MEET YOUR SON (part 2)

On to better days.   By the summer of 1987 I was living in a rented one-bedroom apartment on the second story right on the Mission Beach boardwalk.  The address was a walkway, not a street; the parking area was off an alleyway.  It had a good sized picture window with the best view I’ve ever had--overlooking the Pacific.  Every morning I would open the front door and let the sea breeze come rushing in; at night I fell asleep to the sound of the waves on the beach.  I still miss that place.  

My first apartment in San Diego...

Not a postcard.  View of San Diego sunset taken not far from that first place,
 about 20 years later.  No wonder I didn't have a TV then.

In June a good friend and former high school teammate, Brian, who had just been commissioned as a Marine, was crashing on my couch for a few weeks, while he was going through his USMC Judge Advocate General Training course at the Marine base near the airport.  Brian was with me when I met the ‘keeper’ wife, Kelly Ann.  

My friend Brian in 2005, at a change of command

We met at a traditional Navy ‘wetting down’ celebration that I and thirteen other students threw that month, on the 14th, to be exact, of June 1987.  The tradition for an officer’s promotion is that he/she takes the difference in a month’s pay at the new rank, and donates it at the bar in celebration.  In 1987, the difference in one month’s pay between Ensign and LT (junior grade) was about $275; when combined with 13 other new LTjgs, we’re talking about a damn good party.  We collectively rented the beach facility at NAS North Island’s Breakers Beach, bought ridiculous amount of food and beer, and invited the whole Gunfighter Ready Room--my estimate is that about 300-400 instructors, students, spouses, girlfriends, passers-by, whoever, were in attendance.  My future wife came as a guest of an instructor’s wife, with whom she worked downtown.     

It was epic.   

One odd thing was we knew about each other before we met.  Some months prior my future wife had met another good friend of mine from flight school while he was traveling through San Diego, a fellow aviator who had helped me survive the hellish time in Texas.  My friend Tyler had played hockey at Northern Michigan and was wearing his college team shirt; Kelly Ann, born in Detroit and in love with all things Michigander, saw the shirt and immediately struck up a conversation with the hand (Michigan natives do the thing with the hand, where they hold up the hand like a map and point to what part of the state they are from).  

Michigan Hand Map.

If you see people doing this, you know they are from Michigan.

Tyler (married) liked her instantly, knew I was on my way to San Diego to start training in the next few weeks; and told her, “I know this great guy for you who will be here in a few weeks...”.  He then called and told me about Kelly Ann to try and set us up--I was appreciative, but didn’t feel like it was time to meet anyone yet, and I wasn’t even in California yet.

When Kelly Ann and the instructor couple got to the wetting down, she asked them, which one was me?  Call it timing, but at that moment I was carrying a classmate’s young son on my shoulders.  Nothing offsets a wardrobe of obnoxious beach shorts, $3 flip-flops, unfortunate sunglasses, and a ratty t-shirt more than the ‘cute kid sitting on your shoulders’ accessory.   She came up later and introduced herself.  We took a walk on the beach almost right away to get away from the noise of the party--and the rest, as they say, is history.  My good friend Brian just happened to take a picture of that moment.  I still smile today when I look at it.

About 10 minutes after we met.  Thanks, Brian, for taking the picture 

The rest, as they say, was history.

It didn’t take long for me to know that I was way out my league with this girl.  What she saw in me still mystifies me a bit to this day.  But there must have been some kind of power in that first meeting for her, too, because it kept her from hauling ass when she found out in short order that I was: 

- still married; 

- involved in a bitter, protracted divorce (that would take over a year from that day); 

- my soon-to-be-ex was pregnant; 

- the reason for the long divorce was because of a paternity question; 

- that ended up with my unanticipatedly being the father of a child, determined several months after he was born.

There were certainly some white-knuckle moments when I thought all my baggage would be too much for her to take; but each time she weathered the waves of the storm, and decided to stay.  And as I look back on it, her presence in my life settled out the rough spots, and kept me looking forward, instead of wallowing in the bitter wreckage of what had been, or at least wallowing longer than I did.  On some level, it probably saved me. 

As February 1988 rolled around, I was pretty sure she was the one--but let’s face it, I wasn’t even completely extracted from my first failed marriage, was still a little wary, too, based on that experience: once bitten, twice shy, and so forth.  The uncertainty how we she (and I) would handle the pressures of Navy life with its separations and long deployments (my first was pending), was definitely on my mind.  I had thought that if the relationship was strong enough to get through that first cruise, then we’d see where it would go.  But in the meantime, we were having a great time.  It didn’t take much to put the worries out of my mind.   

