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

by Stephen Phillips

  The thought was interrupted by Gabriel’s arrival. Nasih looked up as the American’s truck came into view. He parked ten yards from the Land Cruiser, got out and walked up the dune.

  Nasih expected that working with Gabriel’s group would be another unpleasant necessity. He was surprised to find that he somewhat enjoyed teaching them. He had long since divorced himself from any notion of understanding their purpose, but he admired their passion. He recalled the ecstasy of jihad in Afghanistan, the joy of being able to direct his anger. Nasih watched his training evoke the same emotions in Gabriel and his friends. They would be ready soon.

  “Good afternoon, Gabriel.”

  “Hello.”

  “How was your trip?”

  “Successful. I brought my ID. Do you want to see it?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  Gabriel already had it in his hand. Nasih took it and scrutinized it.

  “Perfect. You did well. Any mishaps?”

  “None.”

  Nasih knew already that he did not have to ask Gabriel twice.

  “How is construction of the units coming?”

  “Good. We have some more to do, but it is coming along. We are on schedule.”

  “I would not say that you are on schedule. It was important to be careful, but obtaining the identity cards took a little longer than I expected,” Nasih lied. “Sadly there is no room for error now, Gabriel. We are running out of time.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be ready. I promise.”

  “I hope so. I do have other clients you know.”

  “I know.”

  Nasih looked up and down the beach again. There were still only the two fishermen. He sensed nervousness in Gabriel’s posture.

  Good, thought Nasih. Just a little more and these men will be ready to explode—literally.

  “Walk with me to my car, Gabriel.”

  As Nasih got into the driver’s seat he said, “Look on the passenger seat. Do you see that envelope?”

  “Yes,” replied Gabriel.

  “Pick it up.”

  Gabriel picked up the manila envelope and opened it.

  “Inside, you will find my contact information, a new cell phone number and email address. Contact me if there are any issues that will keep us from our schedule. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Nasih turned the engine on. Gabriel backed away from the rumbling SUV and watched Nasih put in gear and drive away. Nasih looked out to the sea and frowned. He hoped that the units would be ready on time.

  Jazz and Fontaine began turning over responsibility for EOD Mobile Unit Six Detachment Four after the warrant officer returned from the unexpected Secret Service gig. On Monday, inventory of the dive gear was scheduled for the morning and tours of the Pioneer, Kingfisher, and Inchon were slated for the afternoon.

  T-Ball was the dive locker petty officer. He came in early and skipped morning PT to lay out all of the gear. As a result the inventory went smoothly. Jazz counted fourteen sets of scuba jugs, six Mark-16s, twelve lo-mu knives, ten masks, ten depth gauges, fourteen regulators, and a wide variety of test equipment and tools. As he counted each, checked the serial numbers, and signed the inventory sheet assuming responsibility for the gear, T-Ball neatly stowed the items in the appropriate drawer or shelf.

  Fontaine wanted to give Jazz a familiarization tour of the Inchon and one ship from each class of minesweeper. So after the inventory, the two officers took the det HUMMVEE down to the waterfront. The doors and back window were never on it in the summertime, but the canvas roof never came off. Its diesel was very loud, but Jazz tried to ask Fontaine a few questions anyway.

  “How often are you guys able to dive!” he yelled.

  Fontaine kept his eyes forward, but turned his face toward Jazz yelling back.

  “We try to get wet once a week, but sometimes it’s difficult. What often happens is we’ll get a ton of dives one month and less the next. For example, you have an exercise coming up with USS Scout. You will have long days of diving for about a week. You may not dive again until Readiness Training in Virginia.”

  Fontaine pulled the HUMMVEE into a spot adjacent to the pier and cut the engine.

  “Captain Solarsky said I should ask about how you guys respond to IED calls in town.”

  “Yeah. It is actually a little complicated. Remind me to tell you about that later.”

  They started with a tour of Pioneer. The MCM’s had an organic sonar and a sophisticated suite of computers to analyze the incoming data.

  “These guys are good. It amazes me sometimes the stuff they find,” Fontaine said.

