The computer-operated wings of the Tomcat could adjust in flight, changing the width of the fighter from 64 feet at takeoff to a much narrower 38 feet in high-speed flight and combat. With a length of 61 feet it came closer to being more like a kite during takeoff to lift its 37 tons. The Falcon was a sleek picture with fixed wings and a total weight of 14 tons—28 tons loaded for combat. The wingspan was seven feet narrower than the Tomcat with drawn wings and five feet shorter.
Both were dwarfed next to the modified version of the SR-71 Blackbird, almost twice as long as the Tomcat, with a fixed wingspan of 55 feet. But the Blackbird also carried 55 tons aloft.
The closer Beau came to the Blackbird the more unreal it appeared. As he prepared to enter the cockpit of the sleek black aircraft, he noticed for the first time the recessed attachments in the aircraft’s skin. They aligned along the edge of the canopy and would connect to the space station Starburst, allowing the Blackbird to dock. Two men helped him inside the cockpit. He attached all the lines, scanned the gauges, and then checked the radio.
“Commander, are you ready?” asked the tower.
“Roger,” he said and then to himself, “I’m ready to go out of this world.” The jets started to a thunderous roar and he rolled toward the runway. The tower gave him clearance and Beau accelerated. At 250 mph the SR-71 became airborne.
The tower cut in. “Climb to 300,000 feet, then start your descent.”
“Roger,” he answered mechanically. The official record was 85,000 feet, but unofficially he knew of men reaching 150,000. He had exceeded 130,000 once. Today, he would do it again — and much more!
He moved across the bay. In one motion he shoved the throttle forward, pulled the stick back, and began his almost vertical ascent. He was now at 450 mph. An invisible force crushed him back. The G-force was a thrill. Euphoria filled his body, the likes of which he experienced every time he flew. This flight would be an exception and a new thrill he had never known.
He reached Mach 1 and crossed the sound barrier for the first time. Traveling vertically, the shock waves or sonic booms created from crossing the barrier moved perpendicular to the Blackbird and parallel to the ground, instead of toward it. At sea level the speed of sound traveled 750 mph. At higher altitudes, in the thinner air, the speed of sound could be reached at 650 mph.
The first barrier was crossed at 20,000 feet. He pushed on. The Blackbird eagerly obeyed his touch cutting through the atmosphere a few degrees off a vertical position.
Chatter continued from the tower and the two pursuit aircraft. “40,000 feet, 1300 mph… looking good.”
Mach-2, Beau reflected, and he smiled when he realized the flight had only just begun. “Roger,” came his mechanical answer. He was nearing 60,000 and 1800 mph. The tower confirmed, and he pushed the nose over to a seventy-degree angle then hit the afterburners, leaving the Tomcat and the Falcon behind. It was as though he had been kicked in the butt. Swiftly he shot past 120,000 feet as he watched the needle twirl on the altimeter. The computers took over adjusting mechanical input on the controls, allowing smaller output on the guidance system.
“150,000 feet, 3250 mph, Mach-5. Looking good. Activate the scramjets,” came the order from the tower.
At this speed, Beau was capable of catching and passing a bullet fired from a high-powered rifle. And there was still more to go! His gloved hand touched the switch. “Activated.” Now he waited for the new engines to kick in. They did so with tremendous force. In an instant he reached Mach-6 and 200,000 feet. It took less than 20 seconds to reach 300,000 and Mach-8. So far the trip had lasted but a few minutes.
“Mission completed, you can return home,” ordered the tower.
“Roger,” he lied, keeping the Blackbird aimed for the heavens. There was no sound from the powerful jet engines of the Blackbird. The cockpit was silent. The aircraft was traveling at eight times the speed of sound and the thunderous roar of the jets was unable to reach forward into the confines of the SR-71 cockpit, where virtual silence prevailed. He was streaking toward the stars at more than 85 miles per minute, more than one mile every second. He had passed 300,000 feet and was still climbing. He pointed the nose over at a forty-five-degree angle.
At this altitude, the air was so thin the sun took on a different appearance than on Earth. Here, it could be seen in all its dynamic intensity. From here there was no day or night; instead he saw an abyss of grandeur and stars changing from blue to purple, finally blending to the black of space. Over 320,000 feet below, it was still daylight and just before noon. But here he shared his secrets with an infinite number of brilliant stars. He felt a sudden urge to push faster and higher!
“Commander, this is the tower; you’ve passed 330,000 feet and are exceeding Mach-8. Return to base!”
Smiling, he switched the radio on, then made static noises and answered, “Repeat over… You’re… break… up. Problem wi… throt… Repeat I—,” he said trying to garble his voice; then he flipped the switch on the radio.
In the thin air, the outside temperatures were minus sixty degrees Fahrenheit, yet the gauges of the Blackbird showed a nose skin temperature of 1125 degrees, while the sides approached 455. Everything was normal. He marveled at the gauges and the information being fed to him. The jet was 100 miles out to sea and had traveled 120 miles in less than three and a half minutes. Mach-9; 5900 mph. The altimeter passed 340,000 feet. He wanted more. A rush passed through Beau’s frame. For a moment he felt immortal.
The words of a fighter pilot, dead long ago, registered on his brain: “Up, up the long delirious burning blue, I’ve topped the wind-swept heights…” How true, he thought.
Crossing over to another world, Beau thought of God. He had his own beliefs, his own doubts, but every time he came to this point, he believed. Truly God existed. If God heard prayers he would hear them here. Somebody or something was with him. He sensed it.
Those few thoughts took only milliseconds, during which time the SR-71 traveled an additional thirty miles. Instinctively, he leveled the Blackbird out and prepared for the descent. He was over 150 miles out and his air speed had dropped under Mach-8 to 5000 mph.
As the SR-71 leveled out he gazed to the heavens. “Sorry for what I’ve done. But do me a favor and watch after Becky and Shawn. I’ll be seein’ ya.” With those few words, he began his earthly descent.
How small, how insignificant the earth seemed. He could see the Gulf of Mexico and the Texas coast. He put his ship into a gentle earth-bound dive. The strangest feeling prevailed over his senses, as though his ship was motionless while the earth spun continuously before him. Eight times the aircraft shuddered, caught in its own sound waves as it decelerated through the sound barrier.
Beau zeroed in on the approximate spot he had left and headed home. It seemed strange but at that very moment, his thoughts were of Krysti.
Chapter 7
PLAYING GAMES
All hell was about to break loose when he landed, and Beau was prepared. As he taxied down the runway he popped the old communications panel and pulled a couple of the fuses. Then from a pocket within his suit he extracted a battery with a wire attached to each end. When he touched the wires to the fuses, they burned out. He replaced the fuses and closed the panels. This was all completed in a matter of seconds just as he stopped in front of the hangar. The canopy lifted slowly. An insulated ladder had already rolled against the black, still hot skin of the SR-71. The angry commander of the mission stormed the rungs.
The first face Beau saw was not pleasant. “You stupid son-of-a-bitch, I’m gonna have your wings.” The lieutenant in charge angrily reached across Beau and popped the same panel, extracting the same fuses, and then he quickly descended the ladder.