Two events conspired against me, such that I would be married (again) before the end of the summer; one was Sadie Hawkins’ Day, the other was precipitated by a prediction made by Nostradamus over 400 years earlier.   

Nostradamus played a part in my getting married a second time.

Back to Saint Bridget and TD Hays on the beach.  I never saw the marriage proposal coming.  I had one flight left in the training squadron; on my way to the fleet, finally.  Dinner out with my beautiful sweetheart, in a restaurant just up the boardwalk from my place in Mission Beach.  I think I even remember that morning hearing something about Sadie Hawkins Day on the radio station while we were driving in the car; I remember thinking, how silly.  Kelly Ann just giggled and looked out the side window.  

After dinner, for dessert the waiter brought out a little ring box on a platter and put it in front of my face.  I thought it was a mistake, and tried to shoo him off.  ‘Dude, you’ve got the wrong table.’  He looked back at me like I was a big dork.  She just beamed at me and said, ‘look inside.’  No ring, but a piece of paper which read, ‘Will you marry me?’  Stunned.  I was completely stunned.  

If you had painted that story for me before that moment, and asked me what I would feel, I would have told you: apprehension, reluctance--it was too fast too soon, it should wait until after deployment, until after the divorce was final.  But her act of faith in me, the sweetness of the gesture, the flattery of having someone like her make such an effort for someone like me, the courage and confidence of that person putting herself out there for you...well, I’m a little embarrassed now to say it, but I think it kind of swept me off my feet.  Because of that unexpected role-reversal, I think I understand (a little) what the that fuss of engagement is all about.  Most dudes probably don’t.  I smiled and said yes.  Smartest thing I ever did.

In the days and weeks that followed,...

MEET YOUR SON 1

MEET YOUR SON

(Part I)

If you had asked me a year prior to my wedding if I would get married when I did, I would have confidently bet a paycheck against it.  That sounds terrible.   And when my lovely bride of the two-plus-decades reads this, she will thump me on the head.  But let me explain.

My wife and I were married in August 1988 in the small chapel at Naval Air Station Miramar, San Diego.  

NAS--now MCAS--Miramar Chapel.

It was a perfect day, perfect setting.  When I look at pictures from that day now, I know without a shadow of a doubt it was the best possible event that could have happened to me, that will ever happen to me.  And when I think about the road leading up to that day, and where it’s led in the years since, I cannot imagine my life being any different now.

But life is complicated.  And messy.  It has a curious way of throwing curve balls, taking you through unforeseen detours.  It even hides the ambush of disaster.  It has a way of denying you that which you think you want most, in the process crushing dreams and breaking hearts...only to bestow unexpected, priceless gifts, and restoring faith and trust in some hidden ‘master plan.’  None of which you ever see coming.  Though perhaps sometimes you could have seen it coming if you were paying a little more attention.  

We got engaged in February of 1988, in San Diego, as I was finishing flight training.  But I did not ask my wife to marry me.  I couldn’t, as I was still married at the time to another woman.  

So she asked me.

Saint Bridget

In fifth-century Ireland, as the story goes, Saint Bridget complained to Saint Patrick about how women had to wait for men to propose marriage.  It was unfair, Saint Bridget argued.  Saint Patrick agreed, but thought it best to proceed modestly; so he decreed Leap Year Day, occurring once every four years, the one day where it would be an acceptable custom for the woman to propose to the man.  Whether this account is accurate or not, by the 19th century, it was acceptable in Britain for women to propose to their men on Leap Year Day, or February 29th, once every four years.

In the United States, this tradition has been informally named ‘Sadie Hawkins Day,’ after a character in the famous cartoon strip ‘L’il Abner,’ from the 30’s and 40’s.  In the comic, one day out of the year the Sadie Hawkins Race was held, during which if a single woman caught a single man and carried/dragged him across the finish line, he was legally bound to marry her. 

L'il Abner's Sadie Hawkins race

Though the comic Sadie Hawkins Race occurred annually in November, in some American urban legend, the Irish and comic traditions merged.   Many in the US have come to know ‘Sadie Hawkins Day’ as February 29th, when it’s whimsically acceptable for a woman to propose marriage to the man.

T.D. Hays used to be located in this building,
second story.  Scene of the crime. 

On February 29th, 1988 I was at dinner with my soon-to-be-but-that-was-unknown-to-me future bride at a beachside restaurant facing the ocean in Pacific Beach, called TD Hay’s.  I was uplifted with the realization I would actually finish training and make it to the Fleet, as I only had one flight left from earlier in the syllabus; I had already successfully carrier-qualified, day and night, in December, and had somehow plodded my way through the most difficult parts of the tactics syllabus.  

