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While still at the Prospective Commanding Officer course in Newport, I studied the manning documents of the ship and found that none of the department heads were women. USS
Cole
had only recently been structurally modified to accommodate women, and had begun the process of integrating women into the crew within the past year. I firmly believed that leadership at the top set the tone throughout the chain of command and having a woman as one of my department heads sent a strong signal that I believed in their integration onto all naval combatants. Coincidentally, I had met an engineer officer attending Department Head school, also at Newport, Lieutenant Deborah Courtney. She had orders assigning her to another ship, but
Cole
was scheduled to get a new engineer officer, and a long-time friend and mentor of mine, Captain Ray Spicer, who had previously worked with her, had nothing but great things to say about her technical capabilities and professionalism. I dropped by her classroom one day, introduced myself, and asked if she would like to have lunch to discuss her future.

I explained my somewhat convoluted journey to receive orders to
Cole
, and then told her that she had a well-recognized reputation as an exceptional officer. A 1990 graduate of the Naval Academy, as a woman, she had originally been unable to become a surface warfare officer on combatants, but when Congress and the Navy finally changed that a few years later, she jumped at the opportunity and changed her career field. She had honed her skills as an engineer on her first ship, USS
Gettysburg
, an Aegis guided-missile cruiser, and now was quite content with her orders to another
Arleigh Burke
–class destroyer,
Donald Cook
. I thought her ambition
would make her a great asset on a newly integrated ship, and when I explained why I wanted her to join me and how that decision would better serve both her and my interests, she asked if she could have a few days to think about it. Two days later, Debbie stopped me in the hallway and asked if the offer still stood. I told her absolutely yes, and later that day we coordinated with the Navy's Bureau of Personnel to get her orders modified to send her to USS
Cole
. I was thrilled with her decision.

On June 14, 1999, I drove onto the U.S. Naval Station in Norfolk, parked my car, and prepared to walk down the pier. After Washington duty, it was good to be back on the waterfront with the fleet and its sailors, smelling the salt air. I felt ready to take command and looked forward to the challenges that lay ahead. I met first with the captain I was to relieve, Commander Rich Nolan, a gregarious officer with whom I hit it off instantly. He offered me exceptionally candid and generous insights and recommendations about the crew and the ship's equipment, covering each department in detail. Our turnover, longer than usual, would last almost twelve days, offering me plenty of time to take stock of what I already knew:
Cole
was a great ship and continued to set the standard for excellent performance on the waterfront.

On June 25, I stood on the fantail in front of my family and friends and in a centuries-old, time-honored tradition, said to Rich the three greatest words a naval officer can say in a career: “I relieve you.” That phrase signified the moment when total accountability and responsibility for a $1 billion national asset and the lives of almost 300 of our nation's finest sailors passed from one commanding officer to the next.

There was plenty of work ahead. USS
Cole
was part of the USS
George Washington
aircraft-carrier battle group, whose next combat-ready deployment would begin in about a year. My next job was to ascertain what additional training would be needed to get
Cole
combat ready. It was clear that this was a great crew, but there was a clear difference in the level where the crew perceived their training readiness (very high); where the destroyer squadron commodore, my immediate boss, viewed their performance (high, but not as high as they did); and where I assessed their capabilities
(room for improvement). The ship and crew had a well-established reputation for being highly competent and capable, but like any crew, over time they had begun to rest on their laurels. I needed to take stock of their training level and performance and bring them back up to the high standards that had set
Cole
apart from other ships in the squadron.

My vision for the ship's future was taking shape. I would work to realize it with the help of two key advisors: the executive officer, then Lieutenant Commander John Cordle, the second-ranking officer aboard ship, and the command master chief, the senior enlisted member of the crew—who as I took command had just been temporarily appointed to that post—Master Chief Paul Abney. As I settled in to command, John was an absolute blessing for me. He was a surface warfare officer who had also been trained and qualified as a nuclear power officer on nuclear-powered aircraft carriers and thus had a thorough and extensive background in engineering. One of his greatest strengths for me was his calm demeanor, the perfect counterbalance to my own hard-driving and forward-leaning qualities. Master Chief Abney was probably one of the best technical experts in the Navy in the field of surface-ship sonar systems, and he was also a talented leader, always willing to try new approaches and to be innovative in his working relationships. Throughout Navy history, the rank of chief petty officer has always been considered the gold standard for enlisted leadership. According to most professional sailors, it is the chief petty officers who run the Navy, not the admirals. The command master chief position was crucially important on
Cole
.

Once I was in command, I asked John to distribute two important documents to each crew member. The first was my command philosophy, which outlined how I expected the crew to perform, establishing the benchmarks by which they would be measured: integrity, vision, personal responsibility and accountability, trust, and professional competence. On this list, integrity came both first and last. Like many commanding officers before me, I believed that unless all crew members conducted themselves with personal integrity guiding every decision, the temptation to compromise on performance and safety standards could lead to cutting corners
and performance levels falling far short of their potential. The second document was the framework of my goals for the ship and crew, when operating the ship and interacting with each other as shipmates. It was specifically tailored to where we as a crew were in the training cycle and set both short-and long-term objectives for the next year to ready us for our next deployment and any operations we might undertake in the coming months.

There were some adjustments to be made at first: I was new to command, and the crew likewise needed time to learn what I expected. Building a reputation as a very aggressive and “to-the-point” officer, I knew the ship and crew could accomplish far more than they thought possible, and set about pushing them harder than they had been driven to date. Just a week after taking command, both crew and I learned just how heavily the burden of leadership could weigh on a commanding officer.

