“Vic . . . I remember that night well. I was in the aft wardroom for a mid-rats slider. Don’t remember if I had been waving the last recovery. Perhaps. While sitting there we noticed that peculiar vibration from the out-of-balance screw/shaft that showed up when there were a lot of turns on. Hmmm . . . “WTF, let’s go up on the roof.”
On the flight deck, the first thing we noticed was the wind over the deck. Hmm . . . Lot of wind. Let’s check the wake. Wow, we are really hauling ass. Reprise WTF, “Let go to Intel and talk to the spooks,” which is where my story aligns with your’s. I remember the excitement and then the let down as we slowed, made a gentle port turn, and headed for Mombasa. “Shit,” I thought “maybe I won’t make it back to the States for Christmas.” How prophetic.”
– Bronco
Africa was exactly five days away. It was very nice to have a schedule. We had not had one since the crisis began in Iran much earlier that year. Between the emergency Yemen deployment in the Spring and the goddam Boat People, we never really knew where, when, or how long we were going anywhere, I had the sneaking suspicion that this wasn’t going to be any different, and without a quick fix, this thing was going to fuck up my chances for going to Singapore.
But on the other hand, I might get to be at a point where the Balloon Goes Up. Never can underestimate the power that shit has. So we went through the motions of our exercises for the next couple of days as we moved west across the southern Indian Ocean.
(Ma’s Midway’s go-fast jets: VMFP-3, VF-151 Switchbox and VF-161 Rock River F-4 Phantom IIs on the flight deck).
We had a Passing Exercise (“PASSEX”) with the Kenyans before we pulled in. That is one of the tools we use to cement solid relations with our international associates throughout the military; give the developing powers a chance to perform against the Air Power of a Carrier. This one was almost done in our sleep. They sortied a couple patrol boats (the only ones they had in an Up Status that week) and we sorta worked them into the daily Air Plan. No big deal; we have to do that stuff anyway. At length, by the morning of the 8th found us outside the Mombasa Reef.
They set the special sea and anchor detail and after a while the pins got knocked out of the links and the giant chain snaked and crashed across the foc’sle deck and I woke up.
We were in Africa again (yawn) and I made preparations to go ashore. Last time we had treated this as high adventure- Kenyan rail to Nairobi on the Night Train, thirteen hours and the sight of Kilimanjaro shimmering under a silver moon to the south. The Message Tree at the New Stanley Hotel- the works.
Not this time. I was restless and considering the matter that we might be steaming to war when we pulled out. I packed a suit, as I had received an invitation to the Marine Ball that evening to commemorate the 204th Birthday of the Corps.
Actually, all I wanted to do was get smashed. I don’t believe in premonitions, but all the same, there was a definite dreamlike quality to this port visit. I am not sure why. Maybe Africa just affects me that way. The stark poverty and the eyes that look at you with a certain need. Still, it is a very beautiful place, and although expensive, it can provide a few good times for the discerning traveler,
Boating was not bad, for a change. They called the boats away as they were ready, and for once I wasn’t in a Liberty line for eight hours. Officers and Chiefs went first, of course, and we were in the motor whaleboat in twenty minutes. It was thoroughly uneventful. The sun was blazing and we pulled up at the Kenyan Navy Base after about forty minutes.
It was spooky. The base looked like it had been a typically squared-away Brit Colonial place about fifteen years before. Now, it looked overgrown and seedy. We got searched at the gate by some unsmiling tribal police. The inspection was a first in all my travels in Asia. The only other place in the world anyone had ever looked into my baggage was in the United States, which has done it to me every time.
We commandeered the airwing commander’s- the CAG- car, on the assumption that he wasn’t going to be off the ship until the afternoon and wouldn’t miss it. I was ensconced at the poolside bar of the Mombasa Beach Hotel by noon.
Very satisfactory logistics. I was drunk by two-thirty, and remained that way until the morning before the day we pulled out. It seemed like the only sensible thing to do. Shopped with the shillings I won at the Casino, bought some bullshit tribal brass pieces (a bracelet and curious little case with a neck strap I was told once held identity papers for local tribesmen during the Mau-Mau times, and was back in my rack on the ship eighteen hours before liberty expired.
Another first.
In keeping with the novelty of being back aboard early, I was back sober. Consequently, I slept well and felt fine the morning we sailed. It was high comedy on the 08-level, watching the boatswain’s mates attempt to get the ship’s boats back on board with the big crane down for the count. We had hoisted restricted maneuverability (black diamond-ball-diamond) and drifted nearly a mile down the reef past the exclusive beach front hotels, At length, and only a few hours late, we forged on and left Africa behind.
Reading the message traffic that morning was only depressing. The schedule had us going up into the northern Arabian Sea for Exercise Beacon Compass with the Brits. This was the weak follow-on to the old MIDLINK exercise that had featured the Iranians and nations from all the relevant Cento countries. We now had no playmates except the Brits, and frankly, no one had their minds on it. The complicated LOI had a couple different scenarios, utilizing the carrier on one side, it’s own Fighter assets on the other, and the fleets shifting back and forth. No one really paid much attention to it; which is not at all to say that ‘much valuable training’ was not achieved, but rather that the Flag did not have his nose out of joint about each period and dot on the outgoing messages.
The exercise provided us with a cover for our presence in the Arabian Sea. The administration could, quite correctly, assert that it was all very routine operations. The sealed briefcases and mystery people coming aboard were quite beside the point. The first time I bumped into an Air Force Colonel in the planning spaces I knew that things were not business as usual. Meantime the news was getting worse. We briefed everything we could get from the podium during the cyclical briefs. Still, virtually everything seemed to get worse each day.
Very odd. Two of our Battle Group units called at Karachi, Pakistan, and their presence sparked a huge controversy in a native language paper, which claimed they were going straight to the gun-line off Iran.
It was part of something that I have not yet resolved in my own mind: is this all being orchestrated by some sinister force, or is the great unwashed mass of Islam just rising again? I suspect that it is more than a bit of both.
Subsequent events seemed to bear this out. Hell, I had no idea I would be dealing with this crap the rest of my freaking life.
Copyright 2014 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303