How to Eject* from an SR-71 at 78,800 Feet
By: Alex Fox Rudinski
Tags: Narrative, Essay, History, Nonfiction, Aviation

A Beautiful Day in Almost-Space

It’s 25 January 1966: a hot new single by that English band The Beatles is lighting up the radio waves.

Driving through the temperate California air, palm trees flashing by in the morning’s magenta haze, Bill must have heard “Day Tripper” on the radio — it defies you to not sing along. Perhaps Bill voiced its ironic prophecy, as he headed to Edwards AFB for yet another stratospheric flight:

A one-way ticket?

…Yeah.

Bill Weaver, palling around with a supersonic jet. Seen here with his SR-71 prior to the 1966 crash: the early pressure suits were silver. [Lockheed-Martin]

By 1966, Lockheed engineers have largely perfected the SR-71 airframe. Today, Bill and Lockheed technical specialist Jim Zwayer will be testing ways to improve high-Mach cruise performance, flying a plane with an off-balance center of gravity. Now, we’d just run a computer simulation. But back then, the best way to find out how your airplane worked was often by flying it.

Today, the flight engineers have loaded Dutch with a thumb on the scale, slightly weighing down her tail. Bill’s mission is, essentially, to take it for a spin and tell them how it goes.

It’s nearing noon by the time Jim starts “reading the prayer” — the preflight checklist — in the backseat of their SR-71, mission callsign DUTCH 54. Strapped into the pilot’s seat, Bill moves through this responsorial psalm with practiced ease: every system is go. With a final amen, the plane shoots skyward, scaling the Mojave air.

As Dutch rises through her initial ascent, Bill notices her off-kilter balance requires excessive trim to counteract. It’s like he’s driving a car with a crooked alignment: annoying, but probably fine. He deftly dials in the settings required to level the plane. Something to tell the wonks, when he lands.

With precision earned only through practice, Bill pulls back on his stick, rising through the sparse California clouds to stratospheric heights. The altimeter winds up, calculating nose-bleeding altitude silently: 76,000… 77,000… 78,000 feet.

He levels off, high above the sky. From this lofty perch, Bill could see the curve of the earth before him, the inky black of space above. Without his suit, he’d be long dead. The stratosphere is not kind.

Gently, Bill banks his aircraft to the right. Flying at more than 2,400 mph, “gently” is the only way a smart pilot does anything. The bank will inscribe a lazy radius of nearly 100 miles.

At least, it would have.

The very same SR-71 Bill was flying when things fell apart, tail number 61–7952. On this flight, she is substantially better behaved. Like its distant cousin the crow, the Blackbird is smart enough to catch on when its picture is being taken. [Lockheed-Martin | Source]

In a thunderclap instant — all calamity needs — Dutch’s right engine suddenly malfunctions. It shuts off with an audible rending of garments, a clamorous stroke that every SR-71 pilot comes to dread. Bill knows what’s happened immediately: a supersonic unstart.

“Explosive banging noises” are swiftly followed by an “instantaneous loss of engine thrust.” The engine will not return — Bill will not even have time to try. If you’ve ever seen a runner trip, you can guess what happens next.

Traveling at Mach 3.18, Dutch stumbles over her lost engine, as useless as a shattered knee. The chaotic aerodynamics assaulting the plane’s altered center of gravity transform Bill’s commanded bank into an uncommanded rolling climb.

Bill throws his stick forward and to the left, hands folded around the yoke in silent prayer, a plea to belay this murderous climb. Dutch makes no response: I hope some god is listening.

Bill’s now at the mercy of the “violent yawing of the aircraft — like being in a train wreck.”

Inside, it’s like riding a carousel at impossible speed. Bill’s body is crushed against his seat by a giant’s implacable hand, the high acceleration’s g-forces locking him into his chair. The force of Dutch’s rolling climb is overwhelming: it drains the blood from Bill’s brain. His heart can only push so hard. The g-force pushes harder.

Only seconds have passed, but Bill has barely a tablespoon of sand left in his Hourglass of Useful Consciousness. He has no idea.

If his heart could push hard enough, it would be pounding the alarm in his ears.

An Air Force pilots fights to maintain consciousness — and fails — under a centrifuge-simulated acceleration of nine gs. Bill will ultimately experience several times this.

A pilot never wants to abandon their plane. It means your flight record is forever uneven, with one more takeoff than landing. But with Dutch completely out of control, Bill has no reason to stay. Egress is now essential.

Following emergency procedure, Bill cracks on the inter-cockpit speakerphone and briefs Jim on his planned descent to a more ejection-friendly altitude. You can eject in the stratosphere, but it won’t be nearly as fun.

Or rather, that’s what Bill thought he did. His garbled attempt at speech could only be transcribed as [UNINTELLIGIBLE].

It’s the building g-force, that stops him: his hourglass runs short. In the background, a thousand titanium rivets keen. Bill’s aircraft is ripping apart at the seams.

And that’s the final buzzer, folks!

The last grain of sand has slipped the glass. A thousand stage lights sighing off, Bill’s consciousness falls to black. The slamming of a coffin lid could not have been more final.

Today, we call this goodnight-nurse moment g-LOC, but the older name is more descriptive: “fainting in the air.” Bill is slumped against his harness, a television tuned to a dead channel.

Dutch, untethered, corkscrews higher into the air.