FEATURE ARTICLE

March 2005

UNDERWAY WITH THE USCG MELLON

Helicopter Units Team With Cutters in Pursuit of Drug Smugglers

by Joe Pappalardo

The helicopter gunner is blasting the engines from a smuggler’s speedboat, leaving it dead in the water for a small boat crew to board. Catching only the endgame of this airborne interdiction belies the complexity of the operation. It is as incomplete an experience as only watching the last moves of an intricate chess game.

While helicopter operations are familiar to U.S. Coast Guard vessels, more than just guns are added to the equation when they are armed. A host of new procedures, protocols and working conditions become imposed with this capability.

Aboard the USCG Mellon, a 378-foot high-endurance cutter, a National Defense reporter witnessed the actions of the first U.S. law enforcement unit authorized to employ airborne use of force, or AUF. A three-man team from the helicopter interdiction tactical squadron, or HITRON, accompanied the Mellon on a deployment through Central America.

“I requested HITRON ever since I got this boat,” says Capt. Mark Campbell, the Mellon’s commanding officer. “Everybody wants it, but there’s not enough to go around.”

The squadron has been expanding cautiously since its inception in 1998. First formed with a handful of pilots, there are now 31 who fly armed interdiction missions for the Coast Guard.

The interdiction team consists of a modified MH-68 helicopter, two pilots, a gunner and a civilian mechanic from Agusta, the company that is leasing the aircraft to the Coast Guard until 2007.

Formed to chase smugglers in small speedboats and disable them with non-lethal gunfire, HITRON is the only operational Coast Guard aviation unit equipped and authorized to use force. It is the squadron’s only mission—an oddity in a service with a culture of cross training.

Other Coast Guard air units are responsible for multiple tasks, including search-and-rescue, fishery law-enforcement, aids-to-navigation and counter-drug-surveillance missions.

Integrating the helicopter into the cutter’s operations takes a mix of diplomacy, as well as training. Especially when first introduced, tensions between pilots and ship’s crews are oft cited by both sides, and evident in behind-the-scenes conversations. As training progresses, however, the divisions close. When there is a job to do, especially a complex one with inherent dangers, everyone must get along. Training increases familiarity—and ideally, mutual respect and confidence.

Campbell is nonplussed by the initial distance between the pilots and his crew, noting that such tension is normal. “They’re the newest members of the family,” he says in an interview. “The same is true for a new commander, executive officer or engineering officer. When someone’s new, there’s going to be the same apprehension.”

During the pre-deployment workups, the junior officers wait to be impressed. Notified that pilots have brought footage of previous missions, one junior officer cracks: “Of course they did.”

But when the helicopter lands for the first time, other crewmembers are awed just by the sight of it. Hands waiting to lash the HH-68 to the deck make crude, appreciative comments—cracks usually directed at calendar girls or hotrods. There is lots of wishful talk of the possibility of “morale rides” in the chopper, as is sometimes done with other aviation units. (There will be none.)

Even the ship’s cooks, smoking cigarettes on the fantail, speak in fond tones of the increase in ability, and hope the go-fasts try their luck against the new platform. “Even a small bust will let them know we’re out there,” says one.

The relationship between HITRON and the rest of the Coast Guard is improving as the concept matures, says the patrol’s aviation detachment commander and pilot, Lt. j.g. Josue Maldonado. He says the pilots’ reputation as “cowboys and guinea pigs” stems from the actions of the earliest members, often former Army Apache pilots who relished having powerful, agile craft. Their attitude and aerial antics—such as buzzing the bridge as close as 30 feet—infuriated captains and executive officers, making others predisposed to dislike the pilots. These days, operating under strict doctrine, the pilots’ reputations are improving.

Maldonado takes care to be polite and accommodating. He is careful not to deliver edicts to the captain, but instead poses a weighted range of options. “It’s a tactful exchange of ideas,” he says with a smile.

HITRON doctrine is still being tweaked. With more helicopters in the fleet preparing to become armed, HITRON crews are still guinea pigs, even if their pilots are losing the cowboy moniker.

