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The Wine Dark Sea
Day One, MED 1-90
04 Nov. Not a bad night's sleep, altogether. Secured about 2330. Ate a dog and took a bag of popcorn down to the stateroom. Watched the end of the movie "Roadhouse" on FID Channel 8, "The Movie Channel." It was bloody and senseless enough to appeal a lot to me at that hour. I'm a bit wired from the day's potent caffein and sleep will be several tosses and turns away. Up at 0700, a real gentleman's hour. Skipped breakfast and sat in on the morning SI brief. Amazing how much I don't know about the MED. Haven't had a chance to get my head out of the Contingency Files long enough to read the message traffic lately. The pace of the Planning for our 56-odd targets is starting to pick up as the Team members get unpacked and into the loop. A word about Contingencies. While we are overseas at the tip of the Nation's Defenses, we have a certain number of pre-planned options which the National Command Authority has deemed worth our concentrated attention. Based on the universe as it is perceived inside the Capitol Beltway, a number of places, things and people are nominated for possible extinction. Should the Wise Men deem it so, it is our job to translate the thought into deed and reach out and touch the Nation's Enemies. Based on the body of experience from Vietnam through Grenada and Lebanon, we have developed a system by which the actual targets are maintained as closely guarded secrets until the Carrier is ready to go overseas and assume responsibility for execution. As you might expect, there is a fair level of attention paid to the unique requirements that each Air Wing brings to the problem. Configurations, aircraft and capabilities differ between each deploying carrier, and what one group might have considered an acceptable risk for a plan might be anathema to the next. All the plans must be personally approved by the Admiral who is responsible for the Battle Force. He is a fireplug of a man, a former attack pilot, stickler for detail. He must approve the plans before they can be forwarded up the line to the SIXTH Fleet. We know him by one of his old call-signs: The Red Rotator.
The immediate problem lies in the fact that the good Admiral deployed on our original date last month, and is now physically in the Mediterranean as we pull away from the pier in Mayport. The effort to get the plans to him develops into an all day exercise
in frustration. We are buried in paper and Mission Planning is filled with people. We have five targets we must get planned today, written into smooth message format and transmitted by the change of the Zulu day. In this part of the world, that is early evening.
The various decision makers are pressed for time and have many commitments and meetings. Our work goes slowly.
As I write, it is 2230 local, and the Zulu day has come and gone. After a few frantic calls I find we can get Main COMM to fib on the Date Time Group of the messages so we may still be OK. The Deputy Airwing Commander- DCAG- is stuck in the CO's meeting. He will be back at some point and we will still have to hassle out the five messages. Looks like no sleep for the dauntless typists.
Due to the classification and sensitivity of the material, there are only a few officers cleared to handle the plans and I am thus simultaneously the Zoo coordinator and 38-year-old yeoman. I have secret crap piled up all around me on the desk.
In a lull, while waiting for grist, I wrote the first episode of a Vic Socotra knock-off called "The Adventures of Rex Beuno, Special Agent, Navy Re-sale System. I guess I thought I would reprise the series I wrote on the Midway, the first time I became a cult hero.
I dropped it off with the Public Affairs People to see if they would put it in the ship's newspaper, the FID FLYer. Odd feeling of deja vu. I think this effort may be more intellectual than my last outing, but that could make it less marketable to the crew at large. After walking around the ship, I don't think I understand the kids nearly as well as I used to. Worse, I'm not sure if I like them very much. Have I gotten old? I am responsible for running a team of eleven young officers and five enlisted troops. My leading Petty Officer is IS2 Dave, a quietly efficient young man who I am already leaning on. My team of Intel officers is turning out pretty much like everyone else's has. I have two legit superstars, a couple real bright guys, and a couple who would be OK if they came to work. Looks like Mendel's theory of genetic distribution is proving valid. We lose an hour tonight as we transit East, so even if I get away I won't be getting much sleep. Two excellent meals today; salad and weird manhattan clam chowder for lunch and excellent, Knock-out Creole shrimp for dinner, smothered in a sneaky bottled hot sauce. I am starting to think about mid-rats, haven't worked out and am torn by the usual urge to go feed my face and try to stay slim until the schedule gets a little more rational. Those rascally sliders peek at me from the warming pan. So easy to say "Hey, gimme a double slider with extra grease...." Still, I have now gone nearly into MED 1©90 day three without a staff meeting or a FIDburger so I can't kick too much yet.
May get ashore in Rota, Spain, though no liberty is officially scheduled for all hands.
Toulon, France, beckons on the 15th.
Funny about time, though. There are 240HRS to go before that happens, and I expect we will be working most of them. That translates to four sixty-hour work-weeks we can experience, and I bet we get about twice that much subjective time.
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