push as the plane responded to yet another throttle increase. The idea of an additional 1 G push while already flying along at Mach 1.5 gave him another thrill. He began to comprehend that he was sitting in the fastest plane in the world.
"Hold on now, we're going to get a little violent soon" was the General's only warning. The Mach meter jumped up to Mach 2 almost instantly and the nose pitched violently upward. Deruse groaned as the aircraft changed direction causing a 7 G peak, the pressure suit squeezing the breath out of him. His groin ached from the jab of energy, and sweat broke out on his face. A breath of cool oxygenated air helped calm him a little as the pressure suit attempted to make up for the brutal treatment of his body.
Now taking a moment to look at the Altimeter he inadverntly said "SHIT" as he saw it clocking like a spinning top, moving at about 3,000 feet a second. Then just as he was beginning to feel like he had adjusted to the 7 G jab, the General brought the nose down and went negative. This meant that he and Deruse felt the awesome -2 G pushover on the top, the blood rushing into their head causing a flash of red in their eyes. The Altimeter coasted to a stop at 80,000 feet and Deruse knew instinctively that this was not the limit, the birds wings having been "clipped" by the General's abrubt maneuver.
"Here we go!" warned the General again and Deruse tensed waiting for what he knew came next. With the horizon pegged by the long nose of the SR- 71, the Altimeter osscillating right around 80,000, he felt and saw the horizon began to turn slowly as the General executed a slow roll to the right. Then when the horizon was near to upside down, the rate of roll slowed. It stopped smoothly at perfectly horizontal, the cockpit now facing the ground. Then the Immelman maneuver came, the General slowly tucking the column back a full two inches, nearly into Deruse's lap. The throttles came back almost at the same time, and Deruse groaned again, his eyes glued to the G meter. It kept peaking at around 7 to 8 Gs and Deruse, through the fog, wondered how the older General Marker could stand the punishment. Just as he was about to admit he had had enough, the column began to move forward again as the horizon came up again. The throttles moved forward again as well. Now they were heading back towards Beale again. The General repeated the maneuver once again now heading towards Idaho.
Glancing over at the Mach meter, Deruse gasped out loud. Mach 2.2 read the quivering needle. Damn that was fast, around 1500 mph. The throttle was at 75 percent and the Altimeter was unclocking now, as the General finished the high speed dive the Mach Meter read 2.3, around 1700 mph. They were blasting along over the Nevada desert at 22,000 feet moving faster then less than a handful of men had ever gone. A light came on next to another an un-familiar gauge to his left. Then reading the letters of the orange telltale, he realized he was watching a temperature gauge as it rose. The telltale warned of some intermediate limit being broken, warning the crew to watch the temperature closely. The General's comment about fuel being used as a coolant came back to him now, and Deruse looked at the fuel gauges. Amazingly, they had only burned 10 percent.
Then further amazed, Deruse watched as the throttles moved forward again, this time to the full 100 percent. The nose smoothly rose, only 2 Gs this time. But the rise continued until they were at 75 degrees, only 25 degrees from being perfectly vertical. The Altimeter went nuts and he could barely follow the 10,000 ft needle as it moved from 20,000 to 80,000. Off to the left of the RPM gauge he saw a temperature gauge began to rise to the 595 degrees centigrade mark. Then glancing at Mach gauge again he saw that they were now climbing at Mach 2.5. Watching the gauge in dis-believe he saw that it began to drop as the effects of their climb began to take hold.
As the General once again pitched down out of their climb, it suddenly became dark. The instrument panel could be seen to glow eerily with backlight. The blackness shook him up even more than the previous repeated shots of 7 Gs. He realized why the horizon had turned black, so he knew he shouldn't be worried. But it was still somewhat frightening, his logical mind not able to override the fear of the unexpected night.
They were in the tendrils of space. They had slipped away, if only for a moment, from the earth's atmosphere. He noticed that the General centered the controls, and the throttles came back. Now at 95,000 feet they were slowing down and the skin temperature began to cool, responding positively to the lack of friction in the rarified air.
"Welcome to the Black, Deruse" said the General quietly as the radar altimeter pegged their true altitude at 98,500 feet. "Everyone gets to fly into the Black at least once in a 71. But it is strictly againest the rules, or so we are told. First of all, we are now ballistic. I have very little control over the bird. If you are not careful about your attitude, you could easily wind up in a spin. The SR-71 falls apart in a spin, so that is certain death. Otherwise you can see that we have a little bit of yaw here, and we are starting a slight roll. There's not a damn thing I can do about it."
"But..."
"Oh I can try to compensate, but up here the compensation is just as likely to be over- control and that is typically spin inducing as well. And of course if you come blasting up here vertical, the chances of your spinning out and falling earthward backwards are about 1 in 3."