Since the Mellon never before hosted HITRON, the preparatory drills between the cutter crew, boarding teams and the newly arrived helicopter crew take on a new importance. The equipment needs to be checked, and the crew needs to know who is doing what while they’re in action. Day and night missions must be practiced before the team can run real patrols.

The clock is ticking. Since the Mellon is leaving from San Diego, there is limited amount of time to train before it reaches an area of interdiction operations.

The helicopter and cutter crews must re-qualify for a host of skills, including touch-and-go landings and crashes on deck. The crew must become proficient at tying the chopper down after it lands. Unlike the standard Coast Guard helicopter units, the HH-68 lacks the gear that secures the aircraft by inserting a metal probe into the flight deck, like a key in a lock. Canvas straps are used instead, and practice is required.

The HH-68 is cramped, but also maneuverable and boasts plenty of power. It can fly, and be compelled to hover, on one engine.

“Agusta bent over backward to make this aircraft work,” says Maldonado.

Unlike other Coast Guard aircraft, the rotors are not foldable, meaning the blades must be removed to fit inside the Mellon’s retractable hangar. The blades can’t be removed safely under heavy weather. That leads to agonizing decisions over the helicopters disposition before storms, a choice between losing operational time and possibly losing the aircraft entirely.

Most coordinated actions on the Mellon—from HITRON missions to landing to refueling—involve a risk assessment model designed to obtain input from the crew, from the junior officers to the captain. Planning, crew fitness, environmental conditions and the complexity of the plan are all evaluated.

There is a scramble to put training missions together before the trip south begins. This places stress on the ship crew, and the pilots struggle against weather and time constraints. Adding to the frenetic pace are troubles with the gas turbine engine, coordinating ship refueling from the U.S. Navy and a large storm front that plays havoc with every facet of the schedule.

That training is key, since new equipment will be used in an unfamiliar mission. “The learning curve is pretty steep,” notes Lt. Marc Alden, the Mellon’s operations officer and intelligence coordinator.

The first daytime training workup, done while in port in San Diego, reveals a number of problems with equipment, mostly relating to the lack of communication between the HITRON pilots and the vessels. During the debriefing, attended by 28 crewmembers and the two HITRON pilots, questions arise on who will take the lead in any action. The boat crews want to know how much independence they have to take the set steps that dictate the use of force.

“The helicopter is the preferred mode of disabling or warning fire,” advises Campbell. Still, he continues, if there is a situation, he trusts his crews to make decisions. Other officers assure the crews that, if the situation arises when shots are being fired and the captain has any doubts about the steps being taken, he will be in contact.

Crewmembers trained for deck firefighting also must practice. They drill on the day the chopper lands, reacting to a simulated crash on deck. The ship heads into the wind for all landings, so in case of a catastrophe, the fire will be blowing aft, which is where the crew wants it. They hose the hypothetical oil fire off the back of the ship, while other members man rescue boats to retrieve anyone who was blown or jumped overboard.

Those in metallic, fireproof gear grab a pilot, who plays the part of a limp, unconscious victim, and carry him to safety. If the fire can’t be contained, the crew is ready to roll the helo off the deck. The drill ends, and life on board the ship continues. It is the first of many more drills involving the crew, including refueling, both with the rotors on and off, called “hot” and “cold” refuels, respectively.

The pilots, Maldonado and Lt. Michael McWilliams, both flew for the Army, while the gunner, Rick Studeville has a long career working search and rescue for the Coast Guard. Officially, Studeville is an aircraft maintenance technician who is trained in helicopter rescue, but he jumped at the chance to become a HITRON gunner. “I’ve always been good with guns,” he notes, chain smoking off the back of the ship’s fantail. “And I’ve always had a good time hunting.”

Life on board for fliers and crew differ greatly. The pilots must carefully watch their sleep schedules, while crewmembers can pull absurdly long shifts when their circumstances demand it. The cross-trained crew is almost never without a task. Any free time away from watch or on duty is spent studying to qualify for more jobs, and higher rank. Members must be ready for a myriad of circumstances, including war. During the narcotics patrol, the crew participates in combat drills.

