2200306 Sentinel, Hornet's Nest

We were out one night in the gulf of Tonkin, providing our low-level radar coverage for the Seventh Fleet back in 1965. We would typically fly a racetrack pattern over the fleet throughout the night. Our CIC (Combat Information Center) watch had the officer in charge on one long range 250-mile range radar console, one or two enlisted men as long range console operators and one short range operator on a 50 mile radar range screen. The short-range operator would keep track of the ships we were there to protect and would give requests to the pilot to alter course as necessary to stay over the top of the fleet. That would mean with a 50-mile sweep, we could go from 0 point out 50 miles and then turn around to fly to 180 point ouy 50 miles and then turn and go back to 0 point miles and keep the fleet on the 50-mile screen all of the time. The big carriers were easy targets to keep track of because they gave off a big bright return. That particular night we were unaware that the fleet had planned an alpha strike. That meant that every aircraft that was flight-worthy would take off as quickly as possible and head out to their designated bombing objectives over Vietnam. So in a very short time, each carrier would be launching as many as 80 planes, times 3 carriers meant there would be 240 planes in the air from the Navy alone in a few minutes time.

We were just poking along at our typical 180 miles per hour at 1200 feet; I was on the 50-mile range console when suddenly the three fat blobs (aircraft carriers) on the radar began dividing, much like hornets in a rage, spewing forth from a nest. There we were right in the path of the onslaught, fighter-bombers loaded with ordinance catapulting into the air at full throttle, running their after-burners to climb to altitude and whizzing past this huge, slow, black, flying object in the night sky. The pilots had no idea we were there or who we were. We had no idea they were going to launch. The once quiet radio channel quickly burst into chatter from pilots.
“Did you see that?”
“What the f… was that?”
“What is that thing?”
“What the hell is that?”
Those pilots were barely in the air and we were splitting them apart like logs for the fireplace. The first thing they saw on their aircraft radar was a big fat target right in front of them. It must have seemed to them like a NASCAR race when everyone is twisting and turning to avoid that one car that’s out of control on the track.

The CICO (Combat Information Center Officer) screamed at me, “Weber, what’s going on there?”
“It looks like they’re launching a strike sir,” I replied.
The pilot chimed in and said: “hey I’ve got planes in the air everywhere out here, what’s going on? They’re coming by me in after-burner.”
“I think we’re crossing the path of an air strike sir,” I answered.
“Well get me the f… out of the way of these guys,” he shrieked.
“Yes sir, recommend turning to course 180.” We had been going from 090 to 270, so I figured 180 would get us out of the way as fast as any direction. It was just a spur of the moment thought; there was no right answer. It worked and I’m here to tell you about it. That was an exciting night out there. And so you know, foul language was strictly against policy over the radio or the intercom.
That little incident changed policy in the Navy; from then on our racetrack pattern was kept south or east of the fleet carriers, out of the way of any launches.