The senior representative from the host civil aviation authority grilled us in detail about how we had conducted our flight inbound to Mogadishu. It was unexpected, a serious challenge to our “story,” and clearly implied the potential for mission compromise. The official could have demanded we depart, or asked to inspect and impound our aircraft—a sovereign U.S. asset—or he could have delayed our departure until we brought in diplomatic intervention.
Ultimately, a Sudanese Air Force officer interceded. His intentions were honorable, but now this had blown up and become an international incident. So much for keeping it “close-hold.”
I learned more on that op than I could pick up in four years at Harvard.
Never assume the other guys aren’t as smart as you are.
The Somalian supervisor who busted us was. When he crunched the numbers from my story, he realized that they didn’t add up.
I am not a very good liar.
I would have to train myself to be far more convincing when delivering my stories, and the stories themselves would have to be more refined. Up ’til now this had never been an issue. I never had to lie. At home, at school, during sports competitions, at Sunday school—from as early as I can remember—fabrications were not only forbidden, but perpetrating them would reap unpleasant consequences: a firm swat on the backside from Erna, or a stinging crack of the belt from Dad. But when dealing with operations that required realistic explanations, lives literally depended on the plausibility and believability of my charade. I’d have to be a much more convincing actor than I was when I played Mr. Spock at the Clark Air Base annual Winter Gala.
Prepare, prepare, then prepare some more.
I’m no good at winging it, and I’d have to war-game potential scenarios and what-ifs, whether the situation entailed operations, congressional testimonies, or even press conferences.
Effective litigators never ask a question without being fully primed for whatever response an opposing witness tenders. They’ve done the legwork and crafted detailed matrices (whether on paper or in their minds) anticipating every possible reply, and they’re ready to fire back with a totally convincing argument no matter what they encounter. I could never again let myself be caught with my pants down, no matter how much time and energy it would take me to become fully prepared.
Ocean Venture 81: We on-loaded a Combat Rubber Raiding Craft, or Zodiac, and a U.S. Navy SEAL team at Norfolk, Virginia, and a second Combat Talon did the same at Pope AFB, North Carolina. After completing our IFRs en route to the exercise zone in the Caribbean, we successfully air-dropped our loads over the DZ near Vieques Island. We then air-landed additional personnel and equipment at Roosevelt Roads AB, Puerto Rico.
Marvel Exodus: a large-scale exercise in which the 1st SOW deployed three MC-130Es, two AC-130Hs, six HH-53Hs, and 271 aircrew and support personnel. Mission included fuel blivets and heavy equipment airdrops, airfield seizures with U.S. Army Rangers, IFR, HALO (High Altitude Low Opening) airdrops, static-line personnel airdrops, and NVG airland operations.
On November 30, 1981, I was alongside commander Jerry Uttaro, piloting one of two MC-130Es that departed Hurlburt Field en route to Bright Star 82, which was to take place in Sudan. Eighth SOS squadron commander Bob Brenci commanded another Talon, with Lt Col Jim Hobson (who would replace Brenci as squadron commander seven months later) as his first pilot. While Brenci and Hobson utilized three IFRs and twenty-seven hours’ flying time to fly a nonstop, long-range infiltration mission into Wadi Seidna, Sudan, Uttaro and I utilized one IFR that took us to Lajes Field, Azores, where we spent the night before flying on to Sudan the next day. The exercise itself provided outstanding desert training in low-level terrain-following and extremely low-altitude operations, combined with NVG blacked-out landings. By the time we arrived back at Hurlburt on December 14, the two Talons had logged fifty-four sorties and 201 flight hours during our fifteen-day deployment—a rather typical OPTEMPO (operating tempo) as we dedicated ourselves to perfecting our skills.
