archived as http://www.stealthskater.com/Documents/Sub_06.doc (also …Sub_06.pdf) => doc pdf URL-doc URL-pdf

more on this topic is on the /Military.htm page at doc pdf URL

note: because important websites are frequently "here today but gone tomorrow", the following was archived on December 31, 2020. This is NOT an attempt to divert readers any website. Indeed, the reader should only read this back-up copy if it cannot be found at the original author's site.

https://www.thedrive.com/the-war-zone/30460/the-making-of-a-submarine-hunting-u-s-navy-s-3-viking-crewman

The Making Of A Submarine-Hunting S-3 Viking CrewmanThis is what it took to become a sub hunter tasked with protecting America's carrier battle

groups at the twilight of the Cold War.

by Kevin Noonan and Tyler Rogoway / The WarZone / October 16, 2019

The following is the first in a multi-part series (the most in-depth we have published since our Paul Nickell series) about what it was like to train, fly, and fight in the Lockheed S-3 Viking. It's a personal story not just about one man's passion for his profession and his time executing it in the jet but also about the nuts-and-bolts of often misunderstood anti-submarine and anti-surface warfare; what it took to keep Soviet submarines at bay during the twilight years of the Cold War; and on more contemporary issues surrounding the critical art of hunting enemy submarines.

It also comes to us from one of The War Zone community's favorite people -- Kevin Noonan, better known as 'Ancient Sub Hunter' in our commenting section and on his colorful Twitter feed.

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So, without further ado, our deep dive begins, well, at the beginning as our subject set out to accomplish his dream and began to master the cat-and-mouse art of hunting submarines from the sky.

A Viking Love Affair

For an aircraft originally designed to hunt submarines, the Lockheed S-3 Viking repeatedly impressed the navy it served and those it flew against with its versatility, reliability, mission prowess, and its uncanny ability to evolve.

The Viking held her stride no matter what task she was called upon to perform. She served a spectrum of needs within the carrier battle group (CVBG) while eagerly stepping up to the call of the odd jobs assigned by fleet commanders and even serving National political demands.

Most importantly, the S-3 performed her primary mission of Anti-Submarine Warfare (ASW) and Anti-Surface Warfare (ASuW) with a finesse that can only be fostered when deeply professional aircrews and maintenance personnel are fused with a durable, forgiving, and well-designed airframe.

Twin turbofan engines carried the Viking’s 35,000-to-50,000 pounds and 4 crew to any mission asked of her and kept us airborne for up to 6 hours without the need for refueling. Her variety of sensors and weapons ensured we could detect and destroy targets both beneath and on the surface of the ocean that threatened the CVBG. The tasking required of the S-3 would send her far and wide from the carrier and her 450 knots maximum speed allowed her to get from one place to another at a decent clip.

Granted in the jet-age of sexy-fast Tomcats, Phantoms, and Intruders, 450 knots was relatively slow. But so are submarines.

As one of the four souls onboard the Viking, I was the sole enlisted man sitting behind the pilot and co-pilot/COTAC (Co-Tactical Coordinator) sharing the aft cockpit with the TACCO (Tactical Coordinator). My primary job was operating the acoustic, radar, and forward-looking infrared (FLIR) systems. My official title was SENSO (Sensor Operator). I loved my job.

Kevin alongside his beloved S-3 while aboard the carrier.

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Dreams Of Submarines And Wings

I was born into an Air Force officer’s family. The obvious question follows and was asked repeatedly over my lifetime: “Why then did you join the Navy?”

Clearly, there is a touch of the sea and sailor in the bloodstream since my father had initially joined the Coast Guard and served in the North Atlantic on a weather observation cutter. But the aviation gene won the day when he headed off to a commission in the USAF once he completed college.

The skies of my memory are filled with the scenes and sounds of B-52s, C-124s, KC-135s, and F-105s. These daily sights along with all the visiting aircraft (not to mention the view from my front yard of the north end of the General Dynamics plant) ensured the activation of my own predisposition to flying.

However, an odd mutation arose one day in the library of my 5th grade schoolhouse. While scanning the shelves for something to read about airplanes, I discovered a book about submarines.

As the formative years progressed, aviation remained the primary influence while a love for the submarine continued to germinate. Being the baby of 6 kids and 2 years’ distant from my nearest sibling, I would lock myself in my room and read any book I could get my hands on about submarines.

I found myself particularly fascinated with the Battle of the Atlantic during World War II. This rising infatuation with the submarine and my tendency to be a loner would both serve me well (and not so well) in the quickly approaching years of adulthood and the direction my life would take.

There was no question that I would join the Military. But which branch? My oldest brother headed off to jump out of airplanes with the Army. My oldest sister became a linguist in the USAF. My next oldest sister headed off to the USN as a Hospital Corpsman. Another sister became a Personnelman. But it was my other older brother’s chosen career that would introduce me to a field and aircraft that, surprisingly, I’d neither heard of nor seen: Aviation Anti-submarine Warfare Operator (AW) and the S-3A Viking.

Kevin in a Huey at the Carswell AFB Base Exchange parking lot circa 1974.

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Training With A Cherry On Top

I had no idea that my competing, dissimilar loves had been fused together a decade before into the singular AW rating (Naval Aircrewman). Yet in the final months of decision making, I remained torn between becoming a submariner or an aviator.

When I finally did make the decision to become an AW, I felt I needed to take a path different from the one my Naval Aircrewman brother had taken. Instead of active duty, I chose the Naval Reserves (NAVRES). Instead of the S-3 Viking which did not have an established Reserve squadron as the Patrol Squadron Navy had, I would be an Acoustic Sensor Operator in the Lockheed P-3B Orion.

Even as a Reservist, I would go to all the initial active duty training required of regular Navy sailors. A week after I graduated from high school, I was on my way to boot camp at Great Lakes, Illinois in the early summer of 1984. I then headed to that magnificent (and terrifying) place: the home of Naval Aviation, Pensacola, Florida. There in Naval Aircrewman Candidate School, I earned the right to fly in naval aircraft. (And boy, did I earn that right!)

It was there I learned how to aggressively exceed my established self-limitations. The endless running through the Naval Air Station’s historic streets and the challenge of the beach-side obstacle course was as exhilarating as it was exhausting. I was overwhelmed with the marching, inspections, and workouts on the famous sea wall where in decades past the seaplanes of a then-fledgling Naval Aviation cadre were taxied down ramps and into the bay for launching.

But it was the required water survival training that would force me to run headlong into a reality my new employer (the U.S. Navy) had not yet discovered. I was terrified of water.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. What-the-hell was wrong with me? Joining the Navy was bad enough. But then I chose to go into a field that required I get thrown into the very environment that made my soul tremble. And the greatest dragon I would have to face was waiting for me in a building I ran past every day.

As a child, I experienced a near-drowning. Fully aware I would have to come to terms with my fear, I decided to take swimming lessons a few months prior to my departure for bootcamp. While it helped, I remained a relatively weak swimmer.

Thankfully, Pensacola anticipated that some of its prospective flyers would not have been born with the requisite fin and gills that so many “natural” swimmers seem to be adorned with. Each time I entered any body of water, I was required to wear the “cherry” red helmet. This bold covering assured that the water survival instructors would keep an extra wary eye on the tenuous swimmer wearing it. With a beacon on head, my journey began.

In days past, all officer and enlisted candidates were required to pass a mile-long swim qualification in Pensacola Bay wearing a flight suit, helmet, and flight boots. When I arrived in 1984, they had moved this critical qualification to one of the indoor pools. You had to swim without stopping to rest, without putting your foot on the bottom, and without touching the side of the pool. Along with these difficult demands, the presence of many future aircrewmen swimming around the pool churned up what felt like a sea state of six! I was pretty sure the bay would have been the better locale.

Another very difficult one was treading water in full flight gear without an inflated life preserver. Again, no touching the side of the pool. And we were in the deep end so we couldn’t rest our feet on the

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bottom although several sank and had to be brought back to the surface by the attending rescue swimmers.

Having survived those basic evolutions, we moved on to other pools with progressively ominous and (I was convinced) torturous devices. One intriguing contraption that had the appearance of a praying mantis folding its laundry was the next challenge.

Known as the Parachute Disentanglement Trainer, it actually wasn’t a very difficult evolution. The parachute was centered and then dropped over you. Initially, it kind of left you with the impression that you were lying in a water bed and someone just covered you with a silk top sheet. But then you ask yourself “why is this top sheet trying to kill me?”

Getting out of this potential nightmare required taking fistfuls of increasingly water-logged silk and what seemed like thousands of parachute lines and moving them over your head as you attempted to move slowly away from the center of the canopy. You then ensured that not a single parachute line was wrapped around any part of your body.

the 'Praying Mantis' (or more appropriately, the Parachute Disentanglement Trainer)

The full weight of this training has remained with me to this day. A search-and-rescue (SAR) swimmer once warned that if the parachute canopy an aircrew survivor had just used to escape a dying aircraft remained attached to him, it could fully blossom underneath the surface of the water and sink, taking the helicopter down with it if the survivor was also attached to the helicopter’s hoist.

Thus, the absolute need to quickly peel away the shock of where you are at, having just bailed out of a doomed airplane and the absolute need to become aware of your surroundings and discover what direction the wind is blowing on the surface of the ocean. Then, just before impact with the water, turning your parachute to ensure it collapses downwind from you as you release the risers and settle into the water as your feet hit.

These were procedures you had to execute under duress to ensure you don’t end up being drowned by silken sheets.

Thankfully, the Navy eventually developed saltwater activated riser release mechanisms that would aid an unconscious survivor. But we were adamantly told to never rely on them if we were aware of our predicament. The truth is that I was beginning to really love this stuff. But then that day arrived.

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Dragon Slaying

The Navy called her the 9D5 Helicopter Underwater Egress Training Device. She was commonly known as the “Helo-Dunker”. I knew her as my second chance at drowning.

I don’t recall if we had ever been in the building before that day. If so, my fear blotted her out. When I entered the facility, the normally heavy and wet West Florida air suddenly became freezing cold. My pulse and respiration rate increased. I have always been rather pale in skin color. But I’m sure if at that moment I had walked into a morgue, I would have been mistaken for just another cadaver.

To me, the ‘Dunker looked like an engorged 55-gallon drum with 6 seats. They were running empty-tests as we filed onto one set of bleachers awaiting the egress briefing. The impact with the water…the rolling upside down…I noticed my instructor walk around the pool and sit down on another set of bleachers at the entrance to the device…the sinking of the 55-gallon drum with 6 seats.

The device instructor began to speak: “You will be blindfolded for all the rides!” The class wasn’t happy about the blindfold. Personally, I didn’t give a damn since I weld my eyes shut anytime I’m in the water. I was far more interested in why the asshole called this a ride as if we were at an amusement park. A fucking ride…

the 9D5 Helicopter Underwater Egress Training Device.

I then stopped listening after he said we would have to ride the device three times (or was it four?)

The first 6 members of my class made their way to the drum. I would go with the next six. I watched. They surfaced. I watched. They surfaced. I’m going to drown today. I watched. They surfaced. Divers in full gear were in the pool. The device instructor yelled: “Next six!”

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I walked behind one-or-two of my classmates. A ll I could see was my instructor sitting there writing and not paying attention to the fact that one of his candidates was going to drown in a few minutes!

My mind was pulsating: d.o.r....d.O.R!…D.O.R!! I turned the corner. I could move to my left, climb the bleachers, and declare: “Drop(out) on request!” to my seemingly disinterested instructor, bringing an end to the hope of becoming a Naval Aircrewman.

Or…

I can’t tell you much more. The only thing I clearly remember during one of my drowning when I was strapped into one of the four seats in the back was the voice of the device instructor: “Keep hold of a reference point then find another as you move, purposefully, toward the picture of the hatch in your mind where you know it is supposed to be. Reference point to reference point.”

I also remember getting kicked in the face by another classmate making their way to the picture in their mind. I held on to the reference point which I’m sure had a full imprint of my handwoven into the canvas seat.

The initial impact of the Helo Dunker just before it rolls upside down as top-heavy helos do.

Back on the bleachers, I was grateful that the air was once again hot and humid and that the pool water dripping from my Cherry Red Helmet down across my face made the tears hard to distinguish should anyone have looked.

I happily admit that several of the water qualification evolutions were great fun. The parachute drag, the poolside winching up into a simulated helicopter, intense rotor downwash included, and the zip-line

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ride into the water after a simulated ejection followed by the truly hilarious struggle to board a one-man life raft in full flight gear and if you forgot to properly detach it from the seat-pan in the ejection seat.

Then it was out to the bay and real water where we fired off our Mk 31 pencil and Mk 13 signal flares. We also practiced boarding larger life rafts carried by patrol aircraft or those dropped by USCG C-130s for survivor rescues.

The most exciting moment came at the end of the day when we rode a whaleboat further out into the bay and the helo squadron assigned to SAR duties at NAS Pensacola came out to pick us up. What a blast it was to be winched up to a real, live, hovering Sea King helicopter!

I had hoped it would turn out to be my first helo ride. Some classes did get to fly back to the airfield in her. However, we apparently had a too large a class. After the rescue swimmer let me hang outside the door for a moment, he <slapped> my helmet with a smile and back down I went. And just like that, it was over.

From The Sea To The Swamp

The final phase of training was Land Survival at Eglin, AFB which was just a short bus ride east of Pensacola. Here we were joined by graduating Officer Candidate School (OCS) pilot and Naval Flight Officer (NFO) candidates. And once again, I was faced with the limitations of my childhood having only had a brief overnight stay in the Adirondack mountains when I was growing up.

My outdoor skills were comparable to my ability to swim. Worse still, I was so damn tired during the initial land survival classroom phase that my stuporous state prevented me from absorbing the vital lectures explaining survival equipment and techniques.

So, at one point during the adventure, I was handed the compass and instructed to take over land navigation for my entire class of officers and enlisted. Here was my chance to guide my fellow “downed” aviators to rescue and safety! Yeah…no.

I held the compass in my hand following the needle as it pointed in the direction we were to go. That’s right. Instead of doing it the right way and picking landmarks along the bearing line and navigating around obstacles in the path, I happily followed the wavering needle. Needless to say after half an ignorant mile, a very angry instructor snatched the compass out of my hand just as I was leading my class to certain death in one of Eglin’s notorious, shadowy, alligator-occupied swamps.

Amid echoes of bitter laughter and a few choice words rising through the autumn forest around me, I was certain I could see flashes of white teeth briefly glistening against well-camouflaged faces in said dark swamp. We had been told we would be sharing the woods with a class of U.S. Army officers and men slogging their way toward earning the coveted Army Ranger Tab.

Yeah…no.

It was more-than-likely a simple hallucination brought on by a mix of leftover catatonia from the classroom and a need for even more humiliation. Oh well, the class and I survived. And most importantly, a dragon had been slayed.

Pensacola was without a doubt the most life-enhancing encounter I would experience during my time in the Navy. I could actually do this shit!

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Kevin Noonan's Aircrew class. He's standing in the second row on the left side of one of the first female Aircrew Candidates. The guys in red t-shirts are Marine Corps Aircrew. Kevin's "Helo Dunker DOR"

instructor is on my row under USN Flag.

One final Pensacola note. Toward the end of my time there, I was informed by a disinterested and ill-informed “career counselor” that there was a good chance I would be selected to continue on to Rescue Swimmer School due to the needs of the USN and USNR as there was a critical shortage of helo AWs. Yeah…NO!

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Had I had my cherry red helmet in hand, I would have placed it gently on his desk and using today’s texting parlance would have written in a bold hand “ROFL!” on his forehead.

The next step in my adventure led me to Aviation Anti-Submarine Warfare “A” School in Millington, Tennessee. Whereas Pensacola was a trial of the body, AW “A” School would be a trial of the mind.

Alien Language

Millington was a well-worn town with a well-worn Naval base. The barracks and school buildings spoke of decades of sailors passing through on their way to the variety of aviation ratings. The only difference between the unassuming building I would be mustering at and most others was the need to have a security clearance to get in. Here we would be introduced to the full intellectual weight of what it meant to be an AW.

We were instructed in very basic courses on Radar, Magnetic Anomaly Detector (MAD), Electronic Support Measures (ESM), and Anti-Submarine Warfare (ASW) weapons by instructors who had served in P-2s, P-3s, S-2s, S-3s, ASW Modules (ASMODs) aboard carriers, and the larger land-based ASW Operations Center (ASWOC). They would attempt to introduce us to the craft of hunting the elusive submarine.

After these initial classes, we then delved into the ‘meat & potates’ subjects learning how submarine machinery worked and how the propulsion and equipment transmitted sounds into the ocean. Next came oceanography (or “Ocean O” as we called it).

It was a difficult class. But I could finally see just how the ocean worked to increase or decrease our chance of finding a submarine. I was very grateful that we weren’t confronted with too much of the math usually associated with oceanography. To me, fractions and equations were almost as terrifying as the Helo Dunker.

A startling aspect of this phase of training and one causing a bit of cognitive dissonance came when I heard the voice of Casey Kasem on a series of classified videos describing everything from the function of a diesel submarine’s ballast tanks to the path a particular machinery sound source took during a certain time of day to cross the ocean. I was used to hearing him every Saturday morning on American Top 40 telling stories of how Stevie Nicks met Mick Fleetwood or the critical role Linda Ronstadt had in the success of Don Henley and the Eagles. It actually made this portion of the training that much more enjoyable.

During the next phase, we would become acquainted with something called LOFAR gram analysis and interpretation. I can only describe it as learning an entirely new language that had no relationship or comparison to any articulation made by human beings. It was purely alien.

My mind was reeling. I came away from each day’s class with a headache and a thousand-mile stare. I could not grasp how lines and shading and white space on a texturally strange piece of paper could be a rainstorm, a merchant ship, a pod of whales, or a submarine.

It is well understood by those who do ASW that hunting submarines tends to be more art than science. This is true (to an even greater extent) when learning how to use the tools of the trade. I was being told that what I was seeing was very logical and scientific and it was. Yet my mind could not create a bridge to cross the chasm between what my instructors were telling me and what my eyes were

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actually seeing. In order to really see it, to really comprehend and bridge the chasm, my right brain would have to play a greater role than my left.

LOFAR (or “LOw-Frequency Analysis and Recording”) came to undersea warfare as a result of desperation and industrial curiosity. In the late 1940s and early 1950s, a series of ASW conferences exposed just how weak and ill-prepared Allied navies were to handle what the snorkel, the creation of the Type XXI U-boat, and post-war Soviet design brought to the submarine.

Far worse, the fast-approaching adaptation of nuclear propulsion to the hull of an undersea craft would render post-war “hunter-killer” ASW methods and sensors obsolete since the submarine could simply vanish. Some of these conferences were held at Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) and were attended by members of industry such as Bell Labs.

At Bell Labs, it just so happened that engineers and scientists were trying to figure out a way to enhance the human voice to ensure that long-distance and trans-Atlantic phone calls would be clear and comprehensible. These brilliant souls discovered that a low-frequency analyzer would place discrete lines of information on heat-sensitive carbon-based paper providing “a graphic sketch of the acoustic signals in black, white, and grey, offering an image of aural reality…” wrote Gary Weir, a historian at the U.S. Naval Historical Center in an exceptional paper on the history of Sound Surveillance System (SOSUS).

the LOFAR gram: Black lines, gray shading, and white space representing sound created on burnt carbon-based paper.

On May 2, 1951, the U.S. Navy was handed a gift. A new complex method to prevent the nuclear submarine from vanishing. If a voice could create visible images on paper, a noisy submarine could do so as well. As Weir describes: “If any part of the boat moved, pumped, or circulated, the resulting sound radiated into the ocean and formed part of the trail that enabled the system to find the submarine and track it.”

But it would take time (years in fact) for the SOSUS operators, sonar techs, and airborne sensor operators to really appreciate what Bell Labs had given them. The LOFAR gram offered so much more than simple lines on paper. Weir continues:

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“Embedded within the many varied graphic images, operators found themselves able to discern subtle nuances in sound signals via intensity, color, shape, and shade that often made the difference between seeing a school of fish or a submarine… Operators looked beyond the data, the physics, and the engineering to the ways the LOFAR trace betrayed the personality and attitude of the detected signal that very often revealed its nature… Some signals appeared in such a regular and familiar way that after initial detection, future identification did not present a problem. These visual patterns became the much-vaunted “signatures” which betrayed particular targets or classes of targets.”

While I hadn’t taken piano or violin lessons as a kid, I did have a deep affection for and intangible connection to art in general and music, in particular. And while my instructors were really good teachers, I had to take what they were telling me and essentially let the right brain silence the left and see the nuances brought on by the shading and colors and then trust that what I was being told about sources was true.

Dr. Weir expresses what operators through the years came to understand: “The nature of the task and the acoustic imaging techniques employed by LOFAR made a well-trained and intellectually-able operator with an artistic eye a necessity.”

As my time at “A” School was nearing an end, I slowly and unwittingly began to cross that chasm. I gradually began to understand the nature of sound, of harmonics, and comprehend how the black lines, gray shading, and white space sound created on burnt carbon-based paper could be a rainstorm, a merchant ship, a pod of whales ... or a submarine.

Studying Orion

Once I finished AW “A” School, I was off to a town in Pennsylvania I’d never heard of and a Naval Air Station I never knew existed. Horsham is a small township just north of Philadelphia and was home to NAS Willow Grove (now a Joint Reserve Base) which trained aviation components of the NAVRES (particularly the future crew members of P-3 Orion aircraft) and was the home field for VP-64 Condors, a P-3B Reserve squadron (“VP” being the USN’s designation for fixed-wing patrol).

Here, instead of slides, movies, and naval teaching manuals showing pictures of radar scopes and LOFAR grams, I would finally get to put my hands on the actual primary hardware an Orion Sensor Operator used to hunt submarines: the AN/APS-80 radar, the AN/AQA-7 LOFAR “gram machine,” and the AN/AAS-36 Infrared Detection System (IRDS).

Learning about and then operating the radar and acoustic processor in a training simulator that provided “actual” contacts was a highly motivating experience. I began to realize that all the reading, the dreaming, and the imagining I had done from childhood was slowly transitioning into a reality. I couldn’t wait to start getting flight time in an actual aircraft hunting actual submarines.

Well actually, I would have a relatively long wait for my first flight in a submarine hunter. It would be a very long 2-year wait for my first hunt of an actual submarine. This despite a flight line full of P-3Bs just a stone’s throw away. Hell, not only would I not get any flight time, I wouldn’t also even get to climb inside one of VP-64’s aircraft. It just wasn’t part of this training syllabus.

After training in Pennsylvania, I joined my regional NAVRES squadron -- the “Crawfishers” of VP-94 stationed at NAS New Orleans -- for the required orientation and training in the aircraft. Once I finished all of my active duty training, I would return to my childhood home in Texas. I could have

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simply chosen NAS Dallas (the closest NAVRES base to my home) but I didn’t want to allow my AW skills to go to waste. And I sure as hell didn’t want to spend my reserve weekends cleaning endless buildings, listening to endless lectures, or standing endless (and irrelevant) watches.

Crawfisher P-3B

What was really cool about joining VP-94 was that their P-3s would fly across several of lower southern states on the Friday of the requisite one-weekend-a-month and pick up reservists who were members of their squadron. Granted, I would still have to clean squadron spaces, listen to lectures, and stand a watch-or-two. But they’d all be relevant to my newly minted, part-time AW life. Far more important to me, I would gain flight, mission, and classroom hours toward earning my wings.

Wheels Up!

Finally… FINALLY! I was about to take to the skies on my first fixed-wing naval aircraft: the Orion, the legendary hunter of submarines. I would be under the tutelage of a great division AWC for this first hop (I wish I could remember his name and had taken a camera with me).

After an instructional preflight, I donned my helmet, SV-2, rolled down my flight suit sleeves, and put my flight gloves on. I strapped myself into the Sensor 2 station seat and rotated to face the tail of the airplane all in accordance with P-3A & B NATOPS safety procedures. I was ready and eagerly absorbed all the sounds, smells, and intercom chatter as we started two and then the remaining two engines and taxied to the active runway.

We lifted off from NAS New Orleans, climbed, and turned on a northward heading to Illinois and then to NAS Jacksonville on some sort of logistics flight. Both legs of the mission would keep us over land so we wouldn’t get a chance to drop buoys and operate the AQA-7. However, my chief made sure I would get to sit at the jealously-coveted Sensor 3 station and work the APS-80 radar and the IRDS (Infra-Red Detection System, basically a FLIR system).

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Meanwhile, my first task was to complete a critical duty performed on every P-3 Orion that has ever slipped the surly bonds of Earth: inspect each avionics “closet” that lined the forward right section of the crew tunnel enclosing most of the mission black boxes for smoke, sparks, or fire.

With the pilot’s permission, I replaced my helmet with a set of headphones equipped with a boom mic and a long ICS (InterCom System) chord that would allow me to talk to the crew while moving about the tunnel. I wasn’t even aware that I was climbing the few steps forward to the first closet.

With my AWC hovering above my left shoulder, I began the inspection placing the back of my flight-gloved hand against the door and felt for heat. I then opened it cautiously and sniffed the air now filled with electrons and sounds emanating from boxes whose names and functions I had started to learn at NAS Willow Grove and would have to know intimately if I was going to earn my wings.

With no evidence of sparks or fire, I closed the first closet and moved slightly aft to inspect the next one. For the first time, I noticed the steep incline of the flight deck as the Orion climbed to cruising altitude. I had to catch myself, ensuring I wouldn’t tumble down toward the aft end of the aircraft. AWC said nothing. But his ear-to-ear smile confirmed what every newbie aircrew member had to understand about flying inside a P-3. She loved to “dance the skies on laughter-silvered wings.”

I inspected each additional closet for signs of sparks or fire. Once I had completed checking every rack, I reported “all secure” to the pilot and settled in for the flight northward.

The ride north was uneventful. But I had an absolute blast running the radar and was captivated seeing FLIR imagery for the first time in my life! It was intriguing to see actual radar returns from the land, large structures, and weather. We landed at a civilian airport somewhere in Illinois ... completed some logistical task ... and having refueled, started the engines up for the flight to NAS Jacksonville.

P-3B Sensor 3 station with APS-80 scope.

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On this launch, I was invited up into the cockpit to sit behind the pilot on the radar cabinet. Oh…my…God! For the first time in my life, I would get to be in the midst of military pilots <flipping> switches, manipulating levers, and bantering their way through start-up and takeoff checklists. All the dreams and imaginings sparked by books, movies, and airshows had finally come together in this moment.

We taxied to the active runway. I eagerly listened as the tower gave us clearance for takeoff, climb-out instructions, and the frequency switch to departure. With a nod from the pilot, the Flight Engineer pushed the throttles forward and the four Allison T56 instantly responded pulling the air across the Orion’s stubby wings. The pilot released the brakes and we began a roll that quickly translated into speed. And then, just like that, we were airborne.

Music. Where was the music?! There wasn’t any music!

I had been a child of classic military aviation movies that played on one of the 3 major television networks once a year. When a B-36 or a B-17 or a formation of F-86s lifted into the air, they were always accompanied by an orchestra striking up a dramatic melody. Yet here I was in the cockpit of the mighty P-3 Orion climbing away from the earth and there wasn’t a single octave of music. Not even an eighth or a sixteenth of a note! Just the sound of the wheels coming up into their wells, the high tonal hum of four responsive turboprop engines, and the co-pilot calling back to the tube asking the Chief to bring up 3 cups of coffee.

Once back at NAS New Orleans, reality set in. Things moved at an excruciatingly slow pace compared to the active Navy and that was the way the Reserves liked it. It was clear that we weren’t going to be flying any missions out into the Gulf of Mexico while I was there doing my orientation. Any hope I had for time-on-top of a submarine essentially vanished when I learned that the more senior operators and the TARs (Training and Administrative Reserves, the guys and gals who ran VP-94 Tuesday through Sunday) would get the choice billets when the squadron deployed for the long 2-week summer of “active duty” to exciting places like Iceland or Spain.

P-3B Orion aircraft of Patrol Squadron 6 (VP-6) "The World Famous Blue Sharks" in-flight near Oahu, Hawaii.

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I began to wonder if this had been the right decision. I took a walk one night down to the airfield. The sun had just set and the early spring air was unusually cool for the normally sweltering Louisiana delta. There was no wind and only the blue lights marking the taxiways and the flashing signal from the base water tower lit the dusk. No engines turning, no fuel trucks moving, no maintenance personnel yelling for another wrench. I had never been on an airfield at a time like this where the silence permeated everything in a way that was almost sacred. (No, it actually was sacred.)

Amid this loud silence, I meditated over where I had been and where I wanted to go. My soon return to civilian life promised a 9-to-5 job power-sanding wood furniture in a small strip mall store. I was only 19 and here I was dreading the fact that my only salvation from the normalcy of civilian life was a rather benign one-weekend-a-month in New Orleans hoping and praying I’d get a few hours of flight time.

I simply couldn’t shake the dreamer in me and the possibilities of being in the thick of things that active-duty life promised. While the offerings of fleet VP squadrons had definite advantages, my brother’s tales of flying off a carrier in the S-3 haunted my contemplation.

I spoke with the Chief the next day. He absolutely understood and had me call the AW Detailer at the Pentagon that afternoon. I asked if they needed any S-3 SENSOs in the fleet. They did. My Chief said: “Let’s get the paperwork started!” He was such a great leader.

It would take time. I made 2-or-3 more visits to VP-94 over the next few months between sanding chairs and bookshelves. The anticipation built. And then the day came with the arrival of my orders to active-duty:

Report to Fleet Replacement Squadron, AirAntisubron 41

VIA Recruit Training Center, Orlando, Florida

VIA FASOTRAGRUPAC, NAS North Island, San Diego

I was on my way.

Calm Before The Storm

That first “VIA” on my orders caught me a little off guard. I didn’t realize that I would have to go back to a Recruit Training Command (RTC) having just completed 8 weeks of bootcamp the previous year. But the Navy in all its wisdom demands that all Reservists going back to active-duty be reminded how to properly salute and wear their Dixie cup in a sharp Navy fashion. It was actually a fun couple of weeks. They made sure I had all my shots and my seabag was filled with all the regulation uniforms and my underwear was stenciled properly.