Gliding through the calm waters of the Atlantic off the Virginia Capes,
Cole
had coordinated an underway replenishment with a Military Sealift Command oiler. Underway resupply of fuel, stores, and food is standard Navy practice, the ship being resupplied maneuvering behind and then alongside the supply ship while both are steaming in a straight line ahead. The maneuvering requires precision and control, with the approach ship closing to the stern of the replenishment ship to between 300 and 500 yards, and sufficiently offset from its wake to be able to synchronize speed exactly with it and end up alongside about 140 to 160 feet away. Lines are then shot between the ships, wires and hoses hauled across, and then replenishment begins. The complex ballet requires that all members of the crew in the replenishment detail know exactly how to perform their duties, with constant vigilance and attention to safety. Both ships must keep precisely on course and speed, at a steady distance from each other.

Usually all this is done without incident. But I have always believed that an underway replenishment is the most hazardous peacetime activity Navy ships engage in at sea. History is replete with examples of ships colliding and personnel being injured or falling overboard, so every ship prepares a detailed underway replenishment watch bill, listing in detail each position that must be manned and by whom, with personnel specifically
trained and qualified to perform those duties. There is no margin for error. Everyone has to know what to do in an emergency, and to be ready for one at any moment.

I had asked John and the senior watch officer and combat system officer, Lieutenant Commander Rick Miller, to make a series of checks at specific watch stations throughout the ship before we began the replenishment, though normally I would personally make them myself, starting in the after steering position at the back and working my way forward to the Combat Information Center, and then to the bridge. As this was my first underway replenishment as captain, it was more important to be on the bridge throughout to see how the watch team got the ship and crew ready.

The conning officer took a deep breath, checked the angle of approach one last time, and then spoke confidently into the microphone, “All engines ahead flank, indicate turns for 25 knots.” The high-pitched whine of
Cole
's four gas turbine engines quickly increased. With 100,000 shaft horsepower driving it forward, the ship rose slightly and we gradually surged forward. The feeling of wind in our faces made everyone smile.

The approach was almost perfect in angle and would put us at about 150 feet lateral distance from the oiler once alongside. Just as the bow appeared to cross the stern of the oiler, the conning officer used relative motion and a seaman's eye to judge the distance and, without taking his eye off the distance between the ships, crisply ordered, “All engines ahead standard, indicate turns for 13 knots,” deftly bringing the ship into position.

Soon the lines and hoses were across, the refueling rig was in position, and, very slowly at first, the refueling hose wriggled and jerked to life as the first few hundred gallons started flowing down the hose. Everything seemed to be going like clockwork. Our time alongside was estimated to be about forty-five minutes.

“XO, do we have the cookies ready to go?” I asked John. This was the start of a new tradition. Every time the ship would pull alongside an oiler for an underway replenishment, a bag containing a couple dozen hot, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies would be sent over to the commanding officer of the oiler to thank him for great at-sea customer service. At first,
the crew thought this a pain and somewhat of a waste of time but soon, we found, the oilers we operated with over the year actually looked forward to the ritual, and so did
Cole
's bridge watch team, because the supply officer would also send a bunch of warm cookies up for the boatswain's mate of the watch to pass around.

Soon the reports from the engineers indicated our fuel level was at almost 98 percent. We had topped off our tanks and were ready to execute a standard maneuver called a breakaway. This procedure has the two ships disconnect the refueling hoses and cables attaching them together in a very precise and methodical manner to ensure the safety of the ships and the crew working the rigs.

After every refueling, both ships simultaneously practice what is called an “emergency breakaway,” a fundamental safety skill in an actual emergency. The crew had done such a fabulous job with the refueling that I was sure my first emergency breakaway would be just as successful. After releasing the high-tension metal wire that kept
Cole
and the oiler at a proper distance from each other, and disconnecting the phone and distance line, we went to “flank speed,” 31-plus knots, and the ship leaped forward. The wind began to roar across the bridge wing. The ships were still about 160 feet apart, and as our speed increased dramatically, the margin for error shrunk to almost nil. The gas turbine engines, with fully open throttles, screamed with a high-pitched whine. Seconds later, we were well ahead of the oiler, keeping a close eye on it to make sure nothing could go wrong—any errors in determining course or position could cause a disaster.

We set a course to continue moving away and within minutes announced that the refueling evolution was over and the regular watch team could assume the watch. I left the bridge and went down to my cabin, feeling very proud of myself and my ship: command at sea with the first underway replenishment now under my belt, without incident. It just doesn't get any better than this! I thought.

But quickly, I was brought down from this reverie by a knock on my cabin door: it was the XO, who asked, “Captain, do you have a minute for Rick and me to talk with you?”

“Sure. Come on in and have a seat,” I answered. “Mind if I shut the door?” asked John.

With a question like that, and stern expressions on their faces, he and Rick, the most senior department head on the ship, couldn't be bringing good news. They weren't. Rick reported that when he had made his rounds before the maneuver to the section of the ship that controlled the rudders, he had found the safety officer and two other personnel asleep on the deck instead of properly carrying out their duties.

The fact that the senior watch officer had found personnel responsible for steering the ship neglecting their duties was a matter of grave concern. They could have left
Cole
critically vulnerable to a collision—and Rick had discovered them malingering just as the ship came alongside the oiler, with only 150 feet between them.

I asked John what he thought we should do. Like me, he was somewhat at a loss as to how to proceed but he did not want to overreact. I agreed, but ordered the XO to charge all three with violating the Uniform Code of Military Justice, by hazarding a vessel, among other offenses. This administrative process on ships is called captain's mast, or non-judicial punishment. I wanted it to send a definitive signal to the crew that no actions would be tolerated that endangered the ship or anyone on board.