- Aug 14, 2001
- 12,530
- 35
- 91
Pulled this off of a newsgroup.
---------------------------------
SR-71 Disintegrates Around Pilot During Flight Test
Aviation Week & Space Technology
08/08/2005, page 60
Bill Weaver was the pilot.
SR-71 BREAKUP
Among professional aviators, there's a well-worn saying: Flying is
simply hours of boredom punctuated by moments of stark terror. And yet, I
don't recall too many periods of boredom during my 30-year career with
Lockheed, most of which was spent as a test pilot.
By far, the most memorable flight occurred on Jan. 25, 1966. Jim
Zwayer, a Lockheed flight test reconnaissance and navigation systems specialist,
and I were evaluating those systems on an SR-71 Blackbird test from Edwards
AFB, Calif. We also were investigating procedures designed to reduce
trim drag and improve high-Mach cruise performance. The latter involved
flying with the center-of-gravity (CG) located further aft than normal, which
reduced the Blackbird's longitudinal stability.
We took off from Edwards at 11:20 a.m. and completed the mission's
first leg without incident. After refueling from a KC-135 tanker, we turned
eastbound, accelerated to a Mach 3.2-cruise speed and climbed to 78,000
ft., our initial cruise-climb altitude.
Several minutes into cruise, the right engine inlet's automatic control
system malfunctioned, requiring a switch to manual control. The SR-71's
inlet configuration was automatically adjusted during supersonic flight
to decelerate air flow in the duct, slowing it to subsonic speed before
reaching the engine's face. This was accomplished by the inlet's
center-body spike translating aft, and by modulating the inlet's
forward bypass doors. Normally, these actions were scheduled automatically as a
function of Mach number, positioning the normal shock wave (where air
flow becomes subsonic) inside the inlet to ensure optimum engine
performance.
Without proper scheduling, disturbances inside the inlet could result
in the shock wave being expelled forward--a phenomenon known as an "inlet
unstart." That causes an instantaneous loss of engine thrust, explosive
banging noises and violent yawing of the aircraft--like being in a
train wreck. Unstarts were not uncommon at that time in the SR-71's
development, but a properly functioning system would recapture the shock wave and
restore normal operation.
On the planned test profile, we entered a programmed 35-deg. bank turn
to the right. An immediate unstart occurred on the right engine, forcing
the aircraft to roll further right and start to pitch up. I jammed the
control stick as far left and forward as it would go. No response. I instantly
knew we were in for a wild ride.
I attempted to tell Jim what was happening and to stay with the
airplane until we reached a lower speed and altitude. I didn't think the chances
of surviving an ejection at Mach 3.18 and 78,800 ft. were very good.
However, g-forces built up so rapidly that my words came out garbled and
unintelligible, as confirmed later by the cockpit voice recorder.
The cumulative effects of system malfunctions, reduced longitudinal
stability, increased angle-of-attack in the turn, supersonic speed,
high altitude and other factors imposed forces on the airframe that exceeded
flight control authority and the Stability Augmentation System's
ability to restore control.
Everything seemed to unfold in slow motion. I learned later the time
from event onset to catastrophic departure from controlled flight was only
2-3sec. Still trying to communicate with Jim, I blacked out,
succumbing to extremely high g-forces. The SR-71 then literally disintegrated around
us. From that point, I was just along for the ride.
My next recollection was a hazy thought that I was having a bad dream.
Maybe I'll wake up and get out of this mess, I mused. Gradually
regaining consciousness, I realized this was no dream; it had really happened.
That also was disturbing, because I could not have survived what had just
happened. Therefore, I must be dead. Since I didn't feel bad--just a
detached sense of euphoria--I decided being dead wasn't so bad after
all.
AS FULL AWARENESS took hold, I realized I was not dead, but had somehow
separated from the airplane. I had no idea how this could have
happened; I hadn't initiated an ejection. The sound of rushing air and what sounded
like straps flapping in the wind confirmed I was falling, but I
couldn't see anything. My pressure suit's face plate had frozen over and I was
staring at a layer of ice.
The pressure suit was inflated, so I knew an emergency oxygen cylinder
in the seat kit attached to my parachute harness was functioning. It not
only supplied breathing oxygen, but also pressurized the suit, preventing my
blood from boiling at extremely high altitudes. I didn't appreciate it
at the time, but the suit's pressurization had also provided physical
protection from intense buffeting and g-forces. That inflated suit had
become my own escape capsule.