And then I was off to lovely southern California where I checked in with Fleet Aviation Specialized Operational Training Group Pacific. Since North Island had evolved into a Naval Air Station that primarily housed sea-based ASW aircraft such as the S-3 Viking, the Kaman SH-2 Seasprite, and the brand-new Sikorsky SH-60B Seahawk, FASOTRAGRUPAC’s had a primary mission that focused on the aircrew and missions those aircraft flew.

This meant ASW, baby!

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Here nestled among enlisted barracks, senior officer housing, and buildings and hangars lining the eastern side of the airfield, FASO trained newly minted officer and enlisted aircrew in the basics of anti-submarine warfare including tactics, operations, and for the fixed-wing and helo AW, a deeper dive into tactical oceanography and far more detailed acoustic training covering all classes of Allied and Soviet submarines.

Of course, I loved anything submarine. Learning the finer points of the tactical ASW ocean environment and the noises produced by submarines opened the door to a fuller understanding of just how important my job as a SENSO in the Viking would be (well, at least in theory…I would have to face the stark reality of the weight of responsibility in real-time during my first Med cruise the following year).

What was even more invaluable were the “war stories” my instructors told about their recent past on the front lines of ASW. Again, we had AWs who had flown in every helo and fixed-wing aircraft type and their tales of actual time-on-top of Soviet submarines brought everything together.

As you move through life, certain days of historical significance mark the time. One such day during my FASO training did just that. It was an unusually cold winter morning and we had just started a class on the particulars of Soviet submarine diesel engines.

Around 0845, another instructor, sullen-faced, interrupted the lecture and told us to join him in the instructor’s office. We filed in among those already crowding a small television screen. It was January 28, 1986. On the screen in a seemingly constant replay, I could just make out a billowing cloud of upward climbing smoke and what appeared to be an explosion. The Space Shuttle Challenger had moments before disintegrated during her launch from Cape Canaveral.

Of course, I didn’t know it then. But a few years later, I would be doing range clearance for another Shuttle launch in my Fleet squadron S-3 at the northern limit of the warning area that covered the adjacent Atlantic Ocean.

Captured Behind Friendly Lines

As my time at FASOTRAGRUPAC was coming to its end and before I could find my way into that coveted Viking SENSO seat I had been longing to climb into, I would have to go to one final school. FASO was also responsible for sending all of its aircrew students to an immensely important training evolution that attempted to prepare them in the event they were shot down over enemy territory. For me, it would be yet another of life’s dragons.

After 24 hours in a desert survival environment, that culminated under a sky of stars so immense that it made the surrounding terrain seem like perpetual twilight, we headed to a wintry mountainous area northeast of San Diego known as Warner Springs. There, FASO conducted Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape (SERE) school.

Along with my class of AWs, we were joined by the officers from FASO and other individuals who required the training. Among those individuals were 3-or-4 gentlemen who had completed their SEAL training and were getting their SERE check-in-the-box.

They were led by a young officer who had an engaging personality and had us and the instructors laughing. At one point, we learned that larger groups of SEALs had historically been sent through SERE together at one time. However, this practice was ended when a routine began to take shape in the

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form of the team taking over the prison camp and, in some cases, inviting the instructors to experience the same maltreatment levied against the students.

If memory serves, there was an interesting debate whether this young SEAL officer was senior to one of the aviators, requiring one of them to take the role of Senior Ranking Officer (SRO). I think the SEAL was senior but declined SRO because he wanted to remain independent of the group to escape and far more interesting things of that nature.

I also remember another debate about footwear. The SEALs had shown up in boots they preferred to wear in combat. They were concerned that the camp guards would recognize them for who they were based on the boots. As a group, we had agreed upon a common story that we were passengers in C-141 that had been shot down. Now that I think about it, there weren’t any USAF folks among us so that story probably didn’t sell well at the Warner Springs Department of Interrogation and Torture. The classroom instructor assured the LT he had nothing to worry about.

For me, the first days of Survival and Evasion started out okay. But that took an abrupt turn when the time of evasion was coming to an end. The speeding trucks, the firing off of AK-47 rounds, the yelling and the loudspeakers all set the stage for a very realistic and troubling experience. Both me and the officer I had teamed up with had grown weary from lack of food and our diminishing water supply after 2 full days of this part of the camping trip. In our now filthy dilapidated flight suits, we stumbled across a road that we thought was clear.

Yeah…no.

An enemy Security Force truck was sitting there in plain sight. Neither one of us saw it. Weary arms and hands went up above our heads. We were bound and forced into the bed of the pickup. It was only a week-long training evolution. But the days of resistance and escape would last for what felt like a month.

Surprisingly, I did fairly well with the waterboarding. It was the repeated slamming of my body up against the wall with an enemy guard screaming an amazing level of anger, spittle and epithets in my face that was most difficult for me.

Being held in what I think was something like an enclosed concrete cinder block was also unnerving. I wasn’t claustrophobic. But the inside was too small to sit up straight. It was also definitely too small to lie down in.

They played a constant stream of white noise, preached sunny sermons from The Very Best of Marx and Lenin, or made generous Public Service Announcements of our soon and pending death. As night fell, the concrete walls radiated the freezing California air quite efficiently.

Then they came for me.

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a scene from modern-day SERE school

By this time, I had passed into what Rod Serling liked to call the Twilight Zone. I wasn’t exactly100 percent sure at times that I hadn’t been shot down and I was actually in a POW camp somewhere.

I was pushed into a room with a nice gentleman sitting at a desk who offered me a hot drink and some food. He had an “International Red Cross” armband on and told me if I would just sign this confession, I and my fellow POWs would be treated much better. For the first time, I looked into his eyes ... and then I fell back into my chair, snapping back into reality. I recognized who this was sitting across the desk from me. I had seen his face in one of the films we had watched as part of the classroom training for this evolution.

I had the honor of being soft-cell interrogated by a genuine hero of the Vietnam War: Doug Hegdahl. Tragically while serving aboard the USS Canberra (CA-70) during a naval fire-support mission in the Gulf of Tonkin, Doug had been blown overboard by a shockwave from one of the cruiser’s 5-inch gun mounts. He was picked up by Cambodian fishermen but was later captured by the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) and interned at the "Hanoi Hilton".

His story is truly remarkable. Because he wasn’t considered much of an intelligence source or a threat to the NVA, he was allowed free reign around the camp. During this time, he began to memorize over 200 names and stories of his fellow POWs. When the NVA offered an early release, Doug was ordered by the SRO to take it so that he could divulge the names and the horrific conditions faced by the men there in Hanoi.

I don’t remember much of that night after my session with Doug. I do remember quite vividly the events of the following morning, however. Inside my concrete cocoon, I was awoken by screams,

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pounding of feet, and gunfire that shattered the otherwise freezing morning air. Yep! The damn SEALs had escaped.

A few hours later, they were required to surrender. Yeah, I seem to recall clear loudspeaker instructions reminding them that they had to come back to the camp and finish the course. (There was a definite Please, Guys…come on…you have to plea in the announcer’s voice!). Gotta love the damn SEALs!

More time passed and I had no idea what day it was. But another afternoon or another morning came and went. Our captors called us to quarters for another round of verbal abuse when more gunfire broke out. We all scattered for cover. Then…our instructors mysteriously disappeared ...

Overhead, it sounded like a helicopter of some sort passed with guns blazing. Someone came running into camp with an American flag streaming from his hands. He went to the flag pole that had a Soviet flag flying and pulled it down. He attached the Stars-and-Stripes to it and raised it high above our heads as we gathered back around. It was then over the loudspeaker that the Star Spangled Banner began to play. And a dozen-or-so grown men began to sob.

Obviously, the nature of the training was unsurpassed in importance. The experience and lessons learned would stay with me throughout my time in the Navy. Also, I learned more about myself during that week and in the days of self-reflection that followed. I wasn’t pleased with my performance because I encountered far too many weaknesses. But it was done. Another dragon was sorta-kinda slayed.

The bus ride back to North Island was quite remarkable. We left the Naval Air Station a week prior in a Navy bus (a school bus painted haze gray) and we returned in a chartered luxury bus (of Greyhound quality). Hey, sometimes the ol’ Navy took care of its own!

Finally, it was time to enter into the world of the S-3 Viking. But before I describe the training required to become a “Tailhook SENSO” (as we called ourselves), allow me to compare and contrast the P-3 with the S-3.

Related But Not The Same: The Unique Worlds Of The P-3 Orion And S-3 Viking

Aside from the obvious cosmetic differences of such things as the number of engines and motive power used by the two aircraft or the fixed presence of the Orion’s “stinger” MAD (Magnetic Anomaly Detector) boom as opposed to the retractable one carried by the Viking, we flew our common missions differently because we each came from decidedly different communities and mission philosophies. These remarkable distinctions can be attributed to another cosmetic disparity. Only one of the two aircraft had a tailhook.

Let me explain. The historical experiences of the VP Navy contributed to the evolution of a very well-developed, disciplined, and highly motivated community philosophy unique within USN. In many ways looking like the USAF’s Strategic Air Command, they became an air force within NAVAIR. The nature of their consistent mission (fully established in combat during WWII and sustained during the years of the Cold War) allowed them to maintain separation from the burgeoning and then dominate carrier-based naval aviation.

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an S-3 Viking and a JMSDF P-3 Orion fly in formation.

Moving from their flying boat origins and eventual obsolescence, their dry feet demanded the establishment of unique operations, bases, and logistics exclusive from the Navy that they were a part of. They were also savvy enough to read the fiscal and political writing on the wall and made their own inroads throughout Washington D.C.

As a result of this distinction and the type of aircraft flown, they developed their own philosophy on how to approach ASW which tended to be a more strategic form than the tactical form flown from the aircraft carrier.

Strategic ASW came into focus with the rising Soviet ballistic missile submarine threat. The VP community had legs. They were based in permanent areas such as Iceland and Scotland which allowed easy access to the Barents Sea and the GIUK gap that were the natural choke points Soviet submarines had to pass through to arrive at their patrol areas in the Atlantic. The maritime patrol aircraft (MPAs) expended relatively little fuel getting there and they could carry larger sonobuoy loads and seed the needed large search patterns to regain contact or localize and track what SOSUS had already detected.

In contrast, the VS community was part of a larger whole: the carrier Air Wing. The commander of the Air Wing was usually a fighter or attack guy by birth. Initially a senior commander but was eventually changed to a captain to respectfully stand toe-to-toe with the carrier’s skipper when needed.

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S-3 with MAD and refuelng probe extended.

The COs of S-2 and S-3 squadrons were mere commanders. The admiral and staff in charge of the CVBG were fighter/attack-oriented. So what the Air Wing/carrier needed or wanted to fulfill its strike missions was everyone’s priority. Despite its critical contribution to the survival of the carrier amid the growing Soviet anti-carrier submarine threat, ASW was only a supporting role in the non-ASW mind’s eye.

Even during the heady days of the anti-submarine carrier groups of the ‘50s and ‘60s, the CVS (anti-submarine carrier) was essentially subordinate to and protective of the attack carrier battlegroups.

Besides, the job of the ASW aircraft aboard the carriers and escorts was to find and attack any and all submarines with the hope of killing them while the carrier made good her escape. By the nature of this form of ASW and our place within the Air Wing, the VS philosophy was considerably different from that of VP.

The VP communities’ political strength was legendary despite not having a Curtiss LeMay at the helm like Strategic Air Command. When the P-2s and P-3s needed something, they usually got it. When questions of getting the necessary updates to airframes to meet the Soviet naval threat or the need arose to arm the Orion with the Harpoon and even the Sidewinder, they played political ball.

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US Navy P-3 equipped with AGM-84 Harpoons, AIM-9 Sidewinders, and iron bombs (all training rounds).

An even stronger argument for their ingenious skill can be seen at the end of the Cold War when the Viking first lost her ASW equipment and SENSO in 2000 and then lost her place in the fleet entirely 9 years later.

The P-3 flew on with all of her ASW gear and became an invaluable asset for the Global War on Terrorism by doing ISR over land! More importantly, she was ready for the return of Cold War 2.0 which we have since waded into.

I’ve said this before. The P-3 Sensor Operators (and their foreign MPA counterparts) have always been masters of airborne ASW. When the S-3 community received one into their ranks, they immediately became the very best of the SENSOs.

But a major contrast between the two communities’ sensor operators can be seen in the attributes of the Viking SENSO. Unlike our P-3 brethren or Sonar Techs aboard submarines or surface ships, we didn’t have an additional AW or senior AW to share the load and call upon once the wheels were in the well. We also didn’t have the space the P-3 Orion did. So no chance to carry reference publications and things to make the job easier (other than what you can stuff in your helmet bag) in an aircraft carrier environment. Any FOD in the cockpit can kill during a launch or landing.

We had to store our information, knowledge, and confidence inside our skin each time we went flying. We were very much alone in making calls such as classifying targets and maintaining responsibility for those calls.

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It was a great place for a loner like me. It was also a terrifying place for a loner like me.

Enter The Viking Hall

After completing FASO, I walked a few blocks toward the end of Runway 29 at NAS North Island and stood at the security window of a non-descript, otherwise windowless building. Behind the glass, a future S-3 AW who was standing watch asked me for my name while eyeing the security badge hanging from the left breast pocket of my USN working blues.

He smiled. I heard a <buzz> from the unassuming security entrance door. I smiled too.

I had arrived at the VS-41 Trainer Building (TB) which at the time was the only place in the world where Lockheed S-3A pilots, TACCOs/COTACs, and SENSOs were built. Inside this seemingly cavernous building, I would learn the very core of what it meant to be a sensor operator in the Viking.

Down its passageways were a multitude of classrooms, instructor offices, and several full-size and fully operational Weapon Systems Trainers (WST) that were replicas of the TACCO and SENSO stations in the S-3. The pilots and COTACs would train in 2 fully operational and flight motion capable front cockpit flight simulators made by Link.

In the classroom, we covered every box that resided at the SENSO station; every “black box” occupying the avionics tunnel related to our station; and every multi-function button that lined the revolutionary INtegrated COntrol System (INCOS) tray which allowed the SENSO to operate all of the sensors contained within the Viking.

I loved learning and then thinking through the process of converting a system function to a tactical problem. I felt completely at home in the learning environment at VS-41.

As we were taught the different systems, we then went into one of the WSTs with the instructor sitting in the TACCO seat or outside at the instructor console guiding us through the operation of each function.

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SENSO station MPD (lower screen) and Auxiliary Readout Unit (upper screen).

As time progressed and we became proficient with system operation, we spent less time in the classroom and more time in the WST with student NFOs who were at a point in their training where we could begin to work as a team.

This training philosophy was priceless. It was the first time I worked so closely with an officer. It allowed me as an enlisted man to understand the relationship we would have to have in the actual cockpit of the Viking. It also forced me to think outside the narrow focus of the functionality of my job in the aircraft by keeping the TACCO informed of what knowledge I was gathering from my sensors so he could develop and manipulate the tactical “Big Picture.”

The WSTs were genuinely amazing creations. From rooms filled with computers came realistic ocean environments, sensor signals, and signatures. Functions and mission profiles that real-world warships and aircraft were expected to present. We trained to identify, classify, and determine the location and intention of these signals. Our instructors could “break in” to the mostly pre-programmed scenarios and make the training more-or-less difficult based on how well or poorly we were doing.

As we progressed through the training, additional threats were added in the form of a second submarine or surface warships. Although the computer technology of the day did an incredible job of trying to create real-world conditions for us, nothing but the Real-World would suffice. The most important benefit of this training was the establishment of a great foundation of system knowledge and procedural performance and the absolute necessity of cockpit communication and coordination among the crew. But it wasn’t all about the job.

Free time was very generous at the RAG (or Replacement Air Group, an older name for NAVAIR’s training commands). Arrival at VS-41 was our introduction into the Brown Shoe Navy. After all, our instructors had cut their teeth in the fleet. The atmosphere was very professional but also laid back. The focus was on preparing us for the fleet but not losing sight of the fact that we were also human.

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My free time was occupied by standing watches, studying, or just getting off the base. Watches consisted of weekend security watch at the entrance to the TB or overnight flight line watch ensuring that no Soviet commando had a chance to place a bomb in the wheel well of VS-41’s collection of S-3s.

VS-41 flightline at NAS North Island in the 1980s

Studying was a never-ending process. Most of our courses were Classified so I ended up spending most of that free time back in the TB. But I did take time to walk around the base or sit at the end of the runway and watch the fleet squadron S-3s takeoff and land (something I loved to do back on Carswell AFB as a kid).

I wasn’t a partier. But I did take the occasional opportunity to get off base and explore the Strand or the Hotel Del Coronado with my classmates. Of course, the movie Top Gun hit the theaters on May 12, 1986 and my fellow AWs and I made our requisite pilgrimage to the theater in downtown San Diego. In fact, we would spend most of the summer of ‘86 going to see it (I stopped counting after the 7th viewing).

I didn’t care much for the storyline (I will always prefer The Final Countdown) or the pathetic use of F-5s for MiGs. But what I had to see over-and-over was the opening flight deck scene and all the Tomcat air-to-air scenes (yes, I’m one of those people that can listen to the same song a thousand times).

Whatever the specific reasons for the multiple viewings, we soon-to-be Viking AWs knew we would be flying off similar flight decks with the movie’s featured fighter and that was motivation enough for our significant contribution to Top Gun’s more than $358 million box-office windfall. (You’re welcome, Mr. Cruise.)

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The summer progressed and graduation was just around the corner. We continued to work hard in the classroom and the WS. But it was time for us to finally take everything we had learned into the air.

First Viking Voyage

Other classmates made their first flight already and came back to report their experiences. Most said they were too busy “doing it right” to really enjoy the first-time experience. One-or-two of them got airsick.

My day finally came and I was very excited. I don’t remember much of the flight because of how much time I also spent trying to do it right, too. However, I wasn’t too busy not to get airsick. Thankfully, the instructors made sure we carried an airsick bag. I needed two.

I was mortified because we didn’t do any maneuvering that was extraordinary. I had assumed my handful of air-sick-free hours in the P-3 would ensure this wouldn’t happen to me. But I survived and was very pleased with my choice to go active duty and fly in the Viking.

Finally, my time at VS-41 neared its end. All of the classroom and trainer time didn’t culminate in the air. Instead, it ended in a final practical exam that would take place in the WST that was linked up to the “flying” simulator down the passageway where a student pilot and COTAC would join me and a TACCO.

The exam was a full combat mission that included cockpit and systems preflight, launching procedures from the carrier, and then flying out to the threat area to hunt for the one-or-two Soviet submarines looking to sink our carrier while working hard to avoid the reach of the surface-to-air missiles that would come from the Soviet Surface Action Group (SAG) intent on shooting us down. It was a complex, intense, and fantastic experience.

We all had our individual problems. But we found and sank the submarine. And with that I had passed my final hurtle and would now wait for my classmates to finish their final WST evolutions before we would all gather for graduation.

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VS-41 S-3 off the San Diego coast near the picturesque Del Coronado Hotel.

Along with the obvious reward of completing a comprehensive, challenging, and satisfying naval aircraft training course, 2 other elements made our graduation such an incredible experience.

On Aug. 8, 1986, my fellow Viking SENSOs and I had our Naval Aircrewman wings of gold pinned to our chests. Although we only had a few hours in the S-3, NAVAIR decided the Viking AW would get his wings upon the successful completion of the RAG syllabus.

If memory serves, there was some controversy within the fleet about this practice. Apparently, many felt that more time-in-aircraft and time-in-fleet should have been the standard. Oddly enough, not a single one of us complained!

Along with receiving the beautiful chest decoration, each member of the class got to pick a fleet squadron from what AW billets were currently available based on their final grades. I was honored to get first pick. It was a very difficult choice between some great squadrons, great aircraft carriers, and two distinctly different US Navies.

Just across the flight line at NAS North Island was the “Dragonfires” of VS-29 aboard the USS Carl Vinson (CVN-70) or VS-38 “Red Griffins” aboard the USS Ranger (CV-61). On the East Coast at NAS Cecil Field were three choices available: VS-31 “Topcats” aboard the USS Eisenhower (CVN-69), VS-32 “Maulers” aboard the USS America (CV-66), or VS-24 “Scouts” aboard the USS Nimitz (CVN-68). I decided on the Scouts for several reasons.

First off, they had an outstanding reputation on both coasts. I also didn’t want to serve aboard a “coal-burning” aircraft carrier. The squadron (part of Air Wing 8) was about to deploy to the Mediterranean soon after I arrived and I wanted to get right into the action. VS-24 offered the best

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opportunity for that. Finally, my brother had just left a very successful tour with VS-29. And although I ultimately followed his footsteps into the S-3, I still needed to have my own unique experiences in a Navy different than the one he had served in.

With Orders in hand, I said “so long” to NAS North Island not knowing that I would land here in one of ten Vikings with my chosen squadron in less than a year. I would miss this group of incredible instructors who guided me through a mountain of information and prepared me to be the very best SENSO I could be. I would miss sharing a classroom with this tremendous group of fellow students.

Fortunately, I only had to say goodbye to half of my class (the ones that chose the West Coast squadrons. I would see the other half in our shared squadron spaces at Cecil Field in the years to come.

Though we had learned, trained, and prepared to be an individual in a 4-seat combat aircraft that essentially had a very singular mission against a target that tended to act alone, I felt a part of a team for the first time in my life. I left VS-41 with a heavy but happy and somewhat naive heart.

I arrived at the Scouts’ doorstep full of piss-and-vinegar certain that I had achieved lasting greatness due to how well I did at the RAG. I would be a magnificent asset to the squadron ensuring that with my knowledge and wisdom we would sink Soviet submarines left and right during the coming cruise (regardless of a declaration of war).

Very (and I mean very) quickly, I realized I had joined an aircrew shop manned by a seasoned AWC, two AW1s, and a generous collection of AW2s and AW3s who were incredibly well-versed procedurally in the extraction and bottling of piss-and-vinegar and the disassembly thereof.

VS-24 S-3A's circa 1986

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With equal swiftness, I would also be faced with a strong dose of reality as a result of my first flight with VS-24. When I walked out to aircraft 704 that late September morning, there would be no Aircrew instructor, no fellow AW, no familiar face joining me.

As I strapped myself in amid the deafening whine of the APU, the officers finishing their pre-start checks and the wail made by the start of our #1 TF-34 turbofan engine as it sucked in gobs and gobs of the cool Florida air, I realized something:

I was completely alone.

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https://www.thedrive.com/the-war-zone/30525/confessions-of-a-submarine-hunting-s-3-viking-crewman-during-the-twilight-of-the-cold-war

Confessions Of A Submarine-Hunting S-3 Viking Crewman During The Twilight Of The Cold WarHow the shadowy art of anti-submarine aerial warfare works and what it was like putting it to

use while barreling through the sky in an S-3 Viking.

by Kevin Noonan and Tyler Rogoway / The War Zone / October 22, 2019

In the fascinating first installment in our exclusive multi-part series, Kevin Noonan recounted the unique path he took to learning how to hunt down Soviet submarines in an S-3 Viking during the final years of the Cold War.

Now in Part Two, Noonan tells us how the shadowy art of anti-submarine warfare is executed; why the S-3 Viking was so good at it; and takes us along on his first cruise, venturing into the Mediterranean aboard the USS Nimitz as tensions with the Soviet Union remained thick.

So strap into your ejection seat and fire-up the Viking's sensor suite as we launch off the deck of the Nimitz to play an incredibly high-stakes game of cat and mouse above and below the waves.

The Many Missions Of The Marvelous Viking

The Grumman S-2 Tracker had served the USN admirably since 1954. But naval technology had changed significantly during that time and it just couldn’t keep up. The introduction of nuclear propulsion for submarines changed their combat capability and performance and transformed ASW acoustics. The S-2 was designed to track diesel submarines and her airframe just couldn’t adapt to the necessity of new technology.

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The Navy was also deeply affected by the budget drain brought on by combat operations in Vietnam. Getting rid of excess expenditures was necessary and an entire class of ASW aircraft carriers, the Essex boats, which were home to the anti-submarine, or "VS" squadrons flying the S-2 were seen as an unneeded fiscal burden.

The USN decided to bring ASW (anti-submarine warfare) to the supercarriers, particularly the Nimitz class boats, the newest addition to the carrier fleet. So the S-2s need for Avgas, requiring extra fuel storage separate from jet fuel, and its overall obsolescence forced the Navy’s hand.

Thus in 1966, a call was sent out to the aviation industry to bring carrier-based ASW into the latter half of the 20th Century. Lockheed answered with the S-3A Viking. She would not only perform the roles expected of the Tracker but also excel at so many more during her lifetime.

A VS-37 S-2 Tracker breaks formation with her replacement (a VS-21 S-3A Viking) signifying the end of an era.

While the S-2 was the first U.S. naval aircraft designed from the drawing board to be a submarine hunter and killer in one fuselage, the S-3 was the first carrier-based jet designed to perform that mission with all its hunt and kill computerized. Univac joined Lockheed’s effort providing the AN/AYK-10 General Purpose Digital Computer (GPDC) that coordinated input from all of the Viking’s sensors. Texas Instruments contributed the AN/APS-116 radar, the AN/ASQ-81 MAD (magnetic anomaly detector) system, and the AN/OR-89 FLIR (forward-looking infrared) systems that made the Viking state-of-the-art in non-acoustic detection of submarines. Finally, IBM also contributed to her non-acoustic detection prowess by creating the groundbreaking AN/ALR-47 ESM (electronic support measures) system.

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What was so fascinating about all of these systems is how the GPDC (a computer produced in the late 1960s) could take input from them and create displays for all four of the Viking’s crew to perform the various roles assigned. Once the sensors had detected a specific threat, the computer could take input from aircraft avionics and move the airplane to intercept the target, automatically releasing its weapons.

In other words, with input from all crew stations, the TACCO (Tactical Coordinator) could “fly” the plane from the backseat using fly-to-points (FTPs) and sensor/weapons select choices. As the aircraft symbol (or “bug” as we called it) captured the tasking symbology, the computer would send electrons to those particular parts of the aircraft and perform the assigned function. Pretty damn cool for an aircraft designed in the late ‘60s.

Of course, the S-3A was not limited to ASW. Her radar allowed her crew (and the rest of the battle group via secure Data Link 11) to create an accurate surface plot. We called these missions Surface Surveillance & Control (SSC). Her FLIR, if needed, both day and night, allowed for visual confirmation of the surface contacts at stand-off ranges.

The “A” model did not carry the AGM-84 Harpoon missile so our weapons delivery was limited to a warship that didn’t pose a significant Anti-Air Warfare (AAW) threat. Of course, if the balloon went up and, say, a Soviet Kashin class destroyer or Kresta I class cruiser was posing a threat that other Air Wing or escort assets couldn’t attend to, then our bombs were as good as anyone else’s (and we were…expendable).

Additionally, the S-3’s extremely sensitive ESM system was used by Air Wing strike missions to detect coastal air defense early warning radars and SAM/AAA (surface to air missile/anti-aircraft artillery) sites allowing the attack aircraft to thread their way through to a target.

The four stations in the S-3. The left rear is where the SENSO worked.

Another critical mission that suited the Viking well was on-scene commander, primarily during SAR (search and rescue) missions. Her long loiter-time enhanced by her ability to refuel while in flight allowed her to stay overhead a sinking ship or downed aircraft for well over 6 hours if necessary.

With her sonobuoys and smoke markers (if carried), a life raft or survivor’s position could be “marked”. There were several advantages of dropping a “long-life” sonobuoy (up to 8 hours of

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transmission time) near a person or craft in distress. It allowed the Viking crew to mark the position and transmit that symbol via Link 11 to the entire CVBG (carrier battle group) or other naval ships and aircraft involved in the rescue.

The buoy could be tuned up by another maritime patrol aircraft (MPA) including those from foreign navies, allowing them to mark-on-top of the buoy if the S-3 had to return to the boat and another was not available. Finally, the buoy would be subjected to the same wave and current action the survivors had to endure ensuring that their drift could be managed until actual rescue assets arrived.

The S-3 performed other missions as well. Prior to advancements and proliferation of communications via satellite, the Viking could mount a communications pod on a wing hardpoint and relay fleet communications efficiently and accurately over the horizon (OTH). Also, the A model of the Viking was utilized for various logistics missions and VIP passenger transport (but to a far lesser extent than the SH-3 Sea King, her rotary-wing contemporary).

Although the S-3A had a weapons loadout similar to the S-2 Tracker, she had a capacity for growth not available to her radial-engine predecessor. With the submarine in mind, the Viking could carry a mixture of torpedoes, iron bombs, and rockets.

By the time I started flying, she carried a standard loadout of up to four Mk 46 lightweight ASW torpedoes in the weapons bay (unlike the Tracker, we couldn’t carry torpedoes on our wing hardpoints). Also, in the weapons bay, we could carry bombs. However, the wing hardpoints were the primary weapon station for six 500-pound Mk 82 bombs or six Mk 20 Rockeye cluster bombs on a pair of Triple Ejector Racks (TER), two 1000-pound Mk 83 iron bombs, or 5-inch Zuni rocket pods.

S-3 unleashing rockets.

Torpedoes are the obvious weapon when going against the submarine. Less obvious in a maritime world dominated by the nuclear submarine is the need to attack one on the surface. Something that the Mk 46 was not permitted to do in order to protect any friendly surface ships in the drop area.

One of the most important and neglected missions conducted by NAVAIR was aerial mining. The

S-3 was designed with mining in mind. She could carry all of the Quickstrike or Destructor varieties of

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the 500 lbs, 1000 lbs, or 2000 lbs Mk-80 series on the wing hardpoints or in the weapons bay. She could also carry the much larger Mk 55 and Mk 56 moored mines or the ASW Mk 60 CAPTOR mines underneath her wings.

