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

by Stephen Phillips

  “I have a question.”

  “Shoot, Bailey,” Willy said defensively.

  “What do we do if the MER won’t release the missile? I mean, it has been through a crash and a fire. It may not let it go.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Willy admitted.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” De Napoli chimed in “It is a good plan. Let’s go with it and cross that bridge if we come to it.”

  Ash donned his protective gear again. Zeke joined him again as the P2. Ash fought back crankiness. It was now well into the evening. He was tired physically and emotionally. Still, he felt that he should return to the site at least one more time.

  Each Tech carried a CMC with him. Zeke also had a wooden pallet that Ash would secure the CMCs to. If the seas got rough they would stay in one place. Ash heard of EOD teams saving the day only to have the ordnance they rendered safe roll off the deck of the ship and into the ocean.

  They set the CMCs down next to the aircraft. Zeke placed the pallet fifty feet away on the other side of the ship.

  “CP, P1 downrange. Opening CMCs.”

  “CP.”

  Ash and Zeke lifted the lids off the CMCs to make the transfer of the carts go faster. It would not be wise for the P1 to fumble with the lid with an explosive cart in his hand.

  “Ready?” Zeke asked.

  “Sure, Zeke, I got it.”

  “CP, P2 coming back up range.”

  “CP, roger.”

  Ash stepped up to the MER and located the two carts. Like everything else, they were covered with soot. It surprised Ash that none of the explosives associated with the weapon detonated. The DCA definitely saved the day by cooling the weapon with water. He wondered if the properties of the explosives remained the same. Perhaps they were more sensitive now.

  “P1, CP. P2 is back in the CP.”

  “Hooya. Removing first cart.”

  The cylindrical cart was threaded on the end. Its size reminded Ash of a 35-millimeter film canister. The cart required a lot of force to break it free, but then Ash was able to unscrew it by hand. As it came out Ash carefully set the cart into the CMC and closed the lid.

  “CP, P1. First cart in CMC.”

  “Heard it click shut. Hooya.”

  He repeated the procedure with the second cart.

  “CP, P1. I’m gonna secure these CMCs to the pallet now. Then I’ll come home.”

  “Roger.”

  An hour later Ash helped to dress out Zeke and Bailey. Zeke was to be the P1 now. The two tripods were constructed and all other equipment staged. Willy spoke as they dressed.

  “Fellas, take the crate down first. Then you’ll know about what distance to place the tripods. Then take the falls. Zeke, do you have the plugs?”

  Zeke padded his bomb suit like a best man feeling for wedding rings. He pointed to a pouch on the front breastplate.

  “Yep, in here.”

  “Okay, let’s do it.”

  As soon as they left the quarterdeck, Ash curled up in a ball on the floor. He laid his head on his waterproof bag.

  “Willy, LT, call me if you need me.”

  He was asleep before they answered.

  “Ash, get up.”

  When he opened his eyes, De Napoli was standing over him.

  “We got more work for you.”

  He rose and stumbled like a zombie over to where Willy and January were standing.

  “What’s up?”

  “We think we got some cutting to do,” Willy said.

  Zeke’s voice came over the comms box.

  “CP, P. We’re coming back.”

  “CP,” January answered.

  “What’s happening?”

  “They can’t separate the missile from the MER. Zeke thinks we can cut off at the pylon.”

  “How?”

  “Blow torch. The DCA is having one brought up now.”

  “Damn, Willy, what’s the first thing they teach you at EOD school? Heat, shock and friction don’t mix well with explosives. Who the hell is gonna do this?”

  “You.”

  “What! Forget it.”

  Now De Napoli spoke up. “Ash, we took some convincing, too. Listen to Willy. I think he has a good point. Willy, tell him what you told us.”

  “Ash, this thing has experienced a heck of a lotta heat shock and friction already. It didn’t detonate when the helo crunched into the VLS, it didn’t cook off when it was on fire.”

  “The DCA hit it with water.”

  “You won’t be cutting on the weapon, you’ll just hit a bead along the pylon.”

  By now Zeke and Bailey had returned. The whole det was looking at Ash.