Deruse gulped at that statement. A quick way to die, that one. If a plane fell backwards for very long, it typically tore it self apart. Then he watched as the lightness of the atmosphere began to return and the skin temperature began to climb again. The General let the nose pitch down before he began to work the control column again, and then finally corrected the horizon. In a few moments the rushing air was drowned by the sounds of the engines as the throttles moved forward again. The TACAN instrument suddenly came alive as the General searched for the navigation beams to take them back to Beale.
As the General increased the dive, he banked in response to the navigational beam's direction, converting altitude into speed. The outside temperature began to tick upward again, and the Mach meter now began to inch upward past Mach 3. Around 2100 miles per hour. What an absolute gas!
"Welcome to the club, Deruse." Then after he had lined the nose back up with the horizon, he continued, "You can take the stick for exactly one minute."
Deruse grabbed the stick gladly, and inched back a little to get the feel of the big bird's wings. Sure enough he could feel the somewhat sluggish response, somewhat like the F- 106 he had flown in spin tests at Edwards. Not terribly maneuverable, but adequate. When matched with the size of the 71, he was impressed. It still flew like a fighter, despite its dimensions being more that of a bomber.
He tried a few shallow banks to get the feel of the aileron and rudder controls, and after gaining permission, he executed a slow aileron roll, blasting along at Mach 3. The General cautioned him throughout the maneuver, reminding him that violent movements of the stick at this speed would snap the G meter up to 12 or 13 G's inviting certain blackout and disaster.
After the minute was up, Deruse leveled the wings, and the General backed off on the throttles.
They cruised back at Mach 2, 45,000 feet, then began their high speed let down over Lake Tahoe. Deruse watched as the General backed the throttles out to idle again, and dialed in a slip to kill speed and altitude, the elevators now acting as speed brakes again. Finally deaccelerating to below Mach 1, the blackbird burst through a small patch of clouds over Sacramento and banked toward Marysville to the North. In their 30 minute flight they had gone from Marysville, California, to the Southeastern border of Idaho, crossed for a moment into Montana, blasted across Nevada at over 70,000 feet, and finally coasted "down hill" to Lake Tahoe. Better than 500 miles in thirty minutes, with a pair of Immelmans in the middle eating up some of their progress across the countryside.
Deruse was suitably impressed. He had been higher and faster then anyone he knew, at least personally. He was among perhaps 20 or so people in the world, including the astronauts, who had left the atmosphere. Certainly there were not too many people who had travelled at 2100 mph.
The landing was anti-climatic, but Deruse did note that the General began his flare for touchdown at about 200 feet off the ground, trading airspeed and downward motion for control of the huge airplane. The nose pitched up as the flare terminated, and with an ever-so-slight bump, he felt the wheels mate with the runway at Beale. The nose slowly came down as the final bit of landing ritual took place, the nose wheel planting itself once again to earth.
During the taxi, Deruse tingled, as usual, the effects of G forces causing his body to feel numb in strange places as his perception was heightened. Eventually they stopped on the ramp outside the low black hangers, the 71 rocking left and right on her thin landing gear. They sat waiting for five minutes, waiting for the skin to cool down enough to disembark, the canopy down and the environment suits supplying them with cool air.
Finally after what seemed a horribly long wait, the ground crew moved up to the aircraft and with a wheeled platform, made ready to receive the pilots. The canopy cycled upward, and the heat of the the summer weather in the Sacramento valley combined with the heat of aircraft's skin to produce the now familiar shimmer.
As Deruse touched the ground again, he sighed, once again removed from the element he loved and trusted the most, the air.
With a smile, the General, recognizing the let down the test pilot felt at being on the ground, unzipped one of the pockets in his flight suit, and pulled out a little wooden box. It was about an inch square, and the lid was hinged. He handed it to Deruse, and said "Congratulations Captain."
Deruse looked the General in the eye, noticed the twinkle and opened the box. Inside a pair of shiny new Captain's bars glinted out at him. But what interested him more was the little flat black painted pin between them. It was simple yet meant more to him than any other the General could have thought of. It was the capital letter "M" followed by the numeral 3. A "Mach 3 pin". Turning it over, Deruse saw that it had inscribed on it the number 8.
"Number 8?"
"You are the eighth pilot in the forty-second- hundred SRW to earn his Mach 3 pin" was the General's reply. "When you solo the 71 at Mach 3, we'll let you wear it on your uniform."
Deruse forced back a tear or two of pleasure, after all macho test pilots were rugged individualists, not sentimental wimps. But right now he was so choked up he could barely mutter the "Thank you, General" as the two men turned to walk off to Ops.