It was a good time to celebrate in general, things were looking up after a hard year.  I still felt the sting of events which occurred in the fall of 1986: I survived an aircraft crash and ejection; one of my best friends from AOCS had been killed in a tragic car crash; and my first wife deserted me for another man.  All within about six weeks.  

And that was not the worst of it.

I begin this part by telling the ending--I wouldn’t call it completely happy, but it’s pretty good.  My oldest son, born of my first wife, is everything a father would want his son be.  He’s grown into a fine young man, and I feel as proud of him as a father can feel about a son.  My ex-wife and her family did a wonderful job raising him.  She made sure my son knew my parents while they were still alive, knew my brother and my sisters, and their families.  My ex-wife eventually remarried, and the man she chose to be my son’s step father is a fine, steady man who I genuinely like.  My ex has never been anything but accommodating and understanding when asked if our son could drop what he was doing and come out and visit.  Zero drama in the long-term aftermath.  Zero drama is good.

She even invited me to come to Indiana to watch my son’s last high school football game, the Indiana State Championship, in 2005.  It was remarkable, generous gesture for which it took some courage on her part to reach out.  She didn’t want to tell him beforehand because she thought it might make him more nervous.  It was a close game decided by a missed extra point, and the other team won--and I didn’t care, at least not much.  My son played great.  At the end, when he saw me in the stands, finally recognizing the idiot who was yelling his name after he stood with his crestfallen teammates, I think it may have taken some of the sting out of the loss for him.  His biological dad had never been in the stands at one of his games before. 

AP Photo of the 2005 State Championship.  I was watching #69.
He played an awesome game.  

  

So that’s the good ending.  But the beginning is not so pleasant.  Because of my ex-wife’s actions in the fall of 1986, I did not believe I was my son’s father when he was born. 

I don’t quite remember all her words of the conversation which led me to understand the depths of her betrayal.  But I distinctly remember the conversation.  The feeling of numbness, the shock, when she told me she was pregnant, and then told me based on the amount of...time...she had spent with the other man...which started on a 'business' trip she took with him out of town over my birthday...she said the child wasn't mine.  Later my neighbors and friends would tell me things which made me realize I was one of those, “last to know” guys, in that small Texas town.  

Well, that’s it, I thought.

The worst of it wasn’t the fact that she abandoned me in the most difficult hour I had faced, and would ever face; it wasn’t the lies, or the infidelity, or the financial cost I would eventually bear for her actions.  The worst was her actions deprived me of the joy of knowing I was a father, until after my son was about eight months old.  And when I finally knew, after thinking he was not my son, after knowing his birth had occurred, experiencing it with a mix of angst, uncertainty and ambivalence, “joy” does not accurately describe what I felt.  It was an unsatisfying, hollow mixture of bitterness and loss, with the surprise of fatherhood.  The joy was stillborn.  I had “missed” the birth of my son in all respects: physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually.  Bitter, wistful loss.      

Man, I thought, what have I done to deserve all this?  I now know the answer to that question, is, ‘Nothing.’  As Clint Eastwood’s character says in Unforgiven:

“Deserve’ s got nothing to do with it.”  

"Deserve's got nothing to do with it."

I don’t wish to sound judgmental, but some things that people do to you, you can’t forget.  Time may help you find a way to forgive, and you yourself can learn to dilute the power that such events hold over you, by moving forward, by living your life.  But, some actions you can’t forget.  At least I can’t forget.  The thought that karma took care of the dirtbag who was my ex’s accomplice in the affair--he ended up in jail after a drunken car crash in Texas--well, that thought still gives me a warped sense of satisfaction.   And justice.  I wish I were a better person about that.  

But I’m not.  ‘Deserve’ had everything to do with it.

On to better days....

FRONT ROW Part 4 (last).

☆The Admiral’s personal staff included a newly-promoted LCDR Flag Aide, also known as ‘the Loop’ for the circular braid worn on the sleeve of his uniform to designate the fact that he was on the Admiral’s personal staff.  I have served on an Admiral’s personal staff much later in my career, and thus I have worn this braid; I tell you even though I liked that job a great deal, and worked for a great boss, the thought of myself wearing a loop made me feel slightly queasy, like I had sold out, somehow.  In the 80‘s, all JO or LCDR Loops were assumed to be brown-nosing and butt-kissing careerists, looking out for their own personal welfare over the good of the team, until proven otherwise.

The 'Loop' worn by members of an Admiral's personal staff, to include the Flag Aide, often known as 'The Loop.'  This was a term of derision in the 80's.  I still get a little queasy when I think about wearing a loop.

