Part VI: Code Yellow Series (Aircraft Carrier Fiction, Ripped from the Headlines)

The Trashy Side of Life on Aircraft Carriers

(Persian Gulf) A wide array of vessels, called a Strike Group, sail with one nuclear powered aircraft carrier like CVN-74; indeed, much of the writing in the “Code Yellow” series involves the actions of this Strike Group’s fictional air-wing; featuring a squadron led its dynamic leader, Lieutenant Harrington. (See previous posts)

Part One:  http://goo.gl/YOCE0V

Part Two:  http://goo.gl/fetXVg

Part Three:  http://goo.gl/Tv7Z2o

Part Four:  http://goo.gl/rv1IFK 

Part Five: http://goo.gl/7z1757 

Other ships include three destroyers carrying Aegis weapons, some even equipped with tactical, “Tomahawk” cruise missiles. As if this Posse rode out to battle feeling unprepared, lurking underneath the roiling sea is a pair of attack submarines also armed with vertical launch systems and protected from above by ten “angels,” known as antisub warfare-helicopters.

Zipping in and around the group like a concierge with ADD, is a handy, multipurpose, fast, combat support ship; coordinating operations so that all of the necessary supplies and parts are available to this large peace-keeping force.

Called a peace-keeping force because an aircraft carrier is the most powerful forward deployed tool of United States foreign policy ever devised, CVN-74 floats as if a city, housing close to 5,500 people. Few countries have even one carrier, the United States has 10; and yet most of the US Navy sailors want to peacefully circumnavigate the globe for six months, see the world, have some fun, and return to port without any provocation. How carriers are used is up to politicians; how carriers function is up to unrecognized hundreds of resourceful young sailors.

Non-combatant support ships straddle alongside others in the group, about 150 yards apart; passing even bulky supplies via heavy, long ropes in a fashion ships employed hundreds of years ago. This replenishment allows the group to remain at sea for prolonged periods. Barrels of fuel (both for the aircraft and for the ships), other petroleum products, ammunition, provisions, and various vital supplies transverse through this crude system of exchange, sometimes done in vaulting seas.

Returning to these nimble non-combatant support ships is often the unpleasant remnants of thousands of citizens of these large sea-faring cities; separated, segmented by type, and compressed into large round “pucks” ready to be submitted for re-cycling. Bio-degradable waste is either burned, or dumped into the sea, like greywater; while blackwater is stored and later treated.

This story skates around these pucks like a hockey team playing in the Stanley Cup© finals; they are the work product of an unsung group of enlisted Seamen, mostly the lowest ranking workers on the ship, E-3 and below, who receive this assignment in a 90-day rotation.

 

They are officially FSAs (food-service attendants), exiled to the fourth deck below, deep in the innards of the hull, near the stern. With almost half of the ship’s inhabitants in the air-wing; 3,000 support staff, called the “company,” operate below the main flight deck, the stage which dominates movies and shows depicting life onboard.

18,000 meals a day produced garbage in all varieties: a few mess-attendants gather, divide, classify, and dispose of piles of waste in a process called, “mess-cranking,” comparable to the digestive system of a gigantic beast. It’s not the material of movies like Top Gun; you wouldn’t want this job if you were in prison.

“Another fine Navy day, sir!” He saluted the Chief Petty Officer.

“Right, right;” “we’re all thrilled to be here, Seaman Pellegrino, but your sunny attitude is not going to get those canisters cranked up!”

During the first extended cruise of his Navy career, the slight, Detroit 19-year old lands on every shit-list on the boat; one of the lowest ranking enlisted men in his section.

“I’m grateful my rotation is early in the cruise,” he said to his friend.

Sean was thinking, “If I knew about mess-cranking when I signed-up; it would have caused me to think twice about the big ol’ U. S. Navy?”

Drawing closer, glued to an ashen-gray conveyor-belt 3-yards wide, little clumps of trash separated crudely above in the cafeteria quarters; wheeled along a squeaky, slimy, stinky delivery belt. Sean cleaned off any residue from recyclables and flung them into Kelly-green receptacles resembling the trash containers of any suburban street. They’re called, “puck trucks.”