The USN approached the not-so-sexy art of mining halfheartedly. And we tended to mirror that feeling by practicing this critical form of warfare with great inconsistency. Searching my memory, there is only one time that I participated in an aerial mining exercise.

S-3 carrying one of the big Mk 55 mines.

Two significant mid-to-late Cold War Soviet threats to the aircraft carrier were the Soviet nuclear-powered Echo II class and the diesel-electric Juliett class of cruise missile-firing submarines (SSGN and SSG respectively). Both of these classes had to surface to launch. To meet this very real danger, Viking crews regularly practiced bomb delivery.

Finally, other things the Viking would carry were the always-indispensable external fuel tanks, one of which we always carried on the left and right-wing hardpoints when flying off the carrier.

Also when we flew from our home base to join the boat, one aircraft flew with a CNU-264/A blivet packed full of maintenance gear for our time at sea.

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a VS-24 S-3 carrying the dreaded CNU-264/A blivet.

During the crew brief just prior to the squadron launching to go meet the boat, a notorious moan would issue from the mouth of that poor pilot who discovered he was scheduled to fly the “blivet bird”. I’ll never confess to knowing much about all “that pilot shit”. But it is quite obvious that flying with the blivet hanging off the right hardpoint was the proverbial “sore thumb” for regular aerodynamics (not to mention approaching the carrier for a trap).

Speaking of sore thumbs, I would imagine that the trim button on the control stick and the pilot’s thumb got one hell of a workout. The blivet could also be used for an emergency logistics flight to the beach anywhere in the world we currently sailed if the CVBG needed something that wouldn’t fit in our avionics tunnel and a COD (carrier onboard delivery) just wasn’t available.

Oh, and despite the hard-to-contain joy that issued from every aircrewman’s heart and soul when we briefed for the big fly-off from the boat going back to the beach, the ready room was filled with the requisite moan when that poor pilot once again discovered he was scheduled to fly the dreaded blivet bird.

How To Hunt A Submarine From The Sky

During the first 15 years of the Cold War when the diesel submarine dominated the World’s oceans, several destroyers would work with air assets to exploit a Soviet boat’s greatest weakness if it came too close to a CVBG. Using their hull-mounted active sonar, the surface ships would make run-after-run over the top the target (especially if it appeared that it was coming to periscope depth). If it did get a chance to put its snorkel up, the destroyers would charge the submarine in a game of chicken forcing the submarine to go deep. TBFs, AF Guardians, and S-2 Trackers would buzz an exposed periscope or, if contact was lost, work with passive buoys to regenerate contact.

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The S-2 with newly developed active sonobuoys would harass the Soviets with constant <pinging>. The goal was to keep the submarine down to the point of battery and/or air exhaustion forcing him to surface.

Sometimes in rare cases, practice depth charges would be used to remind the wayward boat what it meant to “rule the seas”. During these concerted efforts (sometimes lasting for a day-or-two), the aircraft carrier and the remaining escorts would escape by putting miles between them and the Soviet threat. With the arrival of the nuclear submarine, the CVBG’s status as ruler of the sea wasn’t simply diminished. It was abdicated to this truly undersea warship.

The nuclear submarine can’t be forced to stay down until it exhausts its air and power. Its supply of those is (technically) unlimited. All its skipper has to do is effectively manipulate the oceanic environment and the effectiveness of those hunting him by either quietly slipping away or going balls-to-the-wall and outrun everything the CVBG could throw at him.

After having experienced the USS Nautilus during one of its first exercises against a carrier and her escorts, Allied Navies realized that control of the sea had suddenly shifted. The first nuclear-powered submarine raced noisily under a carrier’s destroyer screen and made mincemeat of the carrier. She then began to sink the screen from within.

After having embarrassed the concept of US Navy ASW superiority, the Nautilus then added insult to injury by happily racing away beyond the reach of what remained of the battlegroup. Still utilizing World War II weapons, sensors and tactics fit for a slow predictable diesel, senior naval leadership throughout NATO realized that this revolution in submarine propulsion required a revolution in every level of anti-submarine warfare. The sensors, the weapons, the tactics and the platforms delivering them all had to change.

YS-3A Viking prototype circa 1972.

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From the first pencil mark on the Lockheed engineer’s drafting table, the S-3 Viking was created to hunt a nuclear-powered submarine. Its large nose housed the egg-shaped APS-116 radar antenna that could rotate at 300rpm allowing detection of a periscope at considerable distances even in heavy seas.

Its generous canopy provided the pilot and COTAC (Co-Tactical Coordinator) with a commanding view of the ocean below, greatly increasing the odds of seeing a feather on the surface. Its high-set and broad wings provided remarkable lift and aerodynamics required to maintain contact on an evasive subsurface target. Its tall tail ensured rock-solid stability and endurance at altitudes best suited for weapons release while avoiding the occasional flying fish.

The S-3's two remarkable, reliable, and extremely efficient engines could keep it aloft for MPA-like hours if necessary and ensure its safe return. It also had a relatively large fuselage disciplined by the designers to effectively contain the avionics, sensors, weapons, and crew needed to prevent a submarine from ruining an aircraft carrier’s day.

And while most products produced for the Military are designed for a current threat at the time an engineer sharpens their new pencil, the early 1970s Viking was built with room to grow in anticipation of the evolutionary progress of the Soviet submarine through the remainder of the 20th Century and into the 21st.

At the time, anti-submarine warfare for naval aviation was divided into search, localization/classification, track, and attack. I’ll assume that this process is the same today. I haven’t encountered any in-depth narrative about how ASW is performed by a P-8 Poseidon (particularly the high/low altitude method) and I’m exceedingly happy that there is very little open-source information available.

The Viking’s ASW mission was of a tactical nature. Keeping the carrier safe from the submarine’s cruise missiles and then torpedoes. Here’s how we did that in the team context of the CVBG:

Any number of scenarios can present themselves to a battlegroup. But it is rare that we weren’t aware of the general undersea picture around us because of intelligence sources, primarily from the Sound Surveillance System (SOSUS).

However, contact on a SOSUS array didn’t mean the submarine was localized, much less being closely tracked in many areas of the open waters in the Atlantic and certainly along the coastal boundaries of that ocean. That is where MPAs, surface ships, and allied submarines came into play.

Then once a Soviet boat entered the Mediterranean, diligent tracking didn’t guarantee that we would maintain constant contact.

Thus, regenerating contact with battlegroup ships’ hull-mounted sonars and towed arrays (if they carried one) along with allied MPAs and the S-3s from the carrier was an absolute priority.

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S-3A circa 1987

In the context of that need to regenerate contact, Allied air assets would lay large sonobuoy search patterns or the S-3s would lay relatively smaller search patterns if no other fixed-wing aircraft were available. If this was the case, then a second Viking might be sent out 2-to-3 hours later to maintain the current pattern by reseeding buoys that had malfunctioned or had come to the end of their life. The hope, of course, was that contact would be gained with the initial search pattern.

Other strategies were to lay barriers of sonobuoys and position ASW ships along the path of the carrier as she approached and then penetrated the various choke points the Mediterranean offered.

More specifically, depending upon the expected target (e.g., nuclear or diesel submarine), we would begin the hunt by flooding the area with our radar and investigate all contacts. This provided us with a “Big Picture” of what was out there and ensured we didn’t drop buoys on unsuspecting surface ships at night or in bad weather.

If a contact suddenly disappeared (known as a “radar sinker”), it would draw our attention all-the-more. This could be anything from a periscope, a passive d etection antenna mast such as ESM, or a diesel boat’s snorkel as it attempted to recharge its batteries. It could also be a whale, schools of fish at the surface, trash, or even a sinking ship.

If we are under EMCON (Emissions CONtrol—radio silence basically across much or all of the RF spectrum) within the battlegroup where none of the ships or aircraft are running their radars or radios, then we would launch and hold turning on our radar until we reached a certain distance from the carrier.

One of the greatest advantages that the Viking introduced to the CVBG was our digital computer and sensor systems. We could turn the radar on for a few sweeps and then go emissions silent. As the antenna made its one-or-two sweeps, the SENSO (Sensor Operator) would quickly mark all returns on his screen and these would become permanent digital symbols displayed each of the crew’s screens.

In the S-2, the screens were analog and the radar operator had to mark his screen with a grease pencil or on a plot board, keeping in mind the aircraft’s track, position, and compass bearing. In the S-3, the

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TACCO (who received all marked symbology placed on the screen by the SENSO) could then send that data via Link 11 to every receptive ship and aircraft in the CVBG.

Meanwhile, the S-3 pilot would turn toward the targets of interest and “quietly” investigate. The S-2 operator, on the other hand, had to pass the data to the officer in the right front seat either verbally or on a plot board and have it communicated to the ASW commander via radio if not under EMCON and all the while relying on radios that might not always work as advertised.

Other EMCON scenarios might have the S-3 vectored to contacts of interest by the E-2 Hawkeye or a surface ship well distanced from the carrier that is acting as the controller of the mission. By its very nature, EMCON invites targets to start looking for the battlegroup. Thus when an enemy submarine or supporting warship radiates in an attempt to find the CVBG, the ships and aircraft can get lines of bearing to the source of the enemy emitters.

For every type of contact generated from sources such as an ESM line of bearing or a datum, the S-3 Viking would lay specific sonobuoy patterns. As individual buoys hit the water and deployed their hydrophone, the SENSO would tune them up and begin to analyze what sounds the ocean was making around that particular sensor.

One of the ideas behind a pattern of buoys was to space them in such a way where more than one buoy would gain contact. This helped to localize the position of the submarine to a specific area in the pattern. From there, we might wait to determine the direction of movement of the target as other buoys gained contact and the bearings from directional buoys such as the AN/SSQ-53 DIFAR (Directional Frequency Analysis and Recording) changed with the passage of the submarine.

Once a course was established, we would run in and drop more buoys at closer spacings to refine our understanding of what the target was doing. The idea was to maintain a solid track that allowed us to catch any changes in course or depth. The other idea in time of war was to have enough tracking data refinement to drop a torpedo.

While we preferred to use passive buoys to achieve this refinement, it was always nice to have additional confirmation of the submarine's presence. Active sonobuoys could be used. But that wasn't the best choice against a nuclear submarine.

Magnetic Anomaly Detection (or MAD) was an excellent choice that allowed us to remain passive in the prosecution of the submarine. It was (and is) a very short range sensor that detected disturbances in the Earth's magnetic field made by a submarine's own magnetic field. Usually, we'd have to fly very low against a submarine that was not very deep.

S-3 with the MAD deployed.40

As opposed to the Orion, the Viking's "stinger" MAD boom was retractable. At times, it would get stuck in the extended position. Once we extended the MAD boom, I would have to "equalize" the ASQ-81 MAD head at the tip of the boom to help eliminate any field disturbance that came from our own aircraft. This is why most MAD booms are designed to be as far away from the aircraft as possible. Having a solid deflection of the MAD trace provided that warm-fuzzy feeling that confirmed we were doing a solid job of tracking the submarine.

Of course, submarines have several means at their disposal to counter or weaken the non-acoustic detection ability of MAD such as degaussing equipment within the hull or going through the process of deperming or reducing its own field prior to deployment. The longer the submarine is deployed, however, reduces the effect of deperming. The Soviet use of titanium alloys on the hulls of some of its submarines was also effective at reducing the overall magnetic signature.

The S-3 regularly worked alone to search, detect, localize, and track a submarine. We wanted to quickly find and keep a potential enemy as far away from the carrier as possible. However, gaining contact on a submarine and maintaining it was a far more successful endeavor when we worked as a team with all the ASW-capable assets of the battlegroup.

Mark on top! An S-3 Viking and A-6 Intruder from the USS John F. Kennedy (CV-67) fly over a Soviet Foxtrot class diesel submarine.

One of the very best platforms to work with was a frigate or destroyer trailing its AN/SQR-19 towed array sonar. The sensitivity of that type of passive sonar and the professionalism of the Sonar Techs aboard those ships was humbling. Helicopters with dipping sonars were another team combination that encouraged a submarine to break off its plans. As a threat moved closer to the carrier, or we obtained

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contact in close, the carrier’s complement of SH-3 Sea Kings with the AN/AQS-13 dipping sonar would join in. If two helos were available, then even a nuclear-powered submarine would have difficulty getting to the carrier or getting away.

The Soviet naval philosophy of submarine warfare rarely called for a submarine to attack a carrier on its own. From its birth, the subordinate Soviet Navy understood the concept of joint operations since it was primarily utilized to support the Soviet Army during World War II. While Admiral Sergey Gorshkov grew the Cold War Navy into a dangerous blue water fleet, he translated the lessons of mutual support he had learned from the Black Sea campaign against the Germans into tactics that incorporated all air, surface, and subsurface naval assets. The Viking was flexible enough to engage most of this effort in one way or another.

If a cruise missile-firing submarine was relying on a Surface Action Group (SAG) of ships for targeting data for example, the S-3 while hunting the submarine could also target and identify the accompanying group of surface combatants. The ability of one aircraft to carry a mixture of weapons such as torpedoes in the weapons bay and bombs or other ordnance on the wing hardpoints invited the possibility of attacking both surface and subsurface targets.

However, I would not have wanted to be in that airplane considering the excellent air defenses on all Soviet warships.

Of course, you soon learn the concept of expendability when they explain the Big Picture to you about how all aircraft and their crews are expendable during wartime when an aircraft carrier’s survivability is at stake. Preferably, once a combined fleet strike has completed an attack against a SAG, we could also provide post-strike standoff bomb damage assessment (BDA) utilizing our FLIR. If necessary, we could then use our weapons to finish off a heavily damaged enemy vessel.

The underbelly of the Viking is perforated with sonobuoy launcher holes.

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The historical record is not clear about how many Soviet submarines actually came within firing distance of carrier battlegroups during the expanse of the Cold War. I’ve personally only seen 3 periscope photos that claim to be taken from our enemy. And when one considers the nature and pride of Russia, I would think that the Internet would be flooded with many many more if the genuinely professional and brave Soviet submarine commanders had experienced repeated success.

We did our very best to contend with the complexities of ASW every time our wheels went into their wells on missions to keep the submarine away from our aircraft carriers. Unfortunately, if one were honest and able to evaluate all the data from 1946 to 1991, it would be clear that the ratio of green flares launched by a submarine going after a flat top to the number of non-reactionary simulated torpedo or other ASW weapons’ drops was distressingly high.

On A Viking Cruise

Much like professional athletes who train for the big game, military units train for War. But one of the unique things about serving aboard a warship or a deployed unit in the United States Navy is that the enemy you are planning to fight kindly offers his services to help you prepare for that war.

An aircraft carrier battlegroup’s deployment to the North Atlantic or the Mediterranean ensured a Soviet naval response and presence allowing both sides to potentially discover and learn how the other would act in time of war.

On Dec. 30, 1986 after a break for Christmas, the USS Nimitz entered the Western Atlantic with her bow pointed east toward the Strait of Gibraltar and entrance into the Mediterranean Sea. The squadrons of Carrier Air Group 8 (CAG-8, more commonly referred to as Carrier Air Wing Eight) which had been with the namesake of the Nimitz class of supercarrier since 1977 were already aboard having joined the carrier during the early days of December for the standard pre-deployment work-ups.

The Nimitz flight deck and hangar bay were overflowing with a full complement of

● F-14 Tomcats from VF-84 Jolly Rogers and VF-41 Black Aces

● A-7 Corsair II’s from VA-82 Marauders and VA-86 Sidewinders

● A-6 Intruders from VA-35 Black Panthers

● EA-6B Prowlers from VAQ-138 Yellow Jackets

● E-2 Hawkeyes from VAW-124 Bear Aces

● SH-3 Sea Kings from HS-9 Sea Griffins

● and S-3A Vikings from VS-24 Scouts.

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USS Nimitz with CAG-8 in early 1980s highlighting incredible aircraft diversity. Note the high visibility paint schemes.

We made our way quickly across the Atlantic. I don’t recall ever “stopping” to do flight ops before we entered the Med. Having transited the Strait at night, the CVBG grew in strength by one warship. A destroyer of the Soviet Navy took station off the Nimitz’ port side.

Someone mentioned it in our ready room and I grabbed my camera for one of the painfully rare photos I took while I was in the Navy. There she was. A Kashin class destroyer with her two (of four) SS-N-2C Styx stern-facing missile launchers catching my eye.

If the Cold War went hot in the next 6 months, she would turn and run away from us at a remarkable 35 knots and launch all four of these weapons, each of which carried a 1,000-pound high-explosive warhead.

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My first Soviet. The Nimitz picks up her tattle-tail destroyer, a Kashin class in the Western Med in January 1987.

The Soviets planned and trained for this scenario, something they called the “Battle of the First Salvo”. Hopefully, our Sea Sparrow antiair launchers and 20mm CIWS (close-in weapon system) mounts would greet all four of her missiles before they arrived while our own genuine escorts sent the fleeing Kashin to the bottom.

As this 20-year old kid stood there pondering the Soviet warship’s presence beneath a Western Mediterranean winter sky, the reality I had only read about suddenly became quite real.

Chasing Charlie

Before my 21st birthday, I would receive two stronger doses of that reality.

The first came quickly. We had been attempting to relocate a Soviet Charlie II nuclear guided missile submarine (SSGN) that had been sent down from the Red Banner Northern Fleet and entered the Med to hunt the carrier we would eventually relieve (the USS John F. Kennedy) and now us.

While I had been flying since we passed by Gibraltar, this would be my first actual ASW mission. Did I hear that right? My first sub-hunting mission in the Mediterranean Sea would be to find a genuine Soviet submarine! I was scared S.H.I.T.L.E.S.S. !!

We launched and headed to the southern edge of the Tyrrhenian Sea (one of the many seas within the Med) to relieve a P-3 Orion flying out of Sigonella, Sicily that had been monitoring and re-seeding a large search pattern of sonobuoys laid by previous P-3s. The pattern was designed as a flanking barrier to protect the Nimitz’s movement east and southeast toward the central Med just south of Sicily.

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Our mission was to monitor and re-seed the southern end of the pattern to replace dying buoys. Contact with the Soviet submarine had been lost a day-or-so before (at least by aviation and surface ASW hunters). We needed to regain it so we could keep the carrier from getting within the 40-mile range of the Charlie’s eight SS-N-9 Siren anti-ship cruise missiles.

For 4 hours, we overflew each buoy in the pattern to update our plot and its geolocation to pass on Link 11 data link to the CVBG, the ASW Operations Center (ASWOC) at Sigonella, and the incoming P-3 that would relieve us. I tuned up sections of the pattern and I watched and listened. We reseeded specific buoys whose batteries died while we were out there.

I watched. I listened. No contact.

It was time to return to base. As we got vectors to the ship from the E-2, we climbed up to a decent cruising altitude and pointed our nose home. I continued to scan my tuned-up buoys switching between acoustics and radar as I searched for the battle group to give the pilot an exact location of the boat. I switched back to acoustics and scanned.

There…there! Was it?

It looked like a submarine. It wasn’t quite the exact signature I expected from a Charlie. I doubted. What should I do? Tell the TACCO? We’re almost out of fuel. The ASMOD (intel unit that coordinates ASW operations) aboard the carrier said the relief P-3 was having problems and wasn’t going to launch on time.

My mind racing, I kept thinking to myself: “Was it the Charlie? It looked like a submarine. I don’t want to make the wrong call. I can’t make a mistake during my first real-world ASW flight on an actual Soviet submarine. Is it a submarine? t looks like it. But it only was a whisper, a very short contact.”

I said nothing. I was terrified and the self-doubt was overwhelming.

And then the guilt set in. My gut was screaming at me: “You know it is her!” But the doubt…the fear…

Charlie II SSGN

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We trapped aboard and the Nimitz resumed her transit eastward just before she turned southeast to pass between Sicily and Tunisia. I unloaded my ATR (AN/ASH-27 Analog Tape Recorder glass reel that records all of our acoustic and other data for an entire mission) and carried it down one deck beneath the flight deck to the ASMOD. I handed it the Nimitz’s ship’s company AWs (aircrewmen) who analyzed all the tapes that we used to record our ASW flights. I was a very green AW and these guys knew it. I hesitated ... then told them that I may have seen something on buoy such-and-such. “We’ll check it out”. They knew from my body language that I was worried.

In the ready room, I tried to relax. Everyone noticed a sudden tremor underneath our feet as the carrier increased speed. It felt the same as when we crossed the Atlantic. I looked up from my chair and noticed that some AWs from the ASMOD were in the back of the ready room talking to my Chief. I sheepishly headed toward them. They had a large sheet of carbon-based paper in hand. On it, I noticed the same signature characteristics I had seen in the aircraft. My stomach sank and the blood rushed away from my face.

“You were right. It was the Charlie. Just a couple of minutes of contact!”

They left and I waited to be dragged by my flightsuit collar at the strong hand of my Chief behind the curtain that separated the Ready Room from our tiny squadron operations office.

VS-22's Ready Room aboard USS Harry S. Truman (CVN-75) circa 2003.

Although he rarely displayed it, I’d already seen his temper and was certain I would incur his wrath. I wasn’t really afraid of him. I just didn’t want to disappoint him because he was such a good leader.

Crickets. Not a word from him. Not a word from my Division Officer. Not a word from my OPS boss. Not a word from the Skipper. The only response to my failure was the 100,000-ton aircraft carrier and her escorts making much more speed through the Strait of Sicily than originally intended.

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What really should have happened was that I had my ass reamed by all of the above. In fact, it would have been best if I had been dragged by my flightsuit collar out of the ready room down the passageway to see CAG and the CO of the Nimitz. I think I might have been an even better sailor, an even better AW, and an even better human being had that happened.

Instead, my self-doubt and second-guessing would continue and in a few months put me in a very similar position where I would finally get a clue as to just how much responsibility a single kid-AW in a multi-million dollar aircraft had in the protection of well over 5,000 priceless lives and four-and-a-half acres of a multi-billion dollar piece of sovereign United States territory.

There was one very important takeaway from this experience: My gut was right and I would learn quickly that I had a sixth sense for finding submarines acoustically.

Horror On The Deck Above

The second dose of reality came tragically and violently on the night of January 25th as I watched from the warm safety of Ready Room 4. The single EA-3B Whale from VQ-2 which had joined us as we entered the Med was having major difficulty getting aboard. After missing the arresting wires 5 times, the Commander of the Air Group (CAG) ordered her to divert to Crete. However, she would need to refuel in order to do so.

During her attempt to take on gas, she damaged the buddy store attached to the A-7 that was acting as tanker that night. Out of options, the CAG and the CO of the Nimitz decided against having the crew bailout and into the frigid waters the carrier was sailing through. Instead, she would take the barricade.

After an inordinately long time rigging the barricade, the pilot and crew of six approached the carrier. It was clear listening to the communications between the CAG Landing Signal Officer (LSO) and the navigator of the intel-gathering aircraft that most all of her fuel had been burned waiting for the barricade.

She was high. Too high. The LSO screamed “Cut! CUT! CUT!” admonishing the pilot to cut power to the engines as the Whale crossed the fantail. Sadly, she just floated there.

Her nosewheel struck the top of the barricade and the EA-3B hit the angle deck just above my ready room. I will never forget the sound as she scraped down the deck and off the angle, the fuselage splitting just forward of the wings.

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PLAT sequence of the loss of Ranger 12 aboard USS Nimitz, the EA-3B from VQ-2.

There was absolute silence in the ready room as all eyes were on the PLAT (Pilot Landing Aid Television) screen. The Nimitz’ engines crashed back and we came to a stop with the aircraft’s aft fuselage and tail now jutting skyward off our port side. The plane guard helo hovered over it, her searchlight illuminating the wreckage and our hope that helmets would appear. We also listened as the helo pilot requested permission for his Rescue Swimmer to go into the water and enter the aircraft. “NO!” was the answer. After what seemed like an eternity, hope turned to horror as the tail slipped beneath the waves.

I had never seen men die.

Hijacked Hijinx

On Jan. 27, 1987, Terry Waite (an envoy for the Church of England trying to obtain the release of hostages held in Lebanon) became a hostage of those he was attempting to negotiate with. Soon after and in Sixth Fleet fashion, we were ordered to respond to this latest of eternal Middle East crises making our way to the Eastern Med. As we moved across the Mediterranean Sea, I began to hear of the place we were headed: BENO station.

Like “Yankee Station” where our aircraft carriers sailed and launched airstrikes against Vietnam, it was a place where the carriers would loiter off the ruined coast and countryside of Lebanon where civil war which had been raging since I was in the 4th grade continued. If necessary, it was the plot of sea from which we would launch strikes. Unlike, Yankee Station, it wasn’t an official USN name.

BENO stood for BE NO liberty, BE NO time off, BE NO fun, BE NO end.

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As we made our way there, our priorities shifted from fighting the Cold War to fighting the “War on Terror” (a conflict many don’t realize we were engaged in long before it arrived on our own shores on that fateful September day in 2001). In light of the common tactic used by terrorists in this region (namely hijacking airplanes), CAG-8 was tasked to train for a specific tactic designed to ensure the hijackers went where we wanted them to and VS-24. And I got to be a part of it!

During the briefing, we were told only that our S-3 would act as the hijacked airliner and we were instructed to squawk a simulated international IFF code reflecting our hijacked state when we arrived over the portion of the Eastern Mediterranean Sea that we were training in. It would be during the second half of a 4-hour flight. During the first half, we would conduct an SSC mission.

S-3 launching off the waist catapult.

We launched for what for me would be one of my most amazing flights. The first 2 hours were spent making a surface plot of the water surrounding the carrier, checking some of the shipping, and performing a mission of mercy that I’ll describe below. Then at the appropriate time, we squawked our code. Soon, a gaggle of F-14s from both VF-84 and VF-41 were directed to intercept us by the E-2 (everyone in the Air Wing wanted in on this important training).

I dropped the FLIR and rotated it as they approached. For the first time in my life, I got to see these breathtaking beauties occupying the same airspace I was in! One Tomcat gracefully took station on each of our wings. Another two held station on opposite wings but off and behind their wingmen. Two more flew well aft of us. I could not believe that I was here at this moment in time!

Unknown to my crew, our COTAC (Lieutenant D.R.) had dressed the part having pulled a wash towel from the Officers Mess that perfectly resembled the headdress worn in that area. He took off his helmet, donned the cloth, and from his helmet bag produced an Uzi water pistol! With Uzi in one hand, he held up a sign he had pre-written in a bold hand and plastered it against his right canopy glass so the Tomcat pilot and RIO (now tucked very closely off our right wingtip) could clearly read it. I don’t recall what D.R. had written. But it was obviously something snarky and it garnered a response from the F-14 on our UHF radio:

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“Damn! You guys don’t have to take this thing so seriously.”

All four of us were laughing. Per the scenario, we then dropped our landing gear as if we were on final approach to a regional airfield in a country that supported terrorists. The Tomcats moved away but stayed just off our wings.

My eyes were then drawn back to my FLIR screen as 8 pinpoints of heat came up on our six very fast. They would quickly materialize into eight A-7s that passed quickly beneath us and the water, almost “thumping” us. And then, they all released their (practice) bombs! Right down the simulated runway we were supposed to be landing on!

The E-2 called an end to the exercise and gave everyone vectors back to the boat. God! To be a part of such things!

A High Stakes Intervention High In The Sky

Now, let me relate what happened at the front end of this flight (something that will stay with me until I die). I already said that I got air sick during my first flight in an S-3 at VS-41. Well, the truth is that I had been throwing up on every flight since then. Thankfully, it wasn’t debilitating at this point and I could do my job. But it was so persistent that I decided to approach my Chief W. about it (who already knew; you built a reputation, particularly as a new crew member and the officers in the aircraft would let the Chief know).

AWC expressed his concern saying that it could be a career-ender. I was a little overwhelmed by that statement and asked about the possibility of switching to P-3s (he had flown in P-3s prior to coming

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to the Viking) which I assumed would be a more stable platform. He proceeded to inform me that like the S-3, an Orion spent a lot of time at low altitude dropping buoys among other things.

This was a problem because the location of the Sensor 1 and Sensor 2 stations in the P-3 was right on top of the wing which meant that any turbulence the aircraft flew through would be transmitted from the wing to the 2 aircrew who were in a tunnel with no windows, their seats facing the left side of the aircraft. He made an additional critical point: “Add to all of this, the smell of burning carbon-based paper that will permeate your station as you search for hours and hours...” The P-3C Update III with plasma screens that replaced paper grams had just achieved IOC (Initial Operating Capability) the previous year.

My mind was reeling as I was instantly transported back to the acrid smell in the trainer at NAS Willow Grove. At least in the Viking, I did have a small window, a limited view out the COTAC’s windscreen, and no burning paper. Were I to transition (back) to the P-3, I’d be puking multiple times each flight. I simply had no options. I had come so far. I had to stay in the S-3.

Apparently, my pilot for that unique flight (Lieutenant Russ Bartlett) had been following my story. During my time at VS-24, I had so many outstanding pilots. But I will always hold Russ as my favorite and the very best. He was that rare person that showed zero arrogance in his ambition for career and life. I had never encountered such a well-rounded officer. He showed absolutely no stress and always smiled. He was genuinely friendly with everyone and (as I would discover) was an incredibly compassionate human being (believe it or not, he was a U.S. Naval Academy grad!). The Viking was a second skin for him. He had no problem being a “bus driver” and he was extremely well versed in ASW tactics. He always invested everything into the moment.

The view out of the S-3 from the cockpit was absolutely amazing.

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After we got airborne and began working the SSC part of the mission going from altitude to get a radar plot and down to checking out specific ships, my stomach began to come unglued. My TACCO asked if I was alright and Russ expressed concern. We finished rigging another ship and Russ decided we would climb out and head to the area for the second part of our mission as the hijacked airliner and wait for the E-2 to commence the exercise. On the way, Lieutenant Bartlett would do something that changed my life.

“Come up front.”

My stomach had calmed down since I’d emptied its contents. We safed our ejection seats and Lieuantant R. D. climbed out of the COTAC’s seat and traded places with me. I climbed into the COTAC seat (the first time I’d ever flown up front), strapped in, and was immediately awed by the incredible view my pilots and COTACs had.