The pilots must be ready to act, but have little to do until the afternoon, when they prepare for their first of two daily flights. Seasickness must be conquered through willpower, since any drugs will affect their balance and disqualify them from flight. Getting off-hours sleep on board is made difficult by the constant noise of clanging doors, piped announcements and loud conversation. During a missile drill, they sit in the hangar and wait for it to end.

Synchronizing their schedule with the ship’s—which includes early morning musters that the pilots must attend—is another diplomatic effort.

HITRON crews, generally, cannot obtain waivers to jettison rules that govern how often they fly. In a life-or-death situation, it is understood that the rules for search-and-rescue helicopters can be relaxed. If a HITRON crew flies over its limit and a fixed-wing patrol aircraft spots a drug boat, there is nothing it can do but let it go if flight time has been exhausted.

In search-and-rescue missions, how the HITRON crew can react depends on the experience of the aviation crew. Their options are fairly limited, since the HITRON helicopters lack hoists and other SAR equipment, but the crew can drop water pumps or lifeboats if the situation demands it.

The aviators aboard the Mellon noted that some Coast Guard pilots view getting under way with a ship as a chore that takes them away from their more comfortable shore stations, and their families. HITRON pilots say their attitudes are more accommodating because they have chosen this line of work. Also, they note that their presence increases the chance of a major bust, which increases morale.

For now, other Coast Guard helicopters can only watch go-fast boats helplessly, which demoralizes the crew. “Sometimes, the go-fast guys flip off the pilots,” says Maldonado. “You can see people’s shoulders slump when they come back without being able to do anything.”

Campbell recalls a previous tour, during which an unarmed HH-65 chased a go-fast boat, and could only watch as it threw its contraband overboard. It then proceeded to outrun their chase boats and out-endure the helicopter’s fuel limit. He dubs it a “partial victory,” since the contraband was seized, but the perpetrators and their boat were freed to make the run another day. With HITRON aboard, he wants the victory to be total.

The Mellon creeps steadily south-southeast, and the open water allows the large-scale rehearsal of an interdiction mission. These are needed to work out the procedures between the pilots, the cutter and the chase boat crews that board any go-fast that has been compelled to stop. “Unity is a big piece out here,” Campbell says. “Just to launch a boat and a helicopter takes a lot of people.”

Weather delays and fuel contamination caused by debris from the Mellon’s worn fuel lines and paint flakes have frustrated the crews. Everyone is eager to see the helicopter fly.

The first full interdiction rehearsal on the Mellon takes place at dusk. The chopper sails out to more than 20 miles from the cutter, a fraction of what a real sea chase could entail.

Air interdictions are complex undertakings. They are a carefully choreographed dance involving more than what is seen on the water. Before acting on a suspected boat, communication with agencies in Washington, D.C., is established.

Coast Guard units are considered military assets until a law enforcement action arises.

At that time, a call is placed to the applicable district headquarters—in the Mellon’s case, District 11, headquartered in Alameda, Calif. The district then contacts USCG headquarters, which in turn gets in touch with all the players, from foreign diplomatic representatives to designated U.S. officials. Since the creation of the Department of Homeland Security, fewer agencies are involved in this consultation, but senior officers on board say overlapping responsibilities still necessitate the involvement of many from within DHS.

While this communication relay occurs, the helicopter is covertly watching the go-fast boat, if necessary at high altitudes. With the ability to act at night, using night vision equipment, a helicopter can get closer to a go-fast without being detected. The lightless helicopter can disappear into the inky darkness, with the dim glimmer of the night-vision goggles in the cockpit easily mistaken for stars, even while hovering as close as 50 feet. Behind the wheel of a wind-whipped go-fast boat powered by four outboard engines, smugglers are often caught unaware.

Once word is given from the district, the helicopters presence is made known, and a progression of steps is followed to make the go-fast stop. That includes flybys, warning shots and finally, the targeting of engines by the gunner, wielding a laser-sighted .50-caliber rifle that is balanced and fastened on a thick rope.

Warning shots are loosed from a 7.62 mm M240 machine gun, while the .50 caliber is used to knock out engines. The machine gun fire, Studeville says, to the pilots feels like someone is slapping the back of their heads. He, on the other hand, feels nothing but slight recoil. “Don’t ask us if we want permission to use our guns,” McWilliams advises the Mellon’s captain and executive officer over a plate of spaghetti. “That’s pretty much what we live for.”

