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Phineas Pinkham
July 8th 03, 10:57 PM
From stem to stern, the carrier Ronald Reagan is ready


By JOANNE KIMBERLIN, The Virginian-Pilot
© July 7, 2003

NORFOLK -- Most people have seen a flattop. Few have ever been on board.

With preparations in full scramble for this Saturday's commissioning of the
Ronald Reagan, sneak peeks for VIP and media are under way.

The same showy ship stats are cited over and over: 20 stories tall, three
football fields long, 6,000 crew members, 88 aircraft and two nuclear
reactors built to crank for 20 years.

But there is so much more to a carrier than just big numbers. Life between
the decks of this $5 billion baby has a culture all its own.

Welcome aboard.

Tied to a dock at the Norfolk Naval Station, the cutting-edge Reagan looks
nearly identical to the three older carriers parked beside it. Tall. Gray.
Shaped like an anvil.

Veterans notice a difference in the Reagan's profile -- a redesigned island
that absorbs a tower found separate on the others.

Here at dock level, low-tech prevails. Rat guards ring the Reagan's ropes
-- ship-sized versions of the plastic, cone-shaped collars injured dogs
might wear home from the vet. The guards keep wharf varmints from scaling
ropes up to the ship.

``They're not bad here,'' Lt. Philip St. Gelais says. ``But you should see
some of the places we pull into. Filthy. Especially shipyards. Stuff piled
everywhere. Rats everywhere.''

St. Gelais, 39 and the father of three, has 20 years in the Navy, many of
them spent sailing around the world on a carrier.

These days, he's burning up a lot of time and shoe leather leading tours of
the nation's newest and mightiest carrier.

Those in his wake have plenty to soak in.

Climb up the brows, as the Navy calls the mobile, metal flights of steps
that reach from pier to the ship's main entrance on the hangar deck. At the
top, St. Gelais stops, turns toward the rear of the ship and salutes. Old
Glory isn't visible from here, but St. Gelais knows it waves from a
flagpole near the fantail, as it does on every carrier.

``You pay your respects every time you come and go,'' he explains.

In uniform, that requires a salute. Out of uniform, a quick stiffening at
attention will do.

Most of the crew boards through the hangar's open bay doors. Situated four
levels below the flight deck, the cavernous, warehouse-like hangar bustles
with people and beeping forklifts. Aircraft eventually will be stored here,
entwined like puzzle pieces, so snug that it will be impossible to get
around without ducking and clambering.

Hangars don't fill up until a carrier is well at sea. Squadrons take off
hours or days behind and land one by one on the deck. Massive elevators
ferry most aircraft below to the hangar. The overflow stays up top, much of
it backed up to a curb around the flight deck, tails and wings poking
precariously over the edge. A dozen or so chains keep them from falling
overboard.

Color evaporates in the seven decks stacked beneath the hangar. It's a
place built for business, not pleasure. Hallways, offices and living
quarters are a monochrome of nondescript white walls, industrial linoleum
floors, file-cabinet tans and grays. Overhead, a spaghetti-maze of white
pipes transports water, waste, fuel, air, steam, electrical and fiber-optic
cables. Valves and levers poke from all sides.

Everything that can be is welded, latched or tie-strapped into place
against rolling seas.

``You should have seen it when we took her on the test run,'' St. Gelais
says. ``Swung her way over on her side just to see what she'll do. Stuff
turns into flying missiles in conditions like that.''

With little to distinguish one deck or section from the next, getting lost
is easy. Signs known as ``bull's eyes'' clue the disoriented with a complex
code of numbers and letters. Sporadic ``You are here'' maps come to the
rescue of the even less familiar.

Vertical traffic moves up and down through sealable hatches and steep,
grated ladders. Horizontal traffic steps tall over the fittingly named
``knee-knocker'' thresholds of oval-shaped passage doors.

The Reagan looks surprisingly broken-in for a brand new carrier. Walls are
smudged with handprints, and floor mats are worn.

``This is how it looked when the shipyard handed her over,'' St. Gelais
says. ``Think of all the workers who've been through here in the eight
years it took to build it.''

The Navy has been applying spit-polish since Northrop Grumman Newport News
shipbuilding delivered the carrier's keys and papers in the middle of June.
The smell of wet paint permeates the decks now.

``We want to make sure the boat looks brand new for the commissioning,''
St. Gelais says. ``No questions asked.''

The needs of 6,000 people are met on the windowless, lower decks. A 44-bed
hospital handles everything from the sniffles to complicated surgery. A
full-fledged dental ward makes dentures and installs crowns. The ship also
has a post office, optometrist, barber shop, TV studio, laundry, photo lab,
library, gyms and two convenience stores selling junk food, CDs, cigarettes
and toiletries.