We re-armed the ejection seats and then Russ told me he was going to fly a series of maneuvers. He took us through turns and then we did an aileron roll. My stomach became uncomfortable but nothing like it was while sitting in back. He then took us through a loop.

“Now you fly the airplane.”

WTF! ME? I had never flown an airplane before. With caution and some reluctance, I put my hand around the stick. Russ then talked me through turns (he kept a light touch on his control stick and did the throttle work). Then, an aileron roll (that amazed me and scared the hell out of me). Then, he took me through a loop. All the while, he kept a running commentary forcing my mind to focus on what I was doing and not listening to my stomach. Once finished with this final maneuver, he explained some things.

“In the back, your inner ear is tumbling as the airplane maneuvers. However, because you are enclosed back there with sparse reference to the aircraft’s movement and you are monitoring your screens, your eyes tell your brain a perceived truth that you’re not moving. That conflict between eyes and inner ear causes you to get sick. Being up front allows you to have clear movement references. Even better, being in control occupies your brain.

"Unless you become a pilot or an NFO [Naval Flight Officer], you’re not going to get up front here on a regular basis. So when the airplane starts maneuvering or it’s a bumpy flight, take more time to look at the COTAC’s artificial horizon [most of the time you could see it if the COTAC’s flight gear didn’t get in the way]. More importantly, start telling your brain what is happening and that it’s okay.”

After all the maneuvering and discussion, I realized something. I didn’t feel any nausea! I wanted to stay up there for the rest of my life. But it was time for the second part of our mission. Once again, we safed our seats. As I climbed out, I turned and stood for a moment looking out of the front windscreen. Such an incredible, beautiful view! I returned to my seat and we heard the E-2 calling telling us to squawk the hijack IFF code.

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A very maneuverable aircraft causing much discomfort for those in the back seats. A VS-29 S-3 in the vertical.

Lieutenant Bartlett saved me that day. After that flight (no less than 7 years of additional flying), I never threw up again. Over the next 2 years, we would fly together many times and his mastery of the aircraft and the air would once again save me, our crew, and our airplane from near-disaster.

Russ would stay with VS-24 for our next Med cruise aboard the USS Theodore Roosevelt and he would be selected “1989 US Navy S-3 Pilot of the Year”. His humble ambition opened amazing doors for him allowing him to slide into his next skin: The F/A-18 Hornet. As a fighter pilot, he would come back home to CAG-8 and fly 33 combat missions from the Roosevelt’s deck with VFA-15 during Operation Desert Storm. In 1999, he would command his own Hornet squadron and then, in 2002, reach the pinnacle of his career by being selected as the Blue Angel's boss for the 2003-2004 airshow season. A genuinely brilliant life for a genuinely great soul and I had the honor of flying with him!

Unknown Contact!

We stayed for what seemed an eternity on BENO station. Sadly, our presence did nothing to liberate Terry Waite or the other hostages (Waite would remain a prisoner until 1991). As the Mediterranean winter transitioned into spring, I gained flight hours, experience, and (to some degree) confidence in myself as a Viking SENSO.

However, the battle group was about to enter into a major Sixth Fleet/NATO exercise known as Dragon Hammer ’87. And I would face another opportunity to be hammered by yet another dragon that would force me to get a clue as to just how much responsibility a single kid-AW in a multi-million dollar aircraft had in determining whether we would kill an enemy or a friend.

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During the intel brief, we were informed we would be searching for an Orange Force (enemy) submarine of the Italian Sauro class. All U.S. nuclear submarines (nucs) were operating as Blue Force (friendly) and were in designated “safe” boxes to ensure there would be no “Blue on Blue” engagements (something that was common in exercises and, tragically, far too common during wartime_. The intel officer warned us, however, that one of the U.S. boats was close to the expected position of the enemy Sauro. I thought to myself: “Diesel vs. nuc? No problem!”

Upon launching from the Nimitz’ deck, we were immediately vectored to a datum of a suspected enemy submarine “snorkeling” about 150 miles along the carrier’s PIM (Path of Intended Movement). The pilot pushed the throttles “to the stops” (as they say) and I prepared my system for classifying the contact.

We arrived on top and the submarine was still there. Still at periscope depth (PD). And according to the front-seaters, only a periscope was visible. This was odd. It was broad daylight. The boat wasn’t moving. It wasn’t snorkeling.

Just before we marked on top, the TACCO popped a buoy out. And just after we passed over the periscope, he dropped another. The pilot in a startled voice said: “I can see it clearly! She’s just hovering there with her periscope out of the water!”

One of the two NFOs chimed in. "So what you’re saying, then, is it isn’t a POSSUB?”

I’m sure the pilot turned to whoever said it and raised his middle finger. Meanwhile, he was setting up for another pass down the right side of the aircraft so that the COTAC could get a look-see and hopefully classify the boat. After all, our NFOs were far more ASW-minded than our bus-driving pilots.

“Yeah, it's a submarine alright.”

Dammit! Well, we AWs trained regularly in visual recognition of submarines. I asked the pilot to bring it down the left side of the aircraft in hopes of getting a very short, limited glance at it. “Let the recce-expert see it. I’ll make the call!” I said in my head. He obliged.

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I reported to the TACCO that I wasn’t seeing or hearing anything distinctive from this contact that I could use to make a classification with. That was good news. The odds were clearly against it being one of the friendly U.S. nuclear boats. He warned me that we were almost there. I pasted my face against my tiny, tiny window and it flashed by.

Dear God! It had a sail with sailplanes!

All U.S. nuclear-powered submarines had a sail with sailplanes. It had a periscope with a camouflaged tube! U.S. nuclear submarines had periscopes with camouflaged tubes.

I wiped the gathering beads of sweat from my forehead just as Alpha-Xray asked again: “Scout 702, classify the contact. Is it an enemy or friend?!” The TACCO looked at me. The COTAC twisted his body around to look back at me.

“SENSO?”

“I… ummm… I… She has sailplanes and a camouflaged periscope! Is it a friendly? U.S. boats have those things!”

Sauro class submarine. This is basically the perspective of what I saw except she was at periscope depth, distorted by the water and my tiny window.

We climbed a little bit and I watched as my system began to process the buoys we had dropped. I had been anticipating the noises of a diesel submarine just as we approached. But with no snorkel up, I really didn’t know what I would find. The TACCO established radio contact with the ASW commander for the battle group “Alpha-Xray” and informed him what we had come upon. His immediate question: “Enemy or friendly submarine?"

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The first trickle of sweat rolled down my spine.

The crew asked me to answer Alpha-Xray’s question. My system was still processing the first transmissions from the 2 sonobuoys. I willed a submarine signature to start showing itself on my display. Nothing was showing. Since he had such a clear view of the submarine just below the surface, I asked the pilot to describe what he saw. Better to deflect responsibility for a moment and buy time while I quietly begged the system to reveal its secrets.

“It’s a submarine!”

“Yes, Sir. But was it large? Did it have the hull of a U.S. nuc or a short hull expected of a diesel?”

“It’s a submarine!”

There was a collective sigh of frustration from my 4 officers. We began to discuss it. The COTAC rummaged through his helmet bag and pulled out a copy of An Illustrated Guide to Modern Sub Hunters and flipped through the pages. He started shaking his head.

“The Sauro has sail planes!”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Worse, as the supposed expert on recce of submarines and warships, I should have already known that and should have prepared much better for this mission. This wartime mission. Even though he now had an S-3 Viking making passes over his periscope, the submarine commander still did not move, adding more pain to my attempt at solving this equation.

“What do we do?” the pilot asked the TACCO. And then it happened. Over the ASW commander’s net came a voice different from the one we had been hearing from:

“This is COMSIXTHFLEET, I need you gentlemen to make a decision. You are there. Is it an enemy submarine or not.”

As we returned to the carrier to enter the overhead stack for recovery, not a word was spoken inside the cockpit except those verbalizations necessary for safe navigation of the aircraft. The t-shirt underneath my flightsuit was soaked (and I have to confess, the air conditioner in the Viking is the best damn A/C unit I have ever experienced).

I had a lot of time to think and I came to a full realization just how much responsibility I had sitting in that seat. Yes, my crew, my ship, my battlegroup, and even our fleet commander relied on the decisions I made about whether or not a submarine was friend or foe.

Far more important and overwhelming, however, was that my decision could kill an entire crew of a U.S. Navy or Allied submarine. My decision: 50…80…120 lives. I was just a 21-year old kid. And in that seat, I was completely alone.

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S-3 about to trap.

We were told in debriefing that the Sauro we had attacked had already been sunk by the U.S. nuc that was not too far away. The Italian submarine skipper was just waiting out the required time before he could regenerate into another enemy submarine and continue the exercise. Why he had retracted his snorkel prior to our arrival was a mystery. Perhaps his batteries had a full charge?

However, when COMSIXTHFLEET voice was heard on our radio, he had raised it again and resumed charging his batteries. My helmet was filled with the sound and my display with the visual representation of his diesel engines. And why Alpha-Xray or COMSIXTHFLEET wasn’t aware of that fact just confirmed that even in an exercise, the fog of War was very much present. Our attack, though carried out with an emotional mix of anger and triumph, was ultimately inconsequential, not to mention opportunistic in a shooting-fish-in-a-barrel sort of way.

Dragon Hammer continued until May 15, 1987. I flew a few more missions. But the person manning the cockpit was a different Anti-submarine Warfare operator. And then on the morning of May 18, history would once again mark the time.

I walked into Ready Room Four in pressed dungarees and my VS-24 ball cap preparing to do a turnover with the ASDO (Assistant Squadron Duty Officer) watch with my fellow AW who had been standing it the night before. I had just come from CVIC (carrier intelligence center), having picked up the squadron’s morning message traffic. It was my job to compile them and, based on time and security classification, sort them and then place them on the “message boards” to be read by the skipper, the XO, and all the officers.

The off-going ASDO looked over my shoulder and said: “The XO and CO have already come through. They are in a briefing with the battlegroup commander.” That was unusual. He reached for a message I was about to place on the “secret” board and said “That one!” I read the subject line:

Subj.: USS Stark attacked by missiles in Gulf

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For a day-or-so. there was the usual Navy scuttlebutt going around that we would transit the Suez Canal and head into the Persian Gulf to launch strikes against whoever did this. Thankfully, despite losing 29 in the initial attack, the incredible crew of the Oliver Hazard Perry class frigate fought to save their seemingly fragile warship and the Stark was able to limp to Bahrain.

We stayed in the Med and 2 days later anchored in Augusta Bay just off the east coast of Sicily to commence our turnover with the USS Kitty Hawk (CV-63). As has been done since the birth of the Sixth Fleet in 1950, weapons, supplies, equipment and sometimes aircraft were transferred from the carrier ending her tour to the one replacing her.

And just like that, my first Med cruise came to its end.

Nimitz Battle Group resupplying in the Med in 1987.

We weighed anchor and headed west toward Gibraltar. Unfortunately, I really didn’t grasp the historical significance of what would happen as we passed through the Strait into the Atlantic (something the USS Nimitz had done at least ten times since 1976). Instead of maintaining a course west toward Norfolk, Virginia (her homeport since she was commissioned a warship of the United States Navy on May 3, 1975), we turned south and set sail for her new home on the West Coast.

The Nimitz would never again return to the Med as an aircraft carrier under the flag of the Atlantic Fleet.

A Rite Of Passage

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Our passage south would take us across the Equator to a port call in the exotic Brazilian port of Rio. We would then sail around the southern tip of South America through the infamous Cape Horn and head toward Bremerton, Washington where Nimitz would call home, sailing under the flag of the Pacific Fleet.

Although the crew was excited to depart the Med, we didn’t have the classic case of “channel fever” (that dangerous ailment that infects a crew heading home). We still had a full month to go at sea.

As we made our way to the equator crossing, we did not do any flying. For me, Nimitz’s bow became a place of rest and relaxation as I marveled at the different views the late afternoon sky and sunsets provided.

A crossing of the Equator on any American warship is a rite of passage, an important tradition. Even as early as the 1980s, naval traditions were slipping through the fingers of sailors and were not being replaced with anything substantive.

Being woken up by screaming voices and hands pounding stand-up lockers sent me back to that first morning at Great Lakes. My once faithful SENSO comrades had donned the clothes one would expect to find on pirates and herded us to the hangar bay to join a significant majority of the carrier’s crew. There, we were reminded that all humans were born a Wog (short for “Pollywog”, a tadpole or a sailor who has not yet crossed the line). And nothing was of a lower lifeform than a Wog.

I won’t go into the particulars of the tradition here. But the remainder of the morning and early afternoon was spent experiencing advanced techniques in humiliation. My favorite was the competition between two Wogs to see which could blow the putrid water out of the padeyes that littered the carrier deck (these are where the aircraft tie-down chains are fastened to keep a plane from moving). Of course, one Wog is ordered to put their face just above the padeye while the other Wog is ordered to do the same on the opposite side. You can figure out the rest (yeah, my face was covered!). Also, having to squirm through a tunnel filled with the compiled garbage and wasted food of 5,800 sailors over the past few days was simply one of those bucket list moments!

Shellback initiation aboard a U.S. Navy ship circa 1982.

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A final favorite was having my face forced into the belly of the “royal baby” which was thick with catapult grease. It wasn’t the grease that disturbed me. It was the fact that the Navy’s PFT (physical fitness training) program certainly wasn’t working.

After enough entertainment was had by all of King Neptune’s court, we were all baptized and converted into the Order of the Shellback. It was a fantastic needed experience that binds sailors together, reminding them just how unique and important their lives are with the Navy family. The ceremony also provides the perfect opportunity for the flight deck and the hangar bay to get a thorough scrub down which becomes a major exercise in the movement of aircraft.

We continued on a south-by-southwesterly heading and pulled into Rio. As had been the practice of the Nimitz’ Captain in the Med, we would only have three days to enjoy this port. One of the things that strikes you when you arrive at the waterfront of any major seaport where the U.S. Navy visits is the obnoxious greeting you receive from the loud presence of McDonalds’ Golden Arches. In the face of all of the rich history and magnificent cuisine, the line of American sailors roping out the door of the American fast food joint is a genuine cultural tragedy. (I had a Big Mac, medium fry, and a large Dr. Pepper).

A Sikorsky SH-3H Sea King helicopter from the U.S. Navy helicopter anti-submarine squadron HS-9 Sea Griffins of Carrier Air Wing Eight (CVW-8) assigned to the USS Nimitz and a Sikorsky/Agusta SH-3 Sea

King helicopter from the Brazilian Navy squadron HS-1 lower AQS-13 dipping sonar during Exercise Topex 1-87, an anti-submarine warfare exercise in which 4 inter-mixed U.S. and Brazilian helicopter flight

crews participated.

Sadly, our brief stay in Rio wasn’t a good one. A couple of my squadron mates (not AWs) were arrested on what I recall were questionable charges. We ended up having to leave them there. (A complicated story that goes beyond the legal issue. We had some difficult senior officers throughout the Nimitz that showed far too much self-interest than leadership.) As we pulled out of Rio, our angry carrier CO berated VS-24 over the 1MC (or 1 Main Circuit, the ship's public address system) and shortly after almost lost his job (and potentially some lives) as we nearly collided with an oil tanker. Fun times were had by all!

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Flight ops were once again suspended for the duration as we now raced south to the bottom of the World. The aircraft that couldn’t be stored in the hangar bay were tied down and sealed off against the elements. We all anticipated that our carrier would be tossed about by the weather and seas that Cape Horn is notorious for. We were surprised by a relatively clear cold morning sky as the Nimitz’ Navigator invited everyone to see the very southern tip of South America off our starboard side.

We made our way quickly up the west coast of the Americas, not stopping to visit Chile or anywhere else. As we approached San Diego, our 10 Vikings were readied and 10 AWs were picked for the fly-off and cross-country flight back to Florida. I was very happy to be number 10. It was, in reality, very unfair to fellow AWs who had been in the squadron longer than I. But the Navy does things by rank.

We flew first to NAS North Island and stayed overnight. It was a remarkable “full-circle” for me to walk back into the Trainer Building and say hello to all my instructors. All 10 of the flight crews were exhausted from our 7 months at sea and slept the night away. Early the following morning, our 10 aircraft launched out of San Diego and flew across the incredibly beautiful expanse of the United States (well, what I could see of it out my tiny window anyway).

S-3s in formation.

We refueled at Tinker AFB in Oklahoma and arrived at NAS Cecil Field in Florida in the early evening, having crossed through all of the countries’ time zones. It was good to be on solidly dry land.

A first cruise is difficult for any sailor regardless of age, rank, or job title. For me, it was a loss of innocence and forced entry into the responsibility of being an adult. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t prepared. I was actually angry with my brother for not telling me about what I would encounter. He wrote and told stories that were filled with the excitement of flying in the S-3 aboard the carrier. However, he was far better prepared for the world of the sailor than I.

My experience as a loner growing up prepared me to sit alone in my SENSO seat and become the best AW I could be. My desire for solitude failed me in an environment that feeds on teamwork and inter-reliance to make it through arduous times of being aboard ship. I quickly found out that any free

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time sailors had became time to find all the weak points of their fellow sailors and exploit them with various forms of harassment. If you showed any emotion, the feeding frenzy ensued. It was a brutal experience for a kid like me. And it was the greatest thing that could have ever happened to me.

I had to grow-the-hell-up!

I wish among so many other things I failed to do that I had had someone measure the thickness of my skin in December of 1986. I’m certain had they done a second measurement in July of 1987, it would have been found to be considerably thicker.

A Theoretical S-3 Viking Mission From Start To Finish

Allow me to take you on a ride in the S-3A. It’ll be a morning hop from the deck of the Nimitz that is scheduled to last 2 hours.

When I woke up at 0500 on my way to take a shower, I checked the flight schedule which is posted on our berthing bulkhead. The OPS guys were usually up until the wee hours waiting for the Air Wing to figure out what was going to happen the following day. So we usually hit the rack before the schedule was done. My launch time is 0700. So I’ll grab some breakfast in the main galley one deck below the hangar bay and be in the ready room for the briefing at 0615. It’ll be the second launch of the day.

Two birds are launching with the other collection of Air Wing aircraft. Both of us will be doing SSC missions. One ahead of the Nimitz’s PIM and our aircraft Scout 710 will be going north of the carrier. “Good mornings” are passed among the two crews and we sit in the comfortable chairs as the ready room TV comes to life with the meteorological brief. The pilots and NFOs (Naval Flight Officers) make notes. The CAG intel officer then briefs today's strike mission that the fighter and attack guys are going on.

Although there will be no ASW brief from the ASMOD, the CAG intel guy gets our attention when he informs us that we will be looking for a North Korean freighter that entered the Med from the Suez Canal a week ago and is suspected of trying to deliver arms somewhere along the North African coast. A picture of it is shown.

Then our own Squadron Duty Officer (SDO) briefs us on aircraft numbers, aircraft mission status, frequencies, codes and things for the pilots and NFOs to do their pilot and NFO shit with.

Finally, my pilot turns to us and we begin our crew brief discussing the mission and then emergency procedures. I listen intently as he covers “Single Engine Failure off the Cat” with the COTAC and they go through the procedure together, actually acting it out as if they were in the cockpit. He then picks a random emergency procedure from Part V or “Section Five” of our NATOPS manual, usually something related to ejection or emergency egress from the aircraft. It is always something we long-ago committed to brain and muscle memory. He calls out “Man-Seat Separation Failure”. As we verbalize it together, I close my eyes and act it out in my chair:

Harness release handle – squeeze/pullOccupant – rotate forwardSeat – forcibly push awayD-ring – manually pull

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The TACCO and I then head out of the Ready Room and go forward down the long passageway on the O-3 level to the ASMOD to pick up the TTC (Tape Transport Cartridge) and ATR (Analog Tape Recorder). I check in with the AWs to see if there are any submarines of interest out there. They tell us that a Soviet Foxtrot class diesel boat left its anchorage off Tunisia four days ago and for us to be on the lookout for it. My TACCO heads to CVIC to get the 35mm intel camera and I head to the VS-24 Paraloft to suit up for the flight.

I enter the paraloft which is a few doors down from our ready room. My flight gear along with the individual gear of every other AW, pilot ,and NFO in the squadron is hanging from one of the pegs along the bulkhead. I pull on all my flight gear and make my way out to the flight deck.

a Navy pilot gears up for a flight in the paraloft

As I reach the flight deck, I put my helmet on since the HS-9 plane guard Sea King is launching. Aircraft 710 is on elevator #1 and I only have a short walk to take from the protection of the carrier’s island superstructure.

As I move forward, my head begins a constant swivel looking for turning propellers, speeding MD-3 flight deck tractors or ‘huffer’ carts, purple shirts hauling fuel hoses, and aircraft either under tow or taxiing. After passing two A-7s and an F-14, I find 710 with the APU (auxiliary power unit) already started. I greet the flight deck crew with a smile and climb up into the bird checking to see the head-knockers (ejection seat arming levers) on the TACCO and SENSO’s ejection seats are down (safe) and put my helmet bag and ATR on my ejection seat.

I then drop back out of the crew hatch and begin a quick external preflight checking avionics bays for secured boxes, the Liquid Oxygen (LOX) bay for any signs of frost or ice on the 10 liter LOX ‘bottle’ (which looks more like a green basketball than a bottle), landing gear tires for undue wear, the

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engine fan blades for damage and consistency, the tailhook for damage, and the presence of a “remove before flight” pin.

Finally, I check the 60 sonobuoy chutes for buoy placement, secureness, and the load we want to carry.

Kevin pre-flighting the S-3 Viking.

During the entire inspection, I keep an eye out for hydraulic and fuel leaks or puddles. Frequently with such a relatively large aircraft, the tail of the Viking is hanging over the deck or elevator edge precluding any preflight. It is then that we truly rely on the professional attention to detail of the squadron plane captain (brown shirt), maintenance techs and mechs (green shirts), and final checkers (white shirts with a checkerboard spray-painted on it) to check that portion of the aircraft before they park it in that position and after we begin to taxi to the catapult.

Climbing back into the aircraft, I move into the avionics tunnel to load my ATR and check all the avionics boxes ensuring they are mounted correctly. After checking the circuit breaker panels, I perform my most important preflight: inspection of my ejection seat.

By the time I sit down, the TACCO is just settling in and the pilot is starting #1 engine. The hatch is closed and #2 engine is started. The TACCO then turns power on to the GPDC and starts the loading sequence from the TTC. If we have any problems with the load and there is time before the launch starts, the pilot will shutdown the #2 engine to allow the troubleshooting techs to determine the source of the problem.

As the computer loads, I’m checking my own boxes and screens at my station to ensure I have a system that is completely ready. I sit and listen intently to the talk in the cockpit, particularly between the two front seaters. They have an informed view of what is going on outside the aircraft and any safety issues such as the very real possibility of an aircraft crashing on deck or one catching fire that will be relayed by them directing what actions, if any, we in the back should take.

They also will begin the checklists that will require us to arm our ejection seats as soon as the plane captain gets permission to remove the chains binding us to the flight deck.

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an S-3 crew prepared for launch.

As we taxi, I’m going through my various sensor systems ensuring they are working correctly. Meanwhile, the COTAC or pilot is giving us a running commentary of where we are on the flight deck (particularly at night and/or in bad weather) providing us with situational awareness.

You learn to listen to the tone of the officers’ voices to have that additional understanding of what is happening. This is so critical because despite its layer of non-skid, an aircraft carrier deck is a very slippery place where airplanes regularly slide along, sometimes beyond what the yellow shirt directing the aircraft intends. Add a stormy night when you are trying to get to a catapult on a moving deck and it can be downright terrifying.

On one such terrible night, a sliding aircraft and the fear heard in the voices of the front-seaters caused a SENSO in another squadron to self-eject thinking that the aircraft was going over the deck edge into the ocean. Thankfully, he survived and the aircraft stayed on the deck.

The always amazing yellow shirts direct us from our parking spot to the waist catapults. I hated launching from Cat 4 since our left main-mount tire rubbed the deck edge scupper and out my tiny window was nothing but ocean. I loved launching from Cat 4 because it was the shortest track of the four catapults on a modern carrier deck. Thus, it provided the most powerful cat shot, particularly if you had a heavy airplane. As we turn sharply by elevator 4, I see that we are being readied to go to Cat 4 (dammit and yay!).

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View from the cockpit as the S-3 prepares to taxi aboard the boat.

We are positioned behind the raised Jet Blast Deflector (JBD) of cat-3 where an E-2 is just going to full power. It just had to wait for us and the other S-3 to pass before it unfolded its wings. The pilot calls for the stowing of the INCOS trays (our control interfaces in the back) as the Hawkeye quickly disappears from view. Cat-3’s JBD is retracted back into the flight deck giving us a clear path to cat-4. We’re next.

We taxi forward ... the pilot unfolds the wings ... and we are hooked up to the catapult shuttle. I deselect ‘hot mic’ on my intercom system control panel ensuring that the engine sound at full power will not bleed over the intercom system, dangerously interfering with cockpit communication. If I see or smell something wrong, I’ll simply shift my foot to the foot pedal actuator on the floor and let them know. I glance around at the right-side circuit breaker panel, look at the TACCO and his station to make sure he looks hooked up and ready to go. I give him a 'thumbs up' and look over my station one last time.

The airplane goes to full power and I "assume the position" ensuring my entire body is in the proper ‘ejection envelope’. If something goes terribly wrong, I will not have time to think about where my arms, legs, or head is. Should one of the front-seaters pull their ejection handles, my seat’s rocket motor will have me clear of the aircraft in 4/10ths of a second, separated from my seat in 7/10ths of a second. and I’ll be underneath a full canopy in 3.7 seconds regardless of whether-or-not my neck is broken.

The pilot then does his full ‘wipeout’ of the controls and calls out particular instruments that the COTAC confirms are good for a proper launch. The engines are screaming and airplane is bucking against the holdback fitting and the COTAC looks back to see two 'thumbs up' from the both of us in the back.

Boom! We are racing down the track and with a jolt we are airborne!

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The aircraft banks quickly to the left performing the requisite clearing turn to ensure we don’t collide with someone launching from the bow catapults. There isn’t anyone. But we do it every time regardless or the Air Boss will make sure the pilot knows he failed to do so in his usual loving and condescending manner on UHF for all to hear. Wings go back level, the gear are up, and everyone relaxes a bit.

Launching and trapping are always the most dangerous moments in naval aviation. So what just happened there from the moment we manned the aircraft to this point we are climbing out away from the ship, not a single radio transmission is made by anyone on the carrier or in an airplane during a day VFR launch unless there is an emergency. Not a word! I am still humbled by this tremendous fact.

If we aren’t under EMCON (emissions control - basically radio frequency silence) conditions, I ask the COTAC to put power to the radar and I get down to work. As we climb to altitude and check in with the E-2 for tasking or vectoring, I begin my search in a relatively small scale on my radar screen. My desire is to develop an immediate picture of what radar contacts we have around the carrier. I also want to try and catch any airborne targets to warn the pilot of the presence of another aircraft. Although I really couldn’t determine altitude, the APS-116 radar did a really good job detecting aircraft.

As contact was made, I ‘hooked’ it with my trackball and created a radar symbol on everybody’s display. If, say, there was a large collection of fishing vessels in one locale, I’d mark one contact and inform the TACCO of the number of boats so as not to clutter our displays.

The E-2 Hawkeye does have tasking for us. Real-time intel suspects that the North Korean freighter might be in a shipping lane 140 miles to our north. We level off at a good cruising altitude and I extend the range of my radar display and begin to mark contacts. Since it will take a while to get there, the inevitable cockpit talk begins and fattened helmet bags are relieved of their contents.

I might have some candy bars I share with the other three. They might have crackers or a couple of cans of Coke or Pepsi. The discussions are always informative and fun. My enlisted-ness was left on

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the flight deck. But there was always the standing rule. What’s talked about in the cockpit stays in the cockpit.

Of course, if one of the senior officers (Lieutenant Commander or above) was in the cockpit with us, it might be a quiet flight. However, if you’re flying with the Ops or Maintenance Department officer or the XO or CO, they tended to loosen their tongue and we had tabloid access to the latest Air Wing, carrier, and battlegroup gossip. Being the sole enlisted guy in the aircraft had its unexpected benefits!

Normally when doing an SSC mission, we would make a radar plot and then drop down to investigate as many of ships as time and tasking allowed. If of interest, the COTAC would take a picture of the ship. On this flight, we just plotted the ship returns and made our way to the area that the North Korean ship might be. As we get closer to the site, the TACCO sets up a search box and I mark every radar contact. We have plenty of fuel so we drop down and begin a systematic search.

We aren’t going to spend any time with each ship. Just check to see if it resembles the intel pic that the COTAC has in hand. If there are multiple ships in the area, I alternate between radar and FLIR to visually rule out ships that are clearly not similar. If we think there is one, we go over and take a closer look.

Also, I am constantly updating my radar contacts. By doing so, the GPDC (mission computer) takes my multiple entries and estimates the speed and direction of movement the contact is making, displaying it on everyone’s scope. The good thing about cargo ships is that they rarely alter course or change speed since their owners want them to go from point A to point B as quickly and fuel efficiently as possible.

Warships are another matter. If we gain contact on one and determine visually that it is a warship, it automatically gets our full attention. We report these immediately and give them extra care, especially if they belong to an unfriendly nation. After another hour, none of the contacts develop into the North Korean boat. Clearly, we won’t be making it back to the carrier for our scheduled recovery. But when you’re flying in the S-3, that isn’t a problem.

We hear the E-2 calling but not on our UHF frequency. “Scout 710, Bear Ace on guard.” We climb up to altitude due to poor radio reception with the Hawkeye and try to get them on UHF.

“Bear Ace, Scout 710 on UHF.”

“Scout 710, read you. Ident and say fuel.”

The COTAC determines the fuel state and radios it to the E-2.

“Roger that, 710. Go UHF secure.”

We comply.

