by Dan Pedersen
With Mugs and Jack Ensch leading the way, Topgun’s leadership in this new era was rock solid. Together, they fostered and perpetuated the elite atmosphere we started in the F-4 days, all while integrating new technology and concepts. Mugs and his always-useful political connections helped get the command a new fleet of aggressor aircraft, including a number of former South Vietnamese F-5 Freedom Fighters whose pilots had escaped with them to Thailand before the fall of Saigon. Finally Topgun had resources, access to almost whatever it needed, plus first-rate aircraft with which to teach. From those first days inside the condemned trailer back in 1969, we had come a long, long way.
When foreign aircrews came to the United States to train, they universally wanted to come to Topgun, something that left the Air Force and its Red Flag program feeling slighted. The staff at Miramar greeted everyone from Saudi princes to French Mirage pilots—and of course more hard-drinking Brits, whose antics on the ground matched their skill in the air.
The irrepressible Darrell Gary was right at the center of this evolution. Perhaps nobody else in the Navy was as connected to Topgun as Condor was through the 1970s. He first joined us as an RIO in 1969, the youngest of our nine. He served with skill and dedication as an instructor before going to flight school and becoming an F-4 pilot. He graduated from Topgun and returned to VF-51, then he and I crossed paths once again aboard the Coral Sea during the Mayaguez incident. After that cruise, he returned to Topgun for a third time. As an instructor pilot, and the project officer for the air combat maneuvering range at Yuma, Condor became a leading light in the technological revolution that took Topgun to a new level.
When Condor briefed the four-star in charge of USAF Tactical Air Command about the ACMR, the general said he didn’t like the system. Darrell asked him why. The response was, “Because my guys know that everyone can see the mistakes as well as the good maneuvering. It will increase the accident rate. My guys would rather die than look bad.” Darrell sensed he was only half joking.
It wasn’t just Topgun instructors who needed to see the battle space in granular time-motion detail. Our fleet operators needed it, too, and thanks to new technology, they were getting it. The latest airborne early warning (AEW) aircraft were equipped with powerful radars that could detect the enemy at great ranges and target him. The state of the art was embodied by the E-2 Hawkeye’s twenty-four-foot rotating dome, which covered hundreds of square miles of radar airspace. The five-man crew included three specialists—a combat information officer, an air control officer, and a radar operator—who were shoehorned in “the tunnel,” a tight, confined workspace in the rear crammed with scopes, dials, and switches. The system for managing all that data required an enormous amount of expertise.
The full name of the Miramar command, as it happened, was Fighter and Airborne Early Warning Wing, Pacific Fleet (ComFitAEWWingPac). The early warning aircraft community there had its own fleet readiness squadrons and a tactical school they called Top Dome. As fleet air defense required real-time information to be reliably exchanged, data link became increasingly important. Although Hawkeyes and fighters often worked together in exercises, they didn’t have the type of hand-in-glove integration that Topgun fostered. In the years when Cobra Ruliffson and Hawk Smith were in charge, Topgun worked hard to change that.
Ruliffson conceived of a program to cultivate and sharpen the skill of our E-2 aircrews, the Maritime Air Superiority Threat (MAST) program, or “Topscope,” and pitched it to the chief of naval operations in 1976. The new schoolhouse began in 1978. The following year, Topgun put ninety-four men through its five-week course, while next door, the four-week Topscope program graduated 109 aircrewmen and “air intercept controllers.” In 1980, the two programs were formally consolidated and the curriculum expanded to six weeks.
These postwar developments came just in time to help save the supercarrier. The Russians, well aware of the threat our carrier battle groups represented, had spent decades devising ways to defeat them. Though they never were able to build their own supercarriers, they did come up with some weapons and aircraft that put our command of the sea at risk.