Under ideal conditions, we had sufficient time to fully prepare for upcoming operations. Such was not the case with Vagabond Warrior, a no-notice exercise orchestrated by the newly formed JSOC (Joint Special Operations Command) at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. On the morning of January 28, 1982, we received an alert order, followed by a deployment order, which came in a little before midnight. On January 30, we departed Hurlburt Field en route to Barking Sands, Hawaii, along with forty-eight other officers and 117 enlisted personnel, a second Combat Talon, two AC-130H gunships, and two MH-53H Pave Low helicopters. After two IFRs during our seventeen-hour flight, we arrived at Barking Sands on the 31st, fully prepared to commence with the mission.
Ocean Venture 82 took place from April 26 to May 17, 1982, in the Caribbean. We flew twelve sorties out of Hurlburt Field under the operational control of the Air Force Forces Joint Unconventional Warfare Task Force Atlantic (AFFORJUWTFA), with missions that included infiltrations, resupply, exfiltrations, and a photoreconnaissance mission. In total, we devoted 32.9 flying hours to the exercise.
Roughen Turf: Operating out of Pope AFB, we began with a fuel blivets and heavy equipment drop, then spent the next several days on precision airborne radar approaches and NVG blacked-out landings, followed by rapid on-load and off-load procedures with U.S. Army Rangers. Finally, during the night of November 9, 1982, we conducted a full dress rehearsal, including NVG blacked-out landings, rapid on-load and off-load, and an airfield seizure operation. The actual mission was flown the following night, with exercise participants that included three Combat Talons, Delta Force, and Army Rangers.
There’s one other position that I had always aspired to achieve, and my goal was to realize this triumph at some point during my time at Hurlburt. Each squadron has a standardization shop that bears the responsibility of ensuring that all the other pilots in the organization are maintaining standards and requisite levels of proficiency. Being Chief of Standardization and Evaluation in a flying squadron is as good as it gets for a young field grade officer. You’re picked by the squadron commander based on knowledge of the missions, proficiency in the aircraft, recognized competence among the members of the squadron, and ability to not only fly the airplane but to manage the administrative operation associated with the standardization process. Jim Hobson was the commander at the that time and he took the risk of assigning me to the position. Hobson was both a gifted aviator and an inspiring leader, and I shall always be grateful to him for having such faith in me—at this point, and down the road when our paths would continue to cross. Hopefully I served him well.
Many years later I returned to Hurlburt for a memorial service commemorating the thirty-fifth anniversary of Operation EAGLE CLAW and the unveiling of the Combat Talon Memorial at the Hurlburt Field Air Park. I rose and paid tribute to those lost at Desert One, sharing thoughts and feelings that had solidified after thirty-nine years of service—reflections that germinated during that first tour with the 8th SOS:
Special operations is a complicated, hazardous, risk-filled business. We ask Talon crews to execute this difficult and stressful mission, to devote themselves to a tradition of selflessness, mutual trust, precision, and reliability in all of their mission activity. So often, Talon crews did this not out of misplaced courage or vanity, but because success in the business depends on the heart as much as it does the head. This memorial compels us to remember to recommit ourselves to the fire that drives us and that which drove those no longer able to be with us now.
We sold the house and left Hurlburt in July of 1983, but not before Suzie made it a point to give Colonel Hobson one final message.
We got a nice early start since we had packed up most of the car the night before. I was somewhat dejected—certainly looking forward to our next challenge, but less than overjoyed to be leaving the mission—and colleagues—that had become such a valued part of our lives. Suzie, on the other hand, looked as though she had just won the $100 million Powerball. She was overjoyed tha
t we were leaving this risky mission (and the flocked wallpaper) behind us. Before we hit the road, we made one final stop at the squadron headquarters. Suzie went inside with me.
“Sir, I couldn’t leave without thanking you, once again, for all you’ve done for us. You have no idea how much we appreciate it. It’s been a real honor.”