“Scout 710, read you loud and clear. New tasking. Possible subsurface contact bearing 176 from you, 102 miles. Detected by Briar Patch. Briar Patch heading in that direction from the south, ETA 1.5 hours. Mother and escorts have gone EMCON and are moving further south. Be advised Intel states no expected Soviet submarine in this area. Your signal is buster.”

The E-2 is telling us that one of our escorts (call sign Briar Patch) had an ESM (electronic support measures, basically RF emissions) hit north of its position from an emitter usually only seen from a Soviet nuclear submarine. We passed over Briar Patch, a Knox class frigate on our way up here. So, the

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origin of this ESM hit is between us and our escort. We didn’t get the hit for our own ESM systems since we were down low checking surface ship names. We are to head there at fastest practical speed. As always, the pilot is keeping a running tally on our fuel load.

“Bear Ace, Scout. Roger that. Advise Mom to have another Viking ready if we do obtain contact. We estimate only 1 hour on station due to fuel expended and Mom’s move away from us.”

The E-2 acknowledged. Thank God for the ever-present angel that the Hawkeye always was for Vikings everywhere.

The TACCO instructs me to turn off the radar as the pilot pushes the throttles forward and we climb out to take up the prescribed heading.

“I don’t want him to know we are up here if he hasn’t already figured it out. We’ll wait until we are in the suspected area before we radar flood.”

I “Roger that, Sir” and turn the APS-116 off.

I get my acoustic system ready and tune-up one of the 31 frequencies available to us to get the system processing. I also check additional frequencies to see if anything is being transmitted on them since there is shipping in the area and the coast of Crete is relatively close. Unfortunately, the frequency range allotted for sonobuoys transmission just so happens to be used by dispatching companies, fire and police departments, and doctor’s messaging beepers (at least in the United States, anyway). Any sort of RF transmissions could interfere with my reception from the sonobuoys. It’s not expected. But I always want to be ready.

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“ESM hit from a Snoop Tray!” the COTAC excitedly calls out.

At the same time, the TACCO says a Link 11 ESM contact is displayed giving a relatively good fix on where the possible submarine might be transmitting. It’s looking more-and-more like an actual submarine since the transmissions are only single sweeps. She is clearly trying to find the battlegroup with her mast-extended Snoop Tray radar. I ask the TACCO if I can radiate to try and gain contact on the exposed masts. He hesitates ... then says “No. We have a fix. Let’s go in and drop a pattern and try and maintain some measure of surprise.”

We begin to descend to a good altitude to drop sonobuoys. The TACCO has been talking with the frigate, convincing the ship’s TAO to convince the ship’s skipper to stop their high-speed run toward the contact and deploy their SQR-19 towed sonar array since we are going to be on top of the fix in a few minutes.

Alpha-Xray comes up on our frequency and informs us that the S-3 they had planned to send to relive us due to our diminishing fuel is ‘mission-down’ (probably meaning they don’t have a good system) . Another Viking won’t be able to get here for another 2 hours. They have decided to send an A-6 tanker out to refuel us. Additionally, NAS Sigonella is going to launch its alert P-3 and a Royal Navy Nimrod operating out of Cyprus has changed course and is headed this way. Clearly, Sixth Fleet has been caught off guard by this contact.

The TACCO sets up a pre-planned pattern of sonobuoys and sends a Fly-To-Point (FTP) to the pilot’s limited screen. He can only see symbology such as this FTP or a radar contact. We don’t want him distracted by an actual radar or FLIR display. “I’m not going to drop a BT buoy right away. That temp probe will make too much noise.”

After a few more minutes the TACCO calls “60 seconds for first drop. Keep an eye out for a feather.”

I hear a <pop> as the SSQ-53 DIFAR buoy is ejected from our aircraft and the TACCO calls “RF2 away.”

I instantly tune up RF2 and begin to listen. You can actually hear the buoy’s hydrophone descend to its depth. Even as it descends to its preset depth, the buoy begins to transmit the sounds the ocean is making. I look hard for that classic signature associated with a variety of Soviet submarines that have a Snoop Tray radar. Nothing.

“After we lay this initial pattern, we’ll climb out and hook up with the tanker,” the pilot tells the TACCO.

As if on cue: “Scout 710, Bear Ace. Raygun 502 bears 196 at 27, angles 15, left-hand pattern.” Raygun was the callsign for an A-6E tanker from VA-35 Black Panthers.

“RF 10 away. Depth for this one is 200 feet. I’m going to alternate as we go along.”

Since we didn’t drop a BT buoy to evaluate the temperature of the water down to a depth of 1000 feet, we don’t know where the ‘layer’ is. Buoys placed at 90 feet and then 200 feet attempts to get a hydrophone above and below a possible layer in hopes of gaining contact.

We laid the remaining buoys and I tuned each one up, waiting for the information to populate. It was a 12-buoy pattern so I could watch all of them at the same time. In the S-3, we could display 16

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buoys at one time. The S-2 Tracker, on the other hand, could only watch four at a time. And just as the pilot said, we began to climb out to meet the tanker.

NATOPS only required an oxygen mask to be worn by the crew during a controlled ejection. It left the option to the crew to wear one during launch, recovery, and inflight refueling with the exception of tanking above 10,000 feet or refueling from a KC-135 or KC-10. The A-6 Intruder slowly grew in front of us, its drogue already hovering in the sky behind it.

“IFR checklist complete,” the COTAC called over the intercom. My oxygen mask was on and my visor was down. I glanced one more time out the front windscreen and advanced my display on the MPD. On my upper screen, I began to see something on RF22, one of the last buoys dropped and set at 200 feet. I quickly brought that buoy up on my MPD.

Yes!

“Contact RF22, subsurface contact, very weak. Possibly a Victor class SSN. No other buoy contact at this time.”

As I’m saying this, the pilot eases our refueling probe into the tanker’s drogue with just a hint of vertical movement.

Contact RF22! Subsurface contact. SENSO station MPD (lower screen) and Auxiliary Readout Unit (upper screen).

“Alpha-Xray, Scout 710 has subsurface contact on RF22, possible Victor class SSN.”

The buoy was placed on Link-11 as soon as it was dropped so the battlegroup will know where in the world it is. “Damnit! We aren’t getting gas.”

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‘Raygun, Scout, are you seeing any fuel transfer?’

“Negative, 710.”

Our attention is now divided between this surprising contact and the fact that we might not be able to take on gas. The pilot backs us out and away from the drogue. He might not have hit it hard enough to get it to transfer fuel. He increases the throttle and hits it pretty solidly.

“Scout 710, Alpha-Xray. Briar patch has contact.”

We only have two UHF radios so we are only talking to the A-6 and the ASW commander. Wish we could talk with the Knox class frigate directly to find out what they are classifying it as. Their towed array is far more sensitive than my DIFAR buoys.

“Losing contact on RF22, Sir. Gaining very weak contact on RF30.”

The last buoy in the pattern, also set at 200 feet. The submarine is moving south toward the carrier. We have got to get some gas so we can lay more buoys!

“710, still no transfer. We got a good package check from an F-14 just before we headed your way.”

“Roger that, Raygun. Break. Bear Ace, 710, we have to bingo to the boat right now.”

KA-6D about to refuel and S-3.

Dammit! We won’t be able to go down and track this guy. Thankfully, the tail ship has contact.

“Alpha-Xray, 710. Interrogative, P-3 or Nimrod?”

“Scout 710, Alpha-Xray. Standby ...”

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The E-2 vectors us and the tanker to the carrier while the TACCO gets the ETA on the P-3 and Nimrod. The former is an hour out; the latter about an hour-and-a-half. The frigate will hopefully maintain contact. We don’t have enough fuel to go back down and drop a proper tracking pattern. And there is something peculiar about this Victor. I should have contact on several buoys at one time. I continue to watch it fade in and quickly fade out on RF30.

“Alpha-Xray, Scout 710. Lost contact RF30.”

“Roger that, 710. Briar Patch has intermittent contact.”

We returned to the ship with vectors from the E-2 since the carrier went to EMCON to keep the submarine from finding her. This includes no TACAN emission. We had enough fuel to come in for a CASE I recovery meaning no radio communications with the carrier since it was still visual flight rules conditions.

Of course, the boat would have had us do a Carrier Controlled Approach had the weather been bad or had we been making a night recovery. Because everybody’s faster than us, the A-6 had already recovered and we broke at the bow. The pilot did call the ball on the radio and gave our very low fuel state. The pilot caught the “3-wire” and the LSOs gave him a grade of “OK.”

Back aboard safely. A VS-32 S-3 is directed out of the arresting gear aboard USS Theodore Roosevelt (CVN-71).

I quickly pulled the ATR out of the recorder and made my way to the ASMOD. The TACCO and COTAC beat me there by a few minutes. All of us are still in our flight gear. All three of our helmets resting on the watch officer’s desk. During the debrief, we reviewed the tape. We also found out the reason why the Victor was so quiet. She was a Victor III.

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So, this is how a complete mission from the carrier might go. This was all just a story I made up to show some of the detail of a typical flight. A ‘typical’ flight might just have turned out like this in the 1980s when you’re flying off an aircraft carrier in the Med, the Indian Ocean, the Persian Gulf, or the Western Pacific.

Actually, some of the particulars did happen to me such as not being able to refuel in flight when we had already called ‘bingo fuel’. Thankfully, we weren’t operating in a Blue Water Ops situation and made an emergency landing at Roosevelt Roads, Puerto Rico with both of our ‘fuel low’ lights glowing ominously.

Also, I have never tracked a Victor III or any other boats of the Victor class.

Regardless, it's a good end-to-end look at how life in the S-3 could unfold on any given day while deployed.

In The Enlisted We Trust

One of the genuinely amazing things about the U.S. Navy is how they train and then rely on enlisted personnel to perform critical missions that can hold the lives of many fellow sailors and objects of great monetary value in the balance. The S-3 was not alone in having an aircraft whose primary mission at the time relied on the training and professional performance of an enlisted Naval Aircrewman. The maritime patrol community relied on three AWs to contribute to the historical success of the P-3 Orion.

Additionally, I will never be able to say enough about the helo community where the AWs in the back of the SH-3 Sea King, the SH-2 Seasprite, and the SH-60B Seahawk not only performed similar tasks as their fixed-wing brethren but routinely risked their lives as SAR swimmers by leaving their aircraft “so others may live”. In my view, these guys defined the concept of hero each and every day the rotors turned overhead.

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https://www.thedrive.com/the-war-zone/32993/fighting-world-war-iii-in-a-fjord-and-chasing-soviet-submarines-in-the-s-3-viking

Fighting World War Three In A Fjord And Chasing Soviet Submarines In The S-3 Viking

It was the twilight of the Cold War and both Kevin Noonan and his S-3 Viking were maturing into more potent and wise weapons of war.

by Kevin Noonan and Tyler Rogoway / The WarZone / April 22, 2020

It was a time of peak naval aviation of sorts with President Reagan's military buildup having drastically expanded the Navy's fleet, the movie Top Gun having become a pop culture sensation, and the Soviet Union sputtering towards its eventual collapse. To call it a colorful time in military and world history would be a vast understatement. It was here during the twilight of the Cold War that Kevin Noonan found himself hunting submarines from the cabin of a carrier-based S-3 Viking.

We followed Noonan through the trials and tribulations of training and learning the shadowy art of chasing submarines from the sky. Then went along with him on his first cruise aboard an aircraft carrier where we got a full understanding of how he plied his deadly sub-hunting trade.

Now in this the 3rd part of our 4-part exclusive series, we strap-in beside Kevin to see not only him but also his beloved mount (the S-3 Viking) mature into wiser and more potent weapons of war.

Back To The Boat

After a major deployment, a carrier and its air wing tended to get a solid month of rest (rest being a relative term). At the squadron during the first days at home, our sister squadrons would stand our hangar and Squadron Duty Officer (SDO) watches. But even for the first month, we operated with a skeleton crew with many of the squadron members on leave and a good portion more being transferred to their next duty station. Some after a Mediterranean (Med) cruise were more than happy to get out of the Navy if their enlistment was up.

Those fools!

We did very little flying during the first month back home at NAS Cecil Field. In fact, a returning squadron sometimes gave up their best birds to the squadron that was in line to deploy next. Other aircraft (particularly the notoriously broken ‘hangar queens’) might be sent for major repair at a high-level maintenance station. My impression of this time around was that I had somehow rejoined the Naval Reserves! It was so quiet. But neither squadron nor aircraft carrier rests for long.

Oh, wait. We no longer had an aircraft carrier (at least for the time being).

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S-3 Vikings based at NAS Cecil Field flying over Jacksonville, Flordia in 1988.

It was one hell of an interesting culture shock when we arrived aboard the then-latest Nimitz class aircraft carrier, the USS Theodore Roosevelt (CVN-71) in February of 1988. She was to be Air Wing Eight’s (CAG-8) new home.

One might think that one Nimitz class carrier is the same as any other Nimitz class carrier. They, however, would be wrong. Granted, the various decks remain the same and to the untrained eye, the ship's outward appearance seems the same. But the personality of the ship, her crew, and the ship’s 'soul' are entirely different.

My fellow enlisted Naval Aircrewmen (AWs) and I of Sea Control Squadron 24 (VS-24) “Scouts” were excited to be aboard a brand-new boat. That is, until we discovered we did not have a special aircrew berthing or a space for our aircrew shop. Misery quickly set in.

No one from CAG-8 had bothered to think about the needs of VS-24 other than the acquisition of Ready Room Four that occupied the same deck and spaces we had aboard Nimitz as well as the maintenance shops required to allow our squadron to function. If memory serves, they failed to provide us with a place for our Personnel Department as well. As a result, that misery quickly transformed into being pissed off.

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A squadron ready room aboard a Nimitz class carrier circa 1988.

For our aircrew shop, we ended up getting a paint storage space that had no air conditioning and no heat. We’d be in the Caribbean in a few days and above the Arctic Circle in a few months. Worse still, we ended up sharing sleeping spaces on the O-3 level that berthed over a hundred other sailors in the stern or in the bow. We moved back-and-forth between these 2 locales several times over the next two years.

The space in the bow was the most difficult to adjust too. That berthing lay just beneath the bow catapults. Every time an aircraft would be launched, we’d be entertained with resonating sound of the shuttle running the length of catapult track ending with a powerful ‘THUMP!' as it stopped at the water brake. If we slept, it was a fitful, angry sleep.

It may sound like I’m whining. But aircrew sleeping habits were dictated by NATOPS (Naval Air Training and Operating Procedures Standardization) and we actually needed a small isolated space like we had on Nimitz that allowed us to sleep around the clock since we flew around that clock.

Granted, we couldn’t avoid the bow catapult sounds and the Air Wing’s ‘Officer Country’ sleeping area was also in the bow on the 0-3 level. So us enlisted guys weren’t subject to that issue alone. What we could have avoided was the noise made by a whole bunch of sailors coming and going throughout the day and night slamming stand-up and coffin lockers, laughing, and doing the things tired sailors do.

Yes, this is me still whining some 30 years later!

Otherwise, “TR” was a really great ship. Over the months ahead, we adjusted to the black shoe crew (those that ran the ship) and they to us and learned to commune with the spirit of this brand new, mighty aircraft carrier.

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The culture shocks kept coming, however. On the flight deck, an airplane that looked suspiciously like a lawn dart had replaced that lovable combat-proven Short Little Ugly Fucker (or SLUF) that was also known as the A-7 Corsair II. No longer did we share the flight deck with the Marauders of VA-82 and Sidewinders of VA-86.

After a week-or-so of carrier qualifications for all the air wing aircraft including the hybrid fighter-attack squadrons VFA-15 'Valions' and VFA-87 'Golden Warriors' and their shiny, new, low-viz grey F/A-18 Hornets, we headed to the Gitmo Op Area (just off Guantanamo Bay, Cuba) for a shakedown cruise. Although it took time, ship and air wing began to find a mutual rhythm.

Oh, here’s something you all may not have considered. Every time an Atlantic Fleet aircraft carrier pulled out of Norfolk or Mayport requiring its Air Wing to embark, the poor VAQ bastards (electronic attack squadrons) had to fly their EA-6B Prowlers and their squadron all the way across the length of the United States and meet their particular ship. And us Florida-based squadrons bitched and moaned constantly about our comparatively very short trek off our coast to the ship.

Since I had joined the Nimitz back in ’86, a month prior to her last Med deployment from the East Coast, I missed all the fun of the work-up cycle which found a carrier and her squadrons going to sea very often. Sometimes, it lasted just a couple of weeks while at other times we’d be at sea for a month-or-two. The process of going back-and-forth made going to the boat a genuine pain-in-the-ass. Looking back, of course, I’d gladly haul cruise boxes up and down narrow ladders and through endless numbers of knee-knockers just for the chance to serve aboard today!

Sometimes, the ship pulled out of Norfolk without us. Consider this brief interesting at sea period described in the Roosevelt’s official Command History:

Standardization and deceleration trials were conducted with David W. Taylor Naval Ship Research and Development Center observers at HECTOR RANGE on 23 and 24 April. Resulting data determined maximum speed for CVN-71 and filled in tactical data for NIMITZ class carriers.

Now that had to be fun!

The TR underway during training.79

As is the nature of an aircraft carrier’s flight deck, tragedy is just one distraction away no matter how well the crew gels. On the morning of March 13th, we happily welcomed the arrival of a C-2 Greyhound COD. After she unloaded her mail and supplies and reloaded passengers who were leaving the boat, the E-2 squadron maintenance personnel started her up for taxiing to the cat where she would launch with the next cycle.

I was in our ready room and for some reason my eyes were glued to the PLAT TV screen which was filled with the COD getting in position for launch. Then to my horror, a young VAW-124 plane captain…mesmerized…walked into one of the C-2’s spinning propellers. I just couldn’t understand what I just saw.

I do not remember much more of that day except the haunting sound of the call for a FOD (foreign object debris) walk-down on the flight deck after TR lost her first crew member.

Despite our tragic loss, we successfully completed a period of operations that had us learning how to work as an air wing again. The Roosevelt then sailed north out of the Caribbean and dropped anchor off of Fort Lauderdale, Florida on March 31st. Some of the aircraft and most of the CAG-8 personnel disembarked to make room for an oddly-timed Tiger Cruise that saw over 1,500 dependents join the Navy’s newest aircraft carrier.

At the end of the following month, we once again joined the TR for ops off of Virginia, Jacksonville and in the Caribbean to accommodate the Reactor Department’s major readiness inspection known as the ORSE (or Operational Reactor Safeguards Examination). This at-sea period lasted from the 23rd of May to the 28th of June.

Once again, tragedy struck the flight deck. This time it was a member of my own squadron and a friend. William Berry, a young airman, was working to become an Aviation Electrician (AE) if memory serves. He was one of the most promising, gentle, professional, and kind individuals I had ever had the pleasure of meeting.

Despite the admonishment to keep your head on a swivel on the flight deck to see what is going on all around you at all times, you can’t account for everything including not seeing a Tomcat turning its two powerful engines toward you. Berry was lifted off his feet by an F-14 and blown over the side of the flight deck falling 90 feet into the ocean, the surface of which acts as essentially concrete from such a high fall.

Some said they witnessed him struggling while others stated he didn’t move after impact. As the ship mustered for the man overboard, the plane guard helicopter searched and searched for him. Sadly, everyone quickly lost sight of him.

Once the ship-wide muster was complete confirming he was the only soul missing, I went out onto the starboard aft sponson in what daylight remained and stood there willing my eyes to see him just over there. His body was never recovered.

It is a genuinely precious thing when serving in the military and watching people die,to be forced to face the full weight of what it means to be human. Particularly at that young age when you are certain you are not only infallible and indestructible but also eternal.

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From Russia With Love

An interesting at-sea period took place without us having to embark on the 7th of July, 1988. Again, the ship’s official Command History describes what was a truly historic event:

The top Soviet military officer -- First Minister of Defense and Marshal of the Soviet Union Sergei F. Akhromeyev -- and a dozen top-ranking Soviet military officers embarked. The Marshal's visit was the first time a Soviet military leader had been aboard one of America's sophisticated nuclear-powered aircraft carriers.

Guests of the Chairman, Joint Chiefs of Staff Admiral William J. Crowe, the Soviets were given a tour of TR from galley to the bridge. Ship operations were explained by TR crew members. On the flight deck, they observed aircraft being launched and recovered and Carrier Air Wing EIGHT'S air power demonstration.

First Minister of Defense and Marshal of the Soviet Union Sergei F. Akhromeyev aboard the TR,S-3 Viking looming in the background.

A month later, President Reagan was giving a speech for the 70th Annual National Convention of the American Legion and described what took place aboard TR during the Soviet visit. His words still give me the chills:

“We took Marshal Akhromeyev to visit our newest supercarrier USS Theodore Roosevelt. We thought it would be a valuable education for him. And so he saw that magnificent ship go through its paces. He watched our superb aircraft perform. All in all, he spent a day on one of the technological wonders of the World. A floating airfield that his Navy had nothing to equal.

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And yet, you know what he said he was most impressed with when he was through with the visit? Our enlisted men and women. I was told that he couldn't get over the fact that we had them doing work that the Soviets would reserve exclusively for officers. And in many cases, very superior officers. And he couldn't believe that our enlisted people were so self-assured in speaking up when asked a question. So articulate in giving their replies and so ready to add their opinions.”

It was a great time to be an American sailor and a great great time to be an AW.

Then on August 25th, the USS Theodore Roosevelt joined up with her full battlegroup for the first time and set sail toward the North Atlantic on one of the most realistic exercises I had ever been on or would be a part of. Teamwork ’88 most closely resembled what we would do in a war with the Soviet Union.

War In The Fjords

As we prepared to engage in a wartime penetration of the Greenland-Iceland-United Kingdom (GIUK) gap on our way to the aircraft carrier bastions that were (and still are) the Norwegian fjords, we were joined by over 200 allied warships and auxiliaries and over 500 aircraft of all types. Some of those ships would form an amphibious strike force that would conduct a landing on the northern part of Norway on the 16th of September to practice repelling an anticipated Soviet invasion. German and Dutch warships would form a Task Group that would escort a resupply convoy sailing from England to Central Norway. From there, a Norwegian Task group would takeover escort duty and resupply allied warships and bases at Bodo and Narvik.

The United States’ first supercarrier the USS Forrestal (CV-59) would join the Nation’s latest supercarrier in a simulated battle. A third flat top -- the U.K. Royal Navy's HMS Illustrious (R06) -- would meet us off Iceland as we ran the GIUK gauntlet. The Brits would act as overall anti-submarine warfare (ASW) commanders for both carrier battle groups (CVBG) and the amphibious group.

To contrast a Cold War CVBG with today’s Carrier Strike Group (CSG), allow me to list my carrier’s battlegroup elements:

USS South Carolina (CGN-37) our primary carrier escortUSS Leyte Gulf (CG-55) air warfare commander and towed array shipUSS Mahan (DDG-42)USS William V. Pratt (DDG-44)USS Moosbrugger (DD-980) our most excellent towed array shipUSS Comte De Grasse (DD-974)USS Charles F. Adams (DDG-2)USS Conyngham (DDG-17)USS Moinester (FF-1097) our towed array frigate.USS Detroit (AOE-4) a “fast combat support ship” that was our one-stop-shop for fuel,

weapons, snacks, and cigarettes.

We also had 1 nuclear fast attack submarines (SSNs) escorting us. The USS Jack (SSN-605), an old Permit class boat that was still fighting strong. And possibly the very unique and super quiet USS Narwhal (SSN-671). Overall, more than 10 submarines would be participating in the exercise.

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Again, this was just my CVBG! The Forrestal had a similar composition of warships escorting her as well.

As we made our way up the North American east coast with the amphibious strike group, we were joined by a Canadian Task Force off of Halifax, Nova Scotia. Then just south of Iceland, we were further reinforced by the primary NATO ASW Strike Force under command of the British on board the “Harrier-carrier” HMS Illustrious (R06).

HMS Illustrious sailing alongside the TR during Teamwork '88.

Over the next few days, we fought an opposed penetration of the GIUK Gap simulating NATO’s failure to anticipate Soviet preparation for a war. Ideally, our forces would already be in the Norwegian fjords before the deployment of the Red Banner Northern and Baltic Fleets. (Ideally.)

With the addition of some of our escorts with towed sonar arrays and the full Canadian task force, the NATO ASW Strike Force set about clearing the waters between Greenland, Iceland, the Faroe and Shetland Islands. The Ticonderoga class cruisers worked with our E-2s and Tomcats to defend against the various Soviet Naval Aviation threats that opposed us including:

● Tu-16 Badgers (primarily the G and J variants) simulated by various aircraft including EP-3s, EA-3Bs, EA-6As, NKC-135s, British Canberras, and the unique EC-24 [the DC-8 the USN modified for electronic countermeasure (ECM) training].

● Tu-95 Bears (primarily the D and F variants) simulated by EP-3s.

● Su-24 Fencers simulated by Norwegian F-16s and British Tornados and Buccaneers.

● Various anti-ship missiles primarily those fired by Badgers, Bears, from Nanuchka class missile boats, and from nuclear-guided missile submarines (SSGNs)—Charlie IIs and the sole Papa class boat, during wartime. These missiles were simulated by Buccaneers and Canberras.

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It was quite the battle just to penetrate this famous group of choke points.

The second phase of this evolution began on September 14th as we fought to enter Vestfjord. This was when we were joined by the USS Forrestal just coming from a 6-month deployment in the Med. Now, even more assets were making their way from Europe to become a tremendous combined battle fleet. These were composed of NATO’s Standing Naval Force Atlantic and a German and Dutch Task Group that would add to our ASW Strike Force and escort actual convoys to reinforce the amphibious landings.

An ominous shot of the TR and Forrestal battle groups sailing together during Teamwork '88.

The plan was to have our escorting SSNs creep into the fjord ahead of the CVBG and hunt any Soviet diesel submarines that would most assuredly be pre-positioned there. Also, the ASW Strike Force sent ships ahead to listen with their tails (towed sonar).

Once the carrier was safely tucked into the fjord, mines were laid to seal us in and keep additional submarines out. VS-24 and yours truly launched on several missions to radar-flood the Fjord in order to either catch a diesel snorkeling or a nuke boat’s periscope or to keep them down making them mission-ineffective.

Then the fun began.

There were definitely multiple sub-surface contacts made. Some real and many false. We launched on these repeatedly and I got my first hard dose of reality of just how difficult it would be to hunt a diesel submarine in wartime.

Sub Hunt!

On one particular mission, we launched in support of an SH-3 sub-hunting helicopter from HS-9 that had gained intermittent contact on what appeared to be a CERTSUB (i.e., a submarine that has been positively identified). We dropped a couple of SSQ-62 DICASS (Directional Command Activated Sonobuoy System) sonobuoys and I began <pinging>.

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Holy shit! I didn’t know what-the-hell I was looking at. I had never seen a display or heard echoes like I was now encountering. This was not the Med and it certainly wasn’t anything that our systems trainer could reproduce. The uncanny environment that is the nature of the fjords simply unnerved me!

But I kept trying and <pinging>. Finally, I got a very mushy contact. I called it.

We dropped another DICASS closer and when it tuned up there was a solid <ping>. We told the world that we were in hot for an attack. I got one more weaker <ping> and that was it. I never saw another return off of any of my buoys.

Later evaluation would confirm that it was an enemy boat and we were credited with a kill.

My mind was spinning! I really began to worry for the first time about my… about our ability to fight a Soviet diesel submarine in very real-world conditions. In the Med, we expected to go against the Echo II or Charlie II SSGNs and possibly the Juliett SSG. But the waters in the Med were much more conducive for what we do than what I saw in this disturbing echo chamber.

My confidence would be shaken even more when later we went after a nuclear boat that had either been in Vestfjord lying in wait after the initial battles or had slipped past our minefields. The contact ranges were crazy-low one day. On the rare days when the water was a glass surface, we seemed to have ranges that went on forever. Among so many other realizations, it was clear that we weren’t preparing ourselves with detailed knowledge of how this body of water and others like it all around the World would play against or work for our sensors.

The good news was the submarines were having the same acoustic propagation problems as we were.

We spent several more days in the war against the “Soviets” flying many missions. Towards the end, the USS Forrestal joined us in Vestfjord. It was the first time, I believe, that two supercarriers had operated together in such an environment as part of a proof-of-concept showing that two full CVBGs could fight the ‘Battle of the Fjords.’

Surprise Viper Strike

I’ve got to tell you about my favorite mission while tucked away in the Fjord. The one where I got 'shot down’. We were launching a full Alpha-Strike and, as usual, the E-2 and the S-3s were first to get shot off the pointy end of the carrier.

I watched the E-2 run down CAT-1 (catapult one). Then it was our turn. As we went down CAT-2, I noticed a sudden flash go across the windscreen about 500 yards off the bow. We got airborne and then another flash went by followed by flares popping out everywhere it seemed. At that point, we heard the Air Boss on guard frequency yelling at the attacking Norwegian F-16s (simulating Su-24 Fencers) to get the hell out of HIS air space because they were endangering the launching aircraft!

Well, two immediate things struck my mind. First, I didn’t get the chance to hear what laughter sounded like in Norwegian because none of the F-16 pilots responded and the attack ended as quickly as it started. But I’m sure there was plenty of laughter and joy because these great pilots left a flaming strike force on the deck of the mighty Theodore Roosevelt. My helpless S-3 got shot down as well as the E-2 and another Viking that was launching off one of the waist catapults in the process.

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a Norwegian F-16A carrying an AGM-119A Penguin anti-ship missile.

On the other hand, I participated in the laughter in my cockpit as we all realized just how pure the brass was on the pair of balls each of those Norwegian pilots had. We also realized just how serious the people of Norway were (and are) about training for war since they lived under the shadow and certainty of attack from the Soviets and the memory of WWII. Those pilots didn’t give a shit about the 'Boss’s' precious air space. They wanted to teach the United States Navy and NATO the reality of the old adage: You fight the way you train.

My crew and I were convinced and I’d like to think that any protests that were offered to the Norwegians about this attack were presented with a knowing smile.

What an amazing time it was up there above the Arctic Circle training for World War III during the final throws of the Cold War.