The Tu-22M Backfire bomber first flew in 1969. It joined operational squadrons in 1972 as a dedicated carrier killer. Armed with air-to-surface missiles with a three-hundred-mile range, the Tu-22M could race toward a carrier battle group at Mach 2 and fire a salvo of deadly missiles before our antiaircraft weapons could hit them. Each Backfire could carry four or more of these missiles. An attack by a full Backfire regiment—about forty planes—could throw almost two hundred missiles at our ships, overwhelming our defenses from stand-off distance. These long-range missiles could carry either conventional or nuclear warheads. In a worst-case scenario, one missile could destroy an entire battle group costing billions of dollars, manned by thousands of young Americans.
The discovery of the threat posed by Soviet Backfire bombers justified very serious concern in our senior command at the start of the 1970s. We had to counter that threat for the supercarrier to survive. The combination of the F-14, E-2, and the Phoenix missile system was our answer. The F-14’s long legs allowed us to patrol greater distances from the carrier. The E-2 gave us radar coverage well away from the fleet. It also ensured we would have radar coverage when the battle group was running on “EMCON” control—with all of its electronic emissions shut down, to keep the Soviets from detecting our ships. The Phoenix gave us our own stand-off response to the Tu-22 threat. Its hundred-mile-range enabled Tomcat aircrews to engage the Backfires far from the battle group.
It fell to Topgun to create these tactics. Through the late 1970s and early 1980s, Topgun sharpened our capability both in long-range interception and fighter-on-fighter dogfighting. When Monroe Smith was CO, he developed a tactic known as the “chainsaw.” The idea was to keep Tomcats on patrol at their maximum range from the carriers. This required a constant cycle of E-2 Hawkeyes, Tomcats, and aerial refueling tankers. Together, they would create a defensive barrier two hundred miles from the battle group. It was easy to reinforce them with fighters on alert five status. The E-2 Hawkeyes would orbit nearby, providing radar coverage and control extending hundreds more miles out. When the Backfires appeared, the Tomcats could hit their burners, close the distance quickly, and fire their Phoenix missiles. Russian aircrews became painfully aware of the power of our argus-eyed orbiting radars. With in-flight refueling, Tomcats could chase Russians almost without limit, held back only by the constraints of our aircrews’ endurance. We could only hope that the Phoenix would have been more reliable than the troubled Sparrow.
At Miramar, Topgun expanded its program to better prepare aircrews—fighter and early warning aircraft alike—for the challenge of fleet air defense. They got a broad-based understanding of how fighters could destroy other fighters while also protecting carriers from a Russian aerial swarm. We wanted to kill the archers rather than the arrows. The Miramar schoolhouse sent MAST teams to the East Coast to brief F-14 and E-2 squadrons on the latest Soviet anticarrier capability and how to counter it. At times, the Russians demonstrated their tactics against us. In the early 1980s, they actually launched a simulated attack on the Enterprise and Midway, closing to within 120 miles. As we monitored the exercise, we in turn learned a lot about how the Backfires planned to do business. We altered our tactics accordingly.
When Lonny “Eagle” McClung was the CO at Topgun in 1980 and 1981, he enlisted the Air Force to help him train his F-14 pilots to defeat the long-range Soviet cruise missile threat. It turned out the SR-71 Blackbird strategic reconnaissance aircraft was a superb imitator of a cruise missile. He would arrange for the boys from Beale Air Force Base to take off in their Blackbirds and track inbound toward the coast, starting far south of San Clemente Island. Topgun would station F-14s at ten-mile intervals along the radial of their approach, with their radars looking south. When the radars locked on a Blackbird, the Tomcat pilots would turn on their afterburners and climb, looking to gain a favorable position to shoot a Phoen
ix. With the stunning speed of the SR-71 faithfully matching an inbound antishipping missile, students learned how little time they had to set up a kill. The higher and faster they were, the more likely they were to achieve a good solution. According to Eagle, that meant climbing to forty thousand feet. There’s no better way than to learn by doing, by experiencing those closure rates firsthand.
