Arrested, then shot–II

General Quarters!

Battle Stations!

A missile is headed toward our ship.

The crew of the USS Theodore Roosevelt mobilizes. Everybody has an assigned place, an assigned duty. A stopwatch is running to see how quickly they respond.

“The Big Stick,” a couple hundred miles off Norfolk in the Atlantic, is preparing for its first deployment since refueling and refurbishing, practicing all the things that happen or that can happen on and with aircraft carriers. Our party of Distinguished Visitors (that’s what they call us) continues to move through the ship in the early minutes after our arrival, passing crew members in the passageways who have quickly put on their firefighting gear and others who have put on other emergency equipment or gone to their emergency stations.

The loudspeakers speak of a missile impact, fires, flooding–even water on the deck.

There is no frantic dashing about, no shouting. There is only disciplined, orderly response, organized movement. If this were real, the people in the corridors ready to battle any condition that puts the Roosevelt in peril would be responding forcefully and in an orderly manner. Disorganization in an emergency is a recipe for cataclysm.

One of the drills run on the Roosevelt is called a “Flight Deck 50,” which simulates a fire on the flight deck with fifty casualties. That kind of thing can happen, has happened,. The USS Forrestal had the worst aircraft carrier fire since World War II in 1967. The Forrestal had more than 100 casualties.

The simulated crisis created while we were there passed. Evaluations began. We heard one voice tell one group, “It took thirteen minutes to respond. Our goal is twelve.” They’ll be better next time. They have to be. The next time could be real. And if it ever is real, 5,000 people know exactly what their responsibility is, where their battle station is, and what they must do to save the ship. Don’t call it practice. This is real. Except there is no explosion. There is no fire. No water is washing over the deck. But there’s no play-acting.

The person most concerned that the emergency responses were done promptly and properly is the Commanding Officer, Captain Daniel Grieco, a Naval Academy grad who flew 23 combat missions in Operation Desert Storm, has more than 2700 flight hours and has made (this impressed those of us who’d just made our first one) 650 arrested landings.

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He was the first person we went to see after gettng off the COD and pulling ourselves together. But that entailed immediately getting accustomed to climbing a lot of steep metal steps. Don’t ask how many floors we went up in the island (the part of the carrier that contains the bridge and other important operational quarters) before getting to his office. It was a bunch but it set the tone for our visit. We were up and down and up and down those steep stairs throughout the visit.

The commander of an aircraft carrier has a nice office but it is without a doubt nothing compared to the office that a CEO of a company with 5,000 employees and a twenty-story building (which is how tall the island is on the carrier) would have.  It’s not a corner office with a great view. In fact, Grieco’s view is pretty restricted.

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But Captain Greico is the CEO of this company, and while we were there he was leading the fine-tuning of its operation. He’s wearing a purple shirt on this day with the words “Commanding Officer” stenciled on it. Later we’ll see in in a different color. Whatever shirt he wears, he commands all shirts of all colors.Shirt colors are the way roles are defined, especially the flight deck crew. The most glamorous color, yellow, is for the “shooters,” the plane directors, the catapult/arresting gear officers, the aircraft handling officers. These are the people who make sure landings and launches are properly done.

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But they can’t do their jobs without people in a half-dozen other shirt colors do theirs.

The white shirts go to the medical and landing signal officers, safety observers, liquid oxygen crews, and the air transfer officers. (Our Public Affairs Officer, LCDR Reann Mommsen,  also had a white shirt). Blue Shirts are for the plane handlers, tractor drivers, aircraft elevator operators and the Messenger/Phone talkers.

If you land a plane and you need more fuel for your next flight, look for a person in a purple shirt. Unless the Commander has on his red shirt, the person you see wearing one deals with ordnance, or explosive ordnance disposal. They also are in charge of crash and salvage, but you don’t want to see them for that reason.

Some of the top Air Wing people are in brown shirts–the plane Captains and the landing Petty Officers.

That person in the green shirt might be taking pictures–that’s the photographer colors. They might also be handling cargo, doing catapult and arresting gear work, or maintenance for the air wing. They’re also hook runners, quality control people for the Air Wing, running ground support equipment, or telling helicopters where to land.

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Defining roles and defining the people to fill them is critical in a climate where precision is required or the entire system is in jeopardy of possibly fatal disorganization.

We got a grasp of that precision when we climbed to the bridge and got our first look from on high at the deck.