Lt Col Hobson stood from behind his desk and smiled warmly as he approached and shook my hand. “It’s in your blood now, Norty. You’ll be back …”
Before he had a chance to continue, Suzie interrupted. “That’s what you think, sir. You’ll never see us again!” She gave him a quick hug and grabbed my arm. “Come on, Norty. Unless you want to be smack in the middle of rush hour traffic, gotta go!” I was mortified as she headed for the door with me in tow. “See ya, sir,” she added as we flew out the door.
* * *
Moving on to the Armed Forces Staff College in Norfolk, Virginia, was quite a change from the adrenaline rush that surrounds a mission-oriented special operations aviation wing. We lived right on campus, across the street from now-retired two-star Nick and Mary Ann Williams. The coursework was valuable, but even more so was the networking and teamwork that crossed service boundaries; this was a joint school, so it was a continuation of my orientation into the joint world—again, this was relatively new at the time.
About halfway into the six-month course, I was in the kitchen with Suzie when our conversation was interrupted by a deep voice emanating from the TV. “We interrupt our regularly scheduled program to bring you an NBC News special report …” It was Tuesday, October 25, 1983.
We turned to the TV just as the screen cut to Tom Brokaw; the graphic insert above his shoulder read GRENADA INVASION. “Here is the latest situation as we now know it on the island of Grenada, which is a tiny island in the southern Caribbean—it has been invaded by a multinational force, as it’s being described; the bulk of that force is American troops…. Grenada is an island-country that is now in the control of a Marxist military counsel after its Marxist military prime minister was executed in a coup just last week. There have been reports of casualties both from the Pentagon, and from Cuba … Chris Wallace reports from the White House.”
“Tom, we’re told that the invading aircraft were met with antiaircraft fire as they approached the Point Salines airport at the southern tip of the island.”
My stomach tightened and my pulse accelerated.
Suzie turned back to me and verbalized the question that was echoing in my mind. “Think it was the 8th?” she asked, referring, of course, to the 8th SOS that we had recently left. I shrugged my shoulders because officially I had no idea. But in my gut I had a strong feeling that it was “my guys.” It was exactly the type of mission for which we had been training. In fact, one of the very last exercises before I left (UNIVERSAL TREK 83) entailed long-range insertions to the Caribbean region, and long-range exfils from Puerto Rico to Pope AFB, North Carolina.
I picked up the phone and called Gary Weikel, a renowned Pave Low helicopter instructor pilot who would go on to command the 20th SOS. Gary was currently working at the Pentagon, and he unofficially confirmed my suspicion. Five Combat Talons from the 8th were at the very tip of the spear, with Jim Hobson and his Foxtrot 35 crew leading the airfield seizure at the Point Salines airport and rescue of Americans.
While on the one hand I was thrilled when I heard the news (and above all grateful that they made it back safely), at the same time full disclosure prompts a confession that I don’t necessary feel great about: Besides the sense of pride that I felt knowing that the unit accomplished the mission in the exemplary manner you would hope they would have, I also felt a sense of disappointment that I was not a part of it. After pouring my heart and soul into training for this very type of endeavor, the timing was such that I missed the window by just a few months, and it hurt. Who knew if there would be other opportunities? Either way, it sure would have been a privilege to have been a part of this one.
Jim Hobson’s calm under fire and decisive maneuvers were credited with saving the aircraft and the lives of all those onboard. It earned him the coveted Mackey Award for the most meritorious flight of 1983. It was well deserved and they could not have made a more appropriate selection. This became abundantly clear once I learned the details of how it all played out.