Thank God we never found out if any of these tactics worked. In a full-scale war with the Soviets, we would have faced not just hundreds of Backfire bombers, but older Tu-16 jet bombers and the venerable Tu-95 Bears as well. Well supported with electronic warfare aircraft and perhaps even fighter escort, the Soviet air armadas could have launched thousands of missiles at our battle groups. No tactic or weapon system is foolproof. Even if we were 99 percent successful in defeating their attacks, that 1 percent could have been enough to devastate the fleet.
As this threat took shape and Topgun responded through the postwar years, I was at sea more often than not. Commanding an air wing that included four F-4 Phantom squadrons, as well as attack aircraft, bombers, tankers, early warning planes, and helicopters, was one of the most challenging and fun jobs I ever had. In some ways, it is also a naval aviator’s last hurrah with the fleet. Once you get promoted out of air wing command, your flying days are limited. Until that day comes, however, air wing commanders are expected to fly every type of plane in their inventory. It was a hair-on-fire experience. In the space of a few days, I might fly an F-4 Phantom, an A-6 Intruder, and a helicopter. In battle, I would have been leading strikes and coordinating the attacks of my individual squadrons.
The job is a culmination of everything learned earlier in a naval aviator’s career. All the lessons, all the mentoring by other officers comes together in the way an air wing commander chooses to lead his men. Creating a culture of excellence, of openness and of self-evaluation so that your crews can improve and grow, is an essential element to success. Aboard the Coral Sea, I used the leadership techniques we developed at Topgun to set the framework, then I let my squadron commanders run their own shows without micromanaging them.
Our F-4 squadrons trained to tackle both the bomber threat and air-to-air combat with enemy fighters. The days of obsessively focusing on one mission set were over. We had learned the lessons of the 1960s, of Vietnam and the Topgun solutions. Now the new order of the day was to be a flexible force capable of responding to any threat.
It was an exciting time, and I cherished every moment. I knew that once it came to an end, I would have to let the younger guys do the flying. With the F-14 coming into the fleet in ever-increasing numbers, that was a bittersweet thing for me to accept. On one hand, with my career thriving, I could look forward to a staff job with Task Force 77, then my own carrier someday. On the other hand, I would have given almost anything to blast through the speed of sound in an F-14 heading for fifty thousand feet. I had come a long way from my days flying Fords from North Island.
One of the sweetest moments of my career took place at the officers’ club at the Long Beach naval shipyard when my air wing was ashore. As CAG, I was invited to be the keynote speaker at the Daedalian Society, a wonderful aviation advocacy organization. I don’t remember what I said to them. I do remember one man who lingered in his seat at the front table afterward. He was small and unassuming. He carried himself in an understated way. All the great ones do. It was General Jimmy Doolittle.
I am not easily overwhelmed, but when the general motioned me to his table and we fell into a conversation about aviation and everything related to it, I was overcome with gratitude—and awe. Imagine his courage, carrying out the famous Tokyo strike in April 1942 that bears his name. Leading a flight of sixteen Army bombers from an old straight-deck aircraft carrier when the war seemed nearly lost, he undertook a mission that was hard to tell from suicide. The general invited me to retire to the bar, where we drank a scotch and talked about what had been going on with my air wing on the Coral Sea. I took it as a high honor that he took the time with me. It suggested I might have done something right in my career. It was a most memorable drink with a great man.