The Crash

After the intense ops in Vestfjord, the TR and her escorts made their way to Wilhelmshaven, Germany for a well-earned port call. The air wing was invited to participate in one of the legendary “fly past” airshows being held at RAF Abingdon in Oxfordshire, England.

Feeling quite fortunate to have been picked for this event, I manned Scout 710 with pilot Lt. 'JT'; Co-pilot/Tactical Coordinator (COTA) Lt. 'SM'; and because we were going to an unfamiliar airfield, an Aviation Electrician’s Mate, AE3 'JR' was joining us. He sat in the Sensor Operator (SENSO) seat while I took the Tactical Coordinator (TACCO) seat.

We launched from the boat just as the TR entered the North Sea an hour-or-so ahead of the other CAG-8 aircraft. One aircraft from each squadron except one from our embarked helicopter squadron,

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HS-9. The combination of being worn out from the high-tempo ops and having to wear our drysuits made the flight seem longer than it actually was. Of course, I had to play with the radar and was awed by the on-rush of history as my APS-116 painted the English coastline. I was sharing the airspace that had been traversed by He-111s, Spitfires, Bf-109s, Ju-88s and Hurricanes during World War II.

Once we were ‘feet dry’ (over land), I finally understood all the talk about the English countryside and its patchwork quilt of farmland and hedgerows. Even from the tiny TACCO’s window, it was an absolutely magical sight to behold.

Our approach to RAF Abingdon was routine. However as we entered the break running north to south over Runway 18, I distinctly heard the tower give us clearance to land calling the winds out of the west at “10-to-15 knots”. My pilot took note and discussed the direct crosswind with the COTAC as they went through the landing checklist amid the sound of deployed airbrakes, extending flaps, and lowering landing gear.

Keep in mindthat since the carrier tends to launch aircraft into the wind and recover them with the winds almost always straight down the angled deck, my pilot didn’t encounter many opportunities to perform a crosswind landing over the past month. So as JT attempted to put 3 landing gear on the northern end of Runway 18, we were all very surprised to find ourselves over the rich green English grass growing along the left side of the runway.

Instead of 10-to-15 knots, the direct crosswind was gusting up to 30 knots and was using our relatively large aircraft that happens to have a particularly large tail as a sail. JT fought to get us back over the asphalt-concrete mix. But our introduction to British windsurfing ate up nearly half of the runway.

Realizing how far along we were, he called for the tailhook to be dropped by LT SM as all 3 wheels finally found the deck. However, the hook either skipped or came down too late to engage the single down-field emergency arresting wire.

Once we had settled on the runway, I craned my upper body around the TACCO’s console (at least as much as my upper straps would allow) to see what the front-seaters were seeing. By doing so, I had thoughtlessly taken myself completely out of the ejection envelope. What I saw was a bit unnerving.

A rapidly ending runway, a fast-approaching grassy field lined at the far end by one of those magical hedgerows and a fence. Even more disturbing were the requisite British ‘aeroplane spotters’ standing along the fence line… And 'oh shit!' A small van just went speeding across the windscreen from left to right along the narrow single-lane country road that ran along the southern edge of the airfield! And another...

OH, SHIT!…' We weren’t stopping!

Then the COTAC said: “Hold on, boys. We’re going for a ride!”

Okay, so time slowed down in my mind to the speed required to ponder the various possible interpretations of what LT SM had just said. And then my mind started to race. ‘Going for a ride?’ Van just flashed by. Is there more traffic?

Fence! People! Grass!

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All of this thankfully shocked me back into reality and time resumed normal speed. I immediately repositioned myself in the proper body position just in case the COTAC was reaching for his ejection handle.

The last thing I saw out the aircraft windscreen as I pulled myself back into my seat was all the plane-spotters scattering left and right to get out of the way of the approaching U.S. Navy aircraft loaded with 4 colonists about to join them on their prime airplane-watching real estate.

No 'BOOM!' of the ejection seat. No rocket motor firing. No rush up the rails and through the skin of the aircraft.

Whew!

Along with the thick English grass, my pilot’s thicker flight boots which were pushing the top of his rudder pedals slowed us down considerably. After a final jolt, we simply came to a stop on Barrow Road. Unfortunately, our fuselage, nose wheel, and left main mount were now blocking the flow of any Friday afternoon traffic.

JT had wisely shut down the engines as we crossed onto the grass to keep from FOD-ding one or both of them. I didn’t notice how quiet the cockpit was until the COTAC called to safe the ejection seats in a calm, professional, military manner.

Once all four of us acknowledged “head-knockers down”, I made sure AE3 JR was okay and unstrapped myself in order to check the avionics tunnel for smoke or possible fire. More awareness came as I noticed that the aircraft had come to a stop at a slight right wing down attitude. In light of that final jolt, I wasn’t sure if the main gear had collapsed or the crew hatch might be blocked by the fence, the hedge, or the roadway itself. If so, we would most likely have to egress through one of the hatches above either the SENSO or TACCO seats.

Again, thankfully, the hatch opened as it should and we all climbed out to inspect what damage had occurred just as the Abingdon crash trucks were arriving.

To our collective surprise and my pilot’s relief, there was only minor damage. The main gear tires had excessive wear and the brakes were understandably smoking but had not yet caught fire. All the landing gear were down and locked and in excellent shape.

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It’s funny. Arrested landing after arrested landing aboard the carrier and I’d never given the landing gear’s durability a second thought. Now, after going four-wheeling across the English countryside, I was ready to kiss the hands of the Vought team who were wise enough to use the F-8 Crusader’s rugged main mounts and the A-7 Corsair II’s nose strut when Lockheed asked them to help with the design of their first carrier-based aircraft.

We also inspected the engine fan blades discovering they had no damage and only a minor amount of paint was scraped off where the lower leading edge of the intakes made contact with the fence. Finally, a lookover of the radome revealed only a minor gash from where the fence attempted to resist this 20th century Viking onslaught.

It was on this day that my respect and love for the S-3 Viking exceeded all prior indifference I might have had.

We waited for a tractor to tow our aircraft back to the flight line. Once she was hooked up, we began to walk to a van the RAF had sent to retrieve us and whisk us away to the base dispensary to perform the requisite post-mishap pee-in-a-bottle. All of the excitement made me forget that my tired body was still wrapped in a dry-suit. It would be good to get out of the damned thing.

Overhead, a barely noticed Hawker Hunter had been making several low passes over the field. Now, we were all watching as she passed over our heads with her wheels down about to land on Runway 36.

A collective gasp could be heard from all of us as we witnessed the effect of another strong gust of wind and the vulnerable Hunter was pushed onto her side, her right wingtip nearly connecting with the ground. The pilot recovered admirably flying off with full throttle and raised landing gear as we all wished we had done. Someone wondered aloud if the tower had once again failed to warn of the gusty crosswinds.

Just an hour-or-so later after we had returned to our aircraft, I was inside the cockpit working with LT SM to get the auxiliary power unit (APU) started. We felt the earth move as if from an impact and then heard the explosion. We quickly stepped outside to witness a fireball rising into the sky just a few hundred yards away from where we were parked.

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A bad day for us had just gone tragic for Flight Lt Chris Lackman and Flight Lt Jack Thompson, the pilot and Weapon Systems Officer of an RAF F-4M Phantom FGR.2. I’ll let the narrative from Aviation-Safety.net explain what happened:

On 23 September, 1988, during aerobatic practice at Abingdon, Oxfordshire, the aircraft performed a loop manoeuvre immediately following a 360-degree hard turn. The manoeuvre appeared slower than normal and the pilot was unable to recover from the loop. The aircraft struck the ground on the airfield tail first in a nose up attitude and exploded killing both crew.

Also, I recently learned from this blog that Chris Lackman had transitioned from the Vulcan to the Phantom and flew as a co-pilot on the Black Buck operations during the Falklands War. The loss of any aircrew is tragic. But when you learn things like this about pilots and crew who had served in such significant historical events, well, it adds an unbearable weight to the story.

Finally, one of my British hosts told me that Lackman and Thompson’s fellow aviators would come together at the Officer’s Club back at the Phantom’s home field and have a drink on the lost aircrew’s tab. The tab would then be closed out.

RAF Phantom FRG2.

Over the next 10 days, a small team of our squadron techs and mechs who had flown over from Wilhelmshaven along with our XO checked the aircraft over completely replacing all the tires and brakes. If memory serves, a strip of duct tape ensured that the gash in the radome would not affect aerodynamics. They also discovered that the seemingly fragile electronics had suffered no ill effects.

This amazing team who had been ordered to volunteer to give up their liberty in Germany ensured that aircraft 710 was fully airworthy. Thankfully, they did get to enjoy the British nightlife after each day’s work on the bird. Oh, and they were happy about one unexpected benefit of their volunteering: they didn’t have to share Oxfordshire with 6,000 other American sailors.

The Theodore Roosevelt pulled out of Wilhelmshaven and passed through the English Channel. With full and heavy hearts, we said farewell to our magnificent RAF hosts and manned aircraft 710. Our XO joined us in the cockpit after we discovered that AE3 JR had a ruptured eardrum from a cabin pressure dump we had experienced on the flight into Abingdon. Once airborne, we headed off the southern coast of England to return to our floating steel runway where the winds were almost always predictable.

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Trouble Shooting

And then it was time for another Mediterranean deployment.

This would be the final time the S-3A Viking flew over the Med with Air Wing Eight. Once we returned, we would begin our transition to the S-3B as our sister squadrons on the East Coast were doing. For now, we still had to deal with the limitations of the 'A' at the end of the 1980s which meant the uncertainty of the computer working after a launch.

Our software engineers at VX-1 were always working with the manufacturer to fix the problems we faced. But they never went away completely. As is the nature of the Fleet sailor, we created a work-around.

I don’t recall which squadron initiated this plan. It might have been my Chief Aviation ASW Operator (AWC). He was brilliant like that. But we would now actively troubleshoot our system while airborne. We didn’t mess with the system prior to this because the electronics were expensive and the Powers-That-Be didn’t want a bunch of angry aviators messing with their stuff.

However, our Naval Flight Officers (NFOs) and Chiefs argued to the point we were given the go-ahead to try and make the system work.

The four stations in the S-3 Viking. The left rear is where the SENSO worked.

Here are some of the things we did. Just in case the Tape Transport Cartridge (TTC) wouldn’t load or we had problems in flight, we sometimes brought a second one with us. If the OL-82A Acoustic Data Processor (ADPS) was giving us headaches, we learned to pull circuit breakers associated with specific elements of the system. Sometimes, a simple reset of the circuit breaker was all that was needed to fix the problem.

If not, we’d pull them again and wait for the memory drums to slow to a complete stop. We would then pull the boxes from their connecting pins, inspect the rack and area behind the boxes to make sure nothing was out of place or broken, and reseat them…gently (they were very fragile and broke easy, particularly if an angry SENSO slammed the box back onto the pins).

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9 times out of 10, this worked! We started doing this with any system that failed and the days of having a malfunction and having to orbit overhead the carrier were pretty much gone!

Photo Bombing

We entered the Mediterranean during the first of January just as we had on Nimitz two years before. This time, however, a Soviet escort wasn’t waiting for us. Perhaps this was a sign of the times.

On the 15th January, 1989, we met the USS John F. Kennedy (CV-67) and transferred weapons. We then relieved the JFK and took on the mantle of Sixth Fleet Battle Force.

We operated in the Western Med and then anchored off the island of Palma de Mallorca for our first of many port calls. Already, we noticed a huge difference between this cruise and the one on Nimitz. We averaged 4-to-7 days in each port instead of the meager 2-to-3 days at the most in 1987.

A major weapons transfer while the TR is underway.

Back at sea again, we joined the French aircraft carriers Foch and Clemenceau for Phinia ’89, a major amphibious exercise. I’ll let the UPI news release tell the story:

French, U.S. troops begin war games

TOULON, France -- French and American troops prepared to invade a Mediterranean island and evacuate its population during 10 days of war games that began Sunday off the coast of Corsica, military officials said.

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Three aircraft carriers and 14,000 French and American soldiers were participating in 'Operation Phinia 89', the largest U.S.-French maneuvers since war games in the Persian Gulf in 1987 and 1988, French military officials said.

U.S. Marines, French Navy commandos and rapid deployment forces planned a coastal invasion of the French-administered island of Corsica Monday to evacuate the population from a 'hostile environment'.

The maneuvers, directed by a French naval command center in Toulon, were being carried out from the French aircraft carriers Clemenceau and Foch and the U.S. aircraft carrier Roosevelt using the French landing ships Ouragan and Orage, the U.S. amphibious assault ship Guadalcanal, and U.S. amphibious transport vessel Austin.

So did any of you ever have to do that school science project where you drop an egg off the roof after having built what is hoped to be a durable container that will allow the egg to survive fully intact? We’ll come back to this in a moment.

One of the things we learned from this exercise was how the Marines weren’t able to get relatively real-time reconnaissance photos of the battlefield that they were fighting on. Remember, this was 1989. We needed to figure out a way to get Tactical Airborne Reconnaissance Pod System (TARPS) photos taken by the F-14 Tomcats, whether of a changing battlefield or Bomb Damage Assessment (BDA), developed and analyzed and then transmitted to the boots on the ground.

F-14 Tomcat with an intriguing loadout including an electronic warfare pod and a TARPS pod.

Some of our genius NFOs worked with Carrier Intelligence Center (CVIC) and came up with a styrofoam container and some other material (I don’t have a clear memory of it, just the event) that the photos could be stuffed in and we would launch it out of one or more of our sonobuoy chutes. They

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worked on it for a couple of months and ended up testing it during another exercise where the Marines were doing an amphibious landing. I was on that flight.

We launched and headed to rendezvous with the Marines. Everyone was excited to see if this would work. We established comms with the ground Forward Air Controller (FAC) on the shoreline. The idea was to jettison the…well…egg…into the surf so the Marines wouldn’t have to go too far out and get it. We would also launch one over the sand to see if it would survive.

The FAC cleared us in and we punched out 2 containers. We then flew away while they retrieved them. Then we were called in for the beach drop. Apparently, they were having a hard time breaking into the containers because they were packaged so well. So, we said our “goodbyes” and headed out on our secondary mission.

Upon returning to the boat, we all went into CVIC to find out what happened. As I recall, only one package survived the water landing (I think saltwater had penetrated the container and ruined the photos). The beach drop failed completely.

I never did do that science project at school and I’m not sure if anyone involved in this project did either. The concept was a good one for that time because as I said, there just wasn’t any way to get those much-needed photos to the Marines faster. However, our idea simply didn’t work. But you gotta hand it to the S-3. Fulfilling its role as NAVAIR’s Swiss Army Knife, she answered the call to perform yet another uncanny mission.

Rough Rest

After the amphibious exercise, we pulled into Marseilles, France for another port call from the 10th to 17th of February. However, as was the case with winter in the Med, storms came along and made things interesting.

I was sitting in the Ready Room when we heard the call to “set the special sea and anchor detail” over the 1MC (ship-wide address system). This was very unusual since we still had a couple of days left in port. I believe either the XO or Navigator of the TR then came on and said we were having to repeatedly “sail to the anchor".

A ‘mistral’ wind apparently caught us off guard and the CO of the boat decided it was too risky to attempt to stay at anchor. A mistral is a windstorm unique to that part of Europe where winds are funneled from a high-pressure area off the northwestern and western coasts of France, down across the country through two river valleys, and out into the Med. This combines with a low-pressure area off the southern coast of France. The blow can sustain 60 knots and gust over 100. It can also last for up to a couple of weeks.

The order was given to do an emergency recall of all the ship’s company and members of the air wing still onshore. This was done in a very unique manner that we all were briefed about. I won’t go into exactly what it was because it still may be in use today. Unfortunately, not everyone could get back to the boat.

We were in danger of grounding. So the Skipper went ahead and executed an emergency sortie. It was my understanding that many of the soon-to-be stranded sailors were already heading to the boat in ferries provided by France. What a sight that would have been to see your aircraft carrier leaving without you! But 2 days later, we returned and picked up the rest of the crew.

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Hey, the commercial did say “It’s not just a job, it’s an adventure!” Right?

Sub Hunting From Sicily

With our full complement of sailors, we headed back out to sea and transited the Straits of Messina. From there we headed to the waters off Libya since Gaddafi was rattling his saber. For this period, the commander of the Navy’s Sixth Fleet (COMSIXTHFLT) decided to join us, just in case. Apparently, Gaddafi lost interest and we headed off to Alexandria, Egypt for yet another port call!

While there, the Egyptian Navy provided protection for our ships. For some reason, I had been asleep when we dropped anchor. Late in the day, I got up and went to the ready room because I was the night ASDO and was told by my fellow AWs that I had missed the Romeo class submarine that had sailed past us a couple of times along with some Osa II missile boats.

I was pissed! Why-the-hell didn’t you wake me up?! The bastards! An AW not getting to see a submarine passing next to his aircraft carrier…!?

After the visit to Egypt, we headed back into the Eastern Med and conducted flight ops. Just prior to our visit to Antalya, Turkey (a favorite of mine), one of our aircraft had a major incident.

After leaving Turkey, it was my turn to head off to Naval Air Station Sigonella ("Sig") in Sicily for a 2-week detachment (DET). We took 3 aircraft to replace the ones that had been there already.

It was simply a fantastic time getting to leave the ship and continue flying missions. This would be one of two DETs to Sig that I got to go on. During this first one, I experienced the drastic difference between the VP (P-3 squadrons) and VS (S-3 squadrons) philosophy of how we flew our missions.

CH-53 and CH-46s alongside a pair of S-3s at "Sig" circa the late 1980s.

There was always a VP squadron at Sig. On a particular day, we and a P-3 crew were tasked to do a photo recon flight over the Soviet anchorage at Hammamet just off the coast of Tunisia. The ASW

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Operations Center (ASWOC) at Sig wanted to know which Soviet warships were there as well as if a missing Tango class diesel submarine might have turned up.

Yes, a missing Tango.

They started the briefing giving us flight information and reminded us to stay out of unfriendly airspace. We received intel briefings on the ships expected to be at anchor and how the Tango had slipped into the Med through the Strait of Gibraltar and then disappeared. After the weather brief, the ASWOC crew told us that was it for us. The P-3 guys, on the other hand, would now be individually briefed in detail. We shrugged our shoulders knowing that that was all we needed anyway and headed out to our airplane.

We launched out of Sigonella and immediately headed south across the Med to Tunisia. I was, of course, sweeping the whole area with radar checking to see just what we might encounter as we approached the anchorage. There was a single, large contact there and a few small ones. I dropped the FLIR in an attempt to identify everything before we ventured in to get some photos.

It was just a Soviet auxiliary and small boats…no warships…

Damn!... And no Tango… Double Damn!

Tango class Soviet submarine captured on the Mediterranean surface by a VF-143 F-14 TARPS camera.

We took some photos of the vessels and then headed out to the western coastline of Sicily. My pilot wanted to do a low-level from west to east. On our way, we plotted all the shipping traffic and sent the surface plot to the ASWOC via Link 11. I used the FLIR to ID some of them making sure that none of them were combatants.

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We entered the low-level route and flew across the gorgeous Sicilian countryside. Just like England, it was breathtaking. At times looking out my very small window, I had to look up to see the hilltop villages we flew beneath!

After the run to Hammamet, the surface plot, and the low-level, we were done. So,we returned to NAS Sigonella, entered the break, and landed. As we were taxiing up to our parking area, we all noticed that the P-3 crew that we had briefed with were just finishing their engine start and had begun to taxi.

We had launched, flew our mission, did a low-level, and landed in the time that it took them to fully brief, pre-flight their aircraft, and start-up! I think it took almost 2 hours for our flight.

Of course, they were going on a 10-to-12 hour mission not only to check on the Soviet anchorage but also to provide a much more detailed surface plot for the ASWOC and Sixth Fleet. They would also be dropping and monitoring a sonobuoy search pattern in hopes of netting that Tango. A helluva lot more to do than we did. Still, it was such a contrast between our two communities and the way we flew our missions.

2 weeks went by entirely too fast. We worked with the TR which was sailing all around the Med during my time in Sig. Let me list her gyrations for you.

Once again she had to tend to Gaddafi’s saber-rattling from 12-13 March. Then she headed up to Naples, Italy for a 5-day visit from 15-20 March. After that, she headed for Morocco and a rare two-day port visit. The central Med was calling and she proceeded to the fleet anchorage in Augusta Bay just off the east coast of Sicily. For two days, the commander of Sixth Fleet hosted the Secretary of the Navy and our Mediterranean allies for a major naval conference on 29 and 30 March.

Quite the itinerary for a Carrier Battle Group!

She then weighed anchor and headed back to the Western Med where we flew out to rejoin her. We landed just in time for… another port visit! This time it was Toulon, France.

The weather once again picked up as we left Toulon and things quickly went from bad to worse. As a result, we made headlines when HS-9 and our escorting cruiser USS South Carolina (CGN-37) participated in a major rescue at sea. The official USN history of the carrier tells the story:

A routine transit between port calls in Toulon and Monaco became drama on the high seas for USS THEODORE ROOSEVELT. Aircraft from Helicopter Anti-Submarine Squadron NINE (HS-9), embarked with CVW-8, aided by TR and USS SOUTH CAROLINA (CGN-37), rescued 15 British yachtsmen from four sailboats foundering in hurricane-like seas. The sailboats were part of a 16-boat flotilla sailing from Toulon to Corsica. Search and rescue swimmers from HS-9 entered the chilly water in waves estimated at 35 feet and winds clocked at 70 knots.

One survivor who suffered a broken leg was airlifted to Toulon for treatment while the others walked ashore the following day when TR arrived in Monaco. The rescue was broadcast on television in France, Italy, and the United Kingdom and reported in newspapers around the World.

I watched this drama unfold from the safety of the Ready Room, of course. We weren’t allowed to go on deck because of the 70 knot winds. It was stunning to see the aircrew and maintenance personnel fight just to get to the spots on the waist where their birds were tied down. The pilots masterfully got the

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engines and rotors started and lifted off to save those folks. Once on scene, the helo AWs then jumped into those 35-foot seas!

Such amazing souls manning those helicopters. In my mind, no one will ever approach the greatness and heroics of a Rescue Swimmer.

HS-9 Sea King alongside the TR.

After the relatively short port visit to offload our guests and enjoy an always beautiful and towering Monaco, we headed back to sea for Dragon Hammer ’89 which ran from 20 April to 02 May. The AW who flew in this year’s rendering of the major Med exercise was not the same AW who flew in it back in ’87 off Nimitz. I was a completely different person.

It was during this event that the S-3 Viking was paid the highest compliment she could have received… from a submariner!

The skipper of a Rubis class nuclear fast attack submarine (SSN) operating as an orange force (aggressor) boat sent out a message to COMSIXTHFLT expressing his deep frustration that every time he extended a mast, his ESM system (electronic support measures used for electronic intelligence gathering) picked up the S-3’s APS-116 radar.

He said it made him extremely wary of being at periscope depth where he needed to be to get intel on the position of the ship. He congratulated VS-24 on our effectiveness at keeping him on edge and limiting his ability to target the carrier.

Someone said his flare (to signify he had fired on us) was the prettiest shade of green…

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After the exercise, we sailed to Haifa, Israel for another of my favorite ports of call. While we were there, members of the Israel Defense Forces (IDF) were given tours of the carrier. I was on duty during one particular day and was delivering something somewhere on the ship when I entered a ladder well.

Coming down the ladder were several members of an Israeli Airborne unit. I stepped aside to allow them clear passage. As one of the officers turned toward me, our eyes met. He smiled, appreciating that I had given him and his men room to maneuver in the tightness of the compartment. His smile and face were kind. But his eyes…

His eyes were oceanic blue and had a depth to them that I had never seen in a pair of human eyes. A depth that told me stories of the life of a genuine warrior who had done things and seen things I could never comprehend. They were the coldest, deadliest eyes I had ever seen. I will never forget them.

When we pulled out of Haifa, I was told I was going back to Sigonella for another 2 weeks. An Echo II submarine had entered the Med and the carrier was going to transit all the way back to the Balearic Sea just off the coast of Spain with the hope of allowing the CVBG escorts some “time on-top” of the Soviet submarine. We would be flying against the Echo II as well. The boat was scheduled for a second visit to Palma de Mallorca which was everyone’s favorite. I was not the slightest bit disappointed that I would miss it.

After we arrived at Sigonella, I got only one opportunity to fly on the Soviet boat. We launched and headed out over the central Med. At least two of the Roosevelt’s escorts were holding contact on the Soviet guided missile submarine (SSGN).

Years before, the USS Moinester (FF-1097), a Knox class frigate, had led the way in operational and tactical development of the towed array sonar system. She was one of our escorts and was joined by the Spruance class destroyer USS Moosbrugger (DD-980).

“The Moose” (as we affectionately called her) was manned by the greatest anti-submarine warfare crew…ever! To give you an idea of the captain and crew’s outstanding personality, she had a rack of moose antlers mounted to the bridge superstructure!

Unfortunately (and with no disrespect intended to the Skipper and crew of the Echo II), these two ASW warriors weren’t faced with a very challenging subsurface target. This Echo II class was a very noisy first-generation nuclear submarine, the last of which the Soviets commissioned in 1967. This crack ASW team deserved a Charlie II or an Oscar at least.

We were vectored in by the “Moose” and dropped buoys on the Russian sub. Instant contact!

We ran her into an attack barrier. And just as we were making our run, I noticed a significant change on her acoustic signature. Something I hadn’t been trained for. It was nothing significant. But it reminded me that I still wasn’t the ASW expert that I should have been and needed to be.

She was coming to periscope depth to take a look at the newest hunter that had arrived to harass her. I felt sorry for the Skipper knowing that every time he raised his periscope, a NATO aircraft filled his impotent crosshairs.

We made a low pass over her and we were joined by an SH-60B Sea Hawk from the Moosbrugger. It was our attack run. But we didn’t open the weapons bay doors. The crew of the submarine was humiliated enough and it probably would have created an International incident.

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In what felt like 20 minutes, the 4-hour flight had come to an end. The Echo II returned to her cruising depth never finding the carrier. We checked out with the ASW commander on board the Moose and headed back to Sigonella.

On our way back, I started to think about what had just happened. The Cold War was not over yet. And,had this been a hot war engagement, I realized we would have dropped a torpedo-or-two to destroy that submarine. For the first time since I became an AW, I thought about the 100-or-so sailors working, living, and fighting inside that hull. It struck me that they were human beings just like me and that I would have to be a part of the ending of their lives had this been a combat mission.

I evaluated my feelings. Could I do this? Could I be a part of killing so many souls during wartime? I understood…completely…that they were after my floating home with its 6,000 residents. They too would follow their orders and fire their missiles in an attempt to sink us.

Before we entered the break over NAS Sigonella, I knew that I could kill these men if I had to. My time on-top made me see them as the humans and warrior-sailors they were. And I respected them and the Soviet Navy more than I ever had because of that flight.

One other thing about my second visit to Sigonella. On the evening of 06 June, I walked into the room of one of my NFO’s where world history was once again marking time. On his TV screen, a lone man was standing in front of a column of Chinese Type 59 tanks. The day-old news video showed the tank’s driver trying to move around him and this “Tank Man” (as he would later be known) kept moving in front of the armored vehicle. We marveled at the world that was changing for the good all around us. Little did we know…

We said goodbye to NAS Sigonella and rejoined the TR. On 15 June, we rendezvoused with the USS Coral Sea (CV-43), off-loaded our weapons, and handed the mantle of Task Force 60 to her.

The Coral Sea relieving the TR in the Mediterranean in June of 1989.

On 20 June 1989, we left the Mediterranean Sea. I would never again sail on these beautiful emotional waters.

A More Powerful Viking

When we returned from my second Med cruise, our squadron was scheduled to transition to the 'B' model of the S-3. We were all excited. But we really weren’t prepared for the exponential change that was about to occur.

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As we were about to begin the transition, Sea Control Wing One, Atlantic held its “Crew of the Quarter” competition. In those days, the competition was “flown” in the Training Command’s Weapon System Trainers (WST). This would be the last time a crew flying the 'A' model of the Viking would compete.

VS-27’s training building only had one WST left that had the S-3A avionics and simulator software. My squadron, having just begun the transition to the 'B', was chosen to fly against a couple of squadrons that were already flying the S-3B. Unlike the VP community, we didn’t have set crews. So they just picked four of us to go over and fly the competitive mission. For me and the other three, it was a very routine experience.

And We Won!

In all honesty, this really didn’t mean much because we were so well versed in the 'A' and the other squadron’s crews were very new to the workings and manipulation of the B’s more advanced systems. The real story was just how different the S-3B’s acoustic system was. There was much more to do in preparation for the hunt and then critical things we needed to do to maintain contact.

Simply put, the 'B' crews that we competed against were a bit overwhelmed.

The S-3 Viking Weapon System Improvement Program (WSIP) was approved by the Chief of Naval Operations in 1977. Development began in 1981 and the first converted S-3A flew as a 'B' on 13 September 1984.

S-3B Viking art from Lockheed public affairs booklet.

The changes were significant. The APS-116 radar gave way to the APS-137 Inverse Synthetic Aperture Radar (ISAR) which greatly improved its periscope detection capability and, most importantly, allowed us to 'image' a radar contact.

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LEFT: Starboard bow ISAR image of Knox class frigate. RIGHT: starboard bow ISAR image of a merchant ship. Superstructure is to the left of image with 4 king posts lining the deck as you move right.

Our ALR-47 ESM system was replaced by the ALR-76 which according to Brad Elward in his book The S-3 Viking In Action:

…provided greater frequency coverage and improved bearing accuracy within 2 degrees. The new ESM also gave Viking crews a basic missile threat warning providing C-band through J-band coverage of both pulsed and continuous wave emissions.

Combining these 2 sensors made us an incredible war-at-sea asset to the CVBG. It also contributed to keeping our happy asses safe because the missile warning component could automatically launch chaff and flares from the new ALE-39 dispensers placed on either side of the aft fuselage just behind the main landing gear wheel wells (the primary visual cue for telling an S-3A apart from an S-3B).