There's even a jail -- or brig, in Navy-speak -- with a handful of barred
cells. Each contains a narrow bed and a straight-backed chair. The confined
are allowed to lie down from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. The rest of the time is
spent sitting in the chair or standing tall. No leaning, no crouching, no
slumping. The only reading material permitted is a Bible.

``The captain still has the authority to put a sailor on bread and water
for three days,'' St. Gelais says. ``It's rare, but I've seen it happen.
Guys usually straighten up pretty quick after that.''

Bunks are scattered in berthing rooms containing from a half-dozen to 250
narrow racks. Stacked three high, the bunks are smaller than regular
twin-size beds, have thin mattresses and little headroom. Storage is
sparse.

``We really have to stay on top of the guys or it gets to smelling pretty
bad in there,'' St. Gelais says. ``A lot of them just left home last year,
and they aren't too good at picking up after themselves.''

Women are quartered far from the men. Officers sleep separate from the
enlisted.

Romance is forbidden on board. Roughly 10 percent of the Reagan's crew are
women. Non-professional touching of any kind is a violation of the rules.
Personal relationships between officers and enlisted are an especially
serious offense.

But the Navy knows some aspects of human nature are unstoppable. A spark
between enlisted sailors will be tolerated as long as the couple waits
until after the deployment to explore it further.

``The concern is that one of them will get a commission and become an
officer down the road,'' St. Gelais says. ``And you can't have a married
person in a position of authority over their spouse.''

When sailors do tie the knot, the Navy tries to keep them stationed near
each other.

``But the needs of the Navy always come first,'' St. Gelais says.

When inside the carrier, St. Gelais keeps his hat -- or cover -- tucked in
his belt. He's grateful that Navy rules dictate its removal indoors, since
junior sailors aren't required to salute hatless officers.

``It gets tiring,'' he says.

Still, he believes the symbolism of a salute is important for discipline.
Respect for superiors is critical in an emergency.

``If you order a guy to get in there and fight a fire, the entire ship
could depend on him obeying you,'' St. Gelais says.

Respect for rank is evident in small courtesies and privileges. Junior
ranks stand aside for seniors to pass in narrow passageways. Higher ranks
get first pick of bunks and seats.

Officers sleep in cushier, more-spacious, two-bunk state rooms. They eat in
a dining room with tablecloths, silver serving dishes and a menu. In port,
they can go ashore whenever they want.

Enlisted serve themselves from a chow line and eat on fold-up tables in a
cafeteria. They can't leave the ship without permission.

Feeding the crew three squares a day plus a late-shift meal is a massive
undertaking. Chow lines can turn into an hourlong shuffle, and the food,
while tastier than it once was, heads steadily downhill as the time at sea
climbs.

``They say they can stock enough provisions for 90 days, but trust me, by
the second week out, you're eating brown lettuce and hating life,'' St.
Gelais says.

Fights have broken out over chocolate chip cookies that ``come to mean a
lot to a guy who's just spent 20 hours on the flight deck.''

To keep the food flowing, most sailors draw temporary kitchen duty, no
matter their regular job.

``I'm sure that man over there didn't join the Navy to scrub pots and
pans,'' St. Gelais says with a tilt of his head toward the scullery.

Aviation boatswain's mate Anthony Knight, 24, is washing dishes in a cloud
of steam.

``I've got 120 days in here,'' he says. ``Twelve days on. Two days off. I
can't wait until I'm free.''

When his time is served, Knight will return to his real job in the fuels
department.

``That's looking pretty good right now,'' he says, wiping his brow.

The hazardous nature of a warship means double duty for everyone. Each
sailor plays a role in disaster response. A payroll clerk knows how to man
a hose during a fire. A dental technician can staunch a spewing pipe or
plug a hole in the hull. Stacks of two-by-fours are placed strategically
along the passageways for anyone to shore up a buckling wall or ceiling.

Electrical or fuel fires are, by far, the greatest threats. Sealable
compartments reduce the odds of going down, even after a direct hit from
the enemy.

``I'd be absolutely shocked if another nation could sink one of these,''
St. Gelais says. ``Yeah, I know they said that about the Titanic, but that
design just didn't go far enough. With these compartments, one room might
turn into an aquarium, but we can contain it.''

Disaster drills punctuate the day and night. Teams scurry to an intercom
that calmly announces ``lube oil rupture in main machinery room'' or
``flooding in Number Two reactor.''

