Proximity: A Novel of the Navy's Elite Bomb Squad

by Stephen Phillips

  Massie hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair.

  “Welcome, gents. How are things?”

  As the class leader, Jascinski always answered for the group.

  “Fine, sir.”

  “Great. Well, I have news for all of you. Orders came in the message traffic today.”

  The four officers all started. As graduation drew closer, each student anxiously awaited news of their first assignment following EOD School.

  Massie opened his desk drawer and pulled out four envelopes. He read the first one.

  “Bullock.”

  “Sir.”

  Massie handed the envelope over the desk. “EOD Mobile Unit Two, Little Creek, Virginia. High speed, low drag.”

  “Hooya, sir,” Bullock replied.

  “Smith.”

  “Sir.”

  “EOD Mobile Unit Five, Guam. That is going to be fun times, hooya.”

  “Hooya, sir!” exclaimed Smitty.

  “York.”

  “Sir.”

  “EOD Mobile Unit Eleven, Whidbey Island, Washington. You like hunting and fishing?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, it’s an outdoorsman’s paradise out there. And finally, Jascinski.”

  “Sir.”

  “EOD Mobile Unit Six, Detachment Ingleside, Texas. Report no later than August 1998.”

  Jascinski’s shoulders visibly slumped.

  “C’mon, Jazz, Ingleside isn’t so bad,” the executive officer said. “It’s 1140 world down there. You’ll do a lot of diving and you’ll be a time zone and hundreds of miles from your commanding officer.”

  “Do they jump there, sir?”

  “Uh, nope.”

  THREE

  The Admiral

  Jazz pulled his 4Runner into the parking spot behind the townhouse that he and his wife Melanie rented. He paused knowing that Melanie would not be happy with their orders. They both expected an assignment to EOD Mobile Unit Two in Virginia Beach. While all Navy communities are tight, Melanie had a strong network of friends and family already established in the greater Norfolk area.

  Entering the living room, Jascinski heard his wife and their two boys upstairs.

  “Jazz?” she called out.

  During his plebe year at the Naval Academy, despite having no musical talent, James Jascinski became “Jazz.” Anyone who knew him from that time, including the woman who now shared his last name, called him “Jazz.” Some of his classmates did not even know his first name.

  “Yeah, hon. I’ve got something important to tell you,” he yelled upstairs.

  “Wait there, I’m coming down.”

  Melanie waddled down the stairs, carrying their third child in her belly. Her short stature accentuated her pregnancy, but Melanie still had svelte muscular legs. Jazz watched her long blonde ponytail sway back and forth as she concentrated on her foot placement and handhold, ambling across the landing and the last few stairs. She smiled at him as she reached the bottom. He hoped their third baby would have her blue eyes.

  “Let me guess, you died ten times today?” she said giggling.

  Normally Jazz would have laughed. Melanie’s knew that EOD students often made fatal mistakes on training ordnance. Instructors at EOD School were known to yell at their students.

  “BOOM! YOU JUST DIED! YOU’RE DEAD!”

  In fact, some of the problems in both the practice area and the test area were rigged to real explosives. A small demolition charge was placed in a four-foot pit filled with water nearby that detonated if the students made a mistake. It would harmlessly knock the wind out of them and shower them with muddy water—some lessons had to be learned the hard way.

  The school was just as stressful for Melanie as it was for Jazz. Her husband often studied until ten o’clock at night. Most days they had no time together; he simply came home, ate a cold dinner, showered and went right to bed. So Melanie usually endured long lonely days battling her morning sickness while caring for two active boys.

  Jazz held both of Melanie’s hands in his.

  “We’re going to Ingleside.”

  “Texas!” Melanie tensed up and pulled her hands away. “You’re kidding me.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “What happened to Mobile Unit Two and Virginia Beach?”

  “They need me in Ingleside.”

  “Damnit, Jazz!”

  “Mel, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t want this either.”