My next concern was about stability and tumbling. Air density at high
altitude is insufficient to resist a body's tumbling motions, and
centrifugal forces high enough to cause physical injury could develop
quickly. For that reason, the SR-71's parachute system was designed to
automatically deploy a small-diameter stabilizing chute shortly after
ejection and seat separation. Since I had not intentionally activated
the ejection system--and assuming all automatic functions depended on a
proper ejection sequence--it occurred to me the stabilizing chute may not have deployed.
However, I quickly determined I was falling vertically and not
tumbling. The little chute must have deployed and was doing its job. Next
concern: the main parachute, which was designed to open automatically at 15,000
ft. Again, I had no assurance the automatic-opening function would work.
I couldn't ascertain my altitude because I still couldn't see through
the iced-up face plate. There was no way to know how long I had been
blacked-out, or how far I had fallen. I felt for the manual-activation D-ring
on my chute harness, but with the suit inflated and my hands numbed by
cold, I couldn't locate it. I decided I'd better open the face plate, try to
estimate my height above the ground, then locate that "D" ring. Just as
I reached for the face plate, I felt the reassuring sudden deceleration
of main-chute deployment.
I raised the frozen face plate and discovered its uplatch was broken.
Using one hand to hold that plate up, I saw I was descending through a clear,
winter sky with unlimited visibility. I was greatly relieved to see
Jim's parachute coming down about a quarter of a mile away. I didn't think
either of us could have survived the aircraft's breakup, so seeing Jim had
also escaped lifted my spirits incredibly.
I could also see burning wreckage on the ground a few miles from where
we would land. The terrain didn't look at all inviting--a desolate, high
plateau dotted with patches of snow and no signs of habitation.
I tried to rotate the parachute and look in other directions. But with
one hand devoted to keeping the face plate up and both hands numb from
high-altitude, subfreezing temperatures, I couldn't manipulate the
risers enough to turn. Before the breakup, we'd started a turn in the New
Mexico-Colorado-Oklahoma-Texas border region. The SR-71 had a turning
radius of about 100 mi. at that speed and altitude, so I wasn't even
sure what state we were going to land in. But, because it was about 3:00
p.m., I was certain we would be spending the night out here.
At about 300 ft. above the ground, I yanked the seat kit's release
handle and made sure it was still tied to me by a long lanyard. Releasing the
heavy kit ensured I wouldn't land with it attached to my derriere,
which could break a leg or cause other injuries. I then tried to recall what
survival items were in that kit, as well as techniques I had been
taught in survival training.
Looking down, I was startled to see a fairly large animal--perhaps an
antelope--directly under me. Evidently, it was just as startled as I
was because it literally took off in a cloud of dust.
My first-ever parachute landing was pretty smooth. I landed on fairly
soft ground, managing to avoid rocks, cacti and antelopes. My chute was
still billowing in the wind, though. I struggled to collapse it with one
hand, holding the still-frozen face plate up with the other.
"Can I help you?" a voice said.
Was I hearing things? I must be hallucinating. Then I looked up and
saw a guy walking toward me, wearing a cowboy hat. A helicopter was idling a
short distance behind him. If I had been at Edwards and told the
search-and-rescue unit that I was going to bail out over the Rogers Dry
Lake at a particular time of day, a crew couldn't have gotten to me as
fast as that cowboy-pilot had.
The gentleman was Albert Mitchell, Jr., owner of a huge cattle ranch in
northeastern New Mexico. I had landed about 1.5 mi. from his ranch
house--and from a hangar for his two-place Hughes helicopter. Amazed to
see him, I replied I was having a little trouble with my chute. He walked
over and collapsed the canopy, anchoring it with several rocks. He had seen
Jim and me floating down and had radioed the New Mexico Highway Patrol, the
Air Force and the nearest hospital.
Extracting myself from the parachute harness, I discovered the source
of those flapping-strap noises heard on the way down. My seat belt and
shoulder harness were still draped around me, attached and latched.
The lap belt had been shredded on each side of my hips, where the straps
had fed through knurled adjustment rollers. The shoulder harness had
shredded in a similar manner across my back. The ejection seat had never left
the airplane; I had been ripped out of it by the extreme forces, seat belt
and shoulder harness still fastened.
