The strike group’s flight schedule was like a giant puzzle. Everything had to fit perfectly together. The cycles of carrier-launched jet flights were almost always the limiting factor — the F-18s and F-35s were each a flying fuel emergency from the moment they took off. They had about ninety minutes to either land or refuel — after that, someone was in trouble. The multiengine cargo plane, the C-2 greyhound, flew on and off once or twice per day, and the first line of jets often launched after that. The radar control aircraft, the E-2C Hawkeye, was up before and after the jets. And a search-and-rescue helicopter was always airborne, staying close to the carrier, ready to retrieve anyone from the water in the unlikely event of a crash.
Around the carrier, floating single-spot runways — some referred to them as ships — perpetually changed their distances from each other and the carrier. That, in turn, changed the time it took to fly from one ship to the next, the fuel required, and the weight that could be transported. And because the ship’s own schedules always changed — one destroyer might get sent fifty miles farther out to do a mission that was incompatible with conducting flight operations, for instance — the schedule never seemed to work.
The fixed-wing guys thought the helicopters messed everything up for them. The surface warfare officers thought the helicopters always messed everything up for them. The two communities didn’t speak the same language or have a healthy appreciation for the other’s challenges. But Plug was expected to be the liaison between the two worlds, and make it all work.
“Yes, sir,” he replied. No problem.
Half a day and a dozen meetings later, Plug sat at one of the computer terminals in the back of the Zulu module, his eyes wanting to shut. There were six computers in the space that the staff members shared to get their work done when they weren’t actually on watch. Because the staff had well over six people, someone was usually standing over Plug’s shoulder, waiting for a computer to free up.
Plug had finally gotten one of the carrier-based helicopter squadrons to agree to extend one of their flights an extra thirty minutes and refuel after that particular cycle of fighter jets landed, not before. He had tomorrow’s schedule written up and emailed out to the surrounding destroyers, giving their operations officers a chance to weigh in — which they always did.
“You look tired, man.” It was John Herndon, standing over him. “Come on, let’s go get a latte before we go on watch.”
Plug shot him a look. “A coffee?”
“A latte.”
“Are you messing with me?”
“Tell me you know what I’m talking about.”
Plug shook his head, his eyes barely open. He checked his thermos. Empty. “I need a coffee refill anyway. I’ll never be able to stay awake until midnight.”
“You really don’t know what I mean. Okay, come on. Follow me.”
Plug got up and followed him through out of Zulu, through the carrier’s combat direction center, down several ladders, and onto the main deck. Here the passageway was extremely wide and was the busiest foot traffic corridor on board. Hundreds of officers and enlisted were headed to and from various places on the ship. A bright red, white and blue barbershop pole spun next to one door, with a line of men waiting outside. And then, finally…
“No kidding.”
A big green-and-white Starbucks sign.
“It’s one of the most popular destinations on the ship. Don’t ever come after zero nine thirty. Line gets too long.”
They stood in line for about ten minutes but eventually were rewarded with hot, halfway decent cups of caramel macchiato.
Plug sipped his. “It’s not bad.”
“Nope. And all you had to do is walk half a mile up six flights of stairs, and spend five bucks.”
Plug took another sip. “Alright, man, six hours of watch. Let’s do this.”
They walked up to the carrier’s intelligence center and got a brief from the intel officer on duty. “The SAG is now about three hundred miles east of Guam, still searching for the Chinese merchant ships.”
Lieutenant Herndon said, “Anything?”
“Negative. Not on those guys. But there’s plenty of other stuff going on. Come here, I’ll read off the brief I’m prepping for my boss.” He scrolled through his computer screen, which showed a bunch of maps with various ships, submarines, and aircraft status reports on them. “We now have intel that a possible Chinese submarine is in the Eastern Pacific. And the aircraft carrier Shangdong has left port with a few escort destroyers. That’s the only activity going on in the Western Pacific that isn’t North Korea — related.”
Plug said, “What’s going on there?”
“Typical North Korea stuff. They’re saying they’ll turn all Americans to fire and ash, yada yada yada. But the reason that we’re concerned is because we’re seeing their military more active than normal. So, we’re keeping an eye on that.”
They left the intelligence center and walked next door into the strike group’s command and control center. The battle watch captain was a balding submariner lieutenant commander, and he didn’t look like he was happy to be alive, let alone brief two junior officers.
The battle watch captain said, “Alright, listen up, because I’ll only go through this once. We now have seven new ships in company for a grand total of ten surrounding the Ford. You knuckleheads down in Zulu need to get your act together and put them in screen and tell them to keep up. Right now, they’re all just jumbled up, and some are falling behind as we make our way to Hawaii.”
“Sir, who’s with us?” asked Lieutenant Herndon.
The battle watch captain rattled off several ship names, then said, “Flight operations are done for the day at twenty-one hundred, so we can make best speed to Pearl Harbor. The RAS for tomorrow just got canceled, as expected.”
Plug made a few notes on the new ships that were joining them. He still needed to put some of them on his daily flight schedule email to all destroyers. There was too much to keep track of. He was going to lose his mind before this was all over.
Next, they walked aft and down towards the carrier’s combat direction center, getting briefed by the duty officer there. It was very similar information to what they had already received during their previous two briefs, although this one included what the carrier’s sensor operators were seeing.
Finally, they debriefed with the Desron watch standers who were coming off duty. Plug had finished his latte now and threw the empty cup in the trash. They sat down in the black swivel chairs in the Zulu watch space. Two large display screens in the front of the room showed the tactical picture. One side had a large-scale view of the area. The other was centered on everything within one hundred miles of the carrier. Small icons of different shape and color represented surface, air, and subsurface contacts in the vicinity.
When the debrief was done, the off-going duty section departed and Plug logged in on his computer. He joined a bunch of the tactical chat rooms and was able to message different people, both on the carrier and aboard other ships in the battle group — who were also on watch. Herndon showed him which messenger contacts he most needed to talk to and which ones he should let his enlisted watch standers talk to.