“No kidding.”
Jazz surveyed the police officers approaching the conference room. He recognized Detective Iglesias from the incident. Behind the detective was a San Patricio uniformed officer and two other plain-clothes officers. One was a relatively casually dressed man. The second was a very attractive Latino woman.
“Good morning, gentlemen, ma’am. Welcome to EOD Mobile Unit Six, Detachment Four. I’m Lieutenant Jascinski.”
Iglesias extended his hand. “I’m sure you remember me, Lieutenant. I’m Detective Iglesias. You may recognize the other San Patricio officer with me, he is Sergeant Weaver. This is Agent Atkins of the ATF and Special Agent Elena Cruz of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Everyone exchanged handshakes and business cards. Jazz pointed them into the conference room and followed them.
Jazz was taken aback by the FBI agent. Special Agent Cruz looked more like a business woman than a federal agent. She was dressed in a dark pinstripe suit that complemented her figure. It was just on the edge between “attractive” and “sexy.” She clearly had a long mane of black hair, but it was tied up.
Very elegant, Jazz thought.
She turned around just before walking into the conference room and smiled at him.
Keating and T-Ball were already sitting at one end of the conference room table. They both gave him a look as Cruz sat down. Jazz introduced them to the officers, saving Special Agent Cruz of the FBI for last.
More cards and pleasantries were exchanged as Jazz walked around the table and sat next to Chief Keating. Iglesias and Weaver sat to one side. Their body language told Jazz that they were here only to represent their department and make introductions. Iglesias did not pull out a notebook or paper as his federal counterparts did.
Atkins appeared as the three EOD Techs did, as if he had just woken up. It was obvious that he had not shaved or combed his hair in the last twenty-four hours. He rubbed his eyes as if trying to stay awake. On the belt holding his worn jeans up and rumpled polo shirt in was a badge that identified him as an Agent for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms.
Cruz was another matter. Though she clasped a coffee cup, she appeared more together in dress and demeanor. She pulled out a pair of dark-rimmed glasses from a case and put them on with a hint of drama. Cruz picked up her coffee and blew on it through pursed lips as she considered her notebook. Jazz realized every man in the room was gawking at her. They all remained dazed as Cruz began sipping her coffee and flipping through her notebook. The fact that everyone was waiting for her told Jazz that Cruz was the one in charge of this meeting in more ways than one. He decided to get the ball rolling.
“Uh, how can we help you this morning?” Jazz said.
Cruz held up a manicured finger. She adjusted her glasses and flipped again through her notebook. Atkins made a show of looking through his notepad again and uncapping a pen, but Jazz decided that he was right, Cruz was the lead in the investigation. She finally spoke, turning to the men from San Patricio.
“Detective, Sergeant, would you leave us for a moment?”
Iglesias looked puzzled.
“Uh, yeah. Sure.”
Cruz smiled sweetly at them as they left. Jazz did not know why, but beyond the sex appeal, something about the agent made him feel nervous. She waited until Iglesias and Weaver left the conference room before turning back to Jazz.
“Lieutenant Jascinski, we have some questions regarding the accident that occurred yesterday. Are you familiar with all the items in the explosive vehicle?”
Jazz almost melted at her husky voice. His brain froze a moment as he considered the possibilities. Cruz looked slightly over her glasses at him, her face holding just a hint of amusement. She knew what synapses were firing in his head... she was used to this reaction.
Jazz finally snapped out of it. “Yes, ma’am, in the sense that I knew it was C-4 