At the other extreme, six 8-man life rafts can be attached to underwing hardpoints and dropped precisely where needed during air-sea rescue.
When not working, the Safari is an ideal playmate. It has everything except speed. Full power from its 200-hp, fuel-injected Lycoming results in a maximum sea-level speed of only 147 mph. Normal cruise (75% power at 8,000 feet) is 132 mph. Speed, or lack of it, is the Safari’s deficiency. But Bjorn Andreasson, the Safari’s Swedish-born designer, was not interested in speed. The goal was to develop a rugged, utilitarian machine that could withstand the rigors of adverse bush conditions and still possess exceptional handling characteristics for use as an ab initio trainer.
From a design standpoint, the Safari is not a beautiful airplane, partially because of its strut-braced wings that sweep forward 5 degrees. This forward sweep, however, is not a designer’s fetish. Andreasson wanted the pilots to sit on the center of gravity without their outside view being impaired by the low wings. So he moved the wing roots aft and out of the way. This was countered by moving the wingtips forward. The forward sweep also improves short-field performance by reducing spanwise flow, which decreases induced drag and improves wingtip flow patterns.
The wings are mounted at the height of the pilots’ shoulders so that when looking aft, you can see above and below the wings. Additionally, a small chunk of wing is removed from each forward wing root to further enhance visibility. To offset this slight loss of lift, a small slot is built into the leading edge near each root.
The wing is tough, too. When bent to simulate a 17-G load, nothing broke and the ailerons were still operative.
Another eye-catching feature of the all-metal Safari is the square cross-section of the aft fuselage. (The side panels are slightly curved to prevent “oil canning.”) This utilitarian shape was employed to hold down construction costs, surprising when you consider that everything else about the aircraft is expensive. The Safari is built to exceed military and NATO specifications. Saab claims to have applied the same quality standards to this aircraft as it applied to its Mach 2 Viggen.
Emphasis also is placed on crashworthiness. The longitudinal structural members of the cockpit are bent slightly outward, for example. During a crash, these members fold outward (away from the cabin) and act as shock absorbers. (The pilots are held in place by 5-point, inertia-reel shoulder harnesses stressed for 20 Gs.)
The integral fuel tanks are between the forward and aft wing spars and, therefore, receive significant crash protection.
Should a pilot flip a Safari on its back and be unable to open the canopy, the cockpit seat backs are designed to fold out of the way. This allows the pilots to escape through the baggage compartment and out the rear door.
One inadvertent testimony to the Safari’s crash survivability occurred in Africa. No one can explain what inspired the pilot to enter a loop immediately after takeoff, but he did. With obviously insufficient airspeed, the aircraft stalled and impacted the ground nose first. The pilot extricated himself from the tangle of metal and walked away from the wreckage dazed but uninjured.
Mechanics, too, are delighted with the Safari. Large access panels on the cowling allow a really close inspection of the engine. When the cowl is fully removed, the engine can be tilted nose down to expose the entire accessory section.
A large door aft of the baggage compartment allows easy access to the electronics compartment.
One philosophy of the Safari design is to make maintenance as unnecessary and as simple as possible. And if the maintenance technician has a friend handy, he can remove the nosewheel, relocate the main gear legs and install a tailwheel in 2 hours. Voila! A trike that converts to a taildragger. Conversion reduces empty weight by 30 pounds (from 1,410 to 1,380 pounds) and increases airspeed by a few knots.
I was introduced to the Safari at Malmo, Sweden’s Bulltofta Airport, which is where Saab assembled these aircraft and performed flight-test activities. Leif Salmbert, one of Saab’s test pilots checked me out in the airplane.
My friend, Jack Chrysler, was with me to serve a necessary but unglamorous purpose: the third occupant. Without a whimper, he crawled through the baggage compartment door and into the lone, aft-facing seat. Chrysler stated later that he wasn’t at all uncomfortable facing aft and studying the tail surfaces even during steep arrivals and departures, and unusual maneuvering.
The observer’s seat is easily and quickly removable, leaving ample room for 220 pounds of cargo or a supplemental ferry tank for long-range flights.