I also noted that one of the two lines that supplied oxygen to my
pressure suit had come loose, and the other was barely hanging on. If that
second line had become detached at high altitude, the deflated pressure suit
wouldn't have provided any protection. I knew an oxygen supply was
critical for breathing and suit-pressurization, but didn't appreciate how much
physical protection an inflated pressure suit could provide. That the
suit could withstand forces sufficient to disintegrate an airplane and shred
heavy nylon seat belts, yet leave me with only a few bruises and minor
whiplash was impressive. I truly appreciated having my own little
escape capsule.
After helping me with the chute, Mitchell said he'd check on Jim. He
climbed into his helicopter, flew a short distance away and returned
about 10 min. later with devastating news: Jim was dead. Apparently, he had
suffered a broken neck during the aircraft's disintegration and was
killed instantly. Mitchell said his ranch foreman would soon arrive to watch
over Jim's body until the authorities arrived.
I asked to see Jim and, after verifying there was nothing more that
could be done, agreed to let Mitchell fly me to the Tucumcari hospital, about
60 mi. to the south.
I have vivid memories of that helicopter flight, as well. I didn't know
much about rotorcraft, but I knew a lot about "red lines," and Mitchell
kept the airspeed at or above red line all the way. The little
helicopter vibrated and shook a lot more than I thought it should have. I tried to
reassure the cowboy-pilot I was feeling OK; there was no need to rush.
But since he'd notified the hospital staff that we were inbound, he
insisted we get there as soon as possible. I couldn't help but think how ironic it
would be to have survived one disaster only to be done in by the
helicopter that had come to my rescue.
However, we made it to the hospital safely--and quickly. Soon, I was
able to contact Lockheed's flight test office at Edwards. The test team
there had been notified initially about the loss of radio and radar contact,
then told the aircraft had been lost. They also knew what our flight
conditions had been at the time, and assumed no one could have survived. I briefly
explained what had happened, describing in fairly accurate detail the
flight conditions prior to breakup.
The next day, our flight profile was duplicated on the SR-71 flight
simulator at Beale AFB, Calif. The outcome was identical. Steps were
immediately taken to prevent a recurrence of our accident. Testing at a
CG aft of normal limits was discontinued, and trim-drag issues were
subsequently resolved via aerodynamic means. The inlet control system
was continuously improved and, with subsequent development of the Digital
Automatic Flight and Inlet Control System, inlet unstarts became rare.
Investigation of our accident revealed that the nose section of the
aircraft had broken off aft of the rear cockpit and crashed about 10
mi. from the main wreckage. Parts were scattered over an area approximately
15 mi. long and 10 mi. wide. Extremely high air loads and g-forces, both
positive and negative, had literally ripped Jim and me from the
airplane. Unbelievably good luck is the only explanation for my escaping
relatively unscathed from that disintegrating aircraft.
Two weeks after the accident, I was back in an SR-71, flying the first
sortie on a brand-new bird at Lockheed's Palmdale, Calif., assembly and
test facility. It was my first flight since the accident, so a flight
test engineer in the back seat was probably a little apprehensive about my
state of mind and confidence. As we roared down the runway and lifted off, I
heard an anxious voice over the intercom.
"Bill! Bill! Are you there?"
"Yeah, George. What's the matter?"
"Thank God! I thought you might have left." The rear cockpit of the
SR-71 has no forward visibility--only a small window on each side--and George
couldn't see me. A big red light on the master-warning panel in the
rear cockpit had illuminated just as we rotated, stating, "Pilot Ejected."
Fortunately, the cause was a misadjusted microswitch, not my
departure.
Bill Weaver flight tested all models of the Mach-2 F-104 Starfighter
and the entire family of Mach 3+ Blackbirds--the A-12, YF-12 and SR-71. He
subsequently was assigned to Lockheed's L-1011 project as an
engineering test pilot, became the company's chief pilot and retired as Division
Manager of Commercial Flying Operations. He still flies Orbital
Sciences Corp.'s L-1011, which has been modified to carry a Pegasus
satellite-launch vehicle (AW&ST Aug. 25, 2003, p. 56). An FAA Designated Engineering
Representative Flight Test Pilot, he's also involved in various
aircraft-modification projects, conducting certification flight tests.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
cliff's: Airplane wrecked, pilot lived, backseat guy died.