Everyone leaps into action for a genuine ``general quarters'' call. When it
comes, sailors all over the ship must reach their assigned muster point
within four minutes.

Egos can get out of control.

``Everyone thinks their job is the most important job in the Navy,'' St.
Gelais says.

Cooks believe feeding the crew is the most critical. Medical folks boast of
keeping them healthy. Chests puff over fueling aircraft, assembling bombs
or fine-tuning electronics.

``Hey,'' St. Gelais says, ``how do you know if there's a fighter pilot at
your party?''

How do you know?

``He'll tell you.''

Every half-hour, a sailor steps up to the intercom's microphone and taps a
bell with a small gong. It's a Navy tradition that has long outlived
functionality -- a holdover from the days of wooden hulls, canvas sails and
sailors who couldn't afford their own timepieces.

Sailors stand watch in four-hour shifts, and bells mark the progress. Eight
bells herald the end of one shift and the start of the next. Every hour and
half-hour in between is announced with a set number of gongs. If noon gets
eight bells, 12:30 p.m. gets one, 1 p.m. gets two, 1:30 p.m. gets three and
so on. By 4 p.m., eight bells are ringing, and the cycle begins again.

``I've never seen anything spin out a captain like messing up the bells,''
St. Gelais says. ``I don't know why, but it's been like that on every ship
I've ever been on. Be a few seconds late or out of rhythm, and you can
expect a phone call.''

Drug tests are a part of carrier life as well. Two sailors hand out
urine-collection kits from a table outside the Reagan's cafeteria. Others
escort the summoned to the bathroom to watch for tricks.

A computer picks the targets at random, with 10 to 20 percent of the crew
being tested every month. Chosen sailors get word around 6 a.m. on testing
day. Short notice limits the masking options. Tests can detect cover-up
herbs and chemicals, but sailors have been known to gulp gallons of water
in an effort to dilute illegal drugs in their systems.

``People used to use drugs all the time on Navy ships,'' St. Gelais says.
``You could smell people smoking pot, and they didn't really make much
effort to hide it. But after a couple of serious accidents, the Navy said,
`Enough is enough.' ''

Samples are run through a basic test first. Those with positive results are
subjected to a series of increasingly sophisticated tests. Bad news could
take weeks or months to circle back to a sailor's ears.

It's accompanied by a boot out of the Navy.

Other old habits are out as well. Cigarettes, once puffed all over the
ship, can now be fired up in just two or three designated, outdoor areas.

Trash is no longer tossed indiscriminately over the side. Paper, cardboard
and leftover food are pulped, mixed with seawater and injected into the
ocean. Metal and glass -- also considered organic -- are broken down by a
special shredder before going overboard. Plastics are melted into a 4-inch
thick disc as big around as a barrel. The discs are stacked and stored
until they're disposed of on shore.

``I remember a time when, if you didn't need that desk, over the side it
went,'' St. Gelais says. ``That was before we knew better.''

Life raft capsules form a beaded necklace around the rim the flight deck.
Shaped like huge caplets of Tylenol, they hold 50-man inflatable rafts
equipped with rations, fish hooks, sal****er purifier, flare gun and signal
mirror.

Hitting a latch sends the capsules spiraling toward the ocean below, where
they pop open upon contact with sal****er. The rafts inflate, then right
themselves.

That sal****er activation feature can have a glitch. St. Gelais recalls
riding the Nimitz around Cape Horn a few years back, where the seas were
``crazy.'' Monstrous waves pounded the life raft capsules. Some opened and
spilled their contents overboard.

A cartoon in the next day's shipboard newsletter depicted the nearby
Antarctic penguins riding the rafts and vowing to kick some polar bear
butt.

That night, waves clawed a missile launcher off the deck.

The penguins were outfitted even better in the next cartoon.

Danger is everywhere on the roof -- as sailors refer to the flight deck.

On a quiet day at the pier, with no planes on board, the scene is
deceptively peaceful. Below, smaller boats trail lazy plumes across the
sun-spangled harbor. On the deck, knots of sailors and civilian contractors
armed with clipboards methodically inspect this or that.

But when operations are on, sailors working the roof must watch their step,
and everyone else's. The Reagan can simultaneously launch two jets while a
third lands. In such tightly orchestrated surroundings, there is little
room for error.

``Most people don't fall overboard,'' St. Gelais says. ``They're blown
overboard by jet blast.''

Safety features include a rippled surface -- ``non-skid'' -- for better
traction. Deck sections that move, such as elevators or blast deflectors,
are rimmed with a bright stripe of yellow and red.

