Neptunus Lex

In the bad old days of the Cold War - back when everybody planned on ending the world, but (unlike today) nobody actually meant anything by it - aircraft carriers entering port at Subic Bay, the Republic of the Philippines would launch a two-ship of combat air patrol, or CAP prior to entering harbor.

The PI is an archipelagic nation, meaning that while there are certain clearly defined constraints placed on surface ship navigation - running aground not least - there are some additional oddities in international law that apply to overflight of what would ordinarily be sovereign national airspace: This results in two codicils within the body of law, the first a “right of archipelagic passage” and a second, more restricted right, the sometimes euphemistically labeled “right of innocent passage.”

Through ancient custom and the international law of the sea (which are nearly the same thing), countries have the right to the sovereign control of their airspace and seas extending 12 nautical miles beyond their terrestrial limit, measured at low tide.

But a problem arises if archipelagic nations - clusters of islands scattered about hither and yon - attempt to enforce control of their separate islands’ interlocking 12nm limits: Vast swathes of the ocean sea would be non-navigable to foreign ships without prior permission from the archipelagic sovereign. Archipelagic and innocent passage are therefore designed to permit transit through the archipelagic seas so long as that passage is “for the sole purpose of continuous, expeditious, and unobstructed transit in the normal mode of operations.”

Which could mean different things to different people. To a US aircraft carrier heading into Subic for some well-deserved liberty ashore it meant wrapping the deck nice and tidy and making herself pretty for the pier. But for them godless communists out there yonder it meant a chance to “innocently” overfly an imperialist running dog capitalist aircraft carrier what with its drawers down and napping, like - on account of the lack of air cover that was in it.

Which would never do, because it was written somewhere in the bible - Old Testament, I believe - that any battle group commander who allowed his flagship to be overflown by a Tupolev that wasn’t being bird dogged by one of his own fighters would spend the eternity in hell, roasting over a slow fire with a spit up his arse. I’m nearly sure it was in the bible because for all those Cold War years they put the rest of us through hell to prevent it, but anyways.

So if you couldn’t be overflown, and you couldn’t develop a plan for alert fighters because you couldn’t rely on having the sea space necessary to turn into the wind to launch ‘em, what you could do was launch a gate guard of CAP before entering territorial waters and then tank the hell out of ‘em until the ship entered the harbor.

That two ship was us.

At first we were kind of excited, my wingman and I, entrusted as we were with protecting a $5 billion national treasure and the 5,000-odd souls embarked upon her from the Soviet Menace. But while a twenty mile cap leg takes not quite three minutes to run in a fighter moving at 420 knots ground speed, it takes a great deal longer for an 80,000 aircraft carrier picking its ginger way past the shoal waters approaching the outer roads to the harbor. Time has a way of dragging on CAP, especially when the Red Horde chose that particular day to take a sabbatical from harassment.

The ship gave us an S-3 tanker to help us while away the hours and replenish the fuel tanks while he was at it. Those of you who have been lucky enough to fly the War Hoover have no doubt a fuller comprehension of its “performance” envelope, but it was an unwelcome surprise to your correspondent to discover - after a tactical, comm-out trail, rendezvous - that the damn thing flies at a mere 150 knots or so when they are holding at max endurance airspeed.

Now the Hornet flies that fast in the landing configuration with the flaps down full and the rollers in the breeze, so when we snuck up on ‘em unawares, we also ended up by racing right past ‘em, claws scrabbling disgracefully like a pair of great danes trying to stop for supper on waxed linoleum floor. Oh, we had the throttles on the idle stops, speedbrakes out, maneuvering flaps deployed and we were just that close to opening the canopies too since leading a two-ship formation of strike fighters into an under-run - in the plain view of an S-3 crew, the great, gabbling gossips that they were, just plain looks bad.

And - as long time readers know - it is better to die than look bad.

We briefly considered - and then sadly, but quickly rejected - the notion of ejecting just for the shame that was in it. But, no: Our pride might be hurt, but this was bigger than the two of us. After all, the carrier - our ocean home, and a centerpiece of the national maritime strategy - was still out there counting on us. And anyways there was every chance that after a first night ashore in ages - in the PI, no less - no one would remember much of anything about this day. Fingers crossed.

The S-3 crew woke up as we flew by them and accelerated their jet just as we completed cross-controlling our own airframes (wing down and top rudder throws the flat part of the jet into the breeze) to try and slow down. The net result of all this of course was that they rubber-banded past us again and we found ourselves - we, who had after all come there seeking gas - having to run the throttles up into afterburner just to get out of the performance trough we’d placed ourselves in.

