SR-71 Habu

[ikar]

[Alternative 4]

Great airplane. Nice pics thanks for posting

[Charlie]

That looks fast just sitting still.

Charlie

[ikar]

It was an impressive thing to watch. I saw one do a night takeoff and after it went by all you could see was a blue ball of fire. It liked like a Colonial Viper in the original series.

If you take a close look at the C-5A in the background of the fourth picture down you can see where they started to camoflage the center section of the wings and fuselage.

[otis252]

Hey Bob,

Where were those pics taken, if you don't mind me asking. Can't imagine flying a SR-71 to an airshow? Had to cost a ton to fly it there and support it. Those were the good old days of airshows. Saw one do a couple flybys at Lockheed Georgia when they retired them. Think it was on the way to a museum. Second pass was full burners and very high speed! Lot of noise, very impressive.

Chuck

[Aggressor Supporter]

That looks fast just sitting still.

Charlie

Agree!

[ikar]

At the time these were taken we had a det from the 9th Strat. Recon Wing assigned as Kadena that included three Habus. This one must have traveled the amazing distance of about 1/2 mile from the other side of the base for the display. My job let me know when the SR's would take off and land so I got some good shots. I'll post them as I find or have them reprinted.

[X-RAY]

Fast jet....did they ever release how fast it would go?

Jake

[habu2]

YF-12A at Dayton

:lol:

[ikar]

Quite a contrast in design with the others around her, isn't it?

[Steve jahn]

Quite a contrast in design with the others around her, isn't it?

Pertaining to the comment on the C-5 starting to be painted:This signifies that the re-wing project was done on this particular aircraft.At there next depot visit the rest of the "Lizard Paint Scheme' application would be completed.

Edited December 3, 2007 by Steve jahn

[Ivanho4]

;) No matter how old that bad boy gets...it still appears to be doing 2500 mph just sitting on the tarmac. Would love to see one up close someday. Ivan

[GreyGhost]

Here is 17974 at Miramar 85 ...

Ironixally, with a C-5 also in the background ...

Beautiful aircraft ...

Gregg

[jinxx1]

YF-12A at Dayton

Cool. Great shots of the YF. I remember building the Revell YF-12 kit when I was a kid . I have always found the F-12 (and the SR-71 family as a whole) to be attractive.

The A-12 (60-6933) on display outside of the San Diego Air & Space Museum.

SR-71A 61-7951 at Pima:

Edited December 3, 2007 by jinxx1

[jinxx1]

61-7972 at Udvar-Hazy.

Edited December 3, 2007 by jinxx1

[jinxx1]

An imaginative display of 61-7964 at the Strategic Air & Space Museum.

[yardbird78]

Ikar, thanks for posting the SR-71 pics (and the rest who did so also). Do you happen to know the tail number of that airframe and the date of the photos?

Chuck, the SR-71 you saw was probably 17958 on her way to the Museum of Aviation at Warner Robins AFB, Georgia.

Jake, the max speed on the SR-71 was Mach 3.5 or approximately 2600 knots. Normal, planned, operational speed in the target area was 2.9 to 3.1 Mach, but she could do 3.5 if the need was there. The limiting factor was the air temperature at the engine inlet. If the atmospheric temperature was a few degrees colder than planned or "normal" then the inlet temperature was lower and she could go a little faster without damaging the engines. It has been over 30 years since I worked with the mission planning, but if I remeber correctly, the max temperature was 437 degrees celsius or 818 degrees Fahrenheit.

Darwin

Edited December 4, 2007 by yardbird78

[GreyGhost]

Nice, informative post Darwin, we could always speculate but it's better to hear numbers from someone in the know ... Thanks ...

Gregg

[ikar]

Those shote were taken in 1986 at Kadena. It looks like they blocked out the number of the aircraft for possible secrity reasons. At that time it was rare for the Habu to be displayed pubicly.

[jinxx1]

61-7995 at the March museum.