All incidents are captured on thermal sensors and video, which is time coded to be used in prosecuting legal cases. If a smuggler dumps any illicit cargo, markers are dropped for possible retrieval.

While the helicopter pursues its quarry, the boarding teams have gathered weapons from the arsenal and donned safety equipment. To launch the pursuit boat, the cutter slows and makes course adjustments to account for wind and wave swells, and the boat is lowered from the side on winches and hand-held lines.

A worn, orange ladder drops and, one by one, the boarding crew climbs down 11 feet into the craft as its hull slaps against the waves. The action of the cutter against the water creates a suction that keeps the pursuit boat pressed against the side, but it takes deckhands working ropes and pulleys to keep the platform stable for boarding.

The five-man team in the boat climbs onto the go-fast to secure people, contraband and communications equipment once the speedboat is stopped. At that point, the speedboat will be destroyed by whatever gunfire the captain deems appropriate. Often it is the Close-In Weapon System anti-missile machine gun rising from the ship’s stern. Other than reams of paperwork, the interdiction would then be over.

After eating, it’s time to head to the combat information center for the official debriefing. Other than a smattering of communication problems and procedural streamlining, the drill is a success. “I love this stuff,” says Campbell. “I can’t wait to get into this for real.”

More drills are planned—more deck landings are practiced and a daytime go-fast pursuit is simulated. The communications problems are working themselves out, and the flight crews get practice at refueling. Step-by-step, the drill cards get filled, and the requirements for actual operations fulfilled.

Excitement among the crew grows, especially after target practice. Studeville notches two .50-caliber hits on an orange buoy bobbing a thousand feet behind the stern. During similar night-fire exercises, tracer rounds from the M240 skip and bounce hundreds of yards across the waves, illuminating the white froth from the impact of 7.62 mm bullets. “That’d convince me to stop,” notes Campbell wryly, watching from the stern with most of the ship’s crew, many holding digital cameras.

Their adversaries on this patrol are drug smugglers, and the two opponents adapt and react to each other the way predators and prey often do. Smuggling operations, worth billions of dollars, are not run by novice seamen. Experienced boaters and fishermen are tapped to make the drug runs, sometimes tearing through the water on four outboard motors for a dozen hours, relying on cocaine or crystal methamphetamines to stay awake.

Smugglers are hard to pick up on the ship’s radar because of their low profile, which makes aerial reconnaissance the best way to spot them. In response to helicopter units, many use ocean-blue tarps as camouflage, but nothing can hide the long wake left behind by the go-fasts.

The cutter, as a predator, also changes its appearance. It manipulates its lighting to appear as a smaller vessel at night, or shuts down all light sources and drifts through an area—lowering its profile enough to allow smuggling boats to show themselves. Daily intelligence briefs from federal agencies direct the operations, with varying levels of detail. The pilots typically fly twice a day, sometimes seeking a specific target provided during the brief, sometimes looking for radar images, most often just seeking that telltale wake.

The Coast Guard’s eastern Pacific area of operations encompass an enormous section of the ocean, the equivalent of more than the continental United States. To patrol this area, the Coast Guard has less than a dozen assets. “Imagine a cop in Minnesota trying to catch someone in Florida,” Campbell says.

Finally, the drills are complete, and the Mellon crew and HITRON team are sanctioned to operate together. They are still rough around the edges, but the ship’s officers figure that two daily flights should help make their actions routine.

Assembled on the flight deck for quarters, the entire ship’s crew stands at attention. The captain takes a cordless microphone and addresses the crew. He passes along the news that their hard work has paid off.

Campbell tells those who don’t know that Operation New Frontier is the Coast Guard’s answer to speedboat smuggling—matching ships with armed helicopters to disable the speedboats with gunfire. “We are now qualified for Operation New Frontier missions,” he says, and nods happily as applause and hoots rise from the crew.

With qualifications and paperwork behind them, the HITRON package has become operational. Steaming south past the Baja peninsula of Mexico, the crew of the Mellon waits for their prey.

It is finally time to go hunting.

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