It was a right Bartholomew Fair there for a bit, but we finally got in the basket and got our gas, just as the ship turned the corner on the inner roads. At this point they were under the protection of the Philippine Air Force - sighs of relief all the way ’round, no doubt - and our mission was complete.

Which was perfect for us, because, newly topped off with S-3 gas and with a small case of the a$$ from the aforementioned, three-ring rendezvous circus we were able to climb back up to altitude, clear the S-3 out of the way and engage in a bit of the old BFM, clawing and scraping at one another until I emerged victorious - this is my story - after which it was time to go and land at Cubi Point, the airfield across the bay from Subic.

It says something about the speed an 80,000 ton ship will use when approaching the pier, the usage rates of aviation fuel when you’re operating in full grunt and the time it takes to zip the distance from a gate guard CAP to the airfield that we were on deck and buying beer before the ship had her first mooring line across.

When the brow came down, bringing with it a cohort of thirsty air wing pilots and NFO’s already grown impatient with ship drivers and their tortuously deliberate ways, we were waiting on the pier with cold beers in hand making us not merely two hours of flight time richer, but also the acknowledged heroes of the day.

Which was at the end of the day, the really important thing.

As if any further were needed, of mankind’s perfectibility.

And a motivational ceremony too - MGEN Rich Zilmer, Commander of the 1st Marine Expeditionary Brigade, Deputy Commander of the 1st Marine Expeditionary Force and but recently returned from Iraq gave a motivational speech about the honors and obligations of a life in service during wartime, The Oath was taken and a goodly number of ensigns and second lieutenants joined the naval service with parents, friends and loved ones there to place new insignia upon shoulder boards and epaulets as appropriate. Enlisted men had been requested in advance by the newly commissioned to receive each officer’s first salute, for which service a silver dollar was exchanged, as is our custom.

Swords were passed out to the young officers of Marines - mamelukes, they are called - and it was with a bit of wry humor that your correspondent observed them marching away - it takes a certain gait to march with a sheathed sword at your side, and not everyone gets it straight away.

They will learn in time, and a great deal more besides.

That the sh!t hit the fleet.

After torturing the plebes one last time on Herndon, we’d had a week’s worth of fin de siecle parties on and around the campus - the “N” dance for varsity athletes over at Hubbard Hall, where the crew team tormented themselves for most of the year, was a highlight - it was the only affair in the Yard that served champagne, as I recall. Tropical whites and tiki torches reflected the Severn River. With all of the beautiful young men and women, it had the feeling of a movie set from the 1940’s, the “before” picture setting the left bookend to an unknowable “after” - an “after” whose ghostly contours are now, after 25 years,  growing daily more distinct.

Finally the preparations were complete it was time to mill around smartly outside as the underclasses marched to the stadium to bid us farewell with ever-descending degrees of sincerity; the second class with whom we had become fast friends, the youngsters who still eyed us with all the caution that one uses around a biting dog that wags its tail, the plebes with a cordial loathing. A rustling in the seats as we sat down, an interminable speech or two - brave new world, sea lines of communication, the defense of the republic from the Soviet Menace, etc. Then, finally, graduation and commissioning of the top 10% in order of class rank, the rest of us alphabetically (your correspondent was solidly in the top 90% of his class).  Hat’s up (and down, it turns out). The fat gold bar of an ensign replacing the thin one of a first class midshipman.

The smiles and handshakes after, the promises to keep in touch, that we’d see each other in the fleet. Promises we sometimes kept, but the tendency of things is always towards disorder, towards chaos. There would in any case be new loyalties to supercede that sacred word “classmate” - a word that had gotten us all through a difficult four years. There would be roommates, wingmen, squadron mates, messmates, shipmates, service buddies, Marines, dogs and finally, sojers.

Today we head down to the university campus to see our replacements join the line, NROTC midshipmen from the local universities: SDSU, UCSD, USD and Point Loma Nazarene. Three young people that we have fed and entertained for the last three years will be commissioned, two will change uniforms entirely. Our young man will lead the color guard, having exchanged the two diagonal stripes of a midshipman second class on his shoulder boards with the single, thin, horizontal stripe of a first class midshipman .

The cycle continues.

Although in his heart of hearts, I bet he just wished he was being recognized for the excellence that got him there, rather than for the fact that he is some way a “first”:

USS JOHN C. STENNIS, At Sea – Cmdr. Muhammad Muzzafar F. Khan relieved Cmdr. Timothy Langdon as commanding officer of Sea Control Squadron (VS) 31 during a ceremony held at sea aboard USS John C. Stennis (CVN 74) May 13.

