Though fighter aircraft are a crucial part of naval aviation, most winged aviators do not end up strapped into the cockpit of a sexy fighter jet. Most are tasked with other unique missions within the naval aviation community that focus on supporting the war fighter. Some of the officers who graduated with the USNA Class of 2002 would enter the fray in the Middle East almost immediately as division officers on ships or submarines in the Persian Gulf or as leaders of Marines on the ground. For others, it would take longer to arrive at the “tip of the spear.” For me, between syllabus training time and a weak stomach, it would take almost three years before I could earn sea duty pay.
When I packed up my car in 2005 and headed west to Point Mugu, California, to join the Black Eagles of VAW-113, I was headed into the unknown. During naval flight officer training, I had realized that I was “physiologically challenged” in an aircraft. The flight surgeon called it spatial disorientation, but most people just call it airsickness or puking your guts out. Prescription medications failed me, so I pounded saltines and ginger ale, wore acupressure wristbands, and held on for dear life every time I strapped into the T-34 Turbomentor. At the end of each day, I felt the way Dan Aykroyd and Chevy Chase looked at the end of the flight-training scene in the 1980s classic Spies Like Us, only worse. Twice I suffered through the dreaded airsickness adaptation program known as the “Spin and Puke,” but I never really got over my problem. I would have done anything to get my wings, including feeling sick every time I went airborne, which is what I did.
My options for playing shotgun in the skies were diminishing fast. Both in heart and mind, I knew the indelible truth: I would never survive a career in the back seat of a tactical jet. With my health, sanity, and performance suffering, I asked to be selected into the E-2C Hawkeye community. I did not know much about the aircraft or the mission, but I knew the aircraft could not go upside-down, which was a good thing for me and for my stomach. As an officer in the Hawkeye, I would not be dropping ordnance in defense of troops in contact; I would not be head to head with a wave of hostile bandits threatening a carrier strike group, and I would not be hovering over a military mishap saving lives during a search and rescue mission. What would I be doing?
The Hawkeye is called the “quarterback of the skies” because it plays a role in so many missions. Built to augment the carrier air wing, the original platform design of the Hawkeye was to help combat the Russian bomber threat. Because American fighters did not have optimal radar-range capabilities, the Hawkeye became the eye over the horizon for the air patrol. Its aviators are trained to provide tactical assistance wherever and whenever needed. There are times when the environment is dynamic, when all five crew members are working frantically to identify forces in the battle space and disseminate this information to nearby assets. A Hawkeye crew can also lead, giving orders to air-wing assets to receive fuel, deploy ordnance, or run an air-to-air intercept. Other times, the mission is to simply be airborne, listening, observing, and assimilating data.
I was doing my part in the Fleet, but I often felt that my role was inadequate. So many others were enduring more. Even when operationally deployed, my nights were spent on USS Ronald Reagan (CVN 76), a floating city where they served four meals a day and the showers always had hot water. I vividly recall lying awake at night wondering how I was actually contributing to this historic war. In 2006, things began to change.
During Reagan’s maiden deployment, VAW-113’s commanding officer, John Ring, drafted a concept of operations for the Hawkeye to expand its mission beyond its maritime interdiction mission and operate over land. Commander Ring had identified a gap in radar and radio coverage by the Air Force airborne warning and control system (AWACS) that he believed the Hawkeye could fill. The AWACS was overtasked and could be relieved if the Hawkeye was granted authorization to support ground assets. Our strike group admiral approved the operation, so the first OnStar mission was a go.
The new mission was a boost to our squadron. Each night, two Hawkeyes launched at ninety-minute intervals from Reagan to enter Iraq’s airspace and provide a communication bridge for convoys traveling between checkpoints. Most of the time, our crew listened, received information, and monitored their operations in theater. We broadcast information about road closures and threats from improvised explosive devices and reported troops in contact. Every night, we landed safely back on board Reagan, feeling confident that we were contributing to the fight.
The first time we flew over land, or went “feet dry,” it was like trying to communicate in a new language. Through coded frequencies battling environmental interference, these initial reports often came across as static until our ears attenuated.
“Hawkeye (tschhhh), Hawkeye.” That’s us! I thought to myself. This must be important!
“(tschhhh) Alpha, checking in, checkpoint Kilo, heading from Ramadi to (tschhhh) Fallujah on Route X-ray. 20 Vicks, 30 Pax.” What does that mean? What do I say? Who do I tell? Does he need something from me?
“Alpha, this is Hawkeye. Roger. Copy.”
When the message was broken or completely incomprehensible, we would all do our best to decipher and write down what we had heard, and I would end up replying with a confident “Copy all” to leave no doubt in the minds of those in danger that we were there to support them. Between shuffling maps, notating the relayed information of garbled static, and attempting to write legibly in a vibrating aircraft, our mission had become more challenging. In a way, I welcomed the challenge, and we all soon became more comfortable with the new mission procedures.
One night midway through our Gulf deployment and halfway through a flight over Iraq, we were confronted with something new. Convoys had checked in with us, and we had passed on important information, but aside from chatter between convoy commanders, the net was silent. Suddenly the quiet ended: “Hawkeye, HAWKEYE, this is CONVOY Tango . . . (tschtsch) . . . hit us, we’re under fire!” The panicked voice pierced the upper decibels of the frequency net. The man was gasping for breath between sentences. Somewhere far below us, his convoy was under attack, and we were the only asset they could reach to ask for help. The screams became incoherent, garbled words and babbling. If I knew where he was, I could provide immediate assistance, but it was impossible to discern his location.
Another of our crew members radioed to get two helicopters on standby to provide close air support and medical evacuations. At that point, I could only offer reassurance that help was on the way, but I still desperately needed the location of the convoy, and the soldier on the radio was still screaming. “Take a deep breath,” I said in a calm voice. “I know you are scared, but everything is going to be fine.” My mission commander solidified communications with a combat air support Blackhawk attack helicopter. I told the troops on the ground that help was on the way, and all we needed was good GPS coordinates. The soldier yelled, “Convoy located: 33, 15, 55 north 44, 36, 00 east.” Finally, we had it. We relayed this to the inbound support aircraft.
The pilots came over the internal communications system, “Guys, we’re on ladder. We gotta start heading back or we’re going to run out of gas.” This meant it was a matter of minutes until we were out of range of the convoy’s radio. Had we done everything we could for them? We could only trust that we had provided what we could and turned the necessary information over to the AWACS. We headed back with confidence that help was on the way for them.
The Hawkeye only has a supporting role, but that support brings strength to the aviation community and the Navy. Someone flies the fuel tanker so the fighter jet has enough gas to drop ordnance, and someone turns the wrench on that fuel tanker so that it too can fly. Each piece of the military machine is linked to the rest and supports one common goal. There is no greater honor than supporting those who truly lay down their lives to protect this country, knowing that they would do the same for you if the roles were reversed.
