This short tale relates my experiences with several in flight emergencies while working for the NSG. The story takes place at the Naval Air Facility in Atsugi, Japan (NAF Atsugi).
So what exactly was the NSG?
NSG:
NSG stands for the Naval Security Group. Which was the over-arching command that directed the Navy's crypto-techs and overseas intelligence operatives (It no longer exists. It was merged into another command in 2005 for the war on terror and the post Cold War challenges.)
The NSG oversaw and directed the various detachments of operatives world wide. Including our aircrew detachment at Atsugi.
While working for the NSG Detachment at Atsugi (see my previous posts), my main duties were to fly reconnaissance missions for Naval Intelligence and the National Security Agency. But when I say "fly" I don't mean pilot the plane. I was an enlisted aircrewman and flew as a crew member in the back of the aircraft. Fiddling with dials and switches. That's about all I can say about it. Since I really don't feel like sharing a room with Edward Snowden in Russia!
From Atsugi, we performed intelligence gathering functions for various alpha-bet soup agencies and the Navy. We did this from a number of platforms including the EP-3 Orion aircraft. However, we did not operate, maintain, or fly the planes. That was what the reconnaissance squadron did.
Hell, technically we weren't even part of the Naval Aviation community. NSG and the crypto community were "black shoes". Meaning we were fleet sailors. Fleet sailors wear black shoes and their Naval Aviation counterparts wear brown shoes. To set themselves (aircrew) apart from the common, low brow, fleet sailors. Like NSG.
Which begs the question, so who flew the planes?
Answer, VQ-1 did.
VQ-1:
VQ-1, also known as the 'World Watchers'. And an apt name it was. They were the first squadron assigned for electronic warfare missions. Over the past several decades, "the Q" has operated from locales as various as Japan, South Vietnam, the Philippines, and Thailand.
The squadron was moved to Atsugi in 1960. The same year it was re-designated as Fleet Air Reconnaissance Squadron-1 (VQ-1 for short, or just the 'Q 'if you're being informal). Although not a combat squadron, working for the Q had its dangers. In 1969, one of the Q's Super Constellation aircraft was shot down by a North Korean fighter, as a birthday present for Kim Il Sung, with the loss of life of all 31 crewman on board. Including numerous NSG personnel. In 2001, a Chinese fighter jet collided with a VQ-1 aircraft. Tearing off the nose of the plane and nearly killing the crew.
(A little known factoid, during the 1950's and 1960's, being a spook during the cold war was the most dangerous job in the armed forces.)
But the Q flew the planes. They also hangered and maintained the aircraft. They did everything for them.
We did nothing.
We just showed up at mission time. Walked on board. Did our thing. Then walked off at the end of the day and staggered home to pass out. Not a bad gig.
So that's the personnel backdrop. But what about the plane itself?
EP-3E Orion:
The primary airframe we used was the EP-3E Orion. Also known as the ARIES (Airborne Reconnaissance Integrated Electronic System). Yes. They worked hard to come up with that acronym.
The EP-3E was an intelligence gathering platform designed for long (and I mean LONG) missions over target. It was a basic P-3 sub-hunter, from which they stripped out all the sub-hunting gear. Then packed it full of as much electronic surveillance tech as they could cram into it.
But the main thing you need to know about the Orions was....they were old. And I mean old with a capital O-L-D. They were literally older than the pilots who flew them. One was so old, it had flown over Cuba during the Cuban missile crisis in 1962.
And with age, came problems.
Overall the planes were sturdy with four turbo prop engines to keep them airborne. They also had a strong airframe with stiff landing gear. They could weather a lot of abuse and keep on flying. But their extended service life was catching up to them.
In particular they had a bad habit of CATCHING FIRE!!!
Now I'm not talking about blazing infernos roaring down the fuselage or wings engulfed in flames. A bit milder than that. But at 30,000 feet, off the coast of some nation that's less than friendly to the U.S., flying over seas with ambient water temperatures of 33 degrees, with the nearest help hundreds of miles away... any type of fire/air emergency is enough to make your hair turn white.
The Missions:
I flew around a 100 missions while at NSGD Atsugi.
And by my count, 10 of them experienced some sort of in flight emergency or fire. Nearly 10% of all the missions I flew. That's not a good percentage!
The missions typically took off at Oh-Dark-30 (butt ass early for you civilians) In the pitch black, before anyone else was even thinking about waking up. I'd typically roll out of bed. Flip on radio Yokohama and get ready.
(I wish I had a count for how many times I turned on radio Yokohama and 'Pump Up the Volume' by Graham Blvd came on. I swear they had it on permanent rotation during the midnight hours. To this day, I can't hear Pump Up the Volume with out having a flash back to Atsugi.)
I'd get ready. Throw on my nomex, flame retardant flight suit. Pick up my helmet bag, stuffed with food. Throw it into a back pack then walk out to my bicycle for the mile ride to the flight line. The bike rides were nice. They woke my ass up. And a cool ride through the dark, predawn hours was actually relaxing. At the Detachment, our crew would gather and do a quick mission brief. Then we'd catch a ride in the detachment van to the hanger area, hop out, walk onto the flight line, and find the bird.