The cockpit is magnificent. All instruments, switches, and controls are logically placed, within easy reach, and are so self-explanatory as to preclude the possibility of any design-induced system mismanagement.
In addition to conventional instrumentation, the panel features a fire-detection system for the engine, a rarity on small, piston-powered singles. There also is a substantial annunciator panel that warns of a host of other possible problems (such as an overheated 24-volt, NiCad battery or an unlocked canopy). Other lights warn when the auxiliary electric fuel pump is on and when the fuel selector is off.
The cockpit is roomy and comfortable. The seats are balanced on gas-spring cylinders which makes positioning them (up and forward or down and aft) an effortless operation. Once the seats are in place and the rudder pedals have been adjusted to the length of your legs, you discover the dual, military-style control-stick handgrips bristling with buttons.
Each stick (the right one is easily removable) has four buttons to operate the electric pitch trim, transmitter, intercom, and rocket launcher (or whatever loads are attached to the bottoms of the wings).
A pilot also has the option of flying right-handed using the left, sidewall-mounted throttle or left-handed using the center, console-mounted throttle.
Cockpit visibility is outstanding, better than some helicopters. This is due to Andreasson’s unorthodox wing, the military-style canopy, and a relatively low instrument panel. The view is remarkably good.
Excellent ground ventilation results from taxiing with the aft-hinged canopy raised somewhat. (Personally, I preferred a sliding canopy.) Shutting and locking the heavy canopy is effortless because it, like the seats, is balanced on gas-spring cylinders.
The first surprise comes during takeoff. Because pitch control is so light, it is initially easy to rotate excessively. Instead of relying on feel, a pilot should wait until almost 60 knots before applying back pressure.
At maximum-allowable gross weight at sea level, the Safari scampers to liftoff in only 675 feet. The best rate-of-climb airspeed (80 knots) produces an 810-fpm climb rate, but holding 60 knots results in a very steep climb over obstacles.
All primary controls are light, responsive and extraordinarily well-harmonized, a surprising accomplishment for such an all-purpose machine.
Only two control peculiarities are noticeable. At large angles of attack, the cruciform-mounted stabilator is lowered into the propwash and results in a medium-frequency nibble felt through the control stick. Also, the rudder seems somewhat deficient. Because of this, it is difficult to maintain a steep or even moderately-banked slip. There is sufficient rudder, however, to recover from a fully-developed spin in half a turn. Perhaps the rudder is not really needed at all because the ailerons produce negligible adverse-yaw effect, and the Safari makes a hands-and-feet-off recovery from a 20-turn spin in only one turn. Altitude loss per spin is about 350 feet.
Hesitation rolls are relatively easy due to the light control forces required and the aerodynamic contribution of the slab-sided fuselage. Roll rates vary from 700 degrees per second at 80 knots to 1,200 degrees per second at 145 knots.
Inverted flight is limited to 10 seconds unless the optional, inverted oil system is installed.
Power-off stalls are conventional and mild. Power-on stalls, however, do not “break” in the normal manner. Instead, the Safari just bucks while maintain
ing a more-or-less level attitude during which the ailerons remain effective. When entering an accelerated stall during a coordinated, steep turn, the Safari cooperates nicely by breaking out of the turn.
One of the Safari’s long suits is its exceptionally strong, dynamic longitudinal stability. Reduce the power or increase it, and the nose repositions automatically and promptly to maintain the same airspeed; virtually no trim change is required. As a matter of fact, the transition from a power-off glide (with flaps extended to 20 degrees) to a full-power missed approach can be executed “hands off.”
Conventional approaches (flaps 38 degrees, 75 knots) and landings are childishly simple, but be careful about steep, short-field approaches with full flaps (38 degrees) and power off at 60 knots. The aircraft sinks like a brick. Like most airplanes in a high-drag, low-airspeed configuration, considerable power is needed to avoid high sink rates near the ground.
Without power, additiona1 airspeed is required to assume a more reasonable descent profile. Best glide speed (flaps up) is 84 knots and results in a 9:1 glide ratio.