[hazmatt]

The following is Brian Shul's memoirs of flying the SR-71

In April 1986, following an attack on American soldiers in a Berlin disco,

President Reagan ordered the bombing of Muammar Qaddafi's terrorist camps in

Libya. My duty was to fly over Libya and take photos recording the damage

our F-111s had inflicted. Qaddafi had established a 'line of death,' a

territorial marking across the Gulf of Sidra, swearing to shoot down any

intruder that crossed the boundary. On the morning of April 15, I rocketed

past the line at

2,125 mph.

I was piloting the SR-71 spy plane, the world's fastest jet, accompanied by

Maj. Walter Watson, the aircraft's reconnaissance systems officer (RSO). We

had crossed into Libya and were approaching our final turn over the bleak

desert landscape when Walter informed me that he was receiving missile

launch signals. I quickly increased our speed, calculating the time it would

take for the weapons-most likely SA-2 and SA-4 surface-to-air missiles

capable of Mach 5-to reach our altitude. I estimated that we could beat the

rocket-powered missiles to the turn and stayed our course, betting our lives

on the plane's performance.

After several agonizingly long seconds, we made the turn and blasted toward

the Mediterranean. 'You might want to pull it back,' Walter suggested. It

was then that I noticed I still had the throttles full forward. The plane

was flying a mile every 1.6 seconds, well above our Mach 3.2 limit. It was

the fastest we would ever fly. I pulled the throttles to idle just south of

Sicily, but we still overran the refueling tanker awaiting us over

Gibraltar.

Scores of significant aircraft have been produced in the 100 years of flight

following the achievements of the Wright brothers, which we celebrate in

December. Aircraft such as the Boeing 707, the F-86 Sabre Jet, and the P-51

Mustang are among the important machines that have flown our skies. But the

SR-71, also known as the Blackbird, stands alone as a significant

contributor to Cold War victory and as the fastest plane ever-and only 93

Air Force pilots ever steered the 'sled,' as we called our aircraft.

As inconceivable as it may sound, I once discarded the plane.

Literally. My first encounter with the SR-71 came when I was 10 years old in

the form of molded black plastic in a Revell kit. Cementing together the

long fuselage parts proved tricky, and my finished product looked less than

menacing. Glue,oozing from the seams, discolored the black plastic. It

seemed ungainly alongside the fighter planes in my collection, and I threw

it away.

Twenty-nine years later, I stood awe-struck in a Beale Air Force Base

hangar, staring at the very real SR-71 before me. I had applied to fly the

world's fastest jet and was receiving my first walk-around of our nation's

most prestigious aircraft. In my previous 13 years as an Air Force fighter

pilot, I had never seen an aircraft with such presence. At 107 feet long, it

appeared big, but far from ungainly.

Ironically, the plane was dripping, much like the misshapen model I had

assembled in my youth. Fuel was seeping through the joints, raining down on

the hangar floor. At Mach 3, the plane would expand several inches because

of the severe temperature, which could heat the leading edge of the wing to

1,100 degrees. To prevent cracking, expansion joints had been built into the

plane. Sealant resembling rubber glue covered the seams, but when the plane

was subsonic, fuel would leak through the joints.

The SR-71 was the brainchild of Kelly Johnson, the famed Lockheed designer

who created the P-38, the F-104 Starfighter, and the U-2.

After the Soviets shot down Gary Powers' U-2 in 1960, Johnson began to

develop an aircraft that would fly three miles higher and five times faster

than the spy plane-and still be capable of photographing your license plate.

However, flying at 2,000 mph would create intense heat on the aircraft's

skin. Lockheed engineers used a titanium alloy to construct more than 90

percent of the SR-71, creating special tools and manufacturing procedures to

hand-build each of the 40 planes. Special heat-resistant fuel, oil, and

hydraulic fluids that would function at 85,000 feet and higher also had to

be developed.