Once in the plane, three things always hit me. One, the noise. The noises of men (and women later) prepping the plane and their gear. The echo of sounds rolling down the open fuselage and scattered conversations. And the smells. The first smell that hit you was plane fuel. It was always there. It permeated everything. The other smell was of old leather seats and metal. Yes metal has a smell. Very hard to describe but it's there.
After prepping our gear, we'd strap into the seats at our various positions and await take off. Then the fun began.
Trouble rarely developed right after take off. No, it would let you get way out into the Sea of Japan. Hundreds of miles from shore. Then it would rear it's ugly head.
In Flight Emergency-1
The most common problem to strike the plane were engine fires. The four turboprops were work horses but they had hundreds of thousands of miles on them. And every now and then one would over heat. Or catch fire.
The plane had fire sensors in the engines and the first thing you'd hear would be the pilot over the intercom. "Gentlemen, we've got a fire warning light on number one. We're shutting it down." Not the most comforting thing to hear. But the Orions could fly on just two engines if needed. As long as they had one working engine on each side.
However, if you lost both engines on the same wing...
I'd estimate about half of my in flight emergencies were of this variety. It could stress you but it wasn't a reason for panic.
In some ways I actually felt safer flying in the military aircraft than I ever did (or do) on civilian flights. On the military birds I was literally festooned with survival gear. We had chem lights, flashlights, radios, signal beacons, flare guns, reflective mirrors, emergency energy rations (read Chiclets), environmental cold suits, inflatable vests, and of course a parachute.
By contrast, I feel distinctly naked anytime I board a civilian jetliner!
In Flight Emergency-2
The other common type of fire was electrical. The planes were crammed with advanced electronic gear of every description. Gear which required a lot of juice to run. And that juice could over heat and cause shit to burn up.
You could usually smell it before it actually burned up. And then shut it off.
In Flight Emergency-3
The last variety of emergency was smoke of unknown origin. This was the one that sent my pulse racing into the stratosphere.
Smoke of unknown origin meant something (usually electrical) was on fire or about to catch fire and producing smoke that was now filing the cabin. This is bad.
You usually didn't know what piece of gear had caught fire or where it was located. All you had was smoke coming into the cabin. Sometimes you could spot where the vapors were issuing from but often you couldn't.
When this occurred, the pilot would announce, "Smoke of unknown origin, Smoke of unknown origin!'. Then you could panic, or semi panic at least.
All work came to a screeching halt. You grabbed your nomex (flame retardant) gloves, pulled them on, and started tearing everything apart in a desperate attempt to locate the burning gear or wires. You had to find them before they caused a real conflagration. A full out fire inside of a flying tin can is about as bad as it gets.
I'd say I had about five of these happen over my three years at Atsugi. I was lucky though. With the entire crew disassembling the plane, we always found the source of the smoke quickly and put it out.
The Kent Incident
One flight however, wasn't so lucky.
The incident happened with another team of spooks at the Detachment. We were divided up into several teams and this infamous emergency occurred on Team-1.
The team was headed up by a First Class Petty Officer I'll call Kent, also known as "The Legend". Kent was hands down, the best spook in the Detachment. Maybe in all of NSG. It wasn't even a contest. Nobody else was close to him in terms of raw spook talent.
And Kent loved the work. In fact he loved it so much, he wouldn't take the advancement exam for First Class Petty Officer. He was afraid that if he was promoted, he'd be stuck with the day to day administrative details of running a team rather than working as an operative. So he always opted out of the exam.
Until the command forced him to take it.
The command was not pleased with Kent's lack of ambition. So they ordered him to take the first class advancement exam. To add insult to injury, Kent's infamous commanding NCO (Non Commissioned Officer) then gave Kent a bad evaluation. Just prior to the exam. And your eval factored heavily into your final promotion rating.
This did not please Kent.
So Kent decided to get a little payback. He walked in and put up a perfect score on the advancement test. That's unheard of. It's akin to a perfect score on the SATs, except maybe harder. The perfect 100 advanced Kent to First Class Petty Officer and put him in charge of his team.
So what was Kent's first order of business? He then delegated every administrative duty to all the other members of his team. Completely freeing himself for work. Score one for Kent.
Another Kent story, I once walked into the Detachment to take over the midnight-shift and ran into Kent on his hands and knees, down on the floor. He had papers (of a variety I shall not disclose) taped together for the entire length of the SCIF (Sensitive Compartmented Intelligence Facility). I looked at the papers. I looked at Kent on the floor, busily making measurements and marks. I looked back at the papers. Then turned to Kent and said, "Kent, what are you doing?" Kent looks up and says, "Oh, I'm plotting (censored)." I digested that for a second, then turned back to Kent and said, "Kent, How the hell do you know (censorsed)? No, wait. Don't answer that. I don't want to know." And then I walked off. ... I really did not want to know!