Khan is the first Muslim to take command of an operational aviation squadron in the U.S. Navy.

The “Topcats” of VS 31 are assigned to Carrier Air Wing (CVW) 9, embarked aboard Stennis, and currently deployed to the U.S. 5th Fleet area of operations (AOO).

“I am absolutely thrilled and honored to be placed in that position of stewardship,” said Khan. “It’s an honor and a tremendous feeling.”

As a child in Pakistan, Khan grew up around aviation. His father served in the Pakistani air force for 21 years and then flew commercial airplanes after that for 24 years.

“As far back as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to be a pilot,” he said. “There is a Naval Aviation Museum poster with a little boy holding a toy airplane and looking up at the sky. That little boy was me.”

I was that little boy too.

Congrats to CDR Khan, and enjoy it while it lasts, pard. It’s over far too quickly.

Briefly: It was a wonderful day to fly F-5’s in the Florida Keys, with a pair of onrushing F-14 Tomcats in front of me in the uncertain distance and an F-16N ahead and to my left as my flight lead. At the designated signal  - an aileron roll, on this occasion - I went into a spacing maneuver designed to spoil the F-14 radar operators’ laboriously crafted situational awareness. Heading away now from both my wingman and the merge, making good time at about 550 knots or so in a descent, I was feeling very comfortable in the jet, not least because the Tiger II cockpit is remarkably spacious for such a small machine.

And that’s when I caught fire.

Oh, not me personally, and not the entire jet, but something in the electrical system behind the dashboard in front of me (and above my legs underneath the dash) gave up the ghost and connected at least two circuits which had been designed by the engineers to remain isolated. Suddenly my comfortable little cockpit felt rather cramped and crowded. Happened pretty quick too, just a whiff of a harsh electrical odor and then arcs and sparks followed by a billowing, choking cloud.

I found the whole experience very exciting.

Airborne, alone and on fire is no way to go through life, so rather than spend what was threatening to be the rest of my time on earth thinking about it, I reached forward through the smog, fumbled around on the horizontal console and shut off the jet’s single AC generator and then, after only a moment’s hesitation, the DC battery as well. That served to partially clear the cabin of smoke since the electrical system kept the canopy seals inflated with bleed air from the engines and with the power out, my cabin pressure started to leak past the deflating seals, taking some of the smoke with it. Actuating the mechanical ram/dump switch hastened the process along even as I switched the O2 system to 100% oxygen - just in case. My popping ears and whining sinuses seemed a small price to pay for clear air to breathe and a world that I could orient to, no matter how cold it was.

If you’re curious, I wasn’t making this stuff up “on the fly” as they say, these were among the published “boldface” procedures that pilots are required to commit to memory.

For reasons which at this point, probably seem obvious.

In a very short time the fire was out, the air was clear and my heart rate was down to a sustainable level. But I couldn’t talk to anyone, and since I was in an F-5, almost invisible in a turning fight, no one much missed me.

You almost never see the F-5.

I toyed with the idea of turning the battery switch back on to communicate with my lead - the single UHF radio could be operated off of the essential DC bus, powered by the battery - for a bit before finally committing to it. I really didn’t want to catch my legs on fire - fussy that way - but flying back to the field with no IFF (to squawk emergency codes with) and no radio (to get traffic separation and landing clearance with) seemed risky too. There were routine flights of commuter jets into Key West International that seemed to operate as though they were alone in the world, and while there are techniques for NORDO landings at military fields - fly overhead the pattern rocking your wings, turn downwind and look for a green light from the tower on final - I’d never really seen them work that well. You either missed the green light, or the controller missed shining it on you and you’d have to go around and try it again when most of all what you wanted to do was to put the damned thing on the ground and walk away from it.

Oh, sure, there was always the Martin-Baker option, but I was already on the way to completing a flying career in which my take-offs and full-stops added up to a round number, and very much wanted to keep it that way. Besides, as I’ve mentioned before, the F-5 ejection system was a frail vessel into which to pour all of your hopes. Even if it weren’t for all of those hammerhead sharks and the risks to one’s professional reputation.

Better to die than look bad.

Carefully then, and the first task to was to go around and actually turn every piece of electrical gear off before restoring system power to the essential bus. Back to the battery switch, then cautiously to the UHF radio, even as I was wending my way towards to the aerodrome at a moderate pace.