In 1962, the first Blackbird successfully flew, and in 1966, the same year I

graduated from high school, the Air Force began flying operational SR-71

missions. I came to the program in 1983 with a sterling record and a

recommendation from my commander, completing the weeklong interview and

meeting Walter, my partner for the next four years. He would ride four feet

behind me, working all the cameras, radios, and electronic jamming

equipment. I joked that if we were ever captured, he was the spy and I was

just the driver. He told me to keep the pointy end forward.

We trained for a year, flying out of Beale AFB in California, Kadena Airbase

in Okinawa, and RAF Mildenhall in England. On a typical training mission, we

would take off near Sacramento, refuel over Nevada, accelerate into Montana,

obtain high Mach over Colorado, turn right over New Mexico, speed across the

Los Angeles Basin, run up the West Coast, turn right at Seattle, then return

to Beale.

Total flight time: two hours and 40 minutes.

One day, high above Arizona, we were monitoring the radio traffic of all the

mortal airplanes below us. First, a Cessna pilot asked the air traffic

controllers to check his ground speed. 'Ninety knots,'

ATC replied. A twin Bonanza soon made the same request. 'One-twenty on the

ground,' was the reply. To our surprise, a navy F-18 came over the radio

with a ground speed check. I knew exactly what he was doing. Of course, he

had a ground speed indicator in his cockpit, but he wanted to let all the

bug-smashers in the valley know what real speed was. 'Dusty 52, we show you

at 620 on the ground,' ATC responded.

The situation was too ripe. I heard the click of Walter's mike button in the

rear seat. In his most innocent voice, Walter startled the controller by

asking for a ground speed check from 81,000 feet, clearly above controlled

airspace. In a cool, professional voice, the controller replied, 'Aspen 20,

I show you at 1,982 knots on the ground.' We did not hear another

transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.

The Blackbird always showed us something new, each aircraft possessing its

own unique personality. In time, we realized we were flying a national

treasure. When we taxied out of our revetments for takeoff, people took

notice. Traffic congregated near the airfield fences, because everyone

wanted to see and hear the mighty SR-71.

You could not be a part of this program and not come to love the airplane.

Slowly, she revealed her secrets to us as we earned her trust.

One moonless night, while flying a routine training mission over the

Pacific, I wondered what the sky would look like from 84,000 feet if the

cockpit lighting were dark. While heading home on a straight course, I

slowly turned down all of the lighting, reducing the glare and revealing the

night sky. Within seconds, I turned the lights back up, fearful that the jet

would know and somehow punish me. But my desire to see the sky overruled my

caution, and I dimmed the lighting again. To my amazement, I saw a bright

light outside my window. As my eyes adjusted to the view, I realized that

the brilliance was the broad expanse of the Milky Way, now a gleaming stripe

across the sky. Where dark spaces in the sky had usually existed, there were

now dense clusters of sparkling stars. Shooting stars flashed across the

canvas every few seconds. It was like a fireworks display with no sound.

I knew I had to get my eyes back on the instruments, and reluctantly I

brought my attention back inside. To my surprise, with the cockpit lighting

still off, I could see every gauge, lit by starlight. In the plane's

mirrors, I could see the eerie shine of my gold spacesuit incandescently

illuminated in a celestial glow. I stole one last glance out the window.

Despite our speed, we seemed still before the heavens, humbled in the

radiance of a much greater power.

For those few moments, I felt a part of something far more significant than

anything we were doing in the plane. The sharp sound of Walt's voice on the

radio brought me back to the tasks at hand as I prepared for our descent.

The SR-71 was an expensive aircraft to operate. The most significant cost

was tanker support, and in 1990, confronted with budget cutbacks, the Air

Force retired the SR-71. The Blackbird had outrun nearly 4,000 missiles, not

once taking a scratch from enemy fire. On her final flight, the Blackbird,

destined for the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum, sped from Los

Angeles to Washington in 64 minutes, averaging 2,145 mph and setting four

speed records.

