Standing On Top of the World: Code Yellow Part III

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Standing On Top of the World: Code Yellow Part III

A beautiful gray flat-top box set against the deep blue of the ocean, The Stennis was a floating runway with a long white wake flowing miles behind it like the contrails of a reconnaissance plane flying at high-altitude.

Easy to spot with a bright sun and clear visibility, however this night, all planes were taking off in the dark; only instruments and skill would return them safely to the carrier deck.

Legend is that President Clinton honored the carrier’s importance when he once admitted, "When word of crisis breaks out in Washington, it’s no accident the first question that comes to everyone’s lips is: ‘where is the nearest carrier?’" Providing "forward presence," and in this case “diplomatic support,” aircraft carriers like the USS John C. Stennis remain an important part of America’s power and image.

Previously Iran threatened to block the Strait of Hormuz, used to transport 20% of the world’s oil out of the Persian Gulf. Their bluster protested sanctions imposed by the US and the EU, intending to force Iran to give-up its nuclear program; instead, it got them the biggest police officer in the world, the US Navy, walking a beat.

Dipping slightly after being catapulted clear of the carrier’s bow, the sheer power exerted by Lieutenant Harrington as he lit up the two powerful General Electric turbofan engines, jerked the two officers backward in their seats as the nose pointed upward to a foreboding black sky. This $21M F/A-18F Super Hornet’s thrust-to-weight ratio was still very good, even though it approached the maximum takeoff weight of nearly 50,000 Lbs.

The Hornet pulls 4-6 G’s on the way up: G forces are multiples of ordinary earthbound gravity (1.0 G). G forces are typically shown by accelerating quickly in a sports car, riding a roller coaster, or even sneezing.

“Let’s pull out to the north J.O., I want to get up against the ceiling if possible,” Lt. Harrington said over the intercom. “Roger that, Rocket One,” was my only reply, it was hard. to. talk. while pulling g’s.

Back toward the six, or the rear of the aircraft; otherwise called the stern on a boat, the lights of the carrier and the coastline faded away as we climbed on top of the world soaring at airspeed of almost 500 knots. The plan was to get the squadron up high and then slowly circle downward in a patrol of the Persian Gulf. The visibility was clear enough to see bogeys from far away.

High level satellite photos disseminated publically by the Institute for Science and International Security [ISIS] online (taken April 9, 2012), show a site south of Tehran called “Parchin” that probably was used in nuclear weapon development; however the U.N.’s watchdog agency IAEA was recently denied permission to investigate the site.

This week’s diplomatic meeting in Vienna should address U.N. concerns, but tonight the U.S. Navy is all over the gulf to show Iran what their lack of cooperation could cost them.

“A few of our Hornets are going to use the FTI 2 reconnaissance cameras, so we can get some tactical comm to the ship,” squawked Harrington, “We’ll be their escort.” “The fly-by over Fordo should be the hot-point in this trip, J.O., don’t you think?”

“We have plenty of ammo onboard Lieutenant, let’s not worry if we make bad houseguests?” I replied hastily.

“Their old Tomcats don’t bother me much, taking pictures is the easy part,” adding, “I hate to repeat myself, but it’s the landing back on the boat that worries me.” Honestly, I was totally ignoring the Code Yellow folder from earlier in the evening.

Diplomatic negotiators will assert that Iran must shut down its secret nuclear enrichment facility at Fordo, near the city of Qom, if aviators from the John C. Stennis aircraft carrier find out what is going on from the air.

Moving Iran’s enrichment program to Fordo, built inside a mountain with hardened defenses, might put Iran inside a “zone of immunity,” in which Israel would no longer be able to cripple the centrifuges with typical bombs.

So, tonight, on Israel’s errand, the Code Yellow folder held unconventional plans to destroy Fordo if need be, while Iran thought all eyes were on Parchin.

Laconically, the Lieutenant acknowledged my fear, “ten-four, J.O.”

“Get the paparazzi lined-up to swing down over land,” said Lt. Harrington, who was all business tonight. We had orders.

©Mark H. Pillsbury
(aviator fiction series #3)

Code Yellow

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Code: Yellow

The evening hours passed quietly aboard the USS John C. Stennis, sort of like a middle-school slumber party, but not really. Instead of nail-polish and text-messages, men wrote hand-written letters on thick-cotton stationery and studied the Naval intelligence maps of Iranian air bases and nuclear facilities. The young pilots were part of a powerful, strike-force flotilla cruising the claustrophobic waters of the Strait of Hormuz, on the southern coast of Iran, the world’s busiest oil-shipping lane. The boys of the Persian Gulf: fighter jocks taking it easy in a rec room on a lazy Friday night in April.