Our FLIR was updated and, of course, we could now launch AGM-84 Harpoon anti-ship missiles off of either wing hardpoint. We were also plumbed to carry the buddy store for refueling as were the S-3As on the West Coast since they didn’t start getting the 'B' until the early 1990s. We also got a new, more powerful APU for independent engine start and powering the aircraft for maintenance.

Finally (and what mattered most) was our new IBM UYS-1 Proteus Spectrum Analyzer Unit (SAU) that replaced the OL-82A Acoustic Data Processing System (ADPS). We were now on par with the P-3C Orion Update III and ready for the trend in Soviet submarine quieting efforts born out in the Victor III, Akula, and Sierra classes of SSNs, the Oscar SSGN, and (had the Cold War not ended) the very latest Yasen class SSGN.

We also received the capability to monitor 99 radio frequency channels instead of just 31 which expanded our ability to deploy far more sonobuoys without interference between them.

And even though our General Purpose Digital Computer (GPDC) looked the same on the outside, thankfully it was a completely new computer that could handle so much more processing. And that troublesome TTC? Well, it changed as well. I never had a single problem with the system loading and staying loaded when we were flying off the boat.

On the outside, the aircraft looked exactly the same with only subtle differences that you had to know to look for. Elward describes just how brilliant Lockheed and the software companies were in making this immense change work with little impact on the jet's performance:

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Overall, the WSIP modifications added a mere 601 pounds to the Viking, changing its characteristics only slightly and maintaining the aircraft’s center of gravity within existing limits. Power consumption for the new equipment increased less than 1KW.

Brilliant, indeed!

As we progressed through the classroom training during VS-24’s transition to the 'B', I was in awe of what our new radar and acoustics could do. As with my training in LOFAR, understanding the ISAR imaging we were seeing was, once again, just like learning how to speak a new language.

Initially, I couldn’t see a damn thing except the very obvious Knox class frigate and the box-like geometry of merchant ships. When trying to decipher all the other images from other warships, I felt certain that Texas Instruments (the creator of the APS-137) had hired Hermann Rorschach as a consultant.

The genuine tragedy in all of this? I would never get to take this new weapon system out and fly on top of a Soviet submarine in the Med or the North Atlantic. While I would get to operate the system against USN submarines, drastic winds of change were blowing in 1989 and throughout the early 1990s that would revolutionize everything…

…forever.

The B is for Brilliant

Once we completed the transition to the S-3B, our time on the boat was never the same. We were suddenly the stars of the Air Wing. Everyone wanted our autograph!

Our Vikings were constantly asked to do more and more. Along with the obvious need to refuel CAG-8 aircraft, we were invited to join war-at-sea strikes against surface action groups (SAGs) by providing radar plotting and identification of the targets. Our ESM was recognized as a superior asset for at-sea and overland strikes. And instead of just a couple of E-2s or EA-6Bs, the Carrier Air Group Commander now had 10 airframes that he could distribute across the wide spectrum for his electronic surveillance needs.

Oh, and we still did ASW too!

As was the case in 1988, we joined the Theodore Roosevelt frequently for various work-ups that would prepare the air wing for her next major deployment in 1991. We spent much of that time down in the Caribbean participating in a wide range of exercises. I was reaching my peak as an ASW operator and the tools provided by the 'B' only made my ability to search, detect, localize, and track a submarine that much better.

On one mission in particular (one of my all-time favorites), I was stunned to have made contact on three different submarines in the same search pattern. Two were “Orange force” aggressor boats playing the bad guys and one was hunting the other two!

A few days later on another of my most memorable flights, my crew was returning to the carrier’s overhead stack in preparation for recovery after an anti-surface warfare (ASuW) mission against a surface action group. We were early and I decided to tune up an old defensive search pattern that had been seeded on the flank of the carrier hours before by a P-3 and S-3. Apparently, no one else was monitoring it.

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Earlier in the day, an Orange Force boat had been 'sunk' by an S-3 Viking and an SH-3 Sea King. Exercise rules required a sunken submarine to “reset” for a certain number of hours and relocate before coming back into play. Having tuned the buoys up, we started having problems with a particular black box that was unrelated to the ASW system. And after safe-ing our ejection seats, I got up and went into the avionics tunnel to troubleshoot.

As I’m working, I glance back at my display. Lo and behold, a submarine signature started to build very close to one of the tuned buoys. I don’t recall its distance from the carrier. But it was about to arrive within torpedo range. While still in the back of the aircraft fiddling around, I called “subsurface contact” on the buoy. I reseated the black box and climbed back into my seat and informed the TACCO of the unique classification of this particular target.

The carrier's anti-submarine warfare coordination center acknowledged and vectored a newly launched and already-tasked S-3 to the contact. Since we were low on fuel and the mission tanker was topping off the tanks of a strike that had just launched, we were told to land.

When I made my way to the aforementioned operations coordination center to deliver my analog tape recorder of the mission, the guys informed me that the submarine was the one that had been killed earlier. The skipper was “breaking the rules” by coming back into the game sooner than he was supposed to!

This is one of the amazing qualities that submariners are known for. Just like those crazy-good Norwegians F-16 pilots, they are notorious for administering a strong dose of reality to a generally unrealistic naval exercise.

Viking Quarterback

It was also during this time at sea that we had the chance to show just how valuable we were to the CVBG with our shiny new S-3Bs. This time it was in the use of our incredible APS-137 ISAR in support of an alpha-strike against a 'Soviet' surface action group.

The group was composed of four US warships simulating various units of the Russian Navy. A Spruance class destroyer was simulating a Slava class cruiser, an Oliver Hazard Perry (OHP) class frigate was simulating a Sovremenny class destroyer, another OHP was simulating a Kashin class destroyer, and a Knox class frigate simulated a Krivak class frigate.

Both the surface action group and my carrier battle group were under EMCON (restricted radio frequency emissions control) conditions. We set out to search for the task force before they could target us. To have to face a salvo of the Slava’s sixteen SS-N-12 Sandbox missiles, each with a range of 300 miles at Mach 2.5, was not something any of us had a stomach for.

An E-2 Hawkeye that was already airborne had gotten some over-the-horizon 'sniffs' from an SH-60B Seahawk’s radar. (The Seahawk would be simulating the Soviet Ka-25 Hormone or Ka-27 Helix helicopter which could provide mid-course guidance for their deadly anti-ship missiles.)

Based on the E-2’s bearings, we flew to a certain offset point before we turned on our radar. As I expanded my search, I gained contact on several curious forms that appeared to be sailing together in a loose formation. I switched to ISAR and painted each one. The first two were merchant ships. The next four were...the enemy! There were other contacts around so it was clear that the SAG was trying to hide among the “lilies of the field.” They were just about 180 miles from the carrier.

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The carrier launched an alpha strike composed of A-6Es loaded with Harpoons, an EA-6B to electronically protect the strike, and some Hornets that were armed for an immediate follow-up strike. Of course, we had our F-14 Tomcat combat air patrol already airborne ready to use its Phoenix missiles should the Slava get her needed targeting data. We were well off the strike aircraft’s axis so we too were going to fire our simulated ‘Poons to give the surface action group something to think about.

I looked at each warship and identified the class. We then sent the data over Link 11 to allow the strike leader to determine the best approach for the Harpoon launch. They were impressed that we could ID precisely which contact was which.

The strike leader called for the launch of all weapons. We simulated the simultaneous release of our two missiles. Had this been real, we would have only launched one since we had a buddy store on the left wing.

Then, one of the A-6E Intruders broke away from the formation, simulating the flock of Harpoons, and flew out to greet the enemy flotilla.

A-6E and other elements of a strike package.

A few hours later after we had all recovered back at the ship for the day, the CO of VA-36 (the Intruder Squadron) came into our ready room wanting to speak to our skipper. His face had a very big smile on it. Not knowing he was the one leading the strike, I listened with deep satisfaction as he described his approach to the surface action group.

He simply couldn’t believe it! Just as we had told him, he came upon each of the warships sailing in the exact formation we had plotted with the exact ship classifications a conveyed…despite the fact that none of us had seen them with the naked eye.

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“Fucking magic!” was the phrase he used if I recall correctly. I think he subsequently demanded a flight with us just so he could see the wizardry himself!

It was on that day that the barely tolerated and often maligned S-3 Viking finally achieved her much deserved status as an integral part of Air Wing Eight’s strike capability.

Fucking magic indeed!

The Student Has Become The Master

During the final four years I was in the Navy, I was an S-3B SENSO Instructor teaching newly minted Naval Aircrewmen and old salts who were transitioning from P-3s or helos how to operate the system and fly safely in the Viking. This track took me back to Millington, Tennessee where I got to slay yet another one of my personal dragons at Basic Instructor School.

Ever since middle school, I refused to stand in front of a class or a group and commit the violent act of public speaking. However, on our first terrifying day at the Navy’s school…yep…I had to join my diverse class of petty officers and chiefs and stand in front of them offering a detailed resume about myself. I shook, stuttered and almost vomited my way through it.

But then something remarkable happened. After I sat down, something literally changed my life. A very seasoned stereotypical chief with an impressive set of ribbons adorning his khaki chest stood at the head of the class and…shook, stuttered, and almost vomited while introducing himself.

I was stunned! To see a United States Navy Chief Petty Officer suffering just like me was such a powerful awakening. Over the next 4 weeks to varying degrees, my shipmates and I overcame this fear and I fell deeply in love with idea and the practice of teaching.

My time as a SENSO instructor was rewarding professionally. I was very good in the classroom and very passionate about conveying what I knew and had experienced in the Viking and the aircraft carrier environment.

I did particularly well because I taught subject-matter I was an expert in and my students wanted to be there. However, I discovered character flaws that I wasn’t at all pleased with that shore duty seemed to amplify. I did some very dumbass things because…well, I was a dumbass.

I wasn’t alone in this discovery.

What I realize now is how valuable a mentor would have been to me during my first 4 years on sea duty. I needed a mature guiding hand to befriend and critique my very narrow view of the World and even narrower view of myself. I desperately needed someone to kick my dumbass-ness with great force and regularity.

Unfortunately, my religious upbringing and inherent personality kept some incredible fellow AWs (particularly my AW chief) at arm’s length due to an unhealthy self-righteous arrogance. This is where having grown up a loner was of the greatest detriment to me.

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Sailing Off Into The Sunset

During my 10 years in the US Navy, I accumulated 1,515 hours primarily in the S-3A/B and 222 traps (all but one in the Viking). I then made the very worst decision of my life and walked away from it all.

Prior to that fateful decision, in some ways I could see the writing on the wall for my amazing airplane and decided to take orders to become a Sensor 3 (non-acoustic sensors) on P-3Cs based out of Hawaii. I wanted to see the rest of the World and satiate my deep affection for Asia and all the wonders it had to offer. My work with the APS-137 and ISAR seemed to indicate that my best years lie ahead working with radar and I needed a change of pace.

However, the Navy with its tendency toward myopia decided to offer AWs an exit bonus in light of the end of the Cold War and the ‘end’ of any real submarine threat. As I read that BuPers message, a sudden wave of stupid came over me and I decided to get out.

So 10 years to the day, I left the United States Navy.

There have been innumerable consequences originating from that terrible decision to leave the Navy before I completed 20 years that have followed me to this day. Most importantly, I simply have never been able to adjust to civilian life.

It has been an immense struggle to live in a world that is bereft of a strong work ethic, genuine leadership, genuine camaraderie, and a sense of purpose and honor. I am at a complete loss with those I encounter daily who refuse to simply do their job and “leaders” who refuse to hold themselves and their employees accountable to human excellence.

The military was (and is) far from perfect. But it offers the tools and possibilities for every sailor, Marine, soldier, airman, and Coast Guardsmen to excel at being the very best human being he or she can be. You just have to take hold of those tools and possibilities.

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https://www.thedrive.com/the-war-zone/38483/reflections-and-wisdom-from-a-cold-war-submarine-hunter

Reflections And Wisdom From A Cold-War Submarine Hunter

We talk about what was and what could have been for the S-3 Viking and about the future of the Navy's shrunken sub-hunting force.

by Kevin Noonan and Tyler Rogoway / The WarZone / December 30, 2020

From overcoming his fears and personal roadblocks in order to master the complex art of submarine hunting to heading out on his first carrier cruise and working to fit into the Navy's unique squadron culture to chasing-down Soviet submarines in the Mediterranean during the twilight of the Cold War, Kevin Noonan has strapped us into an S-3 Viking right beside him and has taken us on a thrilling ride.

Now in this 4th and final installment in our Confessions Of An Ancient Sub Hunter series, Noonan reflects on what was and what could have been for the enigmatic S-3, as well as the challenges looming on the horizon for the U.S. Navy's shrunken anti-submarine warfare community and for the service overall.

We talk everything from secretive ES-3A Shadows, short-lived US-3A 'Miss Piggies', how the Viking and her crews fought to make a name for themselves within the carrier air wing, the relevancy of the aircraft carrier in modern warfare, and what it is really like being the 'guy in the back' of a combat jet. So strap back in, spool-up the turbofans, and prepare to launch!

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An S-3 Viking armed with Mk 20 Rockeye cluster munitions is about to roar off the carrier's bow.

The Viking's Place In The Carrier Air Wing Pecking Order

‘Harpooning’ the Viking will meet another criticism of the aircraft made by traditional carrier aviators who feel that the embarkation of fixed-wing ASW aircraft has compromised the concept of the attack carrier and reduced its striking power.

– An Illustrated Guide to Modern Naval Aviation and Aircraft Carriers

With the decommissioning of the Essex class anti-submarine warfare (ASW) carriers and the introduction of the S-3 to the supercarriers, deck space that was already at a premium was now jealously coveted. Fighter and attack guys as well as carrier skippers and air wing commanders (CAGs) wanted as many F-4s, F-14s, A-4s, A-6s, and A-7s as possible to carry out the mission of the attack carrier.

The presence of a handful of E-2s, EA-6Bs, and helicopters was tolerated since they served their masters well. The S-3 Viking, however, really did nothing to enhance their concept of the warfare they were charged with conducting.

So can you imagine what these gentlemen were thinking in the early to mid-1970s when a squadron of 10 Vikings suddenly invaded their sacred deck-space?

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A vertical view of the aircraft carrier USS Kitty Hawk (CV-63). Visible on the flight deck are the following aircraft: an H-46 Sea Knight helicopter (foreground), two A-7 Corsair IIs, and S-3 Viking, two E-2

Hawkeye Airborne Early Warning (AEW) aircraft (center), an F-14 Tomcat and S-3 Viking and five EA-6B Prowler aircraft (background). Circa 1983.

Just to give you an idea of how much space, here are the S-3’s sexy measurements. Her wingspan was 68 feet with the wings spread or 29 feet with them folded. Her length was 53 feet. She stood tall at almost 23 feet or 15 feet with her tail folded. By the way, at the apex of wings’ spreading or folding, the height of the Viking was 31 feet!

Among the "punishments" doled out for our excessive presence on the sovereign 4½ acres of fighter-attack territory administered to all VS squadrons upon entering the Med [the Mediterranean Sea] was the banishment of 2-or-3 of our birds to the purgatory of Naval Air Station Sigonella, Sicily. What they assumed was punishment was actually a 2-to-3-week vacation from the boat.

We would change-out aircraft and crews and maintenance personnel in order to give everyone a chance to "suffer". Ya know? I never did thank CAG and the fighter-attack guys for this! If there was a submarine in the general vicinity of Sicily, we would go out for a hunt. Otherwise, tasking while at ‘Sig’ tended to focus on recon of the Soviet anchorage just off of Tunisia or tracking the various ships that the Soviets sent into the Med that steamed past Sicily.

Unfortunately, far worse for our reputation than the obesity of our presence on the carrier was that perennial problem plaguing the 'A' model of the S-3, the one I touched on above. Give me a moment to shed a little more light on the subject ...

Since the technology placed in the Viking by Univac and Texas Instruments was cutting-edge for a carrier-based aircraft, our computer took a long time getting used to the standard-issue violence any aircraft endured during a catapult launch or arrested landing. Industry, engineers, and NAVAIR evaluators at Pax River [Naval Air Station Patuxent River in Maryland] worked hard to eliminate the

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software and hardware problems that came to light as flight hours mounted through the 1970s. However, they never were able to completely cure a painfully regular problem associated with our Tape Transport Cartridge (TTC).

F/A-18 Hornet and S-3 Viking sharing an elevator on a carrier during nighttime

Basically, the TTC was a “floppy” disk that booted up the aircraft computer and had relevant software that could be loaded by the ASMOD [Anti-Submarine Modules, an intelligence element that coordinates ASW operations] for the pending mission (ESM [electronic support measures] emitters, target data, Link 11 info, fly-to-points, etc.).

If we had any problems with the load while on deck, we’d shut down the #2 engine and one of our amazing AXs or ATs would come in and troubleshoot. The AX rating was an electronics technician that focused on our ASW black boxes. The ATs were electronics technicians that focused on aircraft electronics other than ASW gear. As the Cold War came to an end, the AX rating was retired and absorbed into the AT rating.

Keep in mind, we normally flew with a regular Air Wing cycle which meant we launched with the E-2 ahead of perhaps four Tomcats, five A-6s, and four A-7s. If our troubleshooting took too long, the fighters and attack birds would launch ahead of us. When a problem didn’t get resolved, we were now affecting deck spotting for the previous cycle that had been waiting in the overhead stack to recover. Once we did launch, then everyone kept their fingers crossed that the computer’s load would hold. Many times it didn’t.

The utter shock the aircraft suffers at the end of the cat stroke makes every airplane tremble. Can you imagine, then, how it is for any sensitive electronics on board? This is what occurred with each launch for the GPDC [general purpose digital computer] in the S-3A. As late as 1987, we were required to inform the Air Boss or Alpha X-ray of the status of our load once we were airborne: Alpha – fully working system. Bravo or Charlie – computer working in degraded state with only some sensors

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working. Delta – no computer load. When we reluctantly reported a Delta load, you could hear the wailing and gnashing of teeth in the voice of the Air Boss or Alpha X-ray.

Essentially, we were just a hunk of aluminum boring holes in CAG’s sky. If he was having a really bad day, he’d tell the Air Boss to send us to “Delta overhead and await the next recovery”. Which meant we had to fly a purgatorial pattern above the ship and burn precious Air Wing fuel until we could land again. Our lack of a system meant no ESM, no radar except in an analog mode that couldn’t provide the battle group with any Link 11 surface plot data since the computer wasn’t working, no acoustics ... nothing.

An Air Anti-submarine Squadron 21 (VS-21) S-3A Viking aircraft comes in for a landing on the flight deck of the nuclear-powered aircraft carrier USS Enterprise (CVN-65) during FLEET EX '88. The Enterprise is

seen here operating near Adak, Alaska.

It took a long time for the S-3 to earn the respect she deserved. I’ve since discovered that there was a move in NAVAIR during the late ‘70s to early ‘80s to remove the S-3 from the carrier deck altogether and modify the airframes to be permanent tankers, CODs [Carrier Onboard Delivery], and a design to replace the 'Whale' [the A-3 Skywarrior], all things that would actually come to pass. Thankfully, the complete removal didn’t happen. Someone somewhere was fighting for us (at least they were back then).

As the prominence of Vietnam-era dogfights and airstrikes faded with the close of the ‘70s and the increasing Soviet threat to the carrier battleground (CVBG) invaded the minds of senior officers, attitudes toward the Viking did begin to change. Then as the decade of the ‘80s came to a close, significant changes were made to the S-3. Each of these changes such as an exciting new radar, supplying the fighter-attack guys with the sweet nectar of JP-5 jet fuel from our own loins, and the Harpooning of the Viking, would contribute to the removal of the chip on the shoulder of the Air Wing and carrier toward the S-3 (for the most part, anyway). Aboard some carriers, the Viking community would actually experience genuine respectful admiration and dare I say…love?

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Most importantly, damning computer loading problems would vanish.

Vikings Onboard

It took time for the ship’s company and air wing crews to get used to the presence of the S-3 Viking squadrons. We adapted. And by the time I walked aboard the USS Nimitz at the end of 1986 and headed off for my first Med cruise, the Viking community was just another squadron in the sea of 5,000-6,000 sailors aboard. They certainly didn’t love us. Nonetheless, we were family.

Onboard Nimitz, we were well established with our ready room, our maintenance spaces, and our berthing. Most importantly, to the AWs (Aviation Warfare Systems Operators) of VS-24, we had our own aircrew shop where we held shop meetings, did our various collateral duties, got our asses chewed out by the Chief, “smoked and Coked”, and played computer games on the shop’s Commodore 64. (Yes, you read that right.)

As aircrew, we didn’t suffer the 12 hours on - 12 hours off schedule that our squadron mates and ship’s company had to endure every day we were at sea. We lived according to our flight schedule.

During a Med cruise, an AW Shop tended to have between 14-and-17 Naval aircrewman. With 10 aircraft, we could man the birds day-and-night and still have three SENSOs [sensor operators] to stand Assistant Squadron Duty Officer watch in the ready room. When we weren’t briefing and flying, we were sleeping, training, and studying Soviet naval vessel recognition and tactics or doing our collateral duties such as filling out all the squadron aircrew log books, calculating crew/aircraft flight time and mission statistics, updating classified publications and NATOPS manuals.

My berthing aboard the Nimitz was particularly amazing. It was a 20 man-berth that was curtained off. It was our own sanctuary that was essentially off-limits to everyone. We could sleep day or night without interruption. I was grateful that I had a top rack (what the Navy calls a bed) that lay longitudinally along the ship’s axis. It takes heavy weather to make a 100,000-ton ship move and when we were sailing through a storm, my bunk would rock me into a magnificent slumber.

On a particular set of nights in the Western Mediterranean in early 1987, I was able to listen to a lullaby of our escorts’ bow-mounted SQS-26 sonars <pinging> through the water and the steel of our hull while we passed through a winter storm. It was pure heaven!

As I described above, all of this would change when we joined the brand new Theodore Roosevelt. I would never again enjoy the steel sanctuary and sense of a familiar old friend that the Nimitz was. I miss her.

Surprisingly, during the 2 cumulative years I spent at sea over a 4-year period, my carrier only went to General Quarters (GQ) [i.e., battle stations] one time. Aboard the Theodore Roosevelt, we had a fire erupt in the auxiliary diesel engine room. The fire was quickly contained and put out by the outstanding Damage Control (DC) teams. Our blackshoe brethren were for the most part despised by the brownshoes [or aviation Navy] and vice versa. We rarely appreciated how often they saved our asses.

All of our other GQs were only exercise or training events. We used to have a standard joke: “When the carrier goes to battle stations, the air wing goes to bed” or hides in our respective Ready Rooms. It was a pain-in-the-ass to move around the ship since everywhere you went you technically had to get Damage Control (DC) Central’s permission to move and all the hundreds of water-tight doors were

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dogged down. If you did venture out of the Ready Room on your way to the flight deck to fly a mission, you had to step over members of the DC teams that were spread across the carrier on every deck.

Now years later and in light of what the USS Stark, Samuel B. Roberts, Cole, Fitzgerald, and McCain have suffered, I deeply regret not participating in these evolutions with the DC Teams. Had we collided with another ship or received actual combat damage aboard my two carriers, we in the air wing would not have been prepared to help save our boat just as the major carrier fires aboard USS Forrestal, Oriskany, and Enterprise had confirmed.

Crew members practice firefighting techniques while another crew member acts as a simulated casualty during a general quarters drill aboard the nuclear-powered aircraft carrier USS Theodore

Roosevelt (CVN-71). An Air Anti-submarine Squadron 32 (VS-32) S-3A Viking aircraft is parked in the background (circa 1987).

Overall, life aboard an aircraft carrier was incredibly generous. And despite our bitchin’ while at sea, it was a truly fortunate experience for those of us who were aircrew.

The Viking's Shadow

I left the Navy before I had a chance to see one of the two most successful variants of the S-3 -- the ES-3A Shadow. It was my understanding that at the time, you had to have a Top Secret (TS) clearance to simply climb up inside her cockpit. The vast majority of AWs only had a secret clearance until a TS became mandatory in the early ‘90s.

My one connection with this mysterious aircraft came when I was an instructor. Since no Shadow airframes were available at the time, the first class of enlisted backseaters needed to be trained in emergency egress procedures, inflight safety, and the operation of two of the sensors that the ES-3A would retain from her first life as a Viking – the APS-137 radar and the ESM suite. After classroom training, we took each of them on a single familiarization hop in the backseat of one of our S-3Bs.

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Because of my lack of experience with this beautiful mutation of the Viking family (I’m a sucker for airplanes with all kinds of tumorous growths on them), I have to rely on the always-excellent work done by Squadron Signal Publications in their book S-3 Viking In Action by Brad Elward. His section on the Shadow is probably the best available. I highly recommend this particular text for its collection of magnificent pictures and outstanding info contained within a very short 80 pages.

Actually, I just missed seeing the ES-3A by a few months since the USN chose to do field conversions at NAS Cecil Field instead of at the Lockheed plant. 16 Viking airframes were chosen to morph into the Shadow. While the basic bones remained, it was quite obvious that she was nothing like her old ASW/ASuW [Anti-Submarine Warfare/Anti-Surface Warfare] self.

An Air Test and Evaluation Squadron 1 (VX-1) ES-3A Shadow aircraft sits on an elevator on the aircraft carrier USS Saratoga (CV-60) during the NATO exercise Display Determination '92.

The Navy decided in the late ‘80s to end the long career of its only carrier-based signals intelligence (SIGINT) aircraft - the EA-3B 'Whale'. They didn’t have an immediate replacement. But Lockheed offered their concept of the ES-3 to replace the ongoing need for the gathering of electronic intelligence (ELINT) and communications intelligence (COMINT) for the battlegroup. The USN accepted the concept and awarded the contract.

The Navy, which loved to tinker with aircraft already in its inventory, was wooed by Lockheed’s major selling point: the Viking’s airframe had proven itself inherently stable and reliable over the previous decade-and-a-half. That foundation allowed for non-disruptive modifications such as the removal of the sonobuoy chutes and the MAD [magnetic anomaly detector] boom.

Of course, the nature of the Shadow’s missions required significant additions of displays, devices, and the black boxes that ran them. Space inside the aircraft was carved out for these critical boxes with the removal of the acoustic processing equipment which took up most of the left side of the avionics tunnel. However, it wasn’t near enough room.

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More carving took place in the weapons bay where a full suite of electronics replaced the space normally reserved for torpedoes and bombs. This exponential increase in electrons and heat would require an even better cooling source than what the original Viking design offered. So a vapor cycle system “was installed to provide air-conditioning for the new electronics in the bay and to sanitize moisture and salt from the aircraft to reduce corrosion,” writes Elward. Her ESM was upgraded as were her communications and navigation capabilities.

The old GPDC was replaced with not one, not two, but with three computers. Elward continues: “Finally, the Shadow incorporated the Multi-Static Processor (MPS) which gave the ES-3A a passive airborne exploitation capability in the same league as the larger EP-3E and RC-135 Rivet Joint.”

The crew changed as well. Instead of the Viking's three officers and one enlisted aircrew, the Shadow had a pilot who was the Electronic Warfare (EW) mission commander and an NFO (Naval Flight Officer) who was the EW [Electronic Warfare] Combat Coordinator (EWCC) upfront.

Behind the front seaters, two enlisted aircrewmen occupied the rear cockpit. If the mission was primarily COMINT, a Naval Aircrewman qualified as a cryptologist technician (CTI) would fly. If it was primarily ELINT, an EW Operator (EWOPS) would occupy one or both of the rear seats.

The addition of all the bells&whistles came at the cost of 4,000 additional pounds making the aircraft considerably more sluggish. Regardless, the ES-3A performed her SIGINT missions for the CSG commander and was called upon to execute additional tasks such as Overland Battle Damage Assessment (OBDA) and Over-The-Horizon Targeting (OTH-T), all-the-while keeping the air wing in the gas by retaining her much-needed tanker capability.

A U.S. Navy Lockheed ES-3A Shadow (BuNo 159401) from Fleet Reconnaissance Squadron VQ-6 Black Ravens in flight off the Florida coast. This aircraft was retired to the AMARC as 2S0036 on 24

February 1999 and scrapped on 8 January 2003.

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Another critical mission that the Shadow performed for the CSG was assessing combat electronic order of battle (EOB) in which threat emitters and other enemy RF [radio frequency] sources would be categorized, mapped, and potentially exploited by the CVBG. Elward describes just such a mission:

Typically, Shadows flew missions at high altitudes at long standoff range gathering information about enemy air defense networks, listening to communications, and helping identify and classify potential targets. Shadows often worked together with S-3Bs to create an overall EOB.

Due to the limited number of ES-3As in the detachment, Shadows would often fly a mission along a designated route followed by an S-3B Viking using its ESM suite and then compare data obtained from the two flights before making a second Shadow flight where the ES-3A would fine-tune the observations.

The Shadow joined the fleet in 1992 with the birds going to one of two squadrons on each coast of the U.S. Fleet Air Reconnaissance Squadron (VQ-5) [the Sea Shadows] was established initially at Guam and later was transferred to NAS North Island in 1994.

In April of 1993, VQ-5 made the first operational deployment of the ES-3A aboard USS Independence. The east coast stood up VQ-6 [the Black Ravens] at NAS Cecil Field with the first deployment aboard USS Saratoga in January of 1994.

The ES-3A Shadow flew operationally including working with NATO operations in Bosnia until 1999 when “costs and budgetary constraints” ended what should have been a remarkable aircraft’s long career. With its loss, CSG commanders would have to rely on land-based EP-3E assets and USAF aircraft to meet their ever-increasing SIGINT needs.

The Shadow airframes, now joined by their Viking kin, rest on a plot of desert Bone Yard in a world no longer at peace. Once again, one has to question the USN’s decision-making process and lack of foresight. Of course, budgetary myopia seems always to trump common sense, simple wisdom, and the unheeded lessons history keeps trying to teach us.

