On this hop in the Talon, we were testing the pressure drop across a shock wave. Oh, yes, there is some funk when you go faster than the speed of sound. Just before you pass supersonic, there is a significant increase in drag. This phenomena is due to the aircraft catching up to its own bow wave. Then all of sudden, ploop, you're through and you glide so casually, with less power than it took to get there. In fact, if the afterburners don't do it, what you do then is start a pitch down descent to pick up some extra energy (potential energy converted to kinetic); heck, you're at 35K anyway, what's a few thousand feet.
Slipping through supersonic is a rather non-event inside an aircraft, however outside, well... Just like Einstein theorized, the relative motion of twin's, one remaining on Earth and the other moving at the speed of light, upon her return would find her twin an old woman, while the traveler was still in her 20s. To an outside observer, the vehicle transiting the speed of sound will pass with an extraordinary boom, a pressure wave if close enough will shatter the most durable of window panes; a sound that would deafen the observer and knock her to the ground.
I was flying front seat with my flight engineer in back running the data capture equipment and monitoring systems. "Spock, you've better run a level one diagnostics on the phaser array," I suggested. His name was Spock, for real...his nickname, that is. Pretty cool, huh? I didn't have one since I was an Army puke and we don't play them faggotty Navy and Air Farce games. Spock replied, "what?" I started laughing, "just joking you pointed-ear, bowl haircut, fruit-face." The chuckle became a lock, stock and barrel, lung hacking horshack cough. I removed the oxygen mask so that I might swallow some phlegm from the depths of my bowls. "Too good to waste!" I yelled at the top of my lungs. I promptly placed the mask upon my mug.
"Jim, what the heck is going on up there?" Spock inquired over the intercom. "Naught e thing e," I said. That was clever. I have to remember to use that one at the O' Club. Man, I'd sure like a tall, cold one in the evenings, I thought to myself. Wish I had one up here just to say I drank one at 35K. I'd like to do some other things up here, but you can't fit two people in the front seat. "Spock, Captain Kirk here, would you run a diagnostics on the air conditioning, it's getting hot up here." Just thinking about the mile high adventure in a Talon set me a sweating. "Jim, I couldn't understand you, say again." Now realize, the Talon's front and back seat are self-contained cockpits. Therefore, Spock's only clue as to my status is our intercoms. In fact, in the Talon, an intercom failure is a big event, especially if you have an emergency and have to eject. If the front seater ejects before the back seater, well, the back seater gets to see your seat rockets up close and personal. Therefore, it's important to have a plan during an ejection so that the back seater can go first.
A thought occurred to me just how cool it would be to eject right now and see the expression on Spock's face as I melted it away with my seat rockets. What a strange thought. My hands felt really cold, but sweat was running in rivulets from my helmet. I started getting panicky with the realization that something was not quite right. Spock's voice was distant and fading, something about being inverted. My pressure suit inflated and I looked up at the g-meter; 5 g's! What! The attitude indicator was tumbling and the T-38 started to pull out of a steep dive. 30 thousand feet, 25 thousand feet, 20 thousand feet..."Jim, Jim, Jim, I have the controls; are you alright?" My vision started to fade; I could only focus on the g-meter. I started thinking that this is the end. I started to think of all the ones I loved and wished to be with, their name and thought my last.
No, not the end; I trained Spock very well. While not a pilot, my nature is that as a teacher and I spent the first flights working with Spock on how to handle, fly and yes, land this Talon. It was in his hands to save the crew and craft, because I was now dreaming about bizarre, multicolored snow cones in the middle of the desert made of sand fleas--how abstract! May the fleas of 15,000 camels infest your armpits, but also quench your thirst.
Near 10,000 feet I stirred into consciousness, licking my lips; my mouth was dry and those snow cones did no good; my head was pulsating in rhythm to my heartbeat. I immediately looked at my oxygen control panel and placed the selector lever to 100% O2. Realizing my lapse in judgment and training, I braced myself for the safety Nazi onslaught. After a short recovery I took the controls and upon landing our craft taxied to my impending doom: a poke in the eye, blood samples from 3 different veins and the nebulous, ring-wearing doctor with the latex-coated finger up the anus.