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We spent several minutes watching a ballet of F-18s as they landed, moved to the side, and moved toward the catapult for a new launch, their wings often inches apart. We felt the heat flow over us from the twin engines of the F-18s as they took off, despite the jet blast deflectors. And only a few seconds after one plane was shot into the air off the bow, another one suddenly roars onto the scene and starts the cycle back to the catapult.

There was no wasted motion. No wasted time. A few seconds’ delay meant another F-18 would have to go around again. A Fighter Plane Ballet is as much concentrated, coordinated, precise movement of strength and grace as “Swan Lake,” except the stage shakes with the impact of each landing and the orchestra is full-bore jet engines.

It is a fascinating thing to watch and we were glad to be up high to do it. People like us certainly had no business lingering on the deck while this was happening. This scribe happily embraced the safety of the upper level of the island. But a little later, we were on the deck.

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Yes, that’s an F-18 about to hook the third arresting line and yes, it was THAT close and you bet your buttons it was an incredible thrill but the double ear-protection sure was handy. However, we were more than glad to be herded to this safe space at side of the landing area. Most of us were, after all, in a dangerous alien world unlike anything we had ever before experienced.

Trying to put all of this into some kind of perspective, trying to relate it to the world we know, is a challenge. How does someone explain something so experiential to someone who hasn’t experienced it? Pictures help. Video helps.

Let’s think about this for a little bit.

(continued)

 

Arrested, then shot

We went with some friends a month ago to visit to a community of about 5,000 people back east. We were arrested upon arrival.  And we were shot as we left.

We’re okay, all of us. But we’re not going to forget what happened to us. Actually, the bigger problem is trying to REMEMBER all of the things that happened to us.

You might think we’d be glad to be out of the place. In truth, however, we’d go back in a heartbeat.

We’d go back because we were surrounded by incredible people, all of whom were focused on making their community the best in the world. Every single one of the 5,000 had that goal. Everything they did was focused on the productivity of 4.5 acres. The average age of this community is less than 25 with many of the most important jobs done by people who are 18, 19, or 20.

This is the USS Theodore Roosevelt, 92,000 tons of sovereign United States Territory wherever it goes. Its twin nuclear reactors recently refueled, the latest electronic gear installed, and the most recent updates available built in, “The Big Stick” is described as the “Corvette” of America’s aircraft carrier fleets.

(Okay, we’ll explain the nickname in case you missed history class that day. President Theodore Roosevelt’s definition of our country’s foreign policy was to “Speak softly and carry a big stick,” in other words: negotiate from a position of strength.)

The USS Theodore Roosevelt can launch and land more airplanes in a few hours than dozens of nations have in their entire air forces. It’s a city that can go 35 miles per hour. It has its own daily newspaper, television station, a Starbucks, restaurants that serve more than 18,000 meals a day, a distillation plant that daily turns 400,000 gallons of the ocean into drinking water, the head of a moose shot by President Roosevelt, and an airport that houses St. Louis-made airplanes that can be armed to the teeth and go airborne at the rate of two per minute. It’s twenty stories high, not counting the forty feet that’s below the water line.

It is majesty and menace, depending on whether you are friend or foe. A rational person seeing the Roosevelt understands it is much better to be the former.

The ship was 150-200 miles or so east of the Norfolk Naval Base. We took a Greyhound out to it, although the folks on the carrier told us we took a Cod. Dog. Fish. Airplane. It was a Grumman C2A Greyhound Carrier Onboard Delivery airplane (COD). The same airframe with some different stuff hung on it is the E-2C tactical airborne early warning airplane, the one with the big radar saucers on the top, that you see with its wings folded on the picture above. Our Navy pilot was Lt. Scott Seago of Blue Springs, who was teaching biology and coaching football there before entering the Navy.

Military transport planes have few luxuries. I say “few” because for this trip we were not in the sling chairs that have been in the C-130s we’ve taken to submarine events. The Greyhound seats were utilitarian, did not recline and did not have trays. But at least they were seats. They faced to the rear of the plane.

There’s no sound-deadening insulation in military cargo planes. Pipes and cables and tubes and support structures are left uncovered and sometimes the overhead is pretty low. And that is why they issued everybody something called “cranials” so we wouldn’t damage the airplane with our foreheads.

They’re kind of like the catchers’ masks and hats that Yadier Molina and Salvador Perez wear for the Cardinals and the Royals but they’re not nearly as fancy and don’t have masks. But they did have goggles–which rather quickly fogged over for me when I got into the plane. This is what the well-dressed Greyhound rider looked like that day.

