The pilot under whom the SR-71 Blackbird collapsed

Test pilot Bill Weaver has flight tested all F-104 Starfighters and the entire family of Blackbirds - the A-12, YF-12 and SR-71.
On January 25, 1966, Bill Weaver and reconnaissance and navigation systems flight tester Jim Zwayer, flying SR-71 number 952, were to evaluate methods for improving high-Mach cruise performance by reducing aerodynamic drag. Bill Weaver talks about what happened during the flight in the book - SR-71 The Complete Illustrated History of the Blackbird - The World's Highest, Fastest Plane.

We took off from Edwards AFB at 11:20 and completed the first part of the mission without incident. After refueling from the KS-135 tanker, we turned east, accelerated to 3,2 M and took up a flight level of 78 thousand feet (23 meters) - our altitude for cruising flight.
A few minutes after the start of the flight, the automatic air intake control system of the right engine failed, which required switching to manual control.
During supersonic flight, the air intake configuration on the SR-71 was automatically adjusted to slow the airflow in the duct to subsonic speeds. Typically, these actions occurred automatically depending on the Mach number.
Without such control, disturbances in the intake tract can cause the shock wave to be thrown forward, a phenomenon known as inlet unstart. This causes a sound similar to an explosion, leads to an instant loss of engine thrust and severe yaw of the aircraft. Such phenomena often occurred at this stage of aircraft testing.
As prescribed by the flight profile, we performed a sharp turn to the right with a bank angle of 35 degrees. The right engine immediately fired, causing the aircraft to turn further to the right and begin to climb sharply. I turned the control knob all the way to the left and forward. No answer. I immediately realized that the flight would be very exciting.
I tried to explain to Jim what was happening and that we needed to stay in the plane until we reduced speed and altitude. I didn't think the odds of surviving an ejection at Mach 3,18 and 78 feet were very good. However, due to the rapidly increasing overload, my words sounded distorted and unintelligible, which was later confirmed by the speech recorder.
The combined effects of system failures, reduced longitudinal stability, increased angle of attack during a turn, supersonic speed, high altitude, and other factors resulted in the aircraft's airframe being subjected to forces in excess of the capabilities of the stability control system.
Then everything happened as if in slow motion.
I later learned that the time from the onset of the event to the catastrophic loss of control was only 2-3 seconds. Still trying to contact Jim, I blacked out due to the extremely high G-force. Then the SR-71 literally crumbled around us.
From that moment on, I simply accompanied the wreckage in flight.
My next memory was the vague idea that I was having a bad dream. Maybe I’ll wake up and get out of this mess, I thought. Gradually regaining consciousness, I realized that this was not a dream, that this actually happened. This also caused anxiety because I would not be able to survive what had just happened in the dream. Therefore I must be dead.

When full awareness of what had happened came, I realized that I had not died, but had somehow been separated from the plane. I had no idea how this could happen. I didn't have time to eject. The sound of rushing air and what sounded like belts flapping in the wind confirmed that I was falling, but I didn't see anything. The front panel of my spacesuit was frozen, and I was looking at a layer of ice.
The suit was inflated, so I knew that the emergency oxygen tank included with the seat attached to my parachute harness was working. It not only supplied oxygen for breathing, but also created pressure in the suit, preventing my blood from boiling at very high altitudes.
I didn't appreciate it at the time, but the pressurized suit also provided physical protection from severe impacts and G-forces. This inflated suit became my own escape pod.
My next concern was to maintain my stability in the fall. Air density at high altitude is insufficient to control body position, and centrifugal forces can be such as to cause physical injury. For this reason, the SR-71's parachute system was designed to automatically deploy a small diameter stabilizing parachute shortly after ejection and seat separation.

