The ship was the USS Denver (LPD-9). Around August 2002, we deployed as part of a three-ship amphibious group consisting of a helicopter carrier and two LPDs. We initially operated near Somalia before the carrier remained behind and the two LPDs headed north into the Red Sea for exercises. Along the way, a couple of weather forecasters transferred from the carrier to our ship.
At the time I was an MR2 (Machinery Repairman Second Class, E-5). Before deployment, Homeland Security had issued the ship a large quantity of riot-control equipment, including what I remember as MTX-3000 handheld radios.
To my surprise, I became the only person aboard who could program them.
The process wasn’t particularly complicated. It was essentially a spreadsheet containing the channel parameters, frequencies, and settings. Still, nobody else seemed interested in figuring it out, so I programmed every handheld radio used by watch standers and security personnel.
Whenever we were preparing to enter a foreign port, the ship would receive authorized UHF and VHF frequencies for use ashore. Each time, I programmed the entire radio inventory accordingly. I also discovered that the ship had an internal repeater system for communications throughout the hull that very few people seemed to know existed. I configured both repeater and direct channels so they would be available when needed.
Later during the deployment, while heading toward Kuwait, a junior officer approached me looking somewhat embarrassed. He explained that I was apparently the only person available who knew how to load the radios’ encryption keys.
I was stunned.
After reading the manual, I discovered that generating and loading the keys was straightforward. The system required accurate date and time settings. I generated the encryption keys, saved them, and then transferred them into each radio. Every so often a radio would lose its key, which I suspect was caused by people removing the battery while the radio was still powered on. The security features would erase the key material to prevent compromise.
Somehow, an MR2 had become the ship’s radio expert.
Beating the Watch Standers
Before leaving San Diego, we conducted a communications security exercise where I played one of the “bad guys.”
By the end of the exercise, I had gathered far more information from the watch standers’ radio traffic than the Executive Officer was comfortable with.
The interesting part was how we coordinated. The watch standers operated using tone squelch and high power. Our team used the same frequency but without tones and at lower power settings, allowing us to communicate among ourselves without drawing attention.
The exercise demonstrated that technology only works when operators understand how it functions.
The Phantom Distress Call
Later in the deployment, while we were somewhere in the middle of the Pacific, the bridge was monitoring Marine Channel 16, the international hailing and distress frequency.
Out of nowhere, someone came across on my personal radio equipment:
“Hello? Hello? Hello?”
Questions immediately arose about whether one of our communications systems was inadvertently transmitting.
After consulting with a knowledgeable radio operator aboard another ship, I confirmed that the source was coming from our vessel. I did some direction-finding and eventually traced the problem to flight deck helmets equipped with built-in radios.
The first few channels were assigned flight deck frequencies, but every remaining channel was programmed for Marine Channel 16.
Someone had apparently found a headset and was amusing themselves by switching channels and transmitting.
Once I identified the source, I reminded the captain that the transmit capability could be disabled through the radio menus and that microphones could be removed entirely if necessary.
Problem solved.
Radio Communications Helping the Search for a Reported Sinking Boat
While stationed on Whidbey Island, I developed a habit of monitoring Marine Channel 16 for distress traffic, especially in the evenings.
One night, a man who sounded heavily intoxicated began calling for help. At first, he wasn’t taken very seriously, but then he claimed his boat was sinking.
He reported being near Coupeville, roughly five miles south of Oak Harbor.
That immediately caught my attention because his signal was coming in at full strength in Oak Harbor. Something didn’t add up.
I drove to the north side of Penn Cove and continued monitoring. From there I could still hear Coast Guard traffic clearly, but I could no longer hear the supposed boater. That told me my equipment was working properly and helped narrow the search area.
I encountered a fire chief preparing a response and passed along my observations. Based on the information available, he reduced the scope of the operation and launched only one boat instead of several.
Responders found the vessel the caller claimed to be aboard.
It was empty.
Continuing to track the signal, it became apparent that the “distressed mariner” wasn’t on a sinking boat at all.
He was sitting in a bar in Oak Harbor.
I suspect that was the beginning of a very bad day for him.
Looking back, I retired over twenty years ago, and most of these stories are now two to three decades old. Funny how the details of the equipment fade over time, but the moments when everyone suddenly says, “Go find the radio guy,” are still crystal clear.