The SR-71 served six presidents, protecting America for a quarter of a

century. Unbeknownst to most of the country, the plane flew over North

Vietnam, Red China, North Korea, the Middle East, South Africa, Cuba,

Nicaragua, Iran, Libya, and the Falkland Islands. On a weekly basis, the

SR-71 kept watch over every Soviet nuclear submarine and mobile missile

site, and all of their troop movements.

It was a key factor in winning the Cold War.

I am proud to say I flew about 500 hours in this aircraft. I knew her

well.She gave way to no plane, proudly dragging her sonic boom through enemy

backyards with great impunity. She defeated every missile, outran every MiG,

and always brought us home. In the first 100 years of manned flight, no

aircraft was more remarkable.

With the Libyan coast fast approaching now, Walt asks me for the third time

if I think the jet will get to the speed and altitude we want in time. I

tell him yes. I know he is concerned. He is dealing with the data; that's

what engineers do, and I am glad he is. But I have my hands on the stick and

throttles and can feel the heart of a thoroughbred, running now with the

power and perfection she was designed to possess. I also talk to her. Like

the combat veteran she is, the jet senses the target area and seems to

prepare herself. For the first time in two days, the inlet door closes flush

and all vibration is gone. We've become so used to the constant buzzing that

the jet sounds quiet now in comparison. The Mach correspondingly increases

slightly and the jet is flying in that confidently smooth and steady style

we have so often seen at these speeds. We reach our target altitude and

speed, with five miles to spare.

Entering the target area, in response to the jet's new-found vitality, Walt

says, 'That's amazing' and with my left hand pushing two throttles farther

forward, I think to myself that there is much they don't teach in

engineering school.

Out my left window, Libya looks like one huge sandbox. A featureless brown

terrain stretches all the way to the horizon. There is no sign of any

activity. Then Walt tells me that he is getting lots of electronic signals,

and they are not the friendly kind.

The jet is performing perfectly now, flying better than she has in weeks.

She seems to know where she is. She likes the high Mach, as we penetrate

deeper into Libyan airspace. Leaving the footprint of our sonic boom across

Benghazi, I sit motionless, with stilled hands on throttles and the pitch

control, my eyes glued to the gauges.

Only the Mach indicator is moving, steadily increasing in hundredths, in a

rhythmic consistency similar to the long distance runner who has caught his

second wind and picked up the pace. The jet was made for this kind of

performance and she wasn't about to let an errant inlet door make her miss

the show. With the power of forty locomotives, we puncture the quiet African

sky and continue farther south across a bleak landscape.

Walt continues to update me with numerous reactions he sees on the DEF

panel. He is receiving missile tracking signals. With each mile we traverse,

every two seconds, I become more uncomfortable driving deeper into this

barren and hostile land.

I am glad the DEF panel is not in the front seat. It would be a big

distraction now, seeing the lights flashing. In contrast, my cockpit is

'quiet' as the jet purrs and relishes her new-found strength, continuing to

slowly accelerate. The spikes are full aft now, tucked twenty-six inches

deep into the nacelles. With all inlet doors tightly shut, at 3.24 Mach, the

J-58s are more like ramjets now, gulping 100,000 cubic feet of air per

second. We are a roaring express now, and as we roll through the enemy's

backyard, I hope our speed continues to defeat the missile radars below.

We are approaching a turn, and this is good. It will only make it more

difficult for any launched missile to solve the solution for hitting our

aircraft. I push the speed up at Walt's request. The jet does not skip a

beat, nothing fluctuates, and the cameras have a rock steady platform.

Walt received missile launch signals. Before he can say anything else, my

left hand instinctively moves the throttles yet farther forward. My eyes are

glued to temperature gauges now, as I know the jet will willingly go to

speeds that can harm her. The temps are relatively cool and from all the

warm temps we've encountered thus far, this surprises me but then, it really

doesn't surprise me.

Mach 3.31 and Walt are quiet for the moment.

