Flying Magazine - So You Want to Fly a U-2?

NOVEMBER 21, 2009

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So You Want to Fly a U-2?
(continued)

I learn how and when to tie a tourniquet; how and when to use flares, mirrors and ocean dye for signaling; how to use a magnesium fire stick; how to repair a life raft, desalinate ocean water, find edible plants and good water sources; and how to keep my priorities of survival straight.

Day two begins with an introduction to life in a space suit. The suits are made by the David Clark company, and are almost identical to the ones used by Space Shuttle astronauts, except for color and the altitude at which they inflate. I learn how the suit is made (three layers, one of which is hand-crocheted), and how to operate its venting and inflation systems. This is important, because my body temperature will rise one degree every minute I'm in the suit without ventilation, and if my temperature goes above 106 degrees, it can be fatal.

I learn about treating decompression sickness and hypoxia, and what foods to avoid for the next 24 hours. I learn how to use the UCD (urine collection device) that allows U-2 pilots to fly long missions in a suit that must be kept sealed at all times. And I say a quiet prayer of thanks to the six female Air Force U-2 pilots who finally adapted a workable UCD system for women.

I learn all the features of my S-1034 space helmet, complete with a small opening for a feeding tube. The meal selection for U-2 pilots includes such gourmet treats as clam chowder and apple pie -- all good for four years on the shelf -- although, as my instructor Claire Rowan acknowledged, "obviously, the texture, you have to overcome that."

After I absorb an overload of information about high-altitude physiology, hypoxia and pressure suit operation, we move on to the altitude chamber training, where I'll have the chance to put all that theory into practice. I worm my way into my pressure suit and get closed into the artificial environment that will keep me alive in the chamber.

I move awkwardly into a small compartment in the chamber, where two airmen strap me into a U-2 ejection seat. The chamber is sealed off, and we do sinus checks at 5,000, climb to 18,000, and then do both rapid and slow decompressions to 65,000 and 75,000 feet.

I discover, among other things, that my arms are too short to reach the U-2's main ejection handle with my pressure suit fully inflated. In my case, the back-up ejection system will be my primary option. But that's why they do all this training ahead of time. I might not remember it all, but they're trying to give me at least a chance at surviving this, if worse comes to worst. And I'm touched by how seriously everyone is taking that instruction.

In the afternoon, I get cockpit orientation and Cabi and I go through a mission briefing. My head is pounding by the time we wrap up. No wonder they don't give out these flights more often. The staff time and effort that's been invested in orienting and training me for a mere three-hour flight is staggering.

I feel a combination of grateful and slightly guilty as the staff from the Physiological Support Division suit me up the next morning for my flight. Grateful, guilty and, to be honest, just a tad apprehensive. Having learned all the ways I can have a really bad day in this plane, and just how bad the U-2 version of "bad" can be, I have a moment or two of questioning whether this was really such a good idea, after all.

The PSD folks are reassuring as they close me into my suit and hook me up to the pure oxygen I have to breathe for an hour before take off, to keep me from getting the bends at altitude. Finally, it's time to go. As Cabi and I head out to the van that will take us to our aircraft, I shake the hands of my support crew and instructors. Our eyes meet for a moment. I mouth the words "thank you." They nod and smile.

As I head out to the plane, I don't know if I'm going to do them proud or not. But I know I'm certainly going to try.