'Miss Piggy'

Obviously with the transition from the propeller-driven S-2 to the jet-powered S-3 Viking, the C-1A Trader variant of the Tracker that served as the primary Carrier Onboard Delivery (COD) aircraft would have to be replaced as well.

Seeing a chance to take a chunk out of Grumman’s dominance of carrier deck space which included the C-2A Greyhound, Lockheed offered a variation of the S-3 airframe. Surprisingly, the USN awarded the contract in 1975 for six US-3A CODs.

Lockheed decided to make use of the seventh YS-3A airframe stripping out all mission electronics. Since no passenger-now-prisoner of a crashing airplane would be pleased with having their flight crew leave them behind via pyrotechnics, the Viking’s four ejection seats were removed.

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A U.S. Navy Lockheed US-3A Viking (BuNo 157995) from Fleet Logistic Support Squadron 50 (VRC-50) - the "Foo Dogs" - prepares to be launched from the nuclear-powered aircraft carrier USS Carl Vinson

(CVN-70) on 21 January 1987. The Viking BuNo 157995 was originally delivered as a YS-3A research and development aircraft and converted to a US-3A in the late 1970s. It was retired to AMARC as 2S0034 on

29 January 1996 and scrapped in 2003.

In their place, a pilot, co-pilot, a loadmaster, and up to 6 rear-facing passenger seats were installed. Cargo space was carved out of the weapons bay and 2 big cargo-carrying blivets could be slung under each wing station in place of fuel tanks.

In lieu of passengers, additional cargo could be carried internally for a total capacity of 7,400 pounds. However, the addition of the blivets reduced her range from 2,700 nautical miles to just over 1,900 nautical miles (which was still very substantial).

Was 'Miss Piggy' (as her crews and the fleet affectionately called her) a worthy replacement of the Trader? While the C-1A could carry up to 9 passengers, it could only carry 3,500 pounds of cargo. As I mentioned above, the USN already had a COD aircraft (a variant of the E-2 Hawkeye)

The C-2 Greyhound became operational in 1965, a full decade before the Viking variant contract was awarded. Its two Allison T-56 turboprops could haul 10,000 pounds of cargo including outsized aircraft engines, personnel, and (most importantly to the CVBG sailor) mail. Clearly, the Greyhound could do the job better.

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Flight and ground crewmen unload cargo from US-3A Miss Piggy's giant blivet (circa 1981).

So why did the USN choose to utilize 'Miss Piggy'? I really don’t have a clue. Add to the mystery that the US-3s were limited to the west coast Navy and flew only in the 7th Fleet area of operations out of Subic Bay in the Philippines or Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean.

Also, the only squadron that flew the six aircraft was the Foo Dogs of VRC-50 [“VRC” being the designation for Fleet Logistics Support Squadron]. When I find an answer as to what the Navy was thinking with the US-3A, I’ll let you know.

A Premature Demise?

A couple of times a month I’m asked if the decision by the U.S. Navy to retire the S-3 Viking in 2009 was a mistake. One conclusion I have drawn while mulling over this critical question is that there is a far more important consideration that is essentially ignored: “Was the resolution to remove the SENSO and the ASW mission equipment for which the Viking was originally designed a fateful miscalculation?”

This move made 9 years prior to the aircraft’s retirement was symptomatic of the utter failure of the Navy to stay the course after the end of the Cold War on what arguably was and is its most important mission: anti-submarine warfare.

Okay, so I got that small measure of bitching off my chest. Now onto the larger issue of retiring the aircraft altogether.

Was it a mistake for the Navy to do so? Should it bring the S-3 back to be a tanker and perform other missions? Are current ASW measures enough to protect the Carrier Strike Group (CSG) and Expeditionary Strike Group (ESG) while performing the other ASW missions necessary to meet the

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“new” threat posed by the Russians (not to mention the Chinese)? A threat that is relatively new but not unexpected.

First, let me acknowledge just how ignorant the empowered minds had to be not to have seen how many hats the Viking had worn and how many variants were theorized and produced from one, single, brilliant airframe. Of course, the ignorant aren’t completely to blame. The VS [air anti-submarine and sea control squadron] community had decades to develop a reputation as the VP [patrol squadron] community did and lobby for the life of the S-3. Our subordination in the air wing didn’t have to be an accepted limitation.

Now in a world filled with contradiction, allow me to add one of the many I own:

It was a mistake to retire the S-3. And it wasn’t a mistake.

An air-to-air left side view of an Air Anti-submarine Squadron 31 (VS-31) S-3A Viking aircraft banking right. The Soviet command cruiser Zhdanov is underway in the background (circa 1987).

It wasn’t because at the time it did make fiscal sense. That is if you subscribe to the group who were quite certain that the end of History was upon us and we would all live happily ever after. However, Desert Storm, Bosnia, Somalia, and the planet-changing effect of September 11th made it quite obvious that happily-ever-after is found only in naïve minds and fairy tales.

Yet less than a decade after the same euphoric thinking that pulled the SENSO out of the Viking reared its ugly head and made the myopic choice to remove the aircraft from fleet inventories altogether. That thinking failed to consider (with one eye in a history book) what was really going on in the World and how removing a critical in-flight refueling asset would affect the only strike mission aircraft left on the carrier’s deck.

The Navy bought into the concept that there would always be a USAF tanker ready for the air wing to plug into no matter where the carriers were in the World. This is the same thoughtless argument that believes a P-8 will always be overhead to protect every CSG and ESG while still having plenty of airframes to perform open ocean search-and-tracking of subsurface threats that in the 21st Century have

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slipped away from our convenient assumptions of how they’re supposed to behave. That’s not to mention the numerous other missions expected of the Poseidon.

P-8 Poseidon seen during testing.

A word about the P-8 and availability. Back in the day if there was a potential submarine threat, VP (P-3 Orion squadron) support of a CVBG was mostly requested at night unless we were in a major ASW exercise. CAGs and carrier COs preferred daylight cyclical ops and needed the overnight time for maintenance and to rest their catapult and arresting gear crews.

Because submarines never get the memo about the carrier’s preferred schedule, they tend to attack at all hours. Thus it was painful getting the CAG and CO [commanding officer] to support 24-hour or “flex deck” ops allowing the S-3s, an E-2, and the helos to launch and address the all-hours schedule of the enemy submarine. Now that there are no fixed-wing ASW assets aboard the carrier at all so the need for the P-8 has risen dramatically. [StealthSkater note: The P-2 Neptune, its successor the P-3 Orion, and P-8 Poseidon are all land-based and cannot be carrier-launched like the S-3 Viking.]

A quick comparison is in order. Open source info tells me that a P-8 will be on station between 4-and-6 hours per mission depending on transit time. Also according to data published in 2018, the U.S. Navy is planning on acquiring 117 Poseidons to handle the issues faced by a 4-ocean Navy that has to constantly attend to several seas and a troublesome Persian Gulf.

Again, back in the day at the height of the 1980s, there were 377 P-3 Orions spread across 3 oceans, several seas, and an increasingly disturbed Persian Gulf. The P-3 also tended to stay on station for an average of 8 hours.

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Granted (as the open-source materials state), the P-8’s acoustic suite and sonobuoy load are significantly better (and they damn well better be!) than what came before. I’ll also give you the 60-or-so MQ-4 Tritons drones if you’ll assure me that they can meet the tactical ASW needs that will haunt CSGs in the decades to come (they aren’t really an ASW platform).

Thus when I do the availability math taking into account all other sources of intel and ASW support…well, I’m worried.

The P-8 flies alongside USS John C. Stennis.

I’m sure you’ve heard the saying “generals and admirals are always fighting the last war”. Well, we are confronted with a new Cold War with a decidedly 21st Century flair while preparing for the Cold War of the 20th Century without the funds and assets we used to dominate and win that one.

Have I told you lately that I’m worried?

Should the Viking then be brought back into service? No. It’s too late for the USN. That decision should have been made and acted on by wise minds a few years after its retirement as the Navy witnessed how much wear and tear tanking contributed to the life expectancy of the Super Hornet. They should have stripped the airframe of all of its electronics, save the radar and ESM, and filled all the available spaces with gas.

But as many rightly point out, bringing the Viking back would become a fiscal nightmare because of the well-documented propensity of the Navy to add on all kinds of bells&whistles to fulfill every need they perceive the airframe should meet including fixed-wing ASW.

Now let’s look at other ASW assets around the CSG in light of the Viking’s absence. There is the belief that all carriers have a nuclear fast attack submarine (SSN) supporting their deployment. Sorry, but here we go again with availability. That was nominally true during the latter part of the Cold War.

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But the number of Virginia class boats available today and in the foreseeable future don’t add up to the wide-ranging burdensome needs now placed on the submarine community.

What happens if there is a war with China and Russia supports their communist acquaintance? Let’s be honest. There is a desperate need for the primary missions the SSN fulfills not to mention the need to keep pace with the steady growth of the worldwide diesel submarine threat and the intel gathering that is needed to understand what makes the Chinese Navy and others tick.

And the SSN is still our only reliable asset in the Arctic even as seasonally navigable waterways open up for longer periods. Remember, along with the White Sea, this region still remains the safest place for Russian SSBNs to hide if we get into a protracted shooting war with that country. And if we do, those SSBNs have to go.

The surface navy is finally getting its ASW act together. In light of their self-imposed lack of simple sailoring skills, I really hope they are.

The reality? Even if they were at the top of their game today, only having 2-or-3 destroyers protecting a CVN simply won’t be enough to meet the submarine threat. There have always been and will always be too many variables in hunting submarines that will quickly deplete the capabilities of 2-or-3 surface warships.

Finally, the helicopter.

I will always remind anyone who asks how 2-or-3 helicopters with dipping sonar are the very best air ASW threat to a submarine. However, let me qualify that statement with the fact that this is true only after the submarine has been localized.

For these helos to be effective, the submarine’s general location must already be known. In today’s and tomorrow’s environment (just like during the Cold War when we had assets a-plenty), a flaming datum may be the only way an initial detection is provided.

Simply put, helicopters by themselves are not very good search platforms. Unless things have changed, a helo with a dipping sonar brings nothing to an initial search that the carrier’s escorts don’t already provide with their bow sonar in active mode. It is a waste of fuel, of crew endurance, and system use.

Once a potential contact has been gained, then the helo is the ideal sub-hunting platform. A sonobuoy search by a helo is also a waste since only a relatively small number are carried and the helo's range and relatively slow speed prevent it from meeting the typical demands of the search phase of ASW.

Oh, and there simply aren’t the numbers of helos aboard the ships of a CSG to perform all the missions expected of them while also performing a very time-consuming blind search.

The helo’s range and speed actually pose a major threat to the carrier. The presence of an ASW helicopter not only informs a submarine skipper that there are major warships present but also ensures that they are close by. Not having any ASW sensors or weapons aboard, the carrier’s only self-defense against a submarine is to run away at relatively high-speed.

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An MH-60R Sea Hawk from the Raptors of Helicopter Maritime Strike Squadron (HSM) 71 assigned to the aircraft carrier USS John C. Stennis (CVN-74) tests lower a dipping sonar. John C. Stennis is deployed

to the U.S. 5th Fleet area of responsibility conducting maritime security operations, theater security cooperation efforts, and support missions for Operation Enduring Freedom.

While maritime geography and operational needs may tie an aircraft carrier to a certain vulnerable location, her deployed helicopters hunting a submarine place additional leashes on an already exposed capital ship. The carrier must stay within the limiting range of its helos to ensure they can be safely recovered.

I love helicopters. But in the current ASW environment, just one potential submarine will sponge away all available ships, aircraft, and sensors. When the second and third possible submarine contact is detected, God help the ASW commander.

The loss of a sea-based fixed-wing “outer-zone” ASW aircraft has taken the USN back into the 1940s and 1950s where in the vast majority of instances, they were forced to wait for the submarine to find them. If we are faced with a naval conflict against China and/or Russia whether brief or protracted, the fog and chaos of war will exponentially add insult to the injury of “never enough assets” and create far too many flaming datums.

Oh, and the real irony of today’s CSG? There is plenty of deck space these days for 10 Vikings on the supercarriers with their shrinking air wings.

If I may: Laugh…out…fucking…loud!

Here’s how I see it:

The Navy needs to gradually move away from total reliance on manned aircraft and begin to fill the decks of every ship in the Fleet including auxiliaries with all manner of unmanned air/surface/subsurface

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vehicles (e.g., drones) capable of performing each mission in any electronic environment. The irresistible movement toward this era of unmanned warfare is upon us whether we like it or not.

We have and will have the technology to not only create various types, shapes, and sizes of sensor/weapon-carrying vehicles but also to employ them in the battlespace that is being created by this era. Most importantly (and for the moment), it is a field of play where we, our friends, and our enemies are all new to the game.

We need to move in this direction because every sea environment we enter will soon contain multiple subsurface threats of varying complexity. The CSG going through a choke point will not only face one, two, or three manned submarines in a layered defense, but will also face many mission-critical unmanned underwater vehicles (UUVs) that will accompany those submarines. Some of those UUVs will also find employment as decoys providing an almost perfect simulation of the host submarine’s acoustic and performance profile. Now, you have seven…no, 11 contacts!

So here’s my worried question: Are we even training for this environment today? Does the acoustic sensor operator in the MH-60 and P-8 know how to detect, classify, and track a UUV? Does a surface ship sonar tech have the know-how? At the very least, they damn well better be training the sonar techs who serve aboard submarines to do this.

Instead of dismissing the navalized unmanned concept as “naive at best, delusional at worst”, we need to have the courage to accept that this is the natural evolution of naval warfare. After all, just a century ago the battleship admirals thought the same of the airplane and submarine.

No Foreign Viking Adopters

I am very disappointed that the Viking fleet continues to languish in the desert graveyard since its retirement. As I stated, I don’t think they are relevant to fulfill USN needs. However, I am surprised that Singapore, South Korea, Vietnam, or even Australia haven’t purchased a clutch or two of them.

The Viking’s range and endurance are perfect for the maritime geography that surrounds these countries. There is no question that Australia, for example, needs the P-8. However, they are costly and our good friends can only afford a limited number. Using an Aussie S-3 to cover her green&brown water would be a tremendous reduction of the burden a Poseidon-only fleet will have to carry.

Just some of the S-3 Vikings in desert storage at AMARG.

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Despite arguments to the contrary, the Viking still has plenty of life in her and nations that would be able to use them wouldn’t be subjecting the airframes to the harsh aircraft carrier environment. The aircraft would make fantastic littoral MPAs (Maritime Patrol Aircraft) and with affordable non-acoustic and acoustic system/processor updates could handle diesel, nuclear submarines, and UUVs with relative ease.

Is The Aircraft Carrier Still Relevant?

There’s a quote in my notes somewhere that argues against the aircraft carrier as being far too vulnerable in “modern naval warfare”. The quote is from an article written in…wait for it…

1922 !

Submarines have proven that carriers (and all surface ships for that matter) are vulnerable. Airplanes have proven that aircraft carriers are vulnerable. Very angry anti-ship cruise missiles (and now anti-ship ballistic missiles) have threatened the survivability of the carrier.

But in any argument against or for the aircraft carrier, many factors come into play, the least of which is defining what vulnerability and survivability actually mean. And let’s face it, warships of any type at any time in History have always been vulnerable.

One thing that needs to be recognized is that the majority of folks who emphasize the vulnerability of the aircraft carrier are also arguing about the incredibly high cost of building and operating them. And they are absolutely correct and right to do so. I’m torn by all sides of the argument having served aboard Nimitz and Theodore Roosevelt during the aircraft carrier’s glory days.

The Carl Vinson Carrier Strike Group including the aircraft carrier USS Carl Vinson (CVN-70), Carrier Air Wing (CVW) 2, the guided-missile cruiser USS Lake Champlain (CG-57), and the guided-missile

destroyers USS Wayne E. Meyer (DDG-108) and USS Michael Murphy (DDG-112) operate with the Ronald Reagan Carrier Strike Group including USS Ronald Reagan (CVN-76), CVW-5, USS Shiloh (CG-67), USS

Barry (DDG-52), USS McCampbell (DDG-85), USS Fitzgerald (DDG-62), and USS Mustin (DDG-89) and the Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force ships (JS) Hyuga (DDH-181) and JS Ashigara (DDG-178) in the

western Pacific region. The Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force and U.S. Navy forces routinely train together to improve interoperability and readiness to provide stability and security for the Indo-Asia

Pacific region.

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Degrees of carrier vulnerability have come and gone and come back again over the aircraft carrier’s century of existence. World War II showed how easy it was to sink them and how difficult it was. The examples set by the USS Forrestal, Enterprise and to a lesser extent the USS Oriskany showed how a carrier can survive conventional weapons explosions and resulting fires due to the persistence and sacrifice of damage control teams and the dedication of the ship’s crew.

As opposed to land bases, the aircraft carrier is highly maneuverable and can take itself out of potential danger, or not go in harm’s way at all. The battlegroup commander can also pick and choose the level of risk he-or-she is willing to place their high-value assets in. Visual, electronic, and operational deception still works. The oceans and seas remain very large places to hide in despite modern technology.

But things, they are a-changing.

No one knows how effective Chinese anti-ship ballistic missiles will be against the aircraft carrier. Have they perfected the targeting and maneuvering required to hit such a dynamic target? That is once they’ve found it? Do they have the resources and stamina to go after more than one carrier?

Certainly, they invite capitalization of the carrier’s vulnerability if they pick and choose where the fight is going to be.

If they get one carrier, will it escalate into a tactical nuclear war? Will it go further than that? Are they even afraid of this possibility in light of our current nuclear weapons theory and practice?

And that leads to the “newest” problem faced by our current carrier fleet. Area denial weapons being developed and utilized are (in theory) pushing the aircraft carrier further-and-further away from the potential fight and we aren’t helping the matter.

By placing manned aircraft on the deck that have less-and-less range to do the traditional missions of the aircraft carrier, we are supporting the effective fear-based tactic the Chinese are currently using with the deployment of the anti-ship ballistic missile and far-ranging air defense systems.

One solution that has been argued for decades is to stop buying the supercarriers and start buying smaller ones. It is an important argument simply because the more assets you have, the more your enemy will face.

But “smaller” invites a host of problems of its own to be dealt with. Reduced deck space limits the number and type of aircraft that can be flown off on missions.

How is the smaller carrier powered? If it is conventionally powered, then you have to drag around more auxiliaries to ensure your higher number of carriers have the supplies, fuel, and gas they need.

More carriers also need more crew which means higher costs in manpower (one of the more expensive aspects of any military force).

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America's newest carrier CVN-78 USS Gerald R. Ford cost roughly $13B and is still suffering from a number of issues.

Today, the biggest problem with the larger number of small carriers argument is that anything touched by the Military and Industry mutates well beyond the original intent of design and cost. This frustrating neediness for all the latest “upgrades and apps” and a pathetic obsession with greed ends up bringing the costs into the neighborhood of the supercarrier. Meanwhile, we end up having ships originally designed to perform 3 missions unable to perform any of the 32 missions we’ve added on.

I love the concept of the smaller carrier. In my thinking, I believe it can work. But I also suffer from a case of severe nostalgia.

In all honesty, I really don’t have an answer because there are so many factors and scenarios to consider. The aircraft carrier has served the United States very well as the peace-time political tool needed for influential diplomacy and power projection. But so was the battleship up until 1939.

In past wars up to Desert Storm, aircraft carriers performed brilliantly. To meet the challenges of the rise of the Soviet Navy (particularly its submarine force), the aircraft carrier evolved and rolled very well with the punches. Today, the flat top remains essentially the same. However, its actual weapon - the manned aircraft - has changed…for better?...for worse?

As it has been said repeatedly: a carrier’s true vulnerability relies on the range of its aircraft. Let’s hope the F-18 Super Hornet and F-35’s limited range can be “extended” by its amazing 21s Century capabilities.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, we have hypersonic weapons…

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As a nation, we need to take the question of the future of the aircraft carrier seriously and find effective answers before one of those huge, nearly irreplaceable, intensively manned, and very costly assets meet their ultimate humiliation at the hand of a non-peer or peer state.

Maritime Patrol In An Age Of Advanced Air Defenses

The 4 nautical mile range ring.

A seemingly benign symbol that surrounded another seemingly benign submarine symbol on our screens. Placed there by Viking TACCOs [Tactical Coordinators], it had begun to strike fear in the hearts of Viking crews in the 1980s and early 1990s. Our sense of invulnerability was coming to its end.

Just remember, if you penetrate that circle, our Intel Officer admonished, you’re as good as dead!

For most of the Cold War, the MPA and carrier-based ASW community flew with impunity in the skies around and above surfaced and submerged submarines. As World War II ended, deck guns were being traded for hydrodynamic sails and casings because in a hostile environment, the submarine didn’t need to surface any more. All she had to do was stick her snorkel up to charge her batteries.

Thus, we had no immediate threat to hinder our ability to perform our mission and stay close to the submarine. We did not have to fear AAA [anti-aircraft artillery] or SAMs [surface-to-air missiles] coming up from our targets simply because the stealth theory dominated the submariner’s mind. They preferred the depths.

But then, somebody decided enough was enough. ASW aircraft had had far too much freedom.

4 nautical miles…

Today, MPA aircrews face range rings in the scale of hundreds-of-miles depending on where in the world they are flying. Layers-and-layers of weapons-plus-geography are now being built in what appears to be our most serious theater of maneuver and warfare: the East and South China Seas.

The Chinese played the role of student during most of the Cold War. They watched. They learned. The 20th Century has been an interesting and powerful classroom for them.

With the fall of the Soviet Union and their own tremendous economic growth, they believe they’ve graduated and feel that the 21st Century belongs to them. They may not be wrong.

One significant lesson they’ve learned from the U.S. is the importance of dominating their hemisphere. Within that geographic hegemony, they are placing weapons such as the HQ-9, a variety of fighter aircraft with long-range air-to-air missiles, electronic air defense stations, and various anti-ship missile systems to prevent easy access to their overall strategic plan.

In theory, these systems will push warships and aircraft carriers back beyond their effective ranges and threaten the bases and governments that allow allied MPAs and other critical land-based assets to freely and easily perform crucial missions. At least in theory.

In a world where technology demands a multi-platform approach to warfare, the MPA may not be able to penetrate the layers of defenses offered-up by the Chinese. Thus we have to design and develop

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a new way of penetrating these defenses just as, in the past, every new weapon, tactic, and strategy was countered by another new weapon, tactic, and strategy.

In the interim, there is good news. The Chinese can’t do this all at once. It will take time and we need to take advantage of that time.

Also as Tyler Rogoway has pointed out most recently in his Saudi oilfield attack, having the best air defense system doesn’t mean it’s going to work as advertised. While the Chinese are outstanding students, they haven’t fought a naval engagement or war since the late ‘70s whereas we have been on a war footing since 2001. And one of the greatest truths of warfare is that the defenders of any plot of land or area of the sea tend to fall into a malaise brought on by a false sense of security and superiority.

Even better news. Unlike the neighborhood in our hegemony, China’s neighbors don’t trust her. Japan, Vietnam, and South Korea hate her and are arming themselves to deal with her. Also, China is primarily interested in her global status as an economic power. It’s not about philosophical domination. Just economic. Once she leaves the bastion of the East and South China Seas, she becomes just another blue water navy.

There’s an old saying that is a profound truth: “Train like you fight; fight like you train.” MPA crews are going to have to continuously educate themselves on the Chinese theater of operations and train for the realities they will face. The men and women who man the P-8s, P-1s, P-3s, and other MPAs in the region need to speak up and offer ideas, concepts, and tactics to senior leadership about how they need to fight since they are the ones who are (and will be) actually doing the fighting.

They just can’t rely on a playbook written by those who aren’t or (worse still) those who are preparing to fight the last war. The aircrewmen need to analyze and innovate about how to crack the Chinese shield and get in to perform their ASW and ASuW mission. And then get out alive.

Being The Guy In The Back

If I may, a word to any of you out there contemplating military aviation who are already bespectacled, don’t have a 4-year degree, or have been told by a recruiter that you won’t make the pilot-cut. There is a reason that certain airplanes have more souls on board than that one guy who is pushing rudder pedals and flipping ailerons.

That reason is that those airplanes are designed to do a mission only additional crewmembers can successfully complete. Despite not being the stars of Hollywood movies, the NFOs, WSOs, EWOs, AWs, SAR swimmers, boom operators, and (yes, even) loadmasters complete the vital fabric of a complex and powerful weapon system.

I mean let’s face it. The only reason we remember Anthony Edwards’ character “Goose” is because he is a brilliant actor and was funny as hell in Top Gun. Some other RIO stunk while poor helpless Mav got yelled at by a really cool RIO who wore a really cool VF-111 helmet.

It is worth pursuing. But it will cost you.

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The guys in the front get the most attention. But history is made in the back of the jet as well.

If I may offer some advice:

You have to become an expert at your job. Not only developing technical expertise but also a complete immersion into the tactics, the issues, and histories of the seat you’re occupying. Take advantage of every peripheral job, class, and opportunity that allows you to learn more about your weapon system and how it fits in with others within your own branch and all others of the U.S. and Allied militaries.

Also (and this is crucial) become the subject matter expert on the enemy you will face.

You’ll be crewed with some very strong egos which speaks to the need to come to the game with a strong sense of humility and a strong understanding of the purpose of your mission. Also, you will have to “grow a pair” in order to handle a world and attitude that subordinates you while happily glorifies the pilots. In many ways like ole’ Goose, you’ll have to mother your pilots. And with larger crews, you’ll have to be a den mother.

I had the honor of flying with some genuinely amazing NFOs who took their job very seriously and were also fantastic, humble human beings. Many of them admitted in our cockpit confessionals how they wanted to be pilots but for various reasons didn’t make the cut. Instead, they motivated themselves to be the best and counted themselves fortunate to be crew members in an environment where history is made and every single day matters. Several of these tremendous souls went on to command S-3 squadrons. And one-or-two went on to skipper an aircraft carrier.

One guy -- Lieutenant ‘H’ who was my all-time favorite division officer and a magnificent COTAC/TACCO -- decided to change horses in midstream and become a SEAL. He was warned by the ‘upper management’ that his naval career was over. He didn’t care. He wanted to swim, jump out of airplanes, and do neat shit every damn day.

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A year-or-so after he left, we actually called him one morning and you could hear the smile pulsating in his voice. After catching up, he said: “Boys, I just got back from a shooting exercise. Good talking with you. But I gotta let you go because I’m off for bit o’ lunch and then a HALO [high-altitude, low-opening] jump out of a COD!”

I recently read where he had retired a few years ago at the rank of Captain with NFO wings and SEAL trident adorning one helluva naval career.

Any branch of the military offers a universe full of opportunity and adventure. If you involuntarily (or voluntarily) decide to sit in the backseat of any aircraft, every day can be a treasure waiting to be unearthed (even those periods of time that will seem unbearably boring) and you will be blessed with plenty of those days.

Most importantly, you will be given the opportunity to grow as a human being and become a leader. Two qualities that will serve you well for the rest of your life. The challenge, however, belongs to you to make the very best of it.

Two additional things. First, find a mentor and then be a mentor. Be a mentor even if your charge doesn’t want you to be there for him-or-her.

But most of all, keep a photographic and written journal of each and every day of your life. I have lamented over-and-over again about the dearth of pictures that I have after being in the USN and flying in and working around some of the most historically awesome aircraft and warships that the World has ever known. My pathetic handful of images haunt me every day.

However, the most powerful specter has been my failure to write a detailed account, each day, of the things I encountered, experienced, and did. I’ve missed so many precise dates and explanations of events that I’ve related to you here and elsewhere because I just simply didn’t write them down.

There are other events I’ve wanted to tell you about but have had to exclude them because they are lost in the fog of time-past. In my research, I’ve encountered several pilots who have briefly annotated notes in their logbooks describing what each particular flight accomplished. Why? WHY didn’t I think of that?!

Please… PLEASE! WRITE!

Looking Forward

I’ve enjoyed this journey back into all-things ASW, submarines, naval aviation, and Cold War history. It has sparked a passion within that I didn’t think I could find.

Partial blame goes to Tyler and you guys for that fateful day I stumbled upon Foxtrot Alpha in April of 2015. I was introduced to a community where the writer loves all-things military tech and is in love with military aviation while being stalked by an informed, witty, snarky, and faithful group of readers, detractors, stalkers, and bots whose comments and feedback are truly second-to-none.

But it was Tyler’s article in September of that year on the possibility that South Korea might purchase a few Viking airframes that enlightened me to a hunger out there for the amazing history and stories of the great souls who created, developed, and operated the weapons and systems that have fought for an always-tenuous peace.

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Another important place for me has been Twitter. Like TWZ, I have been away from there far too long and look forward to making more time for posts and conversation. I have had the honor of encountering a world of people who appreciate an unamended picture of a Cold War airplane, warship or submarine. It has been such a powerful experience to receive responses from the vets that actually served aboard them back then.

I have been genuinely humbled by the kindness of those individuals who have befriended me…particularly an old RC-135 driver, a couple of Royal Navy submariners and skippers, some authors and writers, and a former Soviet Naval officer who I hope that Tyler interviews someday.

I also received a gift of a private memoir from one of the Royal Navy’s nuclear submarine skippers who fought his boat during the Falklands War. It is a treasure I keep close to me and will carry it with my ashes one day on that final journey back to the Sea.

I have decided to slowly but fully pursue a long-lost love of mine -- writing. As an airborne ASW operator, I stood on the shoulders of some tremendous souls who designed, developed, and flew the history that prepared me to perform my late Cold War mission. Their stories and the stories of their stunning creations need to be told.

Along with writing several histories related to Cold War ASW, I’d like to take a crack at naval fiction. Between now and then, in an effort to bring my writing up to par, I’m working on a variety of articles covering a wide range of popular as well as obscure subjects. In my reading, I’m encountering tremendous things that have happened that are lost to History and deserve a second look.

I am deeply grateful to Tyler for giving me this opportunity to spill some of the beans and your willingness to read it. All of you here at TWZ mean more to me than I can articulate. Thank you all for allowing me to reminisce.

Contact the editor: Tyler@thedrive.com

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