> 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 asked
> Center for a readout 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 "HoustonCenterVoice." 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 HoustonCenterControllers, 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.
>
> "Ah, Twin Beach: 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 readout? 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 reply 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 HoustonCenterVoice, 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.
> 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 asked
> Center for a readout 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 "HoustonCenterVoice." 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 HoustonCenterControllers, 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.
>
> "Ah, Twin Beach: 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 readout? 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 reply 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 HoustonCenterVoice, 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.