---------------------------------
SR-71 Disintegrates Around Pilot During Flight Test
Aviation Week & Space Technology
08/08/2005, page 60
Bill Weaver was the pilot.
SR-71 BREAKUP
Among professional aviators, there's a well-worn saying: Flying is
simply hours of boredom punctuated by moments of stark terror. And yet, I
don't recall too many periods of boredom during my 30-year career with
Lockheed, most of which was spent as a test pilot.
By far, the most memorable flight occurred on Jan. 25, 1966. Jim
Zwayer, a Lockheed flight test reconnaissance and navigation systems specialist,
and I were evaluating those systems on an SR-71 Blackbird test from Edwards
AFB, Calif. We also were investigating procedures designed to reduce
trim drag and improve high-Mach cruise performance. The latter involved
flying with the center-of-gravity (CG) located further aft than normal, which
reduced the Blackbird's longitudinal stability.
We took off from Edwards at 11:20 a.m. and completed the mission's
first leg without incident. After refueling from a KC-135 tanker, we turned
eastbound, accelerated to a Mach 3.2-cruise speed and climbed to 78,000
ft., our initial cruise-climb altitude.
Several minutes into cruise, the right engine inlet's automatic control
system malfunctioned, requiring a switch to manual control. The SR-71's
inlet configuration was automatically adjusted during supersonic flight
to decelerate air flow in the duct, slowing it to subsonic speed before
reaching the engine's face. This was accomplished by the inlet's
center-body spike translating aft, and by modulating the inlet's
forward bypass doors. Normally, these actions were scheduled automatically as a
function of Mach number, positioning the normal shock wave (where air
flow becomes subsonic) inside the inlet to ensure optimum engine
performance.
Without proper scheduling, disturbances inside the inlet could result
in the shock wave being expelled forward--a phenomenon known as an "inlet
unstart." That causes an instantaneous loss of engine thrust, explosive
banging noises and violent yawing of the aircraft--like being in a
train wreck. Unstarts were not uncommon at that time in the SR-71's
development, but a properly functioning system would recapture the shock wave and
restore normal operation.
On the planned test profile, we entered a programmed 35-deg. bank turn
to the right. An immediate unstart occurred on the right engine, forcing
the aircraft to roll further right and start to pitch up. I jammed the
control stick as far left and forward as it would go. No response. I instantly
knew we were in for a wild ride.
I attempted to tell Jim what was happening and to stay with the
airplane until we reached a lower speed and altitude. I didn't think the chances
of surviving an ejection at Mach 3.18 and 78,800 ft. were very good.
However, g-forces built up so rapidly that my words came out garbled and
unintelligible, as confirmed later by the cockpit voice recorder.
The cumulative effects of system malfunctions, reduced longitudinal
stability, increased angle-of-attack in the turn, supersonic speed,
high altitude and other factors imposed forces on the airframe that exceeded
flight control authority and the Stability Augmentation System's
ability to restore control.
Everything seemed to unfold in slow motion. I learned later the time
from event onset to catastrophic departure from controlled flight was only
2-3sec. Still trying to communicate with Jim, I blacked out,
succumbing to extremely high g-forces. The SR-71 then literally disintegrated around
us. From that point, I was just along for the ride.
My next recollection was a hazy thought that I was having a bad dream.
Maybe I'll wake up and get out of this mess, I mused. Gradually
regaining consciousness, I realized this was no dream; it had really happened.
That also was disturbing, because I could not have survived what had just
happened. Therefore, I must be dead. Since I didn't feel bad--just a
detached sense of euphoria--I decided being dead wasn't so bad after
all.
AS FULL AWARENESS took hold, I realized I was not dead, but had somehow
separated from the airplane. I had no idea how this could have
happened; I hadn't initiated an ejection. The sound of rushing air and what sounded
like straps flapping in the wind confirmed I was falling, but I
couldn't see anything. My pressure suit's face plate had frozen over and I was
staring at a layer of ice.
The pressure suit was inflated, so I knew an emergency oxygen cylinder
in the seat kit attached to my parachute harness was functioning. It not
only supplied breathing oxygen, but also pressurized the suit, preventing my
blood from boiling at extremely high altitudes. I didn't appreciate it
at the time, but the suit's pressurization had also provided physical
protection from intense buffeting and g-forces. That inflated suit had
become my own escape capsule.