I move my gloved finder across the small silver wheel on the autopilot panel

which controls the aircraft's pitch. With the deft feel known to Swiss

watchmakers, surgeons, and 'dinosaurs' (old-time pilots who not only fly an

airplane but 'feel it') I rotate the pitch wheel somewhere between

one-sixteenth and one-eighth inch, location a position which yields the

500-foot-per-minute climb I desire. The jet raises her nose one-sixth of a

degree and knows I'll push her higher as she goes faster. The Mach continues

to rise, but during this segment of our route, I am in no mood to pull

throttles back.

Walt's voice pierces the quiet of my cockpit with the news of more missile

launch signals. The gravity of Walter's voice tells me that he believes the

signals to be a more valid threat than the others.

Within seconds he tells me to 'push it up' and I firmly press both throttles

against their stops. For the next few second I will let the jet go as fast

as she wants.

A final turn is coming up and we both know that if we can hit that turn at

this speed, we most likely will defeat any missiles. We are not there yet,

though, and I'm wondering if Walt will call for a defensive turn off our

course. With no words spoken, I sense Walter is thinking in concert with me

about maintaining our programmed course.

To keep from worrying, I glance outside, wondering if I'll be able to

visually pick up a missile aimed at us. Odd are the thoughts that wander

through one's mind in times like these. I found myself recalling the words

of former SR-71 pilots who were fired upon while flying missions over North

Vietnam. They said the few errant missile detonations they were able to

observe from the cockpit looked like implosions rather than explosions. This

was due to the great speed at which the jet was hurling away from the

exploding missile. I see nothing outside except the endless expanse of a

steel blue sky and the broad patch of tan earth far below.

I have only had my eyes out of the cockpit for seconds, but it seems like

many minutes since I have last checked the gauges inside.

Returning my attention inward, I glance first at the miles counter telling

me how many more to go until we can start our turn. Then I note the Mach,

and passing beyond 3.45, I realize that Walter and I have attained new

personal records. The Mach continues to increase.

The ride is incredibly smooth.

There seems to be a confirmed trust now, between me and the jet; she will

not hesitate to deliver whatever speed we need, and I can count on no

problems with the inlets. Walt and I are ultimately depending on the jet now

- more so than normal - and she seems to know it. The cooler outside

temperatures have awakened the spirit born into her years ago, when men

dedicated to excellence took the time and care to build her well. With

spikes and doors as tight as they can get we are racing against the time it

could take a missile to reach our altitude. It is a race this jet will not

let us lose. The Mach eases to 3.5 as we crest 80,000 feet. We are a bullet

now - except faster.

We hit the turn, and I feel some relief as our nose swings away from a

country we have seen quite enough of. Screaming past Tripoli, our phenomenal

speed continues to rise, and the screaming Sled pummels the enemy one more

time, laying down a parting sonic boom.

In seconds, we can see nothing but the expansive blue of the Mediterranean

.I realize that I still have my left hand full-forward and we're continuing

to rocket along in maximum afterburner. The TDI now shows us Mach numbers

not only new to our experience but flat out scary. Walt says the DEF panel

is now quiet and I know it is time to reduce our incredible speed. I pull

the throttles to the min 'burner range and the jet still doesn't want to

slow down. Normally, the Mach would be affected immediately when making such

a large throttle movement. But for just a few moments, old 960 just sat out

there at the high Mach she seemed to love and, like the proud Sled she was,

only began to slow when we were well out of danger.

I loved that jet.

[yardbird78]

Major Shul wrote two books on the SR-71 and both of them make for excellent reading. They are "The Untouchables" and "Sled Driver".

Darwin

Edited December 9, 2007 by yardbird78

[BAM'n'IVM]

17979 on static display at Lackland AFB.

[Aggressor Supporter]

That one of 61-7964 by jinxx is a great pic of a neat display.

[Jared Bishop]

I'm starting to gather research for a 1/32 SR-71 Does anyone have any accurate drawings? I'm in Utah and there is the SR-71C at Hill AFB. So I've taken some picture there. Does anyone know if there are any changes in the SR-71C? Other that the obvious raised back seat.