Admiral Carlson’s Loop did virtually everything possible to confirm the bad stereotype. I suspect he might also have lost his lunch money to fighter guys at some point when he was a JO, he seemed to share and amplify the Admiral’s dislike of them in general.  He was clearly loyal to the Admiral, which is a good thing I suppose.  But the skinny, gawky bespectacled S-3 NFO was sarcastic and smug, and wielded his position to get what he wanted.  In my mind’s eye now, I remember him as Robert Carradine’s character Lewis from the 80’s movie Revenge of the Nerds, only with the disposition of a bent trashcan. 

Robert Carradine in 'Revenge of the Nerds.'  The Loop looked a lot like this, only a much nastier version.

The Black Knights were assembled in Ready Room 8, waiting for the Admiral.  Our Skipper and XO gave us a little pep talk before, emphasizing how the Admiral was extending an olive branch with this gesture, and how we needed to give him a chance.  They said the Admiral was even going to answer questions in a good-faith effort to explain what had been said about the Black Knights in the Wardroom.  

At the appointed time, we were all seated in our Ready Room chairs, waiting.  The Admiral didn’t show.  But his Loop did.  He walked in alone and said he needed to talk to the Ready Room first before escorting the Admiral down for his talk.  He stood in front and proceeded to lecture us.  ‘I’m here to tell you how this is going to go. There will be no talking or moving about.  You fighter guys will show the Admiral the respect he deserves.  No laughing, no whispering, no jokes or smart-ass comments.‘  I remember feeling outraged that he was talking to a group that included our CO--he was in our Ready Room, our turf!   A murmur started--who does this guy think he is?  The Loop powered right over it.  ‘And another thing--excuse me, AND ANOTHER THING--‘ he paused, waiting for the murmuring to die down; ‘the Admiral will ask at the end if there are any questions.  There will be no questions...not from the audience.  I’m not going to let anything from you guys embarrass him, or put him on the spot, or make him look bad.  You will write down any questions you have on this pad,’ he handed out a pad of yellow legal-sized paper to the far side of the Ready Room, ‘and I will decide which ones are suitable to ask the Admiral, and I will then ask him only those questions.  If you guys understand all that, I will now go get the Admiral  and escort him down.’

'Write your questions on this legal pad...'

He left, and there was general revolt. ‘You’ve got to be kidding!’  ‘F*** that guy!‘  ‘We’re not taking THIS!’ ‘We ought all walk out so they come back to an empty room’ ‘ YEAH!’  The XO stood up, clearly just as outraged, but he put his hands out in a ‘calm down, sit down’ motion.  ‘OK fellas, look...there’s already enough bad blood between the Admiral and the Air Wing, and CAG, and us,’ he started.  ‘Let’s not make this any harder on CAG or on Skipper.  Let’s just get through this just like the Loop said, let someone else antagonize the Admiral.  Let’s get through this, and get him out of here so we can go about our business.’  The rioting masses settled down.  We didn’t like it, it was against our principles, but we could behave and control our outrage for a few minutes.  For CAG, and for Skipper.

After a short time, the Loop came in through the back door and shouted, ‘ATTENTION ON DECK!’  We stood, and the Admiral came in.  ‘As you were.’  We sat.  ‘Well, thanks for letting me come down and speak with you today,’ he started.  ‘I wanted to clear the air on a couple of things...’.  He was seemingly contrite when he started talking, and I thought, maybe this will actually be an apology.  But after about 30 seconds, his tone became that of a lecture, ‘...and it seemed like the maneuvering was an intentional provocation to me.  I know now that it wasn’t, but it sure wasn’t very smart, and at the time I couldn’t imagine how anyone could deliberately try to provoke an incident, how anyone could do anything so unprofessional, and so stupid, unless it was on purpose...‘ It got worse as he went on--and turned into a longer variation of the same speech he had given CAG in the wardroom.  By the end of about 15 minutes, the Admiral had worked himself back up into a full lather again.  

The Loop was off to the side of the Ready Room scanning the audience like a Nazi guard looking for signs of defiance among the prisoners.  Occasionally, he would nod his head for emphasis on key words that came out of the Admiral’s mouth:  ...unprofessional (head nod)...careless (head nod)...foolishness (double head nod)...bunch of undisciplined idiots (head nod and an small ‘Amen’).  We were just stone silent, and took it. 

At the end, the Admiral seemed to realize he had gotten caught up again in the emotion of the event, had forgotten and strayed from his purpose for coming, and was just basically railing at us.  He stopped almost mid sentence, and said awkwardly, ‘well, I didn’t mean to get worked up again about the whole thing...uh, that’s not why I came down...uh...I understand maybe you guys might have some questions for me.’

The Loop came to life.  ‘Yes Sir, they’ve been writing down their questions on a pad,’ as he rapidly scanned the back of the Ready Room, looking for the legal pad.  