My next concern was about stability and tumbling. Air density at high
altitude is insufficient to resist a body's tumbling motions, and
centrifugal forces high enough to cause physical injury could develop
quickly. For that reason, the SR-71's parachute system was designed to
automatically deploy a small-diameter stabilizing chute shortly after
ejection and seat separation. Since I had not intentionally activated
the ejection system--and assuming all automatic functions depended on a
proper ejection sequence--it occurred to me the stabilizing chute may not have deployed.
However, I quickly determined I was falling vertically and not
tumbling. The little chute must have deployed and was doing its job. Next
concern: the main parachute, which was designed to open automatically at 15,000
ft. Again, I had no assurance the automatic-opening function would work.
I couldn't ascertain my altitude because I still couldn't see through
the iced-up face plate. There was no way to know how long I had been
blacked-out, or how far I had fallen. I felt for the manual-activation D-ring
on my chute harness, but with the suit inflated and my hands numbed by
cold, I couldn't locate it. I decided I'd better open the face plate, try to
estimate my height above the ground, then locate that "D" ring. Just as
I reached for the face plate, I felt the reassuring sudden deceleration
of main-chute deployment.
I raised the frozen face plate and discovered its uplatch was broken.
Using one hand to hold that plate up, I saw I was descending through a clear,
winter sky with unlimited visibility. I was greatly relieved to see
Jim's parachute coming down about a quarter of a mile away. I didn't think
either of us could have survived the aircraft's breakup, so seeing Jim had
also escaped lifted my spirits incredibly.
I could also see burning wreckage on the ground a few miles from where
we would land. The terrain didn't look at all inviting--a desolate, high
plateau dotted with patches of snow and no signs of habitation.
I tried to rotate the parachute and look in other directions. But with
one hand devoted to keeping the face plate up and both hands numb from
high-altitude, subfreezing temperatures, I couldn't manipulate the
risers enough to turn. Before the breakup, we'd started a turn in the New
Mexico-Colorado-Oklahoma-Texas border region. The SR-71 had a turning
radius of about 100 mi. at that speed and altitude, so I wasn't even
sure what state we were going to land in. But, because it was about 3:00
p.m., I was certain we would be spending the night out here.
At about 300 ft. above the ground, I yanked the seat kit's release
handle and made sure it was still tied to me by a long lanyard. Releasing the
heavy kit ensured I wouldn't land with it attached to my derriere,
which could break a leg or cause other injuries. I then tried to recall what
survival items were in that kit, as well as techniques I had been
taught in survival training.
Looking down, I was startled to see a fairly large animal--perhaps an
antelope--directly under me. Evidently, it was just as startled as I
was because it literally took off in a cloud of dust.
My first-ever parachute landing was pretty smooth. I landed on fairly
soft ground, managing to avoid rocks, cacti and antelopes. My chute was
still billowing in the wind, though. I struggled to collapse it with one
hand, holding the still-frozen face plate up with the other.
"Can I help you?" a voice said.
Was I hearing things? I must be hallucinating. Then I looked up and
saw a guy walking toward me, wearing a cowboy hat. A helicopter was idling a
short distance behind him. If I had been at Edwards and told the
search-and-rescue unit that I was going to bail out over the Rogers Dry
Lake at a particular time of day, a crew couldn't have gotten to me as
fast as that cowboy-pilot had.
The gentleman was Albert Mitchell, Jr., owner of a huge cattle ranch in
northeastern New Mexico. I had landed about 1.5 mi. from his ranch
house--and from a hangar for his two-place Hughes helicopter. Amazed to
see him, I replied I was having a little trouble with my chute. He walked
over and collapsed the canopy, anchoring it with several rocks. He had seen
Jim and me floating down and had radioed the New Mexico Highway Patrol, the
Air Force and the nearest hospital.
Extracting myself from the parachute harness, I discovered the source
of those flapping-strap noises heard on the way down. My seat belt and
shoulder harness were still draped around me, attached and latched.
The lap belt had been shredded on each side of my hips, where the straps
had fed through knurled adjustment rollers. The shoulder harness had
shredded in a similar manner across my back. The ejection seat had never left
the airplane; I had been ripped out of it by the extreme forces, seat belt
and shoulder harness still fastened.