Across from Sean on belt-duty worked a stout, young Seaman named Vincente Vasquez from Texas. He was obscured by a plastic mask, the face shield worn by riot-police, or dental hygienists; but his was smarmy and cloudy from hours battling against the droning, descendant highway of refuse.

“Vince, did you see the movie last night?” With long arms, Vince craned and plucked dexterously; as discriminating as a jewel dealer, but as dazed as a sleepwalker.

“You know I don’t like Hockey—I like Los Spurs; and I was born 15 years after that damn game, man;” referring dismissively to the 2004 inspirational movie about the 1980 USA Hockey team.

“Like we say down here, drop the puck dude—drop. the. puck.” Sean shouted over the wonky belt, “ours are probably 100 times bigger, Vince; we could let Jaegers play Hockey with the pucks we make, you know-what-I-mean, Vince?”

Sean loved movies and sometimes the carrier movie-house showed older, corny, sports movies like “Miracle,” but the most popular are the modern Sci-fi flicks like “Pacific Rim.”

Vincente would rather workout on his free nights, but since mess-cranking ruined his appetite; he couldn’t keep his weight up to the standard training required.

Sean envisioned to himself what it would be like to be compressed into a large “puck” 36-inches in diameter and 12-inches thick; similar to the ones they stored in the ship’s walk-in cooler. Refrigerating the pucks, the Navy astutely discovered, reduced their more malodorous qualities.

Boilers constantly hissed, their steam drowning out other sounds like mechanical tinnitus; yet, the slow, wobbly creak of the constantly turning conveyor belt prompted him to look down.

Gleaming and proud, above deck in crisp blue Navy garb, washed and cleaned of the grease and grime of his tedious job; Sean Pellegrino looked and even felt of himself, that he was actually part of the modern #Navy, hashtags and all?

“How did I end up below the waterline of a ship over 1,000 feet long, plowing my way through the Persian Gulf’s dark waters,” he pondered. “I’m sorting trash for God’s sake, like a robot in some post-apocalyptic movie I saw while in port; just a gear in the bowels of a massive mechanism.”

Sean thought, “we dump out plastic pellets like 21^st century industrial poop; later sold on the global market, as if roasted Arabica beans. How cheaply commoditized I’ve become?” If there was still a city like his father’s Detroit; this negative motion, end-process, conveyor-belt, would be a vast assembly-line for upwardly-mobile American drivers; supplying the market with shiny, sleek automotive boats painted colorfully, accented with chrome?

Vince worked quickly, “Sean, c’mon—can you come to the party?” He sorted for both of them while Sean drifted off.

Struggling to interpret the ship’s detritus, staring at the conveyor belt; Sean subconsciously searched for ominous signs. “I was on dry land for awhile; sorry,” as he got back to work, apologizing; using a common synonym of the ship’s slang for day-dreaming.

When the steam operated catapult coiled tight, violently tense (enough to throw a 32,000-pound FA-18 Super Hornet hurling into artificial flight), the explosive release of raw, physical, propulsive power four decks above, shook them in their filthy, fouled, rolling office chairs; converted for cranking by removing the armrests and backs.

Rolling slightly backward, and looking skyward Sean screamed, “Before we get back, I’d like to work on the flight deck, just once!” Either jealousy, fantasy, or both fueled this imagining; life in the dim, excretory dungeon of the carrier stimulated such thoughts as an antidote for futility, misery, and boredom, which bordered on depression, until just about the 85^th day of “crank” duty.

Compressed like garbage, yet stretched to the breaking point by dreary, tedious, unpleasant shifts deep in the ship; these crankers felt entombed; which often turned into simmering rage, nothing like heroes.

“Copy that, Tomcat,” replied Vince, muttering under his breath, “aye, baboso.”

The entire shift they bandied back-and-forth like a married couple; keeping desperation at bay, forbidding it to get a word in edgewise. Unlike the aviators, who endured long periods of boredom, punctuated by flights of sheer terror; E-3 mess grunts acted in slow motion, anesthetized by sound, smell, and sadness. They were the Navy’s coal miners—trapped beneath earthen piles of garbage; trying hopelessly to breathe, making sense of the rubbish by gathering and grouping, grabbing and dumping… as if one could make freshwater out of the sea.