One final Kent story. Kent was a creature of habit. He ate the same thing every single day. His meal was always packed in the same bag and he ate it off the same paper plate. Which brings me to the subject of the story. The paper plate. Kent had folded the paper plate into a perfect isosceles triangle. With all the folds being exactly equal. And if you think that's easy, I DARE you to try it.
Ok, I lied there's actually one more Kent story. The one about the in flight emergency.
Kent was directing his team on one of our routine intelligence missions when smoke of unknown origin began to fill the plane. The pilot radioed the SoUO drill and everyone pulled on gloves and began ripping apart the aircraft.
Everyone that is except...Kent.
Kent, stayed at his Pos. Busily working away. Jotting down notes and spinning dials.
Meanwhile, the rest of the crew was unable to find the source of the smoke. Smoke had now filled the cabin to the point where it was difficult to see down the length of the plane. This is very, VERY BAD. Near panic, escalated to panic.
Kent's reaction? He looked up from his Pos, fanned his hand in front of his face to clear the air and says, "Do you think you guys could find that piece of equipment so I can work?"
Classic Kent.
Thankfully, the burning electronics were located and the plane saved.
Two Engines Down:
There was one other noteworthy emergency while I was at Atsugi.
It actually occurred the first week I arrived on base. I was fresh in country. Just arrived and settling into my barracks room with my two other roommates. About my fourth day there, one of my roommates took off on a routine scheduled mission.
But the mission soon turned into anything but routine.
Several hundred miles out an engine overheated and had to be shut down. No big deal. It happened all the time. But then a few minutes later, the other engine on the SAME WING started to overheat. The engine fire-warning-light on the second engine kept coming on for a few seconds then turning off.
The pilot had advised the crew, and my roommate, of the situation and to say the plane was tense would be a world class understatement.
Finally, the pilot came over the loudspeaker and announced, "Gents, the engine warning light just flickered on and off again. If it comes on one more time, we ARE bailing out of this aircraft. Everyone don parachutes and standby."
Hundreds of miles from shore, over freezing waters, next to hostile territory, this is not what you want to hear. Everyone pulled down their parachutes and strapped them on.
(A quick side note - it was so cold in the Sea of Japan that if you had to bail out, then once you hit the water you had five to ten minutes to pull on your environmental suit. If you were unable to get out from under your parachute, remove the environmental suit, and then put it on in high seas in this amount of time. YOU WERE DEAD.)
The crew then took their seats and prayed the pilot would not come back on the intercom. It was a very quiet ride the rest of the way home.
They made it. The light didn't come back on and no one had to test their maritime survival skills.
But the incident shook up my roommate. He was, and is, a standup guy. He'd come all the way through the training pipeline with flying colors and had been doing the job for close to a year before I even got there. But he'd had enough. The next morning he walked into the commander's office and laid his wings on the desk. ALA Cougar in Top Gun.
He continued on as an analyst at the Detachment and no one ever thought less of him. And if anyone ever said otherwise, I'd hunt them down and kick their teeth in.
It was a stressful, dangerous job and we were all volunteers. A number of our brethren died while I was on duty. It was a crash in the Mediterranean (another story for another day) and on top of the mechanical mishaps, we were routinely intercepted and "bumped" by foreign fighter pilots (again, another story for another day).
We all served with distinction and it was my honor to fly and work with the men and women of NSGD Atsugi.
Post Script:
- Some quick thoughts on minor annoyances with marathon duration flights on the ARIES aircraft.
* The electronics had to be cooled to run efficiently, so the planes were not heated to any appreciable degree while at altitude. Which meant they were butt ass cold. My toes got so cold inside my steel tipped flight boots that I took to kicking the metal struts holding up the work tables just to keep some feeling in them.
* The missions were not only long but demanding and stressful. At the end of a mission you always felt like you just walked off the field of a two hour rugby match against the New Zealand Blacks. They were physically crushing. I knew a number of shipmates who would come back to the barracks, strip down, then sit in their shower and turn on the hot water. They'd just fall asleep there in the shower. For an hour or two with the hot water pouring over them. Washing off the stress and exhaustion. Some of my shipmates were so wiped out they would even relieve themselves while asleep in the shower. Then let the water clean everything. It's hard to put into words how much a long mission could take out of you.
* Another quick vignette. Our missions were routine and frequent. The bad guys, at that time the Soviets, also ran the same missions against us. Their missions were also routine and frequent. In fact, our missions were so routine that on one occasion, the Soviet spy plane and our spy plane nearly collided head on while returning from their flights. Talk about ironic. The planes were flying directly at each other and only the Q pilot's quick reactions averted a head on crash. The two planes came within 50 feet of a mid-air impact. The Soviet plane never changed course.
Post Post Script:
- While I was flying at Atsugi, I never really thought much about the dangers. I felt they were there but manageable. I also had a certain degree of confidence in the military, my training, and all our survival gear.
But it got to me, even if I didn't realize it. After I finished my tour, I started having recurring nightmares about the plane catching fire. The nightmares lasted for two years. Right in the middle of the dream, I'd always jump up out of bed and yell, "The Planes on Fire!" Which really freaked-out my girlfriend at the time!