In 1976 I stepped out of the cockpit for one last time as a full-time aviator and said farewell to my air wing. The Navy promoted me to captain, and now I was a senior officer at last. While I’d still get to fly from time to time, the truth was that my days as a combat aviator were over. I suppose it would have been harder to take had there been nothing but desk jobs on the horizon for me. Thank God, that was not the case. Ronald Wilson Reagan was my commander in chief. The prestige of naval aviation and the military generally was set for a resurgence, after many years in the doldrums following the withdrawal from Vietnam. It was a fine time for a newly minted captain to take command. I was going to sea as the skipper of my own ship.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
BLACK SHOES
Aboard USS Wichita
1978
Naval aviators are always considered a component of a total ship’s company when serving aboard a carrier. This is true when we are acting either as a flying part of her air wing, or as a ship’s officer. It should be understood that there are many nonflying jobs on board requiring seasoned naval aviator expertise. True, the aircraft and flight crews are the most visible and well known, the raison d’être of the vessel, but they are still only a component. It takes about five thousand sailors to get those ninety airplanes and their crews to where they need to go, but when you are part of the brown shoe, or aviation, set, much of that is invisible. We are focused on our squadrons, our air wing, and our flying. What the ship’s company is doing represents almost a different universe to us, including engineering, navigation, supply, medical, dental, communication and, very importantly, the flight and hangar decks.
Decades ago, experience dictated that it was always best for a naval aviator to command our aircraft carriers due to the unique types of command decisions they made and the complexity of operating aircraft at sea. As a result, the career path for pilots and aircrew led through the traditional side of the Navy. Before they went to an aircraft carrier, they were designated a surface warfare officer or officer of the deck of an aircraft carrier. After I attended the Prospective Commanding Officers Course in Rhode Island, the Navy gave me command of my first ship, the replenishment oiler USS Wichita (AOR-1).
Talk about a wake-up call. From flying fighters at Mach 2, I found myself navigating the Pacific at twelve knots on the bridge of a forty-thousand-ton, 660-foot-long behemoth crewed by twenty-two officers and four hundred men. While we had two Boeing H-46 Sea Knight helicopters to help run “vertical replenishment” missions between our ship and those we serviced, for the first time in my career I had virtually no connection to flying fixed-wing aircraft. It was a big transition for me personally.
Why does the Navy send fighter pilots to command supply ships? Because prior to achieving the ultimate prize, aircraft carrier command, you must demonstrate your ability to command and operate a large ship at sea. You have to show you will never collide with another ship or run aground. More importantly, you need to learn the complex logistics of fleet operations. It is actually a stroke of institutional genius. During World War II, we needed to find ways to keep our carriers on station thousands of miles from port. This was no small challenge. A carrier crew consumes massive amounts of food and basic items like toothpaste, toilet paper, chewing gum, and cigarettes. The ship itself needs enormous amounts of fuel oil, aviation gas, and lubricants. To keep the carriers at sea functioning, we built an entire fleet of logistics ships that could transfer all those consumables at sea. It revolutionized the way the Navy projected power. Thirty years after the war, we had refined it to an art form.
When a big carrier came alongside us at sea, my crew would send across lines to the carrier, then run hoses linked with big connections and hose trolleys that move in and out on a steel cable to transport and replenish the carrier’s supply of aviation fuel and bunker fuel. Our two helicopters, meanwhile, hauled sling loads of palle
tized supplies to the flight deck. In a few hours, the carrier was full up and ready to look for trouble.
Occasionally, we would replenish two ships at once, usually at night. I remember refueling a supercarrier and a foreign destroyer at the same time in open ocean, all three warships riding the swells together within a football field’s length abreast. It took a lot of shiphandling skill for the receiving ships to do this, and even today few other navies have this kind of capacity. It is the secret behind our ability to operate anywhere in the world for as long as necessary.
Learning the logistical side of battle group operations was important to commanding a supercarrier. Thus, taking a supply ship to sea to work with the flattops was one of the stepping-stones to commanding a carrier of your own. Again, the keys to success were: “Don’t hit anyone and never run her aground.” If you were always on time and always filled out your customer’s entire order, you would stay in the running for a supercarrier. Remember, there are always plenty of naval aviators, but only a few handfuls of ships like the Wichita, and even fewer supercarriers. Competition for command of one of those beautiful ships is understandably intense. It is well worth the study, time, and effort.