Catwalks or nets create a three-foot or so catch zone off the lip of the
roof. Bomb chutes cut slots in between -- quick-access openings to dump
live munitions into the sea if fire breaks out on the deck.

Darkness and storms increase the peril. Clear skies can deliver their own
punishment: In the Persian Gulf, temperatures on the roof can reach 130
degrees.

Steam fuels the catapults that toss jets into the sky. Cocked back on a
long track, the catapult's iron arm grabs a jet near its landing gear. A
``hold-back'' bar keeps both in place while the pressure builds inside a
piston that runs lengthwise beneath the deck.

The jet's weight has been pre-calculated to figure the force needed to
launch. A sailor holds up a placard, displaying the weight for the pilot's
approval. It's one thumbs-up among the many required before the final one
leads to the push of a button. Steam pressure shoots high enough to snap
the hold-back bar and hurtle the jet down the deck.

The catapults take over the launch so completely that pilots usually
pre-set their controls and leave the deck with their hands in the air.

There's no need to touch the stick until the jet is out over the ocean.

A giant ``76'' painted on the flight deck helps returning pilots identify
the Reagan.

``Don't laugh,'' St. Gelais says. ``Aircraft carriers look an awful lot
alike. Pilots have been known to land on the wrong one.''

The landing itself is a ticklish balance of skill and equipment. A wide
yellow-and-white stripe marks the center of the landing zone. Two
laser-guided light panels show a pilot if he's too high, low, left or
right.

By now, flight deck folks have calculated the jet's new weight based on
fuel burned or bombs dropped. Arresting cables are stretched across the
deck and the proper tension applied. Excess cable feeds into a room beneath
the deck, where it coils around a contraption of pistons that play out
exactly the length needed to safely, but quickly, stop the jet.

Most carriers have four arresting cables. The Reagan has three, laid out
just 20 yards or so apart. Pilots will aim their tailhooks at the middle
one. The first one delivers a jolt that's rough on pilot and plane; the
third is too last-chance to be comfortable.

Pilots who miss the last cable must take off again -- the reason they hit
the deck at full throttle.

A cargo net waits in a small hold near the landing zone for aircraft with
tailhook or stability troubles. It can be stretched and raised in an
instant.

The pilot's job, at that point, is to crash into it. The plane will be
damaged, but its pilot will likely live.

The island juts up near one edge of the flight deck, a high-rise nerve
center with panoramic windows, spinning radars and bristling antennae. Its
armored entrance can be barricaded from the inside, should the need arise.

A first-floor room holds the ``ouija boards'' -- blueprints of the flight
deck and hangar bay. Toy-size, metal cutouts of different types of aircraft
represent those on the ship. The cutouts are positioned on the boards where
the real thing resides on the ship. Colored pins on each piece show the
readiness of the aircraft.

Spy stuff happens somewhere deep inside the island. Only the authorized
ever enter the intelligence-gathering department.

The bridge sits a breathless ladder-climb to the top of the island. It's
cool and uncluttered up here. Almost sterile. Daylight floods through
thick-paned windows that ring the room from chest-level to ceiling.

Touch-screens, buttons and switches are grouped at various control
stations. The steering wheel is smaller than a car's.

A bridge crew maneuvers the ship when it's underway, conveying orders out
loud down a chain of command. The final recipient recites the order to
confirm understanding before any action is taken.

The captain's chair stands alone at the front of the bridge. It's tall with
a sturdy footrest. Perched on a pole like a barber shop chair, the
captain's chair offers a commanding view of the ship and its surroundings.
Dyed-blue sheepskin covers its leather. A plastic cover protects it between
uses.

It's a sacred seat, used only by the man the thousands below ultimately
answer to.

They call it Vulture's Row. In the old days, when crashes were more common,
flight deck personnel fled to this balcony high on the side of island when
the planes came in.

``Especially in combat,'' St. Gelais says. ``No one wanted to be down there
when the planes and pilots came wobbling in all shot up. So they'd clear
the deck and run up here to watch who died.''

Plans call for the Reagan to hang around Norfolk for a year or so to train
the crew, test equipment and certify its flight deck.

After that, the carrier heads to its homeport in San Diego, where it will
pick up most of its airwing.

Too large to squeeze through the Panama Canal, the Reagan must sail around
the tip of South America to reach its new home. Two decades from now, it
will return to Hampton Roads when the twin reactors require refueling.

In all, the Reagan has a lifespan of some 50 years. Crews will come and go,
but the ship's mission will remain the same:

Patrol the world's oceans in times of peace -- and launch jets like yellow
jackets in war.


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