  Pioneer’s fantail was covered with sweep gear designed to detonate influence mines and special cutters to part the cables of contact mines lying just below the ocean’s surface. She also had a remotely piloted vehicle, or ROV, that could hunt for mines with its own sonar. Kingfisher was similar to Pioneer, only smaller. The MHCs did not have the exotic sweep gear, but as a result their fantails were wide open.

  “We prefer to embark onboard these ships as a result,” Fontaine explained from the open spot on Pioneer’s stern. “There is plenty of space for our Mark-5 inflatable and all of our gear.”

  Finally, the two boarded the Mine Warfare Command Ship. The hangar deck of the Inchon reminded Jazz of an aircraft carrier. It was probably fifty feet off the waterline, higher than the bridge on Pioneer or Kingfisher. It was about the size of four basketball gyms in length, width, and height. Fontaine explained that it housed the MH-53E Sea Dragon Helicopters, the Navy’s mine-hunting variant of the Super Stallion.

  “We call ‘em ‘Hurricanes.’ And let me tell you they are big sombitches.”

  “How do they work?”

  “What, you mean finding mines? Well, the helos drag a ‘fish’ behind ‘em on a cable. It has sonar onboard that sends a signal to the operator in the back. The operator marks every contact and its position is recorded. The squadron has a CIC of sorts a few decks above us where all the data is downloaded, analyzed and disseminated. Sometimes we get info in a few hours. I’ve dove contacts in the late afternoon that a Hurricane found that morning. The helos also employ a sled that they can drag behind that sweeps for influence and contact mines. Just like the MCMs.”

  Behind the hangar deck laid an open space that belonged to EOD Mobile Unit Six.

  “It is still called ‘Aft V,’” Fontaine explained. “Used to be Marine Aft Vehicle Storage when they were aboard. We can fit three FADLs, a Fly-Away Recompression Chamber, and a support skid back here. It becomes EOD-land very quickly.”

  The rest of Fontaine’s Inchon tour was unremarkable. He showed Jazz office space and berthing that was used by EOD. The most interesting part of the Inchon tour for Jazz was the boat davits. Modified with new cradles, winches, and cranes for raising and lowering EOD RHIBs, the Mine Warfare Command Ship could launch four at any time.

  Back in the detachment’s shop, Jazz asked again about responding to IEDs.

  “You told me to remind you about IED incidents in town. I talked with Solarsky about it when I visited the command in Charleston. He said we only go out in a few circumstances.”

  “Not exactly true. Like I said, it is actually a little complicated. First, we do not have jurisdiction down here. Geographically it belongs an Army EOD unit in San Antonio, the 797th.”

  “Wow, that’s two hours away.”

  “Right. Remember that we are a mobile det, not a shore detachment. So we have a memorandum of understanding to respond to calls out in town only when in extremis. If the stuff is stable, or once it is stable, you call the Seven-Niner-Seven.”

  “Then they come pick it up?”

  “Yeah. We have transported stuff up there for them a few times when we have been free and they’ve been busy. As a result, they allow us to use their demolition range for training from time to time.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Listen, you are not going to have to deal with this anyway. The ordnance that we find do
wn here is usually either old World War II mines that get caught in commercial fishnets or hand grenades that grandpa brought back from the war. So, don’t worry about it. You will never have to respond to an IED.”

  At the day’s end Jazz went into the conference room and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. He studied the plaques and photos around the room. Most were given as in appreciation for one of the EOD det’s support during a Gulf or Squadron Exercise.

  Hooya to Det TWO RONEX 95-1. From the men of OSPREY.

  From GLADIATOR to DET 4, RONEX 97-2.

  Clean Sweep! GOMEX 97-4

  There were photos of Techs performing various EOD missions sprinkled in between the plaques.

  A board in the middle of the room caught Jazz’s eye. His name was on it, so was Delgado’s, and two of the names he recognized from Det Two. The top of the board read, “SENIOR TECH,” with a Senior EOD badge affixed below it. Each of the names had a Basic crab next to it. Jazz’s was blue.