I also noted that one of the two lines that supplied oxygen to my
pressure suit had come loose, and the other was barely hanging on. If that
second line had become detached at high altitude, the deflated pressure suit
wouldn't have provided any protection. I knew an oxygen supply was
critical for breathing and suit-pressurization, but didn't appreciate how much
physical protection an inflated pressure suit could provide. That the
suit could withstand forces sufficient to disintegrate an airplane and shred
heavy nylon seat belts, yet leave me with only a few bruises and minor
whiplash was impressive. I truly appreciated having my own little
escape capsule.
After helping me with the chute, Mitchell said he'd check on Jim. He
climbed into his helicopter, flew a short distance away and returned
about 10 min. later with devastating news: Jim was dead. Apparently, he had
suffered a broken neck during the aircraft's disintegration and was
killed instantly. Mitchell said his ranch foreman would soon arrive to watch
over Jim's body until the authorities arrived.
I asked to see Jim and, after verifying there was nothing more that
could be done, agreed to let Mitchell fly me to the Tucumcari hospital, about
60 mi. to the south.
I have vivid memories of that helicopter flight, as well. I didn't know
much about rotorcraft, but I knew a lot about "red lines," and Mitchell
kept the airspeed at or above red line all the way. The little
helicopter vibrated and shook a lot more than I thought it should have. I tried to
reassure the cowboy-pilot I was feeling OK; there was no need to rush.
But since he'd notified the hospital staff that we were inbound, he
insisted we get there as soon as possible. I couldn't help but think how ironic it
would be to have survived one disaster only to be done in by the
helicopter that had come to my rescue.
However, we made it to the hospital safely--and quickly. Soon, I was
able to contact Lockheed's flight test office at Edwards. The test team
there had been notified initially about the loss of radio and radar contact,
then told the aircraft had been lost. They also knew what our flight
conditions had been at the time, and assumed no one could have survived. I briefly
explained what had happened, describing in fairly accurate detail the
flight conditions prior to breakup.
The next day, our flight profile was duplicated on the SR-71 flight
simulator at Beale AFB, Calif. The outcome was identical. Steps were
immediately taken to prevent a recurrence of our accident. Testing at a
CG aft of normal limits was discontinued, and trim-drag issues were
subsequently resolved via aerodynamic means. The inlet control system
was continuously improved and, with subsequent development of the Digital
Automatic Flight and Inlet Control System, inlet unstarts became rare.
Investigation of our accident revealed that the nose section of the
aircraft had broken off aft of the rear cockpit and crashed about 10
mi. from the main wreckage. Parts were scattered over an area approximately
15 mi. long and 10 mi. wide. Extremely high air loads and g-forces, both
positive and negative, had literally ripped Jim and me from the
airplane. Unbelievably good luck is the only explanation for my escaping
relatively unscathed from that disintegrating aircraft.
Two weeks after the accident, I was back in an SR-71, flying the first
sortie on a brand-new bird at Lockheed's Palmdale, Calif., assembly and
test facility. It was my first flight since the accident, so a flight
test engineer in the back seat was probably a little apprehensive about my
state of mind and confidence. As we roared down the runway and lifted off, I
heard an anxious voice over the intercom.
"Bill! Bill! Are you there?"
"Yeah, George. What's the matter?"
"Thank God! I thought you might have left." The rear cockpit of the
SR-71 has no forward visibility--only a small window on each side--and George
couldn't see me. A big red light on the master-warning panel in the
rear cockpit had illuminated just as we rotated, stating, "Pilot Ejected."
Fortunately, the cause was a misadjusted microswitch, not my
departure.
Bill Weaver flight tested all models of the Mach-2 F-104 Starfighter
and the entire family of Mach 3+ Blackbirds--the A-12, YF-12 and SR-71. He
subsequently was assigned to Lockheed's L-1011 project as an
engineering test pilot, became the company's chief pilot and retired as Division
Manager of Commercial Flying Operations. He still flies Orbital
Sciences Corp.'s L-1011, which has been modified to carry a Pegasus
satellite-launch vehicle (AW&ST Aug. 25, 2003, p. 56). An FAA Designated Engineering
Representative Flight Test Pilot, he's also involved in various
aircraft-modification projects, conducting certification flight tests.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
cliff's: Airplane wrecked, pilot lived, backseat guy died.
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