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 " 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. "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
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.