  “So why me?”

  De Napoli was quick with the answer. “You used to be a Hull Technician. You are the best of us at using a blow torch.”

  “Heat, shock, friction.”

  “Chicken,” replied De Napoli.

  “Fine, I’ll do it. But after this thing comes from together and turns me into a big pink mist, you’re the motherfucker that mows my lawn every Saturday.”

  “In more ways than one baby.”

  De Napoli deflected Ash’s punch with his forearm. The whole detachment laughed at the two friends.

  “Okay. Well, if I am going down there to put fire on the damn thing, I am not wearing the bomb suit. I cannot work with that on.”

  Willy and January looked at each other a moment. Both felt a modicum of responsibility for Ash’s safety; January as the OIC, Willy as the det member who derived the plan.

  Finally January said, “Okay.”

  Zeke helped Ash move all the bottles and equipment to the site. Ash looked at the work accomplished while he slept. The tripods were in place, the chain falls hung from each, and the crate was hoisted up around the missile. Then he looked at the MER.

  “Zeke.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you guys pull the pins out?”

  “Huh?”

  “If you don’t pull the pins out the thing won’t release the weapon. You pulled the pins out before you tried to release it right?”

  “Uh, yeah, we just replaced them afterward to be safe.”

  Ash looked at Zeke sideways.

  “I’m not fooling, Ash, we pulled them out.”

  “Fine, go ahead back.”

  Ash had not done any cutting with a blowtorch in a long time. He checked again to make sure he set up the equipment properly. Then he donned the protective visor, apron, and gloves. He reminded himself that his work did not have to be neat, just a quick cut along the pylon so that it would separate from the fuselage.

  “Okay, P1, P2 is back in CP.”

  “Got it.”

  He lowered the shield over his eyes and brought the torch to life. The cut went very quickly. When he was three quarters of the way across the weight of the missile tore it free. It dropped into the crate, which then swung free in the chain falls.

  Ash turned off the blowtorch and raised the shield.

  “P1, CP. We heard something—are you done?” came January’s voice over the comms box.

  “Yeah. It’s clear.”

  “Ash, this the first time you ever cut on a weapon like this?”

  “Yeah. I’ll never do it again.”

  “First time, you’re buying a case a beer buddy.”

  “Fuck you guys. You owe me much beer for this one.”

  The shrill whistle of a boatwain’s pipe sliced open the early morning slumber of the men aboard Normandy. It resonated throughout the ship emanating from the 1MC, the ship’s public address system.

  “Reveille! Reveille! All hands heave out and trice up! Breakfast for the crew!”

  There was no doubt in Ash’s mind why this tradition remained after hundreds of years at sea. Even a sailor filled with last night’s rum could not doze through it.

  He rose up hitting his head on the rack above his. Cursing, he slid out of it onto the floor. His flight suit hung on a hangar by the locker corresponding to his bu
nk number. The ship’s laundry washed all of the detachment’s clothes during the night, their third at sea.

  The chow line was already too long. Many of the sailors in line had obviously been on watch, awake for the last four to six hours. Others were early risers, ensuring they got their fill before relieving their shipmates who kept them safe during the night.

  Ash headed to the aft gun mount, one level below the VLS deck. The sun was just rising into view. He saw the silhouette of a few other sailors in front of the red light racing over the horizon.

  The hatch closed with a heavy, “CLINK!”

  Ash turned and went up the ladder. There were more sailors there, silently studying the helo. They spoke quietly, as if at a funeral, out of respect for their fallen shipmate. Most of them did not know Lieutenant Commander Lung well, but they knew who he was. They had sailed with him; that was enough.

  A quick look revealed that the ordnance recovered from the wreck was still secured on the pallet. They fashioned a makeshift lid for the missile to encase the weapon with the MER attached.

  Ash walked back over to the port side where he performed his render safe procedure thirty-some hours before. The tripods were still there, but the chain falls were gone. He noticed a fire hose laid out, but nobody was manning it. The crew had long ago secured from general quarters, but they were still ready to respond in the unlikely event that the helo should re-flash.

