I have had one of those days you put in your "top 10" category. For 24 hours I was the commanding officer (CO) of a major command: an Aegis cruiser at sea. And during my time as CO, my ship did not just stay in deep water, as far from other ships as possible, until her more seasoned captain returned. She got to play hard.
It all started while we were under way with the battle group in the southern California operating area. The battle group commander flew over to meet our crew and tour the ship for a few hours. When it was time to go, the CO went with him by helicopter to the aircraft carrier for a debriefing on the air defense exercise conducted the previous day. They left around noon; the skipper would be gone just a few hours, so I would be acting captain—not long, mind you, but enough time to spread my wings.
After the CO left, we headed about 40 nautical miles north to rendezvous for a simulated small-boat attack exercise off the coast of San Clemente Island. I kicked up the engines to 20 knots and off we went. I enjoyed the transit, having decided not to sit at my desk doing paperwork or reading e-mails. It was a warm, sunny day off the coast of southern California under clear skies and in calm seas. I sat in the captain's chair on the bridge wing and watched another cruiser fire 5-inch rounds into the island's target area as we sped by.
After reaching our rendezvous point, I ordered our H-60 helicopter to launch and head for a nearby cove to flush out the enemy. We slowed and waited to be attacked by a horde of small boats. Smallarms security teams were manned; the machine guns and 25-mm cannon were ready for blood. But the small boats never came. Apparently the exercise was canceled and no one thought to tell us. So I decided to throw a smoke float over the side and do some high-speed practice maneuvering and man-overboard training with the junior officers.
The hours passed quickly as I put the ship through her paces, and, too soon, it was time to go. The sun was going down and my few hours as captain were coming to an end. We headed south again to close the carrier. On the way, we recovered our H-60 for refueling and launched it to make room for the skipper's helicopter—which never came. It turned out that his helicopter had landed late on the carrier; by the time it had unloaded, it had to launch immediately without passengers to permit the carrier to recover jets for the next cycle. The sun would be set by the time the CO could fly back, and Navy rules prohibit personnel from flying in military aircraft over water at night if they are not water-survival qualified. Thus, he would have to stay on the carrier overnight and I would continue serving as the captain.
When my tactical action and operations officers told me they received voice and e-mail confirmation that the CO was not returning, I still was doubtful. I had combat information center people show me the details. Then told the crew with a quick announcement on the ship's IMC address system that he would not be back until the next day and I would be their captain until then.
As I walked around for the first hour, I received a lot of smiles and a courtesy "Evening, captain" from many of the crew. My executive officer (X0) chair was not even cold and the operations officer (who, as the next most senior surface warfare officer, was the acting XO) was sitting on the bridge enjoying his moment as second-in-command. But our day was not done. We had to sprint to our next event, an antisubmarine warfare (ASW) exercise off the western side of the island. In addition, we had a Tomahawk exercise scheduled for that night. Finally—for a little bonus—our ship was assigned duties as strike coordinator. That meant, as captain and strike coordinator, I would be approving all 50 Tomahawk missions.
Was the ASW exercise in deep water away from land? No. It was located right in the middle of Tanner Bank and Bishop Rock, the same area where an aircraft carrier went aground twice years earlier. Another bonus: as we approached the choke point, the ship had an engineering casualty that left her temporarily with only one engine out of four. I started to feel the pressure of command. When the primary Global Positioning System (GPS) navigation equipment kicked off line as we transited the shallow area, I concluded that commanding officers probably are underpaid.
In a few hours, the engines and the GPS were back on line. My crew executed the ASW and Tomahawk missions superbly, and we received a "bravo zulu" from the battle group for our duties as strike coordinator. I spent the rest of the evening and early morning sleeping in the captain's cabin, waking up every few hours for contact reports and the usual tasks required of a seagoing commander. I had to be ready because we were first to go alongside the supply ship for an underway replenishment in the morning.
The plan was to recover the CO's helicopter from the carrier after sunrise and then move in close for refueling, followed by a quick helicopter vertical replenishment for supplies. I moved the ship into waiting station at 500 yards astern of the supply ship off her starboard side. The other ships in the battle group took position behind us and on the port side of the supply ship, waiting their turns. (We went first because our skipper was the senior CO when the event was scheduled.)
All stations were manned and ready to go alongside as we recovered the skipper's helicopter. He stepped on the flight deck and we rang four bells and announced "arriving." At that instant I went back to XO. Not bad—almost a full day as CO; a bit tired, but glad to have had the opportunity to command. The CO stepped on the bridge and came out to the port bridge wing where I stood with my conning officer, ready to give him a quick update and turn over the ship for the 140-foot approach on the supply ship.
But instead of relieving me, he said, "You still have the ship, XO. Bring us alongside when you're ready." Then he did something I have never seen any ship's CO do in my five tours in combatants. As we made our approach alongside and refueled, he stayed in the pilothouse, sat in his chair on the opposite side of the bridge wing, and never said a word to me about the evolution. No coaching; no advice; no standing next to me on the bridge wing to jump in if needed. Granted, he was within 30 feet and able to shout out orders. However, not to stand right where the action is and not to watch the phone and distance line—or whisper recommendations in your ear if he gets uncomfortable with your approach—is anything but the norm.
At that moment, I realized my command qualification letter was a lot more than a piece of paper. I also realized that much of the CO's job involves the heavy responsibility of training and preparing his junior officers, and knowing when they are ready for command. The wind blowing in my ears was shouting it out loud: you are ready for command; he trusts you.
After breaking away from the supply ship, we repositioned 1,000 yards astern to conduct the vertical replenishment. It was almost noon. I spent the next several minutes talking with the skipper about how things went in his absence. He asked me how I liked command. What could I say but sign me up for another tour? Commanding a billion-dollar cruiser is one of the highest honors a naval officer can receive. It was a great surface warfare day.
Lieutenant Commander Evanoff is executive officer of the Mobile Bay (CG-53).