Just then, on cue, as I was sitting in my Ready Room chair in the far right corner of the front row, that yellow pad came over my head from somewhere behind me, into my lap.  ‘Thunk.’  I grabbed with both hands and looked at it.  There was one question on it, one and only one, written in big letters at the top: “WHY DOES IT HURT WHEN I PEE?”

My eyes stared unblinking, my brain uncomprehending, my jaw dropped.  The Loop locked onto the pad in my lap, ‘Here is it,’ and sprinted over to grab it.  He put his hands on the pad and pulled it, but my hands would not let go.  He scowled at me and tugged, harder, and I tugged back, shaking my head, thinking, ‘no...no...You don’t want this pad...’.  Finally he wrenched it free, and saw the one question we had managed to write down: “WHY DOES IT HURT WHEN I PEE?”  He scowled at me, clearly holding me responsible for the writing.  ‘Admiral,’ he hissed as his glare stayed locked on me, ‘there are no questions worth asking from THIS bunch.’  Then he threw the pad back at me and turned abruptly, shouting ATTENTION ON DECK so loud it startled me.  We all stood, and the Loop and his Admiral walked out.

As the door closed, instantly the crowd of JOs exploded--‘What did you do?‘  ‘What did you write down?‘  I was still in shock, starting to say ‘I didn’t do anything, the pad just came over my head,’ and someone had grabbed the pad and read out loud, ‘WHY DOES IT HURT WHEN I PEE?‘ and the room erupted in laughter.  Pandmonium.  Even the Skipper and XO were laughing, hard.  People were slapping me on the back, crowding around the pad to see it, ‘That’s GREAT!‘ “Genius!‘  ‘Brilliant!‘  ‘That was AWESOME--did you see how pissed off the Loop got?‘  Try as I might to explain I wasn’t the author, no one bought it--‘Sure, it just ‘came over’ your head,’  ‘Yeah, RIGHT!‘   ‘Way to GO!’

And in that moment, the Ready Room made its collective mind up about me.  This plumber, who picked the worst seat in the front row, who struggled with everything,  became an instant cult hero for having the stones to defy the Admiral who hated all fighter guys and his pretentious nerdy Loop who frankly needed a good ass-kicking.  And just like that, my ‘unwritten probation’ was over.  Even as I struggled with mastering an aircraft maneuver or more advanced tactics in the future, I would be given the benefit of the doubt from that moment forward.  To this day, at the end of a brief whenever the briefer asks whether anyone has any question, about half the time the phrase, 'WHY DOES IT HURT WHEN I PEE?' pops into my head almost involuntarily, making me smile and remember.

Whitey and I at a Padres game in the 89-91 timeframe.

The funny thing was, no one else claimed responsibility for writing the question.  Credit for it stuck with me for the rest of my time in the squadron, no matter how much I protested my innocence.  Not until 17 years later at a Black Knight reunion held during Tomcat Sunset, marking the retirement of the F-14 from service, did the real author come forward.  Why my good friend and old roommate elected to remain silent is still beyond me--maybe he thought I needed the boost, maybe he’s just the kind of guy that does good deeds anonymously and enjoys it.  But whatever the reason, his generosity keyed an event which marked the turning point in that first tour for me.  Whitey, I thank you, my friend, for getting me off probation and being accepted.

Whitey and his lovely bride visited in 2005, about a year before he let the cat out of the bag that he had authored the famous question.  We remain good friends today.

And it would not be the last time that I would realize that in this business, it was better to be lucky than good, if you can’t be both. 

END

FRONT ROW Part 3

☆So it was when two Black Knight F-14s, crewed by four JOs, went to execute this photo mission, using over-water navigation points on their high-altitude profile, in a lead-trail formation.  I wasn’t there, but it appears they drifted closer to that international border than planned...and, perhaps, maybe just a wee bit inside (only from the photos could the true story be gleaned--and I never personally saw them).  Regardless of which side of the border the Tomcats were on, none of this activity had been coordinated with the locals.  This was probably not good, as the Pakistanis had fought a couple of wars with India over the past couple of decades, and the Pakistani Air Force had shot down several Afghan aircraft straying into Pakistani airspace as late as November 1988.  Pakistan was clearly vigilant in guarding its airspace, and nervous about intruders.  So the Pakistanis sent up a couple of US-made F-16 fighters to investigate these unknown, high altitude air contacts, off of any known air route, approaching (or in) their airspace.  

Pakistani export versions of the F-16A/B Falcon.

