The SR-71 Blackbird
One of the most sophisticated Blackbirds, the SR-71 (along with the A-12 and YF-12) was created by a group of Lockheed personnel under the direction of Clarence “Kelly” Johnson, who was vice president of Lockheed’s Advanced Development Company Projects at the time. Known as the “Skunk Works,” this unit is now called Lockheed Martin.
Beginning in the late 1950s, the A-12 reconnaissance aircraft—which made its first flight in April 1962 and remained classified until 1976—served as the model for the Blackbird. The YF-12A interceptor variant was first made public by President Lyndon Johnson on February 29, 1964, which was more than six months after it made its first flight. On December 22, 1964, the SR-71’s maiden flight was completed.
The Blackbird was built to reach altitudes of up to 85,000 feet and cruise at “Mach 3+,” which is more than three times the speed of sound, or more than 2,200 miles per hour.
The SR-71 Blackbird’s slowest speed
‘How high and how fast does it really fly?’ is arguably the most commonly asked question regarding the “Blackbird family”.
What about the slowest speed a Blackbird has ever been known to fly at? The following anecdote from SR-71 pilot Brian Shul’s book Sled Driver may help to clarify this question.
‘I was flying the SR-71 out of RAF Mildenhall, England, with my back-seater, Walt Watson; we were returning from a mission over Europe and the Iron Curtain when we received a radio transmission from home base. As we scooted across Denmark in three minutes, we learned that a small RAF base in the English countryside had requested an SR-71 fly-past. The air cadet commander there was a former Blackbird pilot, and thought it would be a motivating moment for the young lads to see the mighty SR-71 perform a low approach. No problem, we were happy to do it. After a quick aerial refueling over the North Sea, we proceeded to find the small airfield.
Uncomfortable speed
‘Walter had a myriad of sophisticated navigation equipment in the back seat and began to vector me toward the field. Descending to subsonic speeds, we found ourselves over a densely wooded area in a slight haze. Like most former WWII British airfields, the one we were looking for had a small tower and little surrounding infrastructure. Walter told me we were close and that I should be able to see the field, but I saw nothing. Nothing but trees, as far as I could see in the haze. We got a little lower, and I pulled the throttles back from 325 knots we were at. With the gear up, anything under 275 was just uncomfortable. Walt said we were practically over the field-yet; there was nothing in my windscreen. I banked the jet and started a gentle circling maneuver in hopes of picking up anything that looked like a field.’
Airspeed indicator sliding below 160 knots
Shul continues;
‘Meanwhile, below, the cadet commander had taken the cadets up on the catwalk of the tower in order to get a prime view of the fly-past. It was a quiet, still day with no wind and partial gray overcast. Walter continued to give me indications that the field should be below us but in the overcast and haze, I couldn’t see it. The longer we continued to peer out the window and circle, the slower we got. With our power back, the awaiting cadets heard nothing. I must have had good instructors in my flying career, as something told me I better cross-check the gauges. As I noticed the airspeed indicator slide below 160 knots, my heart stopped and my adrenalin-filled left hand pushed two throttles full forward.
‘At this point, we weren’t really flying but were falling in a slight bank. Just at the moment that both afterburners lit with a thunderous roar of flame (and what a joyous feeling that was) the aircraft fell into full view of the shocked observers on the tower. Shattering the still quiet of that morning, they now had 107 feet of fire-breathing titanium in their face as the plane leveled and accelerated, in full burner, on the tower side of the infield, closer than expected, maintaining what could only be described as some sort of ultimate knife-edge pass.
The greatest SR-71 Blackbird fly-past
‘Quickly reaching the field boundary, we proceeded back to Mildenhall without incident. We didn’t say a word for those next 14 minutes. After landing, our commander greeted us, and we were both certain he was reaching for our wings. Instead, he heartily shook our hands and said the commander had told him it was the greatest SR-71 fly-past he had ever seen, especially how we had surprised them with such a precise maneuver that could only be described as breathtaking. He said that some of the cadet’s hats were blown off and the sight of the plan form of the plane in full afterburner dropping right in front of them was unbelievable. Walt and I both understood the concept of “breathtaking” very well that morning and sheepishly replied that they were just excited to see our low approach.
‘As we retired to the equipment room to change from space suits to flight suits, we just sat there-we hadn’t spoken a word since “the pass.” Finally, Walter looked at me and said, “One hundred fifty-six knots. What did you see?” Trying to find my voice, I stammered, “One hundred fifty-two.” We sat in silence for a moment. Then Walt said, “Don’t ever do that to me again!” And I never did.
Just a routine low approach
Shul concludes;
‘A year later, Walter and I were having lunch in the Mildenhall Officer’s club and overheard an officer talking to some cadets about an SR-71 fly-past that he had seen one day. Of course, by now the story included kids falling off the tower and screaming as the heat of the jet singed their eyebrows. Noticing our HABU patches, as we stood there with lunch trays in our hands, he asked us to verify to the cadets that such a thing had occurred. Walt just shook his head and said, “It was probably just a routine low approach; they’re pretty impressive in that plane.”’
Check out Habubrats SR-71’s Twitter profile and Born into the Wilde Blue Yonder’s Facebook page for further Blackbird photos and stories.
Top image: courtesy of Robin Harbour