The Safari is a sprite, spirited, multi-purpose aircraft that was designed to compete as a military trainer against the Scottish Bulldog, Italy’s SIAI Marchetti SF.260, and New Zealand’s CT-4. But it was also available to civilians, and I envy those who took advantage of the opportunity. The Safari is a unique airplane with lots of ability and utility.
Maj. Dean Neeley is in the forward, lower cockpit of the Lockheed U-2ST, a two-place version of the U-2S, a high-altitude reconnaissance aircraft that the Air Force calls “Dragon Lady.” His voice on the intercom breaks the silence. “Do you know that you’re the highest person in the world?” He explains that I am in the higher of the two cockpits and that there are no other U-2s airborne right now. “Astronauts don’t count,” he says, “They’re out of this world.”
We are above 70,000 feet and still climbing slowly as the aircraft becomes lighter. The throttle has been at its mechanical limit since takeoff, and the single General Electric F118-GE-101 turbofan engine sips fuel so slowly at this altitude that consumption is less than when idling on the ground. Although true airspeed is that of a typical jetliner, indicated airspeed registers only in double digits.
I cannot detect the curvature of the Earth, although some U-2 pilots claim that they can. The sky at the horizon is hazy white but transitions to midnight blue at our zenith. It seems that if we were much higher, the sky would become black enough to see stars at noon.
The Sierra Nevada, the mountainous spine of California, has lost its glory, a mere corrugation on the Earth. Lake Tahoe looks like a fishing hole, and rivers have become rivulets. Far below, “high flying” jetliners etch contrails over Reno, Nevada, but we are so high above these aircraft that they cannot be seen.
I feel mild concern about the bailout light on the instrument panel and pray that Neeley does not have reason to turn it on. At this altitude I also feel a sense of insignificance and isolation; earthly concerns seem trivial. This flight is an epiphany, a life-altering experience.
I cannot detect air noise through the helmet of my pressure suit. I hear only my own breathing, the hum of avionics through my headset and, inexplicably, an occasional, shallow moan from the engine, as if it were gasping for air. Atmospheric pressure is only an inch of mercury, less than 4 percent of sea-level pressure. Air density and engine power are similarly low. The stratospheric wind is predictably light, from the southwest at 5 kt, and the outside air temperature is minus 61 degrees Celsius.
Neeley says that he has never experienced weather that could not be topped in a U-2, and I am reminded of the classic transmission made by John Glenn during Earth orbit in a Mercury space capsule: “Another thousand feet, and we’ll be on top.”
Although not required, we remain in contact with Oakland Center while in the Class E airspace that begins at Flight Level 600. The U-2’s Mode C transponder, however, can indicate no higher than FL600. When other U-2s are in the area, pilots report their altitudes, and ATC keeps them separated by 5,000 feet and 10 miles.
Our high-flying living quarters are pressurized to 29,500 feet, but 100-percent oxygen supplied only to our faces lowers our physiological altitude to about 8,000 feet. A pressurization-system failure would cause our suits to instantly inflate to maintain a pressure altitude of 35,000 feet, and the flow of pure oxygen would provide a physiological altitude of 10,000 feet.
The forward and aft cockpits are configured almost identically. A significant difference is the down-looking periscope/driftmeter in the center of the forward instrument panel. It is used to precisely track over specific ground points during reconnaissance, something that otherwise would be impossible from high altitude. The forward cockpit also is equipped with a small side-view mirror extending into the air stream. It is used to determine if the U-2 is generating a telltale contrail when over hostile territory.
Considering its 103-foot wingspan and resultant roll dampening, the U-2 maneuvers surprisingly well at altitude; the controls are light and nicely harmonized. Control wheels (not sticks) are used, however, perhaps because aileron forces are heavy at low altitude. A yaw string (like those used on sailplanes) above each canopy silently admonishes those who allow the aircraft to slip or skid when maneuvering. The U-2 is very much a stick-and-rudder airplane, and I discover that slipping can be avoided by leading turn entry and recovery with slight rudder pressure.
When approaching its service ceiling, the U-2’s maximum speed is little more than its minimum. This marginal difference between the onset of stall buffet and Mach buffet is known as coffin corner, an area warranting caution. A stall/spin sequence can cause control loss from which recovery might not be possible when so high, and an excessive Mach number can compromise structural integrity. Thankfully, an autopilot with Mach hold is provided.
