0805 - The ship is finally stabilized alongside
the oiler, 160 feet. The squadron commanding officer checks her forward and aft
drift from ideal with small RPM adjustments in 2 rev increments. Half-degree
rudder orders are given as well, to keep the abeam distance within tolerances.
On the decks of the oiler, stolid crewmen in hard hats and life jackets wait
patiently, while far below aux conn, in the carrier's refueling sponsons,
gunner's mates stand ready with M-14 rifles. With the Captain's approval, the
rifles crack and monkey's fists fly over to the oiler, trailing shot lines
behind them. These are quickly brought to hand aboard the oiler, stout messenger
lines affixed and the combination sent back to the carrier. After two iterations
of this exchange, the high-tension span wires are tautly spread between the two
ships, and the refueling rigs can be sent over to the awaiting receptacles
aboard the carrier. Soon, the ship is taking on fuel - jet fuel, to keep the air
wing in the
fight.
The hardest part is now done, and now all can
breathe more freely again in aux conn. While the risk of collision or rig damage
still exists, good seamanship will keep that risk
manageable.
Down in Ready Room Three,
an FA-18 squadron executive officer is putting the finishing touches on his
flight brief, a powerpoint presentation. Momentarily, he wonders how anyone ever
got anything done in the Navy, in an era before powerpoint and email. He vaguely
remembers seeing strike briefs presented on overhead projections and butcher
block paper, of reading teletype feeds and standard naval record messages - in
actual print! - it seems a wildly quaint notion, so very 10 years ago.
He's the air wing lead for the noon
close air support launch, eight strike fighters going up country in four
two-ship packages to designated interdiction boxes. It will be a long flight,
and probably a boring one these days. The XO was in these waters two years ago
as a senior department head and remembers well the heady days of the air
campaign for OIF - preparing and briefing and flying and fighting and landing
and going airborne again, collapsing at the end of the day exhausted into his
rack and starting over again the next day. Each day running into the next and
every day requiring an almost inhuman perfection to ensure that only the right
targets are struck, that no weapons land inside the No Fire Areas or too close
to friendlies on the ground, themselves moving at an unheard of pace as they
race across a nearly featureless terrain attempting to close with and destroy a
foe who only rarely seems to show a willingness to stand and fight, but mostly
rather fades away, leaving behind empty trenches, fortifications, even
uniforms.
It's not like that now, this
CAS mission is "on call," just in case the troops on the ground gain contact
with a force they cannot instantly overcome. His job is to ensure that they
don't trip all over each other coming or going from the mission, that everyone
understands their procedures checking into the air refueling tanker track,
checking in through the Deep Air Support Center (DASC) and if called upon, over
to the Forward AIr Controller, or FAC. Most likely they'll never do much more
than hold with the DASC until they're nearly out of gas, race to the tanker for
another top off, and then hold some more. Eventually it will be time to come
home, and all they'll have to show for the mission is a mild, temporary
stiffness in their legs and back, and another four hours of flight time and a
day trap in the log book. Could be
worse.
0900 - The morning flag meeting
commences with the admiral at the head of the table, and his 'band of brothers"
arrayed on either side. These warfare commanders will inform their boss of their
special concerns and mitigations for the next 24, 48 and 72 hours. They work
together, but there are only so many resources available, and sometimes one or
more of them will find himself overextended or under-suppported - he will have
to take on risk, in other words. He owes it to the admiral to inform him where
he's taking that risk, and how he intends to mitigate it. The boss may disagree,
and ask that resources be
re-allocated.
The Captain being trapped
in aux conn for the refueling, the ship's operations officer sits in his chair.
He will answer any questions put directly to him, but will offer no opinions of
his own. Only the Captain speaks for the
Captain.
Up above, at 20,000 feet, the
E-2C mission commander polls his crew in the "tunnel," where the command and
control work of the Hawkeye gets done. Their altitude allows the strike group to
extend their "eyes" hundreds of miles beyond what could be attained by shipboard
sensors alone. They open up the interior of Iran, to the east, an interior that
would ordinarily be cast in the radar shadow of the Zagros mountain range. They
have insight into the air support picture over Iraq. They identify and track the
large and the small, both in flight and on the surface of the Arabian Gulf.
Unknown surface contacts are highlighted to the Sea Combat Commander aboard the
carrier, who will then dedicate rotary wing assets to classify and ID the
vessels thus found. Unknown air contacts are sent to the Air Defense Commander
aboard the cruiser, who will evaluate them as either threat or non-threat,
executing his pre-planned responses appropriately to the
classification.
In the E-2, the mission
commander is satisfied. Everyone seems to be on top of their roles and the
mission is going smoothly. He's in good comms with the flagship and air defense
cruiser, and the datalinks are maintaining good fidelity and latency. He checks
his watch: One hour until recovery. He rocks back in his chair, stretches his
arms and yawns. It will be good to take a nap, when they get done. Maybe after
chow. Nothing like a "chow induced loss of
consciousness."
Just aft of him the Air
Control Officer cocks his head quizzically as a bit of banana-shaped radar video
appears off to the east, over the Zagros. It is in a place where air targets
would not be customarily found. He re-checks his air route overlay on the radar
as the antenna sweeps around again, leaving behind its ghostly trace. No, no air
routes over there. He waits again for the antenna to come around - nothing: The
target has faded. The ACO purses his lips, adjusts his radar gains, and waits
another sweep - nothing, again. A false contact perhaps. But... there it is
again. And again. He rolls his cursors over the display, using his trackball on
the console and tags the target video, eyes narrowing. One more sweep and he'll
have target velocity. His eyes widen in surprise as the computer grinds to its
conclusion. He reaches his hand up to place the boom mic closer to his lips, and
sends his right foot stabbing towards the transmit pedal of his UHF
radio.
"Sign on, young man, and sail with me. The stature of our homeland is no more than the measure of ourselves. Our job is to keep her free. Our will is to keep the torch of freedom burning for all. To this solemn purpose we call on the young, the brave, the strong, and the free. Heed my call, Come to the sea. Come Sail with me." - John Paul Jones
"Pardon him, Theodotus; he is a barbarian, and thinks that the customs of his tribe and island are the laws of nature" --George Bernard Shaw, "Ceasar and Cleopatra"
"And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music."--Friederich Nietzsche