Part 6 of Carrier Fiction copyright©2014 by Mark H. Pillsbury

*fair use of any copyrighted material shown above such as pictures, is not an infringement of federal copyright laws, per 17 U.S.C. 107*



"Danger Zone" (Part 5 of the Top Gun Series) Fiction Ripped from the Headlines...

Danger Zone (Part 5)

 

Danger Zone video feat. Kenny Loggins (1986): http://bit.ly/19PHR0j

 

(Note:  all characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. The author’s fictional stories expressed in this blog do not reflect in any way those of the institutions to which he is affiliated, the Department of Defense, or the United States Armed Forces. Best efforts were made to portray the situations accurately).

 

Planes lined up under the flight deck, stacked vertically like a Manhattan parking garage. Humid Gulf air creeped into every tight crevice of the USS John C. Stennis (CVN-74), making surfaces warm and moist. Languid seas accompanied the mighty warship as it slowly cut through the dark waters of the Strait of Hormuz.

“We’re all going up tonight,” drawled the tall Texan Lt. Harrington, walking among the calibrated activity which dominated the flight deck. “This is exciting… I’m jacked-up!” He yelled in a distinctive twang. Pumped-up and walking with a swagger, he was a cross between Lt. Starbuck of Battlestar Galactica, and Tim Riggins of Friday Night Lights; totally at ease with himself, poised, not fighting against tonight's tension. Harrington seemed to float along with the electrified force field of bravado sizzling through the chamber tonight; the preparation and tension introduced the pilots to the arena, known as the “Danger Zone.”

Present were mammoth miracles of aviation called FA18-Super Hornets, sold to the Navy by Boeing, and housed by the aircraft carrier Stennis; ready at any time directed by the DOD or the POTUS, to hurl out into the sky as a pointed sword of American diplomatic, or military strength. “Code Yellow” represented the red hot power of these fully armed flying machines, poised to press hard into the dry Iranian desert like a searing branding iron. The yellow “Ops” folder possibly included full enemy engagement, and afterward the elimination of the nuclear production facilities of a terrorist state. It was gameday.

Steamy subway smells mixed with grease and the pungent odor of jet fuel as the orderlies filled the Hornets with 14,000 Lbs. of fuel, as well as five, 480-gallon exterior tanks. There was no smoking allowed anywhere near the flight deck; and the managers, clad in blue-coveralls, kept an eye on the fueling like a jittery lioness watching her cubs. “Stack ‘em and pack ‘em, Raaaallllph!” Lt. Harrington always elongatated the elevator operator’s name, like he did with his drinking buddies at Annapolis; stretching the name and wretching like a drunken sailor. He tried to keep things loose and light.

However, there were sensitive pilots, usually the newer ones to carrier flight, sitting in the flight room below, more dazed than focused; unable to loosen up while waiting to be called to the deck to climb into their Hornets. “I feel a little queasy Lieutenant,” said one of his junior officers, “but it’s amazing that you gave us the Code Yellow tonight; I’m ready for action!” Lt. Harrington saw those in line who looked conspicuously anxious, and he talked to each pilot who needed a small measure of re-assurance.

“Jack, you’re going to do fine; just stay with your wingman and if there’s trouble, listen to me on the radio,” Lt. Harrington knew that some of the squadron only recently passed the initial CQ (carrier qualification); but like his hero in coaching, John Wooden, he encouraged his team to concentrate on the important details, because it was the details that flew the airplane. He lived Wooden's Pyramid of Success: respecting the pressure of aerial combat but not fearing the enemy, being confident--not cocky, possessing an ease which came from knowing that his Stennis flyboys were prepared, and they would do their duty.