  “Sorry isn’t good enough! We’ve paid our dues, damnit! You’re the top of the class! Where is Petty Officer Huang going? Virginia Beach, probably! And once again Jazz Jascinski gets screwed! You extended on Anzio and had to do another deployment, LEAVING ME FOR ANOTHER SIX MONTHS! It took three tries for you to get into EOD, for what! To get sent to Texas! When are you going to take control, Jazz!”

  Jazz was silent.

  Melanie crossed her arms over her chest. “You need to call the Admiral.”

  “I’m not going to do that,” he said dejectedly. “I mean, I’m gonna tell him. But that’s it.”

  Melanie spun on her heel and headed toward the kitchen.

  “I should have married an accountant,” she said acidly as she left.

  Jazz knew that his wife would be upset, but the ferocity of her reaction surprised him. He thought she would at least have some sympathy for him; she knew that Ingleside would not be professionally rewarding for him or his career.

  Jazz heard his wife coming back into the room.

  “I have one more thing to say to you, James Jascinski,” she said pointing an accusatory finger at him. “I know that you are brave or you have courage or whatever... but you need to grow some balls. The Admiral has fucked you up. You are too sheepish in the face of authority. You need to learn to put yourself and your family first. If I am going to continue to sacrifice, if our KIDS have to, then you damn well better learn to put us first sometimes.”

  Melanie turned and headed for the kitchen again. This time Jazz followed her.

  “Hon, I’m sorry.”

  Melanie scooped up her purse and extracted her keys.

  “All I wanted was Virginia Beach, Jazz. Feed the boys.”

  Jazz was even more stunned as his wife walked through the screen door, got in her car, and drove away.

  The Admiral was Jazz’s father. In contrast to his son’s nickname, Jascinski’s father was called “James” by his friends and “the Admiral” by his family.

  Deep down Melanie knew Jazz would never ask his father to exert his influence over the Navy’s Bureau of Personnel to have his orders changed. First, the Admiral would never aid his son in that manner. The senior James J. Jascinski would consider that as a prostitution of his position. Jazz would also never expose himself to the notion that he needed his father’s help. It was not enough that Jazz never felt he lived up to his father’s expectations. To approach him for help, for intervention on his behalf, would be viewed by the Admiral as a sign of weakness and would invite criticism and ridicule.

  Jazz grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and walked through the back door to the yard. He removed the twist top and took a long drink.

  Jazz knew that like his wife, the Admiral was going to give him hell. The Admiral never wanted his son to go into EOD in the first place. Now going to Ingleside would take him away from the Navy’s hub of influence in Norfolk. It would be another straw of criticism on the haystack of Jazz’s ruined career.

  Jazz would never forget the Admiral’s anger the day he told him he was applying for lateral transfer from Surface Warfare to Special Operations. He and Melanie were visiting his parents for the weekend. Jazz told them over Sunday dinner.

  At the time, Jazz was fire control officer aboard USS Anzio in Norfolk, Virginia. For a Surface Warfare Officer on his second assignment there was no better job. Jazz worked for the ship’s weapons officer and was responsible for the ship’s surface to air missile systems, which included the SM-2 Standard missiles and their fire control radar as
well as the 30mm defensive gun called Close in Weapons System (CIWS). Additionally, Jazz was qualified engagement control officer for planning and executing land attacks using the Tomahawk cruise missile.

  As the only son in a definitively Navy family, Jazz never considered any path to adulthood other than the Naval Academy. There was no external influence in his youth to lure Jazz away from his father’s legacy. All of the families that the Jascinskis’ socialized with were Navy; most had a father who attended the “boat school.” Jazz thought a Naval Academy ring on his finger would make him a made man in the eyes of his father. He thought that going to the Academy would do more than improve their relationship; he thought it would create it.

  Growing up, Jazz felt he and his father never connected. The Admiral spent whole soccer seasons in the Persian Gulf. When he was in port or on shore duty the Navy still seemed to consume all of his time. Jazz’s relationship with his mother was much better, but she was empathetic to her husband’s career and its required sacrifices. Eleanor Jascinski seemed to derive personal satisfaction from her identity as an officer’s wife.