  “Chief!”

  “Sir?”

  “What the heck is this?”

  Chief Keating got up from the desk and came into the conference room.

  “What’s what, sir?”

  “This chart or board or whatever....”

  “Ah, that’s the progress report on all the slick bombs going for Senior Tech. As they progress by completing qualifications we move the Basic pin over to the right. Once they reach the end, they get to sit on the Senior Board.

  “Why the fuck is mine blue?”

  Keating smiled. “Inert.”

  “Huh?”

  “See the two holes drilled in it? Inert ordnance is painted blue and has holes drilled in them. We figure you’re inert till you do something.”

  “So, I’m worse than a slick bomb?”

  “And an officer to boot...” the chief said with a twinkle in his eye.

  “You dirty bastards.”

  “Welcome to EOD, sir. You realize that as an 1140, you will catch more shit from the team than anyone. I hope you can dish it out or at least you’re thick skinned.”

  “Great.”

  “Oh and another thing, every first is a case of beer.”

  “What?”

  “After your first dive you owe the det one case of beer. Same for first time underway, first cast operation, first fast-rope, and anything else we can get ya on.”

  Jazz smiled. “Wonderful.” I am gonna love this place.

  THIRTEEN

  RONEX 99-6

  The RHIB’s radio crackled, waking Jazz.

  “Tiburon Four, Tiburon Four, this is Pathfinder, over.”

  “LT, Scout’s callin’ us,” Delgado said from behind the helm. Jazz sat up at the sound of his new nickname, L-T, the initials for Lieutenant. He opened his eyes, squinting in the sun. The whole det sunned themselves while Scout hunted for mines in the exercise field.

  “Maybe they finally found something,” Quinn suggested.

  Jazz grabbed the radio.

  “Pathfinder, this is Tiburon Four, over.”

  “Four this is Finder. Standby to copy lat and long of mine-like object.”

  Keating grabbed the Dive Supervisor’s binder from the seat behind the console. He nodded at his OIC.

  “Pathfinder, this is Tiburon Four. Send it.”

  “This is Pathfinder. November two seven decimal seven one tree tree six niner four, whiskey niner seven decimal one zero seven zero seven zero niner, how copy? Over.”

  “Got it, LT,” Keating said.

  “This is Tiburon Four, roger. Interrogative water depth, over.”

  “Four this is ‘Finder. Five nine feet, over.”

  “This is Four, roger out.”

  The boat immediately sprang to life as Keating began shouting orders.

  “This is Chief Keating. I have the side! Delgado, enter those points in the GPS and call it waypoint ten. Ball and LT dress out. T-Ball, you’re diving. LT is standby. Quinn, Sinclair, you guys are tenders.

  “Dee, after you enter the waypoint, come up slow and head for it. We can close the distance, but I want these guys to be able to dress on the way there.”

  “I know, Chief, especially since the seas are picking up.”

  “Right. Okay, let’s do it.”

  Jazz and Ball slipped on ‘shorties,’ one-piece wetsuits with long sleeves over the arms, but only shorts for the legs. They both stuck their heads into Mark-4 life vests that were shaped like a horse-collar yoke around their necks. Jazz thought of the Admiral as he strapped the knife on his left inner calf.

  “Where in the heck did you get that dinosaur, LT?” asked Keating.

  “Uh, my Dad got it for me at an antique shop.”

  “Damn, I haven’t seen one of those bad boys in years.”

  “Yeah, you only see ‘em in the schoolhouse these days,” agreed Quinn.

  Quinn and Sinclair helped the divers don the Mark-16 dive rigs, weight belts, and fins.

  Keating staged the two-alpha sonar and then looked them both over quickly.

  “Looks like you guys are basically ready. Okay get ‘em sitting down low in the boat. Good. Scout is way the hell down on the other side of this minefield. I’m going to have Dee skirt the field, come back up in speed, and then turn back in. Everyone hold on.”

  “Comin’ up!” Dee shouted.