  Normandy did not return to Norfolk. She sailed further up the James River to the pier at Naval Weapon Station Yorktown, Virginia. Tied up outboard of her was the salvage ship USS Grasp. Lieutenant Commander January spoke with the OIC of EOD Mobile Unit Two Detachment Yorktown. They would store the missile in a magazine for demolition later. Undoubtedly some data would be collected on its survivability for the program office and defense contractor that developed the missile.

  Ash watched as the crane lifted the crate to a flatbed waiting on the pier. After the weapon was swung clear, Grasp would lift the aircraft onto its deck. Like the missile, it would be thoroughly studied by the crash investigation team.

  Chief Smalls of Det Yorktown drove his compatriots back to their facility at Norfolk. As they left the weapon station he spoke over his shoulder.

  “Hey, Ashland, saw your orders on the message board today brother.”

  “Really? What’d they say?”

  “You’re going to Ingleside.”

  TEN

  Graduation

  Melanie was in the auditorium already feeding the baby again. Jazz stood just outside the entrance of EOD School’s main building with his two sons. He kept his eyes on the road, watching for his parents.

  The boys were unusually quiet.

  “I’m very excited to have you guys pin on my crab.”

  “Yeah, we practiced,” said Nick.

  “You guys are awfully quiet.”

  Nick spoke up again. “Mommy said if we’re good we get ice cream!”

  Jazz looked at his reflection in the glass door again. He still wore the gold Surface Warfare pin above his ribbons. He was proud of the destroyer’s bow steaming through the sea superimposed over crossed swords. Jazz worked hard to earn this warfare qualification. It was recognition of his tenure as a mariner.

  Today he would not be awarded a warfare designation but a qualification—Basic EOD Technician. In about an hour, Nicholas would pin the silver EOD crab commonly called the “slick bomb” on the pocket below Jazz’s ribbons.

  The Admiral’s grey Volvo turned left into the parking lot and pulled up to the entrance where Jazz and his sons were waiting. Eleanor got out and the Admiral drove on, looking for a parking spot.

  “He’s just parking the car, dear.”

  “The Admiral’s not in uniform today?”

  “He didn’t want to upstage you on your day. He didn’t want the focus to be shifted from you by all the fanfare of having a flag officer present.”

  The thought surprised Jazz and he suspected that it came from his mother. Jazz did not like to advertise that he was an admiral’s son. Officers in the Surface community plagued him constantly with the question, “Are you Admiral Jascinski’s kid?” Jazz knew that an answer in the affirmative was usually accompanied by the unspoken notion that any success he experienced was due to his lineage rather than his own talent or hard work.

  It was yet another reason to move to Special Operations. The community had no admirals. As a result its officer corps was less political. Culturally, EOD men were measured by performance, not by the rank worn by their parents.

  Melanie emerged from the schoolhouse cradling the baby, now sleeping.

  “I finished just in time. They’ve just marched in all the Navy students. They’re all in formation in the back of the auditorium.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Eleanor. “Can I take her?”

  “Sure, Mom. We’ve got a seat for her inside.”

  “Mel, Mom, why don’t you take the boys inside and get a seat?” said Jazz.

  “Sure,” Melanie smiled. “They’re being so good aren’t they?”

  “Yes, they are.”

  Both lads looked up at their dad and smiled at his approval.

  “You guys are doing great. Nicholas, do you have my pin?”

  “Right in here, Daddy,” said the five-year-old patting his pocket.

  As the family disappeared into the building Jazz spied his sons holding hands. The eldest cupped his hand to his mouth and whispered something to Tyler, a reminder about ice cream.

  The Admiral walked up and extended his hand. Jazz shook hands with him.

  “This is a great day, son.”

  “Yes, sir. ‘Couldn’t ask for better weather.”

  “No, I mean I’m proud of you,” the Admiral replied.

  Jazz imagined his mother reminding him to utter these words sometime during the course of the day. The Admiral could relax now knowing that he met his obligation.