  Despite high marks at the Academy in academics and military performance, the Admiral remained lukewarm. So after graduation, like his father before him, James J. Jascinski Jr. worked on his naval career like an attorney trying to make partner. His effort was fruitful and his peers agreed that Jazz was on the fast track to command and admiral stars. He soon reached a point, however, where this fact brought him no pride or pleasure. Jazz abandoned all hope of establishing a rapport with his father once he became a dad himself. The moment he held his firstborn, Jazz’s priorities changed. Jazz decided that his career should be for him, not his father. It was then that he applied for EOD. Jazz even requested an extension onboard Anzio and subsequently incurred another six month deployment from home in order to remain eligible for selection. On his third attempt his name was included as one of only six officers selected from the fleet for Special Operations.

  Jazz’s application process immediately changed the Admiral’s demeanor toward him from disinterest to disdain. He winced recalling his father’s reaction that Sunday evening.

  “Admiral, I want to let you know that I am going to make a lateral transfer to Special Operations.”

  “What! You wanna be a SEAL!”

  “No, sir, that’s Special Warfare. I am interested in Special Operations—diving, salvage, and explosive ordnance disposal.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? That community with the stupid-looking SWO pin? The 1140 community?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What the heck do you want to do a thing like that for? Damnit to hell! You’ll never make admiral and you’ll end up retiring as CO of a damn weapons station.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dinner was never served. The women left their men at the table. The ensuing lecture was like an intervention. The Admiral grew more and more angry through the evening, but Jazz’s mind was made up. His father’s rant only solidified Jazz’s resolve to follow his own path.

  Now Jazz had to tell the Admiral that he had orders to Ingleside, which would undoubtedly evoke another tirade from the Admiral. He decided that sooner was better than later.

  Immersing himself in the Navy again brought back many memories for Gabriel. While the others were animated during the drive home, relishing their success, Gabriel was silent. He quietly reflected on his journey from disgruntled sailor to movement leader.

  With over five thousand people aboard, an aircraft carrier is its own city, a microcosm of American society. While there were a disproportionate number of conservative Republicans aboard the USS Carl Vinson, the whole political spectrum was represented in the five thousand man crew. Gabriel found the extreme right in one Electronics Technician Third Class Owen Channing.

  He met Owen in the aft weight room immediately below the area of the flight deck where aircraft slammed onto steel trying to hook onto one of Vinson’s four arresting wires. Their first encounter was circumstantial —Owen asked him for a spot. Soon they began working out together which eventually led to a friendship and chumming around when off of the ship.

  They had a common disdain for the Navy. Owen wanted to be a SEAL, but a few violations of the Uniform Code of Military Justice in his record prevented that from becoming a reality. Gabriel was simply disappointed. His single mother upbringing led him to yearn for an unforgiving, structured military world. He first thought of going into the Army, but decided on joining the Navy after seeing The Sand Pebbles on television one Sunday afternoon. Thereafter, he imagined that someday he would be like Steve McQueen, strolling the streets of Shanghai in cracker-jack whites with all of his possessions in a canvas seabag over his shoulder. In his mind, he lived a night of hard drinking with his shipmates at the local whorehouse, ending in a fight with the brothel’s Marine Corps patrons.

  “Nothing personal, just skin on skin,” he imagined himself saying to another sailor on the mess decks at breakfast the next morning.

  Gabriel found out too late that none of the old Navy remained. Technology and political correctness wiped it out. In the new Navy everyone had sensitivity training where they were told that alcohol consumption and swearing were bad and homosexuality was okay as long as it was hidden. It made Gabriel sick. Like Owen, he was getting out as soon as he could, but his bitterness made each day pass slowly.