More from Lt. Harrington: Part IV:  http://rostranovum.blogspot.com/2012/06/thunderstruck-carrier-fiction-part-iv.html

To be CQ the pilot made 12 day landings and 8 night landings, with a minimum of 6 arrested stops done according to standard procedure by catching the right wire. War is meant for young soldiers, and air battles are best maneuvered by young pilots, with amazing physical requirements as well as the mental tests provided by these complex airplanes. The modern Navy's details, demands, and decisions flowed toward the pilot at an increasing rate as the engagement reaches farther into the flight plan.

Part III Flight Plan: http://rostranovum.blogspot.com/2012/05/standing-on-top-of-world-code-yellow.html

Lt. Harrington earlier informed his squadron that they would be circling down from a high orbit around the Persian Gulf; locking in on two sites probably containing the full-fledged nuclear weapons program of The Islamic Republic of Iran, previously said to be dismantled by the Iranian government. If the fighters from the Stennis happen to encounter the Iranian Air Force (IRIAF), concurrent instructions were to meet any force with equal firepower. Lt. Harrington's small yellow folder, paraded to his team earlier in the evening, carried with it the assembled might of one of the most powerful war-making machines ever invented; used specifically to dismantle a persistent threat to middle-eastern peace and the secure valuable shipping channels in the Strait of Hormuz.

Choreographed like ballet, launch operations this evening featured a fighter/bomber with a combat range of 390 nautical miles, inserted into a war theater in minutes, flying vertically at 228 meters per second. One by one, the handlers launched planes built to climb 45,000 feet in one minute, quickly creating pre-planned groups high above the danger zone. Upward acceleration is felt as weight, otherwise known as g-force. The Hornet can withstand a mind-boggling load factor of 7g’s. Proper g-forces during ascent or the plane’s frequent power turns affect the pilot’s vision and breathing as gravity pushes down one times his weight per “g.” Pilots survive time in the seat during peak g-force only through vigorous training and preventative practices which augment the special flight suit. The upward force applied as the catapult violently throws the plane off of the deck, combined with the powerful climb rate, tend to take the blood away from the pilot’s head; otherwise known as “the deep sleep,” in reference to where a pilot ends up at the bottom of the ocean, after blacking out.

After the initial shock of takeoff, they formed into a coordinated approach to the target; each Hornet carrying six-barreled rotary cannons that fired 20mm bullets, as well as a variety of missiles, bombs, rockets, and other guided weapons. The plane is even equipped with an elaborate air-launched decoy system for defensive tactics during flight. But the most important factors following a squadron into flight were weather and daylight. As communications began, Lt. Harrington asked his team to please re-group at 35,000 feet and await further guidance, the plan unfolding in a precious few seconds above the Persian Gulf.

“Let me have the Growlers get out in front of us,” lieutenant chirped on the comm system, “Shadowhawk leader, this is Rocket-One, check-in with me when you get some FTI imagery we can use.” These sibling aircraft to the Hornet, called EA18-G (for Growler) stretched to the front of the engagement line, providing essential photo reconnaissance for early stages of the mission. Northrup-Grumman’s advanced electronic warfare equipment: FTI-2, known for fast tactical imagery, photographed in infrared. FTI was initially used in Operation Iraqi Freedom (2003). The squadron received conventional, ship-sourced radar reports about enemy aircraft in the vicinity, but the Growlers gave them an airborne advantage by opening their eyes, even in the dark.

Few modern naval aviators had ever ridden out as a posse, so completely equipped and loaded for a fight. In a decade of leadership, Lt. Harrington had only put on the full armor of the mighty U.S. Navy a few times, and never in a non-official capacity as it was tonight; yet, he was ready in every sense of the word. Fueled, fast, and ferocious; the USS Stennis launched the finest modern fighters in the world. Hornets don’t fly themselves, but they gave the Americans a hardware advantage from the start; Lt. Harrington wished his younger pilots could just relax and have fun—they were in for the ride of their lives. Besides, it only got scary when you had to come down; and land on a pitching deck.

Fiction ripped from the headlines... to be continued in Part XI…

©Mark H. Pillsbury

>Previously:  part 1 "Code Yellow" -- https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3449292245013585645#editor/target=post;postID=6191869319942478629;onPublishedMenu=allposts;onClosedMenu=allposts;postNum=35;src=postname