  The Admiral and his son stepped past the formation of naval students to the front of the auditorium. Jazz noted that the hall was set up as if there were a full class graduating. He did not expect that. There were chairs for fifty people, a lot more than would be attending for the three students graduating. The stage was decorated with the Stars and Stripes and the flags of each of the four services. On the curtain at the rear of the stage was the seal of NAVSCOLEOD and the Basic, Senior, and Master EOD badges. The whole area was surrounded by ordnance from the mine museum that were disarmed and cut in half so students could study their innards.

  Jazz took his place in the front row next to Fireman Hopkins and Hull Technician Second Class Huang. His extended family sat several rows behind him.

  “Huang,” Jazz whispered, “do I recognize those two women?”

  “You mean my dates?”

  “Uh, yeah. Who are they?”

  Huang grinned. “Strippers.”

  “Oh shit, it’s Mercedes and Jasmine.”

  “My favorites.”

  Jazz started to laugh. “You dumb sonofabitch. Keep that shit low key.”

  “Gonna celebrate later, LT.”

  Jazz shook his head in disbelief.

  Lieutenant Commander Massie eyed Huang’s guests as he stepped up on the stage. He removed his smile by the time he reached the podium.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please rise. Naval School Explosive Ordnance Disposal, attention.”

  York came to attention and bellowed, “NAVSCOLEOD, ATTEN-HUT!”

  The students came to attention.

  Massie spoke again, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the Commanding Officer of Naval School Explosive Ordnance Disposal, Captain Thomas Grant, United States Navy.”

  Jazz did not know the school’s commanding officer well. He saw him at the base gym periodically, but never had reason to speak with him.

  Captain Grant stepped up to the podium and surveyed the audience. Jazz noticed him trying not to react to Huang’s guests.

  “Thank you, please take your seats.”

  Th
e guests all settled back into their chairs.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, students and soon-to-be graduates, welcome to this momentous occasion at NAVSCOLEOD. Because we have only three sailors graduating today, the pinning ceremony will be short. Therefore I specifically requested that the XO have all Navy students here so that I can use this venue as an opportunity to have a Captain’s Call. I hope that you will permit me to provide a brief history and heritage of the beginning of Explosive Ordnance Disposal.”

  Grant paused and took a drink of water.

  “E.O.D. If I had a nickel for every time someone asked me, ‘What the heck is EOD?’...I’d be a rich man.

  “I assume everyone in here realizes that it stands for Explosive Ordnance Disposal, the military’s bomb squad. As I further answer the question for the uninformed I explain to them that to be in EOD you have to have the hands of a surgeon, the brains of an engineer, and the courage of a martyr. I tell them that in the United States Navy, planes don’t launch until EOD is on deck and amphibious landings don’t occur until EOD says the way is clear. When my brethren in the SEAL Teams suggest with sibling rivalry that we are lacking in comparison, I remind them with pride that when you want a man to swim underneath the hull of a ship to place a limpet mine you call a SEAL. When you need a man to disarm and remove that mine, you call EOD.

  “I also like to point out how Hollywood views this small community. John Wayne was used to portray a Seabee. Tom Cruise was a fighter pilot in ‘TOP GUN.’ Charlie Sheen was a Navy SEAL... but for EOD it was... Elvis.”

  The crowd laughed.

  “The film was ‘Easy Come, Easy Go’ staring Elvis Presley. I highly recommend it.”

  The chuckles continued a moment. Jazz even heard the Admiral guffawing. Now Grant waited until their quiet returned.

  “Draper Kauffman is our father. In fact, he is the father of all disposaleers and demolitioneers. This group includes EOD, SEALs, and the former UDT, the toughest and fittest brood in the United States Navy. And yet ironically Kauffman graduated from the United States Naval Academy in 1933 with a medical record that said he was unfit for service due to poor eyesight.

  “Kauffman joined the Royal Navy in 1940 and volunteered for mine and bomb disposal. In short order he proved to be their best disposaleer. In November 1941, Lieutenant Kauffman returned to the United States on leave. He was subsequently recalled to U.S. Naval Service because it was realized that his bomb disposal experience would be invaluable to our own anticipated war effort.