As the F-16s came within visual range, the trail F-14 got tally and called a pair of unknowns at his right four o’clock, swinging the wingline.  A fighter aircraft positioned in your rear quarter has an offensive advantage; from early tactics fighter pilots are taught to deny this advantage to any opponent.  Our intrepid Black Knight called his tally to the lead, and instinctively turned into the F-16s.  An F-14A at high altitude is not a nimble fighter--and at max endurance airspeed with a heavy photo recon pod, it wallows like a pig.  But the sight of an F-14 planform turning back into them must have surprised the Pakistani pilots.  The lead F-14 heard the call from the wing, and immediately turned back into the trail, and picked up the tally-two.  

The Pakistanis must have not expected this either, and perhaps didn’t realize there were two fighters initially.  As they passed the first F-14, now continuing his piggish turn in a 360º to get into an offensive position from their perspective, the F-16s realized they had another fighter in front of them, bearing down.  The F-16s would be ‘sandwiched’ between the two unknown, possibly hostile fighters, presenting their tailpipes to one of them.  They may have even identified the aircraft as F-14s; but they weren’t necessarily American, as the Iranians also flew F-14s, and relations between those two countries were not the best.  Iranians were thought to be crazy, unstable--there was no telling what they might do at that time.

Being the meat in the sandwich made the Pakistanis nervous.  The F-16s jettisoned their drop tanks, which fighters will do in a dogfight to reduce drag and improve maneuverability when they feel threatened.  Jet aircraft drop tanks aren’t trivial pieces of equipment; a set may cost several hundreds of thousands of dollars depending on the aircraft type.  But clearly the Pakistanis felt threatened by this set of maneuvering fighters, and felt compelled to make themselves more competitive.  The F-16s made the second merge happen with the lead fighter, then decided they’d seen enough; they turned tail and hauled ass back toward land as fast they could, toward Pakistan.

F-15 jettisons a drop tank during test.

The F-14s returned to CONSTELLATION; the scene after they recovered was ridiculously similar to the scene from TOPGUN, with the crews high-fiving each other on the  flight deck as if they had just shot down invading enemy MiGs.  From their perspective they had been intercepted, but had quickly turned the tables, forcing the F-16s to flee.  The exuberance was that of young fighter pilots and RIOs, and was completely forgivable.  The fact that what had happened could be described as ‘an international incident’ was not in their minds, at least not yet.  

But it was instantly in Admiral Carlson’s mind.  I cannot say with certainty how long it took for word to arrive from higher headquarters to the ship that the Pakistanis were angry about a US violation of their sovereign airspace by two fighters off the CONSTELLATION.  But it came fast, and got there about the same time the crews were debriefing after the long return leg home.  When the Admiral heard (likely a one way conversation with higher authority), he was livid, and his anti-fighter bias helped him immediately jump to the conclusion that the Black Knight crews had intentionally provoked the incident.  He stormed off to find CAG; CAG was not in his office, he was in the forward wardroom at the evening meal, with dozens of other aircrew and officers from the airwing and ship.  There’s an old adage that says, ‘praise in public, punish in private,’ but the Admiral could not contain himself.  He shouted at CAG in that public forum, causing a highly embarrassing scene, and accusing the fighters of being undisciplined, uncontrollable rogue pilots who were deliberately trying to provoke an incident so they could generate a MiG kill, like off of Libya.  The Admiral told him to get the crews and get his and their asses to his office in five minutes, then turned and stormed out of the now-completely silent and paralyzed wardroom.  Not everyday you get to see an Admiral chewing CAG’s ass in public.

CAG was completely shocked.  He had not heard anything yet about the flight, had no idea what the Admiral was talking about.  But he hurried down to the debrief rooms to talk to the crews.  There he got the story, and quickly pieced together what had happened, and most importantly, that whatever happened was not an intentional provocation--heck, we were pulling into port there in a few days.  Angrily he stormed back to confront the Admiral with the story; what ensued was a tense shouting match in which the Admiral accused CAG of lying to protect the aircrew, and the CAG telling the Admiral if that’s what he truly thought, then he needed to find another CAG.

The news of what had happened in the air was quickly overcome by the fireworks of what was happening on the ship--pickled F-16 drop tanks were now secondary.  The aviators in the airwing quickly rallied around CAG--any leader who was willing to risk his career to tell the truth about what had happened and not be intimidated by his boss’s  unreasonable rage, had guts and nerve.  His actions in the aftermath earned CAG near universal loyalty of his airwing. 

CVW-14 Insignia, our CAG during the 88-89 deployment.

In the hours that followed, the Admiral cooled down, and his staff had time to fill him on what had actually happened in the air.  The crews simply maneuvered, legally, in international airspace (that’s our story and we’re sticking to it), and if the Pakistanis misinterpreted their intent, got spooked and pickled their drops, that was their problem (I heard later an unconfirmed story that the US government paid for the cost of the tanks in a gesture of good faith, though).  There would be no repercussions to anyone involved.  There was some sort of fence-mending meeting between the Admiral and CAG later that night.  