Originally intended to be a night airland mission, a volatile situation on the ground warranted a last-minute change to a combat-airdrop. With weather a real threat and daylight rapidly approaching, Hobson was to combat-drop the headquarters/command and control element of the 1st Ranger Battalion onto the Point Salines airport to kick off the invasion. In an effort to minimize the AAA threat to the aircraft and Ranger vulnerability to ground fire during their descent, the Ranger battalion commander informed Hobson that he wanted to jump from an altitude of five hundred feet, rather than the pre-determined one thousand feet. Wearing PVS-5 NVGs to enhance visibility, the flight crew spotted the airfield from about six miles out and began preparations for the drop. Suddenly, they were blinded by a burst of bright light, similar to how I’d been blinded by the nacelle overheat warning light on my NVG check flight. In this case, the source of the illumination was many times brighter: the aircraft had been targeted by a huge searchlight from the ground, its powerful swath of light clearly painting the Talon against the night sky. Just as the rangers began to jump, an intense barrage of antiaircraft fire erupted from multiple locations on the airport grounds, unleashing thousands of tracer rounds in Hobson’s direction; miraculously missing the aircraft and the rangers, some of whom were still exiting the plane. The fusillade was so extreme that Hobson instructed the rest of his formation to terminate their approach, even though he had no choice but to maintain his course directly toward the source of the attack until the last jumper had cleared the jump door. Any deviation would have most likely landed the jumpers in the treacherous waters on either side of the airport runway. At the instant the final jumper was clear, he pushed the yoke full forward and put the aircraft into an extreme dive while banking sharply to the south away from the AAA.
It’s no wonder that Jim would go on to become a major general and the third commander of the Air Force Special Operations Command.
* * *
I received word that we’d be heading back to the Pentagon, where I was to be an action officer in the Plans Directorate. To accompany the new position, on my very last day in Norfolk I learned that we had made the list for promotion to lieutenant colonel.
It felt good to be back in DC. So good, in fact, that we decided to lay down some roots, so we bought our second house. It was a townhouse, a beautiful end unit in the Concord Park neighborhood of Oakton, Virginia. It was a bit of a stretch for us at the time, but we ended up keeping it for over twenty-five years, so that stretch paid off many times over in the long run. What’s more, it serves as proof that I am at least somewhat trainable: This time there was no way that I’d even consider buying anything without the benefit of Suzie’s keen analysis and full approval at every step along the way.
It also felt good to be back at the Pentagon. Walking up the stairs toward the Second Corridor entrance I was upbeat, as I always am when embarking on new challenges like this one, where I was assigned to the special plans office of the Air Force Plans Directorate. I’d miss seeing Jerry O’Malley’s smiling face every day, but I knew that he and Diane were enjoying their time at Hickam Air Force Base in Hawaii, where he was commander in chief of the Pacific Air Forces. General Gabriel was not only still in the building, but he was now Chief of Staff of the Air Force.
I didn’t know much about my new boss, the two-star director of plans in the office of the deputy chief of staff, plans and operations, but I had heard that he was a good man from whom I’d learn a great deal. I was not disappointed.
Major General John A. Shaud is a brilliant man, with a PhD from Ohio State. A few years later he would conduct my pinning to lieutenant colonel. There were seven people pinning that day, so betw
een the friends and families and coworkers, the old auditorium in the Pentagon was packed. This was not the kind of thing where General Shaud did a group pinning—quite the contrary. He went from person to person and extolled the virtues of what made each one so worthy of the promotion—going through specific assignments and regaling us with personal anecdotes. He did the entire ceremony without a single note. To this day, I’ve never seen anything like it.
* * *
One of my first projects took me right back to Operation NIGHT MARCH, that challenging “off the radar” flight in which we were damn near busted in Mogadishu. Movement of aircraft is no small endeavor, and the Air Force needed to establish a special program that had the organic capacity to successfully do this kind of work routinely and on a full-time basis. My assignment was to make that happen, and we accomplished it. It’s a branch of a larger organization within the Air Force that does lots of different things, but it was the right fit for this type of work. And it still exists today. They maintain the very specialized expertise, the contacts, and the tradecraft—all inhouse. If a combatant command has a plan that requires movement of assets, these are the folks that help design the mission and then orchestrate that support. In the NIGHT MARCH exercise, I had found it challenging to move one single C-130. This branch routinely moves many assets—all via methodology we helped to develop.
Much of the rest of what I did in the plans office involved activities that to this day remain classified.
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