The U-2 has a fuel capacity of 2,915 gallons of thermally stable jet fuel distributed among four wing tanks. It is unusual to discuss turbine fuel in gallons instead of pounds, but the 1950s-style fuel gauges in the U-2 indicate in gallons. Most of the other flight instruments seem equally antiquated.
I TRAIN AT “THE RANCH”
Preparation for my high flight began the day before at Beale Air Force Base (a.k.a. The Ranch), which is north of Sacramento, California, and was where German prisoners of war were interned during World War II. It is home to the 9th Reconnaissance Wing, which is responsible for worldwide U-2 operations including those aircraft based in Cyprus, Italy, Saudi Arabia, and South Korea.
After passing a physical exam (whew!), I took a short, intensive course in high-altitude physiology and use of the pressure suit. The 27-pound Model S1034 “pilot’s protective assembly” is manufactured by David Clark (the headset people) and is the same as the one used by astronauts during shuttle launch and reentry.
After being measured for my $150,000 spacesuit, I spent an hour in the egress trainer. It provided no comfort to learn that pulling up mightily on the handle between my legs would activate the ejection seat at any altitude or airspeed. When the handle is pulled, the control wheels go fully forward, explosives dispose of the canopy, cables attached to spurs on your boots pull your feet aft, and you are rocketed into space. You could then free fall in your inflated pressure suit for 54,000 feet or more. I was told that “the parachute opens automatically at 16,500 feet, or you get a refund.”
I later donned a harness and virtual-reality goggles to practice steering a parachute to landing.
After lunch, a crew assisted me into a pressure suit in preparation for my visit to the altitude chamber. There I became reacquainted with the effects of hypoxia and was subjected to a sudden decompression that elevated the chamber to 73,000 feet. The pressure suit inflated as advertised and just as suddenly I became the Michelin man. I was told that it is possible to fly the U-2 while puffed up but that it is difficult.
A beaker of water in the chamber boile
d furiously to demonstrate what would happen to my blood if I were exposed without protection to ambient pressure above 63,000 feet.
After a thorough preflight briefing the next morning, Neeley and I put on long johns and UCDs (urinary collection devices), were assisted into our pressure suits, performed a leak check (both kinds), and settled into a pair of reclining lounge chairs for an hour of breathing pure oxygen. This displaces nitrogen in the blood to prevent decompression sickness (the bends) that could occur during ascent.
During this “pre-breathing,” I felt as though I were in a Ziploc bag-style cocoon and anticipated the possibility of claustrophobia. There was none, and I soon became comfortably acclimatized to my confinement.
We were in the aircraft an hour later. Preflight checks completed and engine started, we taxied to Beale’s 12,000-foot-long runway. The single main landing gear is not steerable, differential braking is unavailable, and the dual tailwheels move only 6 degrees in each direction, so it takes a lot of concrete to maneuver on the ground. Turn radius is 189 feet, and I had to lead with full rudder in anticipation of all turns.
We taxied into position and came to a halt so that personnel could remove the safety pins from the outrigger wheels (called pogos) that prevent one wing tip or the other from scraping the ground. Lt. Col. Greg “Spanky” Barber, another U-2 pilot, circled the aircraft in a mobile command vehicle to give the aircraft a final exterior check.
I knew that the U-2 is overpowered at sea level. It has to be for its engine, normally aspirated like every other turbine engine, to have enough power remaining to climb above 70,000 feet. Also, we weighed only 24,000 pounds (maximum allowable is 41,000 pounds) and were departing into a brisk headwind. Such knowledge did not prepare me for what followed.
The throttle was fully advanced and would remain that way until the beginning of descent. The 17,000 pounds of thrust made it feel as though I had been shot from a cannon. Within two to three seconds and 400 feet of takeoff roll, the wings flexed, the pogos fell away, and we entered a nose-up attitude of almost 45 degrees at a best-angle-of-climb airspeed of 100 kt. Initial climb rate was 9,000 fpm.
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