They also issued each of us a life vest since Greyhound seat cushions aren’t intended to be flotation devices. And earplugs. Anytime we wore a cranial on this trip we also wore earplugs. Although these funky helmets had ear-protecting headphones built into them, secondary protection was needed. The un-muffled turboprop engines of the Greyhound were still loud but at least were tolerable during the flight out. Later, on the flight deck, with F-18s of various configurations landing and being launched within yards of us, the double protection was barely adequate.

Dollar to a doughnut, I’d bet one of the first questions any of my companions has been asked by someone who learned of the trip is, “How was the landing?”

Well, it’s like this.

The pilot told us he has to take an airplane with an 80-foot wingspan and put it down in a space that is 85 feet wide on a landing strip that is moving away from him at a speed of at least 25 knots and is not stable.

The Greyhound has only two windows in the passenger/cargo area and they’re toward the back. So almost all of us were sitting in the dark wearing life vests and cranials and goggles, flying backwards tightly strapped with a four-point harness into our seats. We flew for about an hour and a half.

And then we stopped.

We didn’t land. We stopped.

The fog that you see in the video is the condensation from the Greyhound’s air conditioning system.

We knew the landing was near because of the way the Greyhound was moving. But we couldn’t see the water rising toward us. There was no runway to see as we sank toward it. We were in flight and then–

WHOMP!!! and four or five G’s pressed us back into our seats for two seconds as we went from 120 knots (138 mph) to 0 knots when the tailhook grabbed the arresting cable..

That’s us in our COD, snagging the three-wire.

By the time the brain processed what had happened, we were moving again and the rear cargo gate in front of us started to come down, revealing about 400 feet or less of carrier deck and miles of gray ocean. Three or four seconds into the visit, we already were on sensory overload. And we remained in that state for almost twenty-four hours.

We had been out of the COD and inside the ship for only a short time when General Quarters was called. Everybody was mobilized.

We were under attack!

(continued)

 

 

 

 

 

Getting into a lather about leather

Saw an ad in a newspaper today that caused our jaw to drop.  We checked with our friends at the other end of the room who are the voices of the Brownfield Network, the nation’s largest agriculture radio network and they also were stunned.  One that we always thought of as a cultured young woman uttered an unladylike three-letter exclamation.

Then the ad prompted some discussion.

The ad shows a young woman wearing—get this now—a

Vegan Leather Jacket.

It has a faux fur collar.   We’ve come to understand “faux” is a toney word for “fake.”   Figured that out a long time ago.

But Vegan Leather???????

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We can see a riot breaking out in Sturgis, South Dakota next year if some big, burly Harley Davidson owner walks into a bar and asks the other Harley owners, “How do you like my Vegan Leathers?”

The Sturgis Police Department better have its Pentagon-surplus armored vehicle ready to go rescue that guy.  Or woman.  Women can be big and burly sometimes too.

So the newsroom conversation started.

Does the average vegan have enough skin to make a jacket out of?  Or does it take several?

Are these domesticated vegans, farm-raised vegans, free-range vegans, or maybe grass-fed vegans?   And does the Agriculture Department or the Conservation Department have regulatory authority over captive vegan operations?

We’ve seen a few pretty hairy vegans.  Do they really need to have a “faux” collar on this jacket?

It would be a shame to waste the rest of the creature just for the vegan skin, as our forefathers wasted whole buffalo herds just for their hides.  So what does vegan meat taste like?

One of our friends suggested it probably doesn’t have much taste and it’s probably not well-marbled. In fact, he suggested it probably is about as tasty as raw granola or maybe shredded wheat. It probably wouldn’t work well on a barbecue grill because there’s no suet to hold it together–kind of like some moose meat I tried to turn into barbecued burgers one night only to see it all crumble and fall into the charcoal below.

We recognized leather likely comes from cattle.   So what do you suppose–with the understanding that a Vegan is a Vegetarian who doesn’t even drink milk–a vegan cow looks like?  But maybe that’s the answer to our problem.  Perhaps only something as oxymoronic as a vegan cow could produce something as oxymoronic as vegan leather.

But Ye Gad!!  Think of what’s next.

Vegan horsehide for baseballs.

Vegan pigskin for footballs.

Vegan alligator shoes.

After all these years we still haven’t figured out what a Nauga looks like.  Now we have to figure out what in the world produces vegan leather.

This is what happens on a slow news day when there’s nothing particularly significant to occupy our minds.  If you’re a Vegan (and we have some friends who are and we like them  a lot) who feels we have unfairly picked on you, blame Christopher Columbus. Without him, there wouldn’t be a holiday; there likely would be news to cover and we likely would not have been trolling through a newspaper to see this ad.