But it wasn’t over.  Throughout the airwing and ship, the damage to the Admiral’s reputation was done--CAG was the hero for standing up for his crews, and all the barely-concealed dislike for the Admiral turned into openly expressed hostility, as the word of his accusatory rant in the wardroom spread throughout the ship.  That our Battle Group leader would express such a notion of disdain and think his aviators were so undisciplined and unprofessional--yelling so much at CAG in the wardroom--meant he didn’t understand us or respect us.  His stock dropped universally overnight throughout the airwing.  It was bad.

It didn’t take long for the Admiral’s staff to understand they had a real public relations nightmare on their hands.  As we approached the Karachi inport, the plan was hatched by the staff for the Admiral to go to each Ready Room and explain that his words were taken out of context; that he didn’t really think all the things he had said.  It was sold as an opportunity for the Admiral to repair the long-standing rift with the aviators in the airwing; that he would invite open dialogue, and entertain questions from each Ready Room, as he visited each one.  Well, this was a change--it seemed hopeful.  The Admiral would start this campaign in the Black Knight Ready Room....

Karachi Sheraton, location of the Black Knight Admin in-port. 

FRONT ROW Part 2

There was a reason for that timing...

☆AS I WENT through the F-14A Fleet Replacement Squadron, it was clear I was not a natural.  I had some issues working against me, as my early path in the Navy was not the smoothest: a failed marriage in Training Command and protracted divorce, sometimes acrimonious and bitter; a catastrophic aircraft mishap and ejection out of a TA-4J Skyhawk; the death of a close friend from AOCS, the trauma of being the one to wake the widow in the middle of the night to tell her she was now a widow.  All before age 26.  That which does not kill us, makes us stronger, eventually.  But there were times when I felt like I was hanging on by the slimmest of margins, and it’s safe to say, at times I was distracted from learning my craft.  

Despite the added distractions of San Diego in the 80’s, I somehow graduated the syllabus, though toward the bottom of my class, and toward the bottom of the last 100 students who had finished the F-14A syllabus.  I was selectively sent to a squadron that would not face a deployment for the better part of a year, to allow me time to get up to speed.  The squadron leadership knew this when they received my name, and I was paired with strong flightleads and no-nonsense RIOs who had previous instructor or test flying experience--to keep a watchful eye on me.  And it was necessary.  By the time the deployment loomed, I was making progress, but others who had checked in after me, were ‘getting it’ faster than I was. It’s safe to say the Ready Room was unsure of how I would be on cruise.

Black Knight Cruise photo from the 88-89 deployment.

When I first checked into the Black Knights in March 1988, I was one of the most junior officers. I got stuck with a chair in a heavy traffic area in the back of the Ready Room with a bad view of the movie screen.  By the time deployment rolled around in December of that year, several of the more senior JOs had rotated out of the command, and others more junior to me had check onboard; I had bubbled into the lower-middle class section in Ready Room hierarchy.  When my turn came to pick my chair for the entire deployment, miraculously, there was one chair left in the front row--it was all the way in the extreme right corner next to the wall, but much better than the one I had, or so I thought.  It wasn’t perfect; to see the movie screen for a roll’em or the front whiteboard for a brief, you had to hold your head past a 45 º angle; after a few minutes, my neck was tired and it became apparent that this front row seat wasn’t such a good deal after all.  But it would be my home in the Ready Room for the next 6 months, and I made the best of it.

We made the best of being deployed and underway during Christmas 1988--hats and 'modified' carols  sung in each Ready Room.  You make the best out of bad situations and make your own fun, or you're miserable.  We chose to make our fun. 

The Black Knights deployed on USS CONSTELLATION in early December 1988.  Christmas was spent underway; New Years’ was in the Philippines (no fireworks law enforcement there, like a war zone).  On 04 January 89, the ship was still in port Cubi Point, when news from the other side of the world broke that two F-14s from the VF-32 Swordsmen had shot down two Libyan MiG-23 Floggers in the Gulf of Sidra.  This was big news.  Aircrew throughout the Air Wing were understandably excited; the ship was abuzz with what might happen next in the Mediterranean, and whether we might find ourselves part of it.  As we left Cubi Point PI headed for the Indian Ocean through the South China Sea, our course was supposed to take us near the coast of Vietnam.

Port call on the island of Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, 1989.