  When Gabriel began hanging around Owen’s apartment he noticed that Owen was very suspicious of the government. Owen’s anger manifested itself largely in complaints about the FBI, ATF, and the notion that the federal government had far more control than people realized. Strewn about the apartment were books on anarchy and magazines for mercenaries. Gabriel read a few magazines at first, and then borrowed a couple of Owen’s books.

  At first, Gabriel was skeptical. But as he delved deeper into the literature, what at first seemed like propaganda began to have real plausibility. One of the writers purported that if his reader only believed ten percent of what he documented about government control and abuse, liberty in the United States was a myth. It was especially interesting considering what Gabriel read in the mainstream press about the FBI at Ruby Ridge and the ATF debacle in Waco Texas.

  Slowly Gabriel became a believer.

  When Owen left the Navy he joined a survivalist reservation where the members called themselves, “The Mountain Men of Montana” or simply “Mountain Men.” Gabriel finished his enlistment six months later and joined him.

  As a Mountain Man, Gabriel had finally found the lifestyle that he sought from the military. He especially liked the real machismo that pervaded everything they did. He learned how to ride a horse, to shoot various weapons, to hunt, and to live off of the land. Gabriel even went to Bible study on Sunday afternoons. The discussions usually emphasized that the United States, a nation founded by Christian men, was now controlled by a corrupt government of non-believers and Jews.

  For the first time in his life everything made sense to Gabriel; everything felt right. It was as if he was given a codebook to the world around him. For the first time in his life he felt like a real adult, like he finally got it. Before long he began leading Bible study. He taught newcomers how to ride and shoot. He put all of his pent up enthusiasm into the reservation. After about a year, however, Gabriel realized that he was different from Owen and the other Mountain Men. Deep down they were impotent; happy to live in the woods and bitch. For Gabriel that was not enough. He wanted to fix the United States, to return to the notions of the country’s forefathers. Gabriel wanted to take action.

  Politically, Gabriel moved further and further toward the right. He found extremists like himself in roadhouses and at gun shows. He was finally fortunate enough to get connected with a group in South Texas, now almost two years ago. Like the Mountain Men they were heavy on rhetoric, but he sensed right away that the members intended to take action. They hoped to start a revolution, to continue the work of Timothy McVeigh. For a while they called themselv
es Freedom Catalyst. On Gabriel’s recommendation they agreed that it would be best to not have a name, no means to identify themselves as an entity. So they erased all references to Freedom Catalyst. Thereafter, in speech amongst themselves their body was referred to as the group, or sometimes just “it.”

  “It is going well.”

  “The group will meet tomorrow.”

  After a few botched attempts at creating local havoc the group realized that they needed education in anarchy. Setting fires and vandalizing government buildings was just not enough. So they saved and raised money to send a few of the members to Libya for advanced training in insurgency and low intensity conflict. Gabriel was chosen as one of the men to go.

  Before he left, Gabriel told his mother and his neighbors that he was going to tour North Africa. The highlights would be Casablanca and Marakesh, Morocco and Tunisia where he would visit the Tattoine set from Star Wars. To develop an explanation for a long absence, Gabriel suggested that he may even bum around Egypt searching for work in archeology. Gabriel hoped his listeners would suspect that he was looking for a drug connection in Marakesh, not that he would be preparing to overthrow the central government.

  In Libya he met Nasih.

  FOUR

  Mobile Detachment

  The workshop was as dark and still as solitary confinement. Only the hum of the air conditioning system and the occasional crackle on the radio reminded Boatswain’s Mate Second Class Theodore Ball that he was on an aircraft carrier.

  He lay on a cot contemplating whether or not he should get up and go to his rack—his assigned bunk in the berthing space where the ship’s compliment of SEALs and EOD Technicians lived.

  Ball was once jealous that EOD Techs were nearly unknown while their counterparts in the SEAL Teams enjoyed fame in fact and fiction. Now he considered their obscurity a badge of honor. Ball explained to anyone who asked that their roots were the same, yet both had a uniquely different mission. He liked to point out that while there were over three thousand SEALs in the U.S. Navy, there were fewer than seven hundred EOD Techs.