Since I had definitely not activated the ejection system - and assumed that all automatic functions depended on the correct ejection sequence - it occurred to me that the stabilizing parachute may not have deployed.
However, I quickly realized that I was falling vertically and not tumbling. The little parachute must have opened and done its job after all.
Next problem: the main parachute, which was supposed to automatically deploy at 15 feet (000 meters). Again, I wasn't sure the auto-unfold feature would work. I couldn't determine my altitude because I still couldn't see through the icy faceplate. There was no way to know how long I had been out or how far I had flown.
I felt for the D-ring on the harness to manually release the parachute, but because the suit was inflated and my hands were numb from the cold, I couldn’t find it. I decided that I had better open the faceplate, try to estimate my height above the ground, and then find the ring.
As I reached for the front panel, I felt my fall suddenly slow down as the main parachute opened. I lifted the frozen faceplate and found that its mount was broken. Holding the plate with one hand, I saw myself descending through a clear winter sky.
The visibility all around was excellent and I saw Jim's parachute about a quarter of a mile away. I didn't think either of us could survive, so seeing Jim manage to jump out also lifted my spirits tremendously.
I also saw the burning wreckage of a plane several miles from where we were supposed to land. The area did not look attractive at all - a deserted high mountain plateau, dotted with patches of snow, and no signs of habitation.
I tried to deploy the parachute and look in the other direction. But with one hand occupied holding the faceplate and both of them numb from the cold temperatures at the high altitude, I couldn't control the lines enough to turn.
Before the destruction of the plane, we began to turn in the border area of \u71b\u100bNew Mexico - Colorado - Oklahoma - Texas. The SR-15's turning radius was about 00 miles. And at that speed and altitude, I wasn't even sure what state we'd land in. But, since it was about XNUMX:XNUMX, I realized that we would spend the whole night here.
At about 300 feet above the ground, I pulled the NAZ kit's mounting handle and made sure it was still attached to me with a long cord. I then tried to remember what survival items were in that gear, as well as the techniques I was taught in survival training.
Looking down, I was amazed to see a fairly large animal right below me - it looked like an antelope. Apparently it was as surprised as I was, because it literally took off in a cloud of dust.
My first parachute landing in my life went very smoothly.
I landed on fairly soft ground, managing to avoid rocks, cacti and antelope. However, my parachute was still moving in the wind. I struggled to fold it with one hand while holding the still frozen faceplate with the other.
This moment about the “first landing in my life” seemed strange to me - how did the pilot never jump?
“Can I help you with anything?” – asked someone’s voice.
It seemed to me? I looked up and saw a guy in a cowboy hat walking towards me. A small helicopter stood nearby. The blades were spinning at idle speed.
If I had been at Edwards and told the search and rescue team I was jumping out over Rogers Dry Lake, they couldn't have gotten to me as quickly as that cowboy pilot did.
This gentleman was Albert Mitchell Jr., owner of a huge cattle ranch in northeastern New Mexico. I landed about 1,5 miles from his home and the hangar for his two-seat Hughes helicopter.
Surprised, I replied that I had a slight problem with the parachute. He walked over and lowered the dome, securing it with several stones.
He saw Jim and me go down and had already radioed the New Mexico Highway Patrol, the Air Force, and the nearest hospital.
Freed from the parachute harness, I discovered the source of the flapping strap noises I had heard as I descended. My seat belt and shoulder straps were still on me, attached and latched. The lap belt was torn on either side of the hips where the straps passed through the adjustment rollers. The shoulder harness was torn in the same way on the back.
It turns out that the ejection seat never left the plane. This yanked me out of it with incredible force, with my seat belt and shoulder straps still fastened.
I also noticed that one of the two cords that supplied oxygen to my suit had become disconnected, and the other was barely holding on. If this second cord were to become disconnected at high altitude, the deflated suit would provide no protection.
I knew that oxygen supply was critical to breathing and maintaining pressure in the suit, but I had no idea that an inflated suit could also provide physical protection. That the suit withstood enough force to disintegrate the plane and rip the heavy nylon seatbelts to shreds, and yet I escaped with only a few bruises and minor contusions, was impressive.
I was really glad to have my own little escape pod.
After Mitchell helped me with the parachute, he said he would check on Jim. He climbed into his helicopter, flew a short distance and returned about 10 minutes later with terrible the news: Jim was dead. Apparently, he broke his neck during the plane crash and died instantly.
Mitchell said his ranch manager would arrive soon to look after Jim's body until authorities arrived.
I asked for a ride to Jim's and, satisfied that there was nothing more that could be done, agreed to have Mitchell take me to Tucumcari Hospital, located about 60 miles to the south.
I also have vivid memories of that helicopter flight.
I didn't know much about rotorcraft, but I knew a lot about redlines, and Mitchell kept his speed at or above the redline the whole way. The little helicopter vibrated and shook much more than I expected.
I tried to reassure the cowboy pilot that I felt fine and that there was no need to rush. But since he had notified the hospital staff of our arrival, he insisted that we get there as soon as possible.
I couldn't help but think how ironic it would be to survive one disaster only to die in the helicopter that came to my aid.
Nevertheless, we made it to the hospital safely – and quickly. I was soon able to contact Lockheed's flight test department at Edwards.
The test team was first notified of the loss of radio contact and radar blips, and were then informed that the aircraft was lost. They also knew what our flight conditions were at that moment and assumed that no one could have survived.
I briefly explained what happened, describing the flight conditions before the crash quite accurately.
The next day, our flight was duplicated on the SR-71 flight simulator at Beale Air Force Base (California). The result was identical. Measures were immediately taken to prevent a recurrence of our accident.
Testing at altitudes above normal limits was abandoned, and problems with trim and drag were subsequently resolved by aerodynamic means. The intake control system has been constantly improved, and with the subsequent development of the digital automatic control system, problems with the air intake system have become rare.
The inability to see anything through the frozen front panel of the spacesuit was eliminated by adding a battery to the ejection seat design that heated the glass.
The investigation of our accident revealed that the nose of the aircraft was torn off along with the cockpit and crashed approximately 10 miles from the main wreckage. The pieces were scattered over an area approximately 15 miles long and 10 miles wide. Extremely high loads and g-forces, both positive and negative, literally threw Jim and me out of the plane.
Incredible luck is the only explanation for the fact that I got out of the disintegrating plane relatively unharmed.

Two weeks after the accident, I returned to the SR-71 and flew the brand new aircraft for the first time at the Lockheed Assembly and Test Facility in Palmdale, California.
This was my first flight since the accident, so the test engineer in the back seat was probably a little worried about my state of mind. As we roared down the runway and into the air, I heard an alarmed voice over the intercom:
- Bill! Bill! Are you here?
- Yes, George. What's the matter?
- God bless! I thought you had left us.
The rear cockpit of the SR-71 has no forward view, only small windows on each side, and George couldn't see me. Just as we made the turn, a large red light came on on the main control panel in the rear cockpit, saying, “Pilot has ejected.” Fortunately, the cause was an incorrectly adjusted microswitch.
A few words about the photo of the pilot.
The suit and helmet weighed approximately 22 kg and cost about 200 thousand dollars at 1960s prices. The very first versions of the suits were silver, then they were made from white Nomex (a fireproof material), and after 1978 their color became golden yellow.
The orange box next to the pilot contains a supply of liquid oxygen and serves to autonomously cool the suit until the pilot connects to the aircraft's cooling system.
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