  Jazz felt like a fish out of water. He sat across from T-Ball who appeared to be dozing. The weight of the dive rig made the shoulder and waist straps cut into Jazz’s shoulders and gut. Even though they were in the stern he could feel the RHIB pounding through the seas. Each bounce jarred his fillings. The hot Texas sun baked him, the thick neoprene of his wetsuit making it worse. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the mission.

  The seas were definitely getting rough, though it was a beautiful day otherwise. Not a cloud in the sky, just a light breeze, no portents of bad weather were there. It was just as Fontaine described.

  An old familiar feeling crept into Jazz’s mouth. He felt sweat beading on his forehead. His stomach began to churn like a washing machine.

  I’m getting seasick.

  He fought the urge to throw-up.

  “There’s Scout, Chief!” Delgado called out.

  Jazz looked toward the bow. Scout was coming toward them on the starboard side.

  “Should we call her?” Delgado asked.

  “Nah, Dee. She is headed back north on one of her search legs, just don’t get in her way. They know where we are.”

  “Well, we are almost there.”

  Delgado slowed the RHIB and turned it back into the minefield. Jazz opened his eyes and looked up. Keating turned back to his divers.

  “Hold on, guys. We’ve slowed, but we’re going to run with the seas on the beam for a short while.”

  Delgado turned the helm more to starboard. Everyone reached for handrails sewn into the pontoons and held on.

  One moment Jazz was looking at nothing but blue sky, the next he watched green sea frothing next to the RHIB threatening to break and fill the boat with saltwater. He rolled over on all fours and pulled himself up onto the pontoon. The contents of his stomach spilled into the Gulf of Mexico. To make it worse, Jazz was very loud about it.

  His men began to cheer and jeer him.

  “Hooya, LT!”

  “I’ll get ya some medication, LT. Where’s your purse?”

  “Don’t send an officer to do a man’s job.”

  “At least he’s got a pretty knife.”

  Only the chief was somewhat kind.

  “You okay, sir?”

  Jazz sat low in the RHIB again. He felt a little better, but his stomach muscles ached now. He looked at Keating. There was only one right answer to his question.

  “I’m fine, Chief.”

  “Alright, fellas, we’re almost there. Tenders, standby your divers. Dee, turn to keep the nose in the sea. I wanna be able to stand up again while we do this. What’s our depth?”

  “Five seven feet, Chief!”

&nbs
p; Keating grabbed the binder and a grease pencil again.

  “Okay, T-Ball, you will be on a sixty foot schedule for fifty seven minutes, but don’t you dare use that much time. I’m gonna pull you in way before that. If you go to sixty-one feet you are on a seventy foot schedule for fifty one minutes max got it?”

  “Hooya, Chief.”

  “Okay, divers and tenders, standby for checks.”

  T-Ball and Jazz were helped up onto the pontoon. Sinclair was Jazz’s tender. He offered water from the Camelbak on his back. The officer took it.

  Keating called out again, “Okay, here we go. Mark-4 life jacket on diver, carts installed, actuators up, red clips in!”

  Both tenders pulled on the black inflatable life jacket hanging around each diver’s neck. They verified it was secure and that the four CO2 carts that could be used to inflate it were installed properly.

  “Check, primary!” yelled Quinn.

  “Check, standby!” yelled Sinclair.

  “Mark-16 on diver, full facemask with primary attached, secondary installed.

  “Check, primary!”

  “Check, standby!”

  “O2 and diluent gas valves opened fully then backed a quarter turn. Divers do it, tenders verify.”

  Jazz and T-Ball leaned forward and reached back behind each buttock. The tenders watched as they opened each valve fully and turned it back a quarter turn to ensure it was not jammed open. Sometimes tenders would catch a diver, tired, seasick, in rough seas, at night, closing their gas bottles. Sometimes tenders missed it and the divers discovered the error within feet of leaving the surface.

  “Check, primary!”

  “Check, standby!”

  “Weight belt on and outside all equipment!”

  “Check, primary!”

  “Check, standby!”

  “Knife!”

  “Check, primary!”