Sled Driver

same, nor were they as rugged. The SR-71 stood before me as something out of the
past. It had all the defiance and pride of the older jets, the kind that had made a
10-year-old boy in 1958 want to fly. As this sound penetrated my ears, I again felt
that same desire. I worried little now about space suit discomfort or what affect this
assignment would have on my career or my personal life. The Blackbird was talking
to me and I was listening.
I stood halfway down the runway to watch the takeoff. The pilot lit the
afterburners and I heard two distinct booms that sounded like cannons in the
distance. As the jet passed me, the thunderous, piercing sound ofthe engines at
maximum power was not so much heard as it was felt. The sound vibrated my body
and reached in and grabbed my soul. It had me. Here was a jet built long ago, still
flying the same mission for which it had been designed. It could go places other
airplanes couldn't, and bring back intelligence information vital to our nation. It was
playing for keeps and still winning. I wanted to be a part of it.
INTERVIEW SIM
Day four of the interview had been the most inspiring, but day three had been the
most challenging. It consisted of a familiarization and evaluation in the SR-71
simulator (sim). A one hour briefing preceded the simulator session. An SR-71
instructor pilot {IP) reviewed a wealth of information about the switches, levers, and
gauges in the cockpit. As I gazed intently at the cockpit drawings and tried to absorb
my instructor's words, I found myself filled with wonder at glimpsing at the inside of
an aircraft that had been so secret for so long.
Armed with my sparse knowledge of cockpit switchology, I climbed into the SR-71
simulator. The IP was going to evaluate my flying skills, or so I thought. He was
actually going to test my stress capacity. Even with the previous hour's instruction, I
felt unprepared to properly fly this sim, but I wasn't going to let him know that.
Everyone wanted to look good, and fighter pilots would rather die than look bad. I
was about to die.
With a death grip on the stick and eyes scanning frantically across a hostile
instrument panel, I devoted half my strength to appearing unflustered and in
control. The I P baited me with easy maneuvers and I gained an artificial sense of confidence.
He told me I was doing well and asked if I would like to try Mach 3 speed. Already
overloaded, I uttered a weak response and hoped it sounded positive. Again the
instructor gave me an easy scenario and I found it a bit surreal to see the