Squadron commander, Lieutenant Harrington was almost oversized for the cockpit. The big Texan carried himself casually, even sauntering when there was room above deck. His sad eyes and perfectly cropped Naval hair gleamed against the perpetually tan face and neck of a professional pilot. His correspondence home always on bone-colored, embossed Crane stationery, a habit leftover from his traditional southern mother in Dallas. The lieutenant’s natural leadership centered upon a social intelligence based on close relationships not only with his WSOs but all the flying teams in his unit. He treated every pilot like his brother; frequently he could be found holed-up next to a colleague discussing business in the close quarters of a aircraft carrier, but with the tenderness and quiet of a counselor. Knowing every teammate intimately, including talents and weaknesses in flying ability and personality allowed him the kind of access and respect few commanders garnered in today’s Navy.

I am merely a NFO, Lt. Junior Grade. The NFO is the back-seat partner to the pilot, formerly known as the Naval Flight Officer. The modern Navy NFO position has naturally become more complicated. Back seat of a fully equipped and upgraded F-18 Super Hornet, the NFO is now called the WSO (“weapons system operator”) because of the stunning array of assault options it carries. More than a navigator, I am the lieutenant’s little brother who brings all the booze to the party. He gets me to the target and I equip him with more firepower than the most of the small armies of the world combined. As we internalize through years of training, nothing I do is unimportant or routine. Without a talented WSO, the pilot is a gifted aviator flying on gilded wings, but with no talons. Weapons after all, are what we do. The Hornet has half a dozen Raytheon® missile systems which allow precision strike capability in enough configurations to make your mind numb. Each plane is an air-to-ground and air-to-air aggressor; like a flying army of guns and bombs.

A calm Friday evening of “watch-duty” with quiet activity, soft music, and standard recreation in the briefing room, turned in just ten minutes into a beehive of preparation, determination, and steely readiness for battle? The simple phrases of a love-letter and a song transform into the rote instructions of a wing commander quickly organizing his squadron for deadly serious work.

The squadron commander made an unusual decision during what were called publicly “training exercises,” a move they called, “All-in.” Every fighter jet on the carrier would be up and active tonight, prowling the skies. At least once during a long cruise, protocol required that this exercise take place because someday during a real shootout, the battle group might just have to use all assets to win. This was the most dangerous night of their deployment, but it was also the most realistic.

All assets on the ship were scrambled; every crew activated and every pilot manned a stick. The launch process was grueling and dangerous in any scenario, but a night launch was always a little more stressful. Tonight’s “All-in” gambit assured the ship that until all the planes were safely back on deck, every crew member would sweat out the once placid evening. The lieutenant was no Jimmy Doolittle, but this was a major-league decision given the circumstances in the Persian Gulf, even the fuel tankers would circle the landing pattern until all fighter jets returned. Tankers too would have to “call the ball” of the landing system used on the USS John C. Stennis.

The squadron’s enemies were not so much Iran’s aging fleet of F-14 Tomcats based out of Isfahan, but the lack of fuel and light which hampered the performance of these aviators more than the paltry resistance of the Iranian military. Most naval aviators learned the carrier game on high-end Tomcats, or their instructors taught them about Tomcats early in their career. Not like the movie Top Gun anymore; an improved Super-Hornet skins a Tomcat every time, but a cloudy approach was the wickedest fight of all.

With a diplomatic meeting during the coming weekend in Istanbul, the United States and Iran are supposedly going to peacefully negotiate over Iran’s fledgling nuclear program; however, at the same time U.S. Naval presence in the Gulf reinforces the physical strength our diplomats wish to portray while they talk. Unfortunately, such “ancillary” transactional communications usually don’t create much traction, because they are impersonal and shallow; they may not drive someone away, but they don’t draw the other party closer either.

Military personnel worry about Iran’s capability to wage “asymmetrical warfare” by mining the narrow passageway called the Strait of Hormuz or by swarming U.S. vessels with small boats armed with a single missile. This type of guerrilla fighting accentuates the standard threats of Iran’s three Kilo-class submarines, or the mini-subs they bought from North Korea. Iran can launch short-range and long-range missiles, both from the ground, and from an aging fleet of aircraft. The only thing certain in the Persian Gulf is that the Iranian military threat is unusual and unpredictable.

“Saddle-up, Mark,” the commander squawked as he grabbed his parachute pack and Velcroed® his flight log book to his thigh. Tonight, I was Lt. Harrington’s WSO, which meant I was the lucky sap who would play night watchman for the entire staff during this squirmy “All-in” game that the Lt. had just called out.

“Everyone up tonight, boys,” he said gleefully as he strode up to the front of the briefing room, the back entrance of the conference area already crowded with the entire squadron. “C’mon, let’s get quiet,” he added, “I want the last plane up by twenty-two hundred, so listen up, I only have five minutes to talk to you guys.” 

Lt. Harrington smiled out with wattage that outstripped the dull fluorescent bulbs in the meeting room, beaming with the dangerous look of "we are all in on this one together!"

“I realize this is just an exercise, you guys know that we have to do one ‘all-in’ per cruise; but tonight a little birdie told me that the big bad Eye-Rainian air-force may be up there ‘practicing’ as well.”

You guys ready fo dat? He held in his hand a small, letter-sized Manila file folder with a bright yellow tab clearly visible even from the back of the room. They all knew what Code Yellow meant.

Fiction ©Mark H. Pillsbury