My lead apprised the situation at once, whipped his jet around and ran me down briskly - the Viper was good at that. We quickly formulated an approach plan in which he would perform all radio coordination even while I maintained the formation lead. The visual signal that I was cleared to land would be a patting motion on the dashboard, followed by a thumb’s up. It didn’t take much time to confirm the plan and shut the battery back off again, since it was standard operating procedure to brief NORDO recoveries - and many, many other emergencies - on every flight.

The landing itself was uneventful as they say, apart from my approach speed. Since I couldn’t get the flaps down, I whistled across the fence at about 220 knots as I recall. The brakes would have laughed at me for a moment before cheerfully self-destructing if I had tried to tap them at that speed, but fortunately the drag chute deployed as published in the operator’s manual and using the long runway at Navy Key West I didn’t even have to throw the hook down at the departure end cable.

Just as well, the flimsy thing was mostly just for looks on a USAF jet.

No point to that story really, just thought it was time to, you know: Tell it.

Since we’re on a bit of a flying jag (and heads “thunk” on computer desks across the land), SJS has a series of “getting back to basics” (i.e. prop-powered aircraft) vids up which he alerted us to over at The Other Site. To which I only replied, only partly in jest, “Rudder pedals. That you actually use when you’re not taxiing. Ugh!”

For what you mayn’t have considered, constant reader, is that - rotate though they do? - get engines generate no noticeable torque, neither on the run up nor in level flight.

Prop planes? Oh, so very.

When I was starting Primary flight training in Pensacola, Florida back in my long-lost, oft-lamented, egregiously misspent youth, we had two choices of machines to fly. The first was the venerable (that’s a code word in aviation meaning “old”) T-28 Trojan, a real beast of a machine with performance comparable to a World War II fighter - the Navy version had over 1,400 horses under the cowl and red-lined at over 300 knots. Not to mention the mechanical complexity of a radial engine trainer - say “cowl flaps and blower” to a fresh-faced flight student and watch him turn quizical - that’s a lot of aircraft to learn how to fly in.

Our other option was the T-34C Turbo Mentor - an aicraft known universally to the Trojan set as the “Turbo Weenie” because of the fact that, while it had a miniature jet engine turning it’s propeller - hence the “Turbo” in the aircraft name - it had barely a third the static horsepower of the T-28.

T-28 students had what passed among primary flight students for a devil-may-care panache: We used to joke that if there wasn’t any oil leaking from a T-28 the aircraft had to be down - the only reason could be that there wasn’t any left in the casing to leak - parts were hard to come by, and there was that great big, monster of an engine up front. Another common piece of wit was that you could tell the Trojan student by the bulging of his right thigh from battling all that torque.

There are three elements in play that make a prop-driven aircraft want to yaw the left during a takeoff roll: Torque, prop wash and p-factor. Torque is Newton’s old saw about “equal and opposite reactions” in play. It’s also what spins the prop, so it’s not like it’s a bad thing, but anyway.

Seated in the cockpit, the propeller is seen to rotate in a clockwise direction. If it was suddenly liberated from the engine mount, a high speed prop would want to walk briskly to your right until it either ran out of energy, or ran into something unyielding. Since it’s a fundamental part of the maintenanceman’s job description to ensure that it can’t get free, the opposite reaction generated is for the airframe attached to the prop to want to walk in the opposite direction, i.e., to the left. This is sensed as a yawing moment around the airframe’s horizontal axis. On the ground this necessitates a healthy dose of right rudder to keep the plane tracking down runway heading for the take-off roll. Conversely, a passive pilot could allow the plane to drift off the prepared surface and into the turf, but that attitude is robustly discouraged.

The same thing happens in flight, but the phenomenon gets a different focus - since the wheels are liberated from contact with the earth, the tendency is for the aircraft to want to roll in the opposite direction of the prop’s spin rather than “walk” (i.e. yaw). Roll is counteracted not with rudders, but with ailerons - in this case, right aileron to counter a left roll. A right-roll stick command puts the left aileron down (increasing lift on the left wing) and puts the right aileron up, decreasing lift on that wing. As we increase lift we also increase induced drag, which is that component of total drag generated as a function of lift (the other main component of total drag is parasitic drag, which is the resistance of the airmass to the airframe). Against the increased drag on the upgoing left wing, right rudder is applied to keep the nose and wings in “coordinated flight.”