CONSTELLATION’s Battlegroup Commander was an Admiral named Carlson.  He was not well-liked or highly regarded among the Air Wing JOs.  He was comically short, a sourpuss on the edge of being ill-tempered, allegedly hard on his staff and those who worked for him, and it appeared that he took himself way too seriously.   He was an aviator, having ‘grown up’ as an electronic attack Naval Flight Officer (NFO), but he seemed to distance himself from all the good things about aviation.  He didn’t like to fly, for one; he didn’t even seem to want to talk about aviation, or to other aviators.  He barely concealed his disdain for fighter pilots; he believed we were a bunch of undisciplined cowboys with little regard for authority (only partially true).  The prevalent theory was that he must’ve been picked on by fighter guys when he was a JO, who beat him up and took his lunch money (in all fairness, we can be a fairly ruthless and asinine bunch).  These traits combined to make him an easy target for jokes and cartoons throughout the Air Wing and ship, for which he had little sense of humor.   

F-14 cockpit silhouette; with the seat all the way down and a short RIO, the backseater's head would barely show over the side of the aircraft.

The one time Admiral Carlson flew as a guest RIO with the Black Knights, he had a joke played on him.  His seat was preflighted by a JO, who ran it all the way to the lowest position in the cockpit, then pulled the circuit breaker which controlled power to the seat, so that the Admiral was unable to adjust the seat height once he was strapped in.  He struggled with it until completely exasperated, and just flew that way, unable to see forward over the instrument panel, barely able to see over the sides of the cockpit to the outside.  The next day a cartoon appeared in the ship’s airplan which showed the top of his head barely above the canopy rails, like a little kid in the backseat of the car.  He was furious, as the butt of a joke, ridiculed and mocked by fighter guys...again.  The joke seemed like a good idea at the time to us, but it didn’t make the life of the Air Wing Commander (CAG Bud Orr) any easier.

In the late 80’s, the Soviet Union had an arrangement with the Vietnamese government to use the former US airbase at Cam Ranh Bay to forward deploy its MiG-23 Floggers.  Soviet Floggers occasionally came out toward US carriers to test US response; it was a little game of chess, requiring discipline, restraint and professionalism to intercept and escort a sometimes uncooperative adversary.  

Soviet MiG-23 Flogger.

But in the light of the Libyan shootdown, the Air Wing’s excitement in the aftermath, and Libyan claims that the aircraft shot down were on a reconnaissance mission without intent to provoke, Admiral Carlson became concerned that fighter pilot bravado in CONSTELLATION’s Air Wing might cause an international incident with the Soviet Floggers out of Cam Ranh Bay.  The story was he was concerned we’d go pick a fight, ‘fishing’ for a MiG kill.  CONSTELLATION adjusted her course to stay well clear of any possibility of encounter with the Soviets.

Commercial routes throughout Indonesia and the South China Sea.

This widened the rift between the Admiral and the Air Wing on the ship--more cartoons and jokes about the Admiral being scared of the Soviets, and some justifiable indignation that he was making decisions assuming the worst about the discipline of his fighter crews.  We sailed east of the Spratly Islands in the South China Sea, closer to Borneo than Indochina, and passed through the Straits of Malacca into the Indian Ocean.  After some operations around the Maldives, we would eventually head north for a portcall in Karachi, Pakistan--the first US carrier there for a number of years.  

Sir Salman Rushdie's controversial work, which was the catalyst for unrest and riots throughout the Muslim world in the late 80's.

The timing of this scheduled visit was interesting; it coincided with the controversy in the Muslim world surrounding the publication of Sir Salman Rushdie’s work, ‘Satanic Verses.’  Reports of unrest, riots and violence directed at UK and US consulates in Pakistan led to the prevailing notion that the Karachi port visit would be cancelled.  When it became clear that the port visit would occur as scheduled, the ship’s navigator found he didn’t have any recent photos of the anchorage;  it was decided that a pair of F14A’s, each loaded with a standoff photo reconnaissance pod, would launch on a long range, max-endurance mission to get imagery, staying just outside of Pakistan’s internationally-recognized 12-mile sovereign airspace/waterspace boundary.  It’s my guess that this mission wasn’t requested by higher headquarters, or approved by it; we were simply going to make it happen.

Tactical Air Reconnaissance Pod System (TARPS),  a 1700-pound pod that carried several cameras and film, and other sensors to capture imagery on the ground.

The F-14A had this long-range photo capability, it was true; but what it lacked in those days was an accurate inertial navigation system (INS), and there was no GPS.  The F-14 was designed as an open-ocean fighter against large numbers of Soviet Bear and Badger long-range bombers.  It was not originally designed to deliver precision weapons (that came later, in the mid- and late-90’s), so there had been no need to give it a state-of-the art navigation system.  The INS was notorious for drifting off-position after only a short time; it would still provide a good attitude reference platform for instrument flying, but it would routinely be several miles off of the actual position over the ground....