The instrument below is found in prop aircraft to keep the pilot honest (and an analogue is found in jet aircraft to remind him of his roots, like):

In an uncoordinated (or “skidding”) turn to the right, the aircraft wingform symbol would reflect a right angle of bank but the ball - the black disk in the center of the liquid gauge - would be out to the right. “Right ball, right rudder” is used to bring it back to center. IP’s who considered themselves wags would sometimes pound on one side or another of a grossly out of balance aircraft with their fists, often causing their wild-eyed students to ask in alarm on the intercomm, “What is that banging sound?”

“Oh, that’d be the turn needle ball, trying to get back into the airplane,” he’d reply. Whether or not you found that sort of thing funny depended greatly on your perspective, I suppose.

Prop-wash is an effect related to the helical flow of air coming back off the propeller. It moves in the same direction as the prop, so the air on the right side of the airframe is moving “away” from the vertical tail while that on the left is moving “towards” it. Impinging on the left side of the tail it generates a left yaw moment around the horizontal axis which must be countered by, you guessed it, right rudder.

Finally, there’s the dreaded “P-factor.” The downgoing prop blades on the right side of the disk (seen from the cockpit) have a higher angle of attack - and therefore generate more thrust - than the upgoing blades do on the left. That provides a relatively weak (compared to the other factors) push to the left that once again must be countered by right rudder.

All of these effects reach their maximums at slower speeds when aerodynamic controls are less effective. Like on a carrier landing, or, heaven forbid, a bolter or waveoff wherein the guy who’s cobbing the throttle(s) up from an underpowered condition doesn’t have enough right rudder authority left to get the damned thing safely airborne again without going over the side.

Which, pace our too-long neglected E-2 brethren, is why the Navy was so very keen to get out of the whole propeller driven flight operations scheme just as soon as we could. Not even going there on the whole “critical engine” thing. And even if it weren’t easier to impress the chicks at the O’Club as a jet guy.

Which, you know: Priorities and all.

The four-ship typically comes in level at release altitude. For a 45 degree dive bombing pattern that’d be around 5000′ above ground level (AGL). Aligned with the attack heading, the lead will push it up to the planned release airspeed - typically around 450 knots calibrated airspeed - and the savvier wingmen will ensure that their jets are trimmed out in yaw as they attain release speed: Even modern jets get “bent,” and what is trimmed for level flight at 300 knots won’t always work at 450, while uncorrected yaw is a source of bombing inaccuracy. Once over the target, dash one will call, “Lead’s breaking,” on the aux radio, followed by his wingmen every four seconds or so thereafter, 2, 3, 4.

A four-g climbing turn to downwind at military power, targeting 10,000′ AGL and 350 knots - just enough to keep a little g on the jet. Each pilot will strive to maintain about a 3nm arc around the target - a 30 degree angle of bank turn and the target down there just above his left shoulder. Quickly through the stores management system, ensure that the SIM mode is de-selected - no bombs come off in SIM - the proper stores are selected for release on the digital multi-function display, the target designator control is assigned to the HUD (for a visual release), air-to-ground master mode is selected, stores multiple and programs are properly set (with correct fuzing option) and finally that the Master Arm switch is set to “Arm” just as he approaches the roll-in. If they don’t do each of these steps in sequence, the bomb won’t come off, the jet goes through “dry” and this we label buffoonery. It makes no sense to fight your way into a target just to go through dry because you boogered up the switchology.

The wingmen chase the jets ahead of them in the bombing pattern using a combination of lead, pure and lag pursuit while jockeying the throttles to ensure that they 1) not hit anyone, 2) keep sight of everyone, 3) get themselves in a position to make their own attack runs with a clear lane of fire.

With thirty degrees to go before final attack heading, the lead will run his throttles back up to mil, increase the g by levering aft on the stick before unloading to swiftly overbank the jet and pull the nose down almost to the target, calling “One’s in.” The armament data line is displaced by a calculated angular distance - the “aim off distance” or AOD - from the jet’s flight path, typically four to six degrees for low drag ordnance. Another unloaded roll - loaded rolls take longer and displace the jet away from the target - back upright to get the wings underneath him, then (assuming good alignment and no crosswinds) bunt the jet to a g-loading conforming to the cosine of the dive angle, or 0.9 g in a 45 degree dive. Now he’s on the wire. Now he’s on “government time.”

Throttle back a bit - supersonic release of conventional ordnance is considered bad form - and the altimeter unwinds like a clock in a science fiction movie while the pilot designates the target (if using the “Auto” mode, or constantly computed release point) or else aligns the bomb fall line on the target while waiting for the constantly computed impact point cross to come up in the HUD. Although the bomb release button (or “pickle”) is always hot with an armed jet in CCIP, the impact point is underneath the fuselage and out of the HUD field of view until just before release altitude, so waiting for the aiming cross to emerge from below the nose takes a degree of patience bordering on faith which can nevertheless be worth waiting for: CCIP gives great hits.

The airframe starts to howl as the speed builds up.

Auto releases are more appropriate to the exotic weapons, and offer other flexibilities as well which are beyond the scope of this post. In an Auto release, the target is designated using an aiming diamond in the HUD, which presents wind-corrected attack steering and a release cue that marches down towards the velocity vector (a representation of aircraft flight path). Weapons computers are smart enough to handle various g-loadings with a degree of relative aplomb, but for optimal accuracy a stable, non-accelerating delivery platform is desired.

The windscreen fills with dirt at a rate which can at first be alarming. Weapons release comes quickly, at about 5000′ AGL: Final attack tracking time from designation to release is ideally no more than 4-5 seconds. Any more than that and you’ll be showing a little more thigh to hostile ground gunners than is deemed appropriate to a fully explored career - and then it’s time to execute the dive recovery. No point in following a dumb bomb into the turf with a smart pilot. You’ll typically hit long anyway.

A four to five g pull back up to the horizon and then 30-40 degrees or so above the horizon by 3000′ AGL to avoid your own frag pattern, with the throttles coming back up to the mil stops again. “One’s off.” That should be close, looked like a good run.

“Two’s in.”

You’re not supposed to spot your own hits. You do it anyway. There’s a column of smoke northeast of the bullseye a bit. Not bad. You find dash-four in the pattern - there he is approaching the abeam position - and work your way back into the downwind for another hack. Five more bombs to go.

The target controller calls on the UHF, prime freq: “One your hit was 25 feet at two o’clock.” Not quite a shack hit, but not bad either, not for a first bomb. Put you in the running for one of three bets with your wingmen, “first hit, best hit, CEP.”

“Two’s off.”

“Three’s in.”

CEP is short for “circular error probable,” the mathematical calculation of the radius wherein 50% of your bombs should land. The smaller the radius, the better the bomber. Everything’s a competition.

“Three’s off.”

“Four’s in.”

Check your gas, go through the switchology once again - you never want to go through dry. Laugh to yourself a little that you get paid for this. Plan to aim 12 feet at eight o’clock on the next go around. You can do better than a 25 foot miss.

“Four’s off.”

Your turn: Time to get back on the wire, go back on government time..

“One’s in.”

If you’re really lucky, you’ll get to do it again tonight.

Previously

The ship’s Captain stood by his chair on the bridge in his Service Dress Blues, his binoculars fixed on the channel marker just outside the carrier turning basin at Naval Station North Island, California. He briefly suppressed, and then just as briefly gave in to the temptation to sweep the pier with the binos, looking for his wife and children. Seven months. It had been such a very long seven months. There were thousands of people thronging on the pier, waving flags and signs – “Welcome Home, Son!” and “We Missed You Mommy!”

The civilian harbor pilot stood just to his right, in amiable but meaningless conversation with the Officer of the Deck – this was an experienced crew, and the pilot’s main purpose was to control the three tugboats that brought the great warship alongside the pier after it had made its final turn, gliding in.

The flight deck was starkly bare of aircraft and gleaming in the mid-day light – the air wing had flown off earlier that day, at 0600 that morning, and for the first time in half a year, he could see the full sweep and breadth of the real estate entrusted to his care. The handler and his men had done a brilliant job in the post-launch scrub down, and – combined with the rust work done while in port in Perth, Australia - the ship could receive visitors just as soon as she was moored without fear of  embarrassing herself. So long, the Captain had to admit, as they didn’t see her port side, the side that faced to sea when moored – there had not been enough money available to touch up the port side.

The reality of what he had accomplished – what they had all accomplished – was thrusting itself upon him, even as he tried to keep focused on the task at hand: Mooring 100,000 tons of aircraft carrier to unyielding concrete with only a breasting barge and some Yokohama fenders to separate them was not child’s play. Still, he was bursting with the pride of what his crew had done, and he had to admit that he was proud as well to be their commanding officer: They had gone half-way around the globe and back again carrying persistent combat power with them. They had provided critical, life-saving support to embattled soldiers and Marines and they had done so superbly, generating over a thousand combat and combat support sorties, dropping tons of high explosive ordnance. They had navigated through some of the most challenging strait transits on the globe and conducted six port visits, including two in the Arabian Gulf itself, and in doing so had amassed an almost flawless record – only half a dozen liberty incidents had occurred, none of which had been deemed particularly significant. The flag had been shown and it had not been disgraced. There had been a few more “crunched” aircraft on the roof than he would have liked – one was too many – and they’d hit a rough patch controlling foreign object damage to the engines of embarked jet aircraft. The FOD problem had eventually been overcome through the application of “intrusive” leadership techniques. On the positive side, the crew’s promotion levels had been high, as had their re-enlistments – morale was superb. Taken as a whole, a solid record of operational achievement. Very solid. Not much longer now and it would be over. Suddenly ambivalent, he pursed his lips again at the thought – soon it would be over. It seemed so long since he had known anything else but this.

The pilot was at his shoulder saying that in his considered opinion, it was a good time to shift over to Aux Conn. The Captain concurred saying, “Officer of the Deck, make it so.”

“Aye, aye, Captain. Attention in the pilothouse, the Officer of the Deck is shifting the conn from the pilothouse to Aux Conn.”

“Quartermaster, aye!”

“Bosun’s mate, aye!”

“Helmsman, aye!”

“Lee helmsman, aye!”

Aux Conn then, for the last time in his career as an aircraft carrier CO. The ship would go into a maintenance period as soon as she moored – she was as tired as any of them - and his change-of-command was just one month away. Barring an unforeseen emergency, he would never again get this ship underway. It had been the longest two years of his life, and yet somehow the shortest. Where had the time gone?

“All stop, Conn,” the pilot said.

Having first made eye contact his with his CO, the conning officer spoke into his microphone, “All engines stop.”

“All engines stop, aye,” came the answer from the lee helmsman, followed by, “Conning officer, all engines are stopped.”

“Very well.”

“Left rudder, captain?” the CO asked the pilot.

“Yes, Captain, I think so.”

The Conning officer nodded to both of them spoke again into his mic, “Thirty degrees left rudder.”

“30 degrees left rudder, aye. Conning officer my rudder is left 30 degrees, no new course given.”

“Very well.”

Two years in command, and how nervous he had been at the beginning of it, how carefully he had sought to hide that emotion from his crew. He had worked his entire lifetime to be here and now it was almost over. Although he had gotten a great deal more rest during the oceanic transit than he had in the cramped and bustling Arabian Gulf, the time zone changes every other day for the last two weeks had left their toll on him, especially when combined with “channel fever” – the excitement of almost being home. When this is over I will sleep for weeks, he thought. But not right away, he added with just a hint of a twinkle in his eye. Not right away.

“Three Two, push one,” the pilot spoke into his handheld VHF radio, and the CO looked at the plan he’d inked on the back of his hand – Tug 32 was on the port quarter, to bring her stern side to.

“Three Two, push one, captain,” acknowledged the tug’s master.

“Two Four back two,” said the pilot – port bow, the Captain noted, nodding – that would swing her head around.

“Back two, aye, captain.”

It took so long, the last hundred feet. It seemed to take an hour and there she was on the pier, and the Captain felt his heart leap into his throat – she had always been the most beautiful woman he had ever known, but he lowered his glasses again, put the emotion back as best he could. Soon. Soon.

“Three Two back one”

“Back one, captain.”

“Rudder amidships, Captain?” the pilot offered quietly.

“Make it so conn.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” and speaking into his microphone, “Rudder amidships!”

“Rudder amidships, aye!” followed by, “Conning officer my rudder is amidships, no new course given!”

“Very well.”

She was surging slightly forward. “Shall I back engines, captain?” the CO asked the pilot.

“Back one-third for a shot, Captain,” and then speaking into his VHF, “Two two, stem on – push two.”

“All engines back one third.”

These commands were quickly answered and in a matter of moments it was time to stop the engines again, her surge checked. She crept in towards the pier, pressed by the thrashing tugs.

The ship’s XO joined him in Aux Conn with 50 feet to go. “We’re all set, Captain. Quarterdeck watches are manned and the reception team is ready in your in port cabin for the Three-Star’s visit. The hangar deck is mostly clear, but the air wing guys are waiting for liberty call like they think they’d earned it or something.”

The CO shared a brief smile with his XO - both of whom had, as airwing pilots waiting impatiently on hangar decks earlier in their careers wondered what on earth could take so long to moor a ship - before thanking him for all his hard work making the ship ready for visitors – he’d make a great CO some day. Thirty feet. Twenty-five. Now twenty.

“Captain, Boats – permission to fire shot lines forward and aft?”

“Permission granted to fire shot lines forward and aft, Boats.”

Ten feet now, and suddenly rifles cracked on the hangar bay, startling some of the family members on the pier as shot lines raced out over the heads of waiting linesmen on the pier, standing by their mooring bollards. These sailors attached messenger lines to the shot lines, which were hauled back aboard and in turn attached to the great mooring lines, each of them as thick as a man’s forearm. Those heavy cables were pulled back ashore, and the CO held his breath as the first mooring loop was passed over the bollard. “We’re moored, conn.”

The conning officer spoke into his mic once more, “Moored, Boats.”

“Moored, shift colors,” the Bosun’s Mate of the Watch cried into his 1MC announcing system. It was done. They were home.

On the jackstaff forward at the tip of the bow the jack ran up – red and white horizontal stripes and a coiled viper in the center of its field – “Don’t Tread On Me” it read, as it had read during the War of 1812, as it had again since shortly after 9/11. The Captain knew that the ensign at the mainmast was coming down, just as he knew that it was being raised aft on the flagstaff, even though he could not see either event occurring from Aux Conn. He knew because he had trained this crew, three thousand men and women and because he loved them.

“That was a good cruise, Captain,” remarked the XO, “congratulations.”

“It was a good cruise XO, welcome home. The best part is that we brought all of them back. Every last one of them.”

No mean feat to bring all of them home alive. The flight deck of an aircraft carrier was a hideously dangerous place even in peacetime, nor were a ship’s engineering spaces to be trifled with. It was altogether too rare that a ship came home unscarred by violence and loss.

Seven months he thought. Seven months and two years. He wandered back into the pilothouse and looked at his chair there on the port side of the bridge. How many hours had he spent there, awake, asleep? How many meals had he eaten in that chair? How many hushed conferences, how many critical decisions? How many near misses?

Far too many to count, and in any case it didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was that his ship and crew were safely home from the uttermost parts of the world, their mission accomplished - that and the fact that his wife and children were waiting for him on the pier. He took one last look up and down the length of the naked flight deck, nodded slightly to himself. A good ship.

“I’m going below,” he announced to no one in particular.

“Captain’s off the bridge!” rang the answering shout of the bosun’s mate of the watch.

Butch in the Box sent me a PowerPoint brief demonstrating the tough love culture of naval aviation. The brief itself can be found here (right click, save as) but highlights are provided below:

In the beginning was the jacket, and the jacket was precious on account of the “been there, done that” patches, but it got left behind.

And the Training Officer found the aformentioned bit of flight gear laying adrift, and like any good Training Officer he made things right. And that’s when the unassailable court of squadron opinion was benched:

The evidence -

(Friday, October 15, 2004)
Wally’s jacket is found unattended in Bldg 797 classroom by fellow aviator.
Attempts to locate Wally are unsuccessful.
Jacket is placed in Training Officer’s locker for safe-keeping until Wally and his patch-saturated jacket are properly reunited.

(Thursday, October 21, 2004 8:15am )
Wally sends an e-mail to “all VS-41” inferring that the jacket has been stolen.
He claims to have had it in his possession “just last night”.

(E-mail of Thursday, October 21, 2004)
“Last night at 1600 I left my flight jacket where I left it for the past 6 months, on the back of my chair in room 202 in bldg 797. When I came in this morning at 0730 it was missing.”

(The jacket had been in the TO’s locker for 6 days at this point…)

The Charges-

Failure to accept responsibility for his own actions when he lost positive control of his crap.
Not once did he ever mention that the jacket might have been “lost” or “misplaced”.
Implying that there are thieves among your co-workers is not very neighborly.

Acting like a Drama-Queen in describing the loss of his jacket and patches.

Specifically,
(E-mail of Thursday, October 21, 2004)

“If you might know where it is I’d really appreciate getting it back, it’s irreplaceable… and it serves a personal memento of my operational experience.”

Sounds like you’re describing your cruise sock…

The penalty assessed -

If you want to act like a whiny broad, you might as well dress like one too…

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In 1918, a young man from the Ozarks lied about his age - he was only 16 - to enlist in the Navy and “see the world.” He served aboard a battleship, the USS New Hampshire. His name was Lloyd Brown, and he was our oldest living naval veteran of the First World War.

He died Thursday at age 105, survived by three daughters.

We are reduced.

“They shall not grow old, as we who are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them.”
– Laurence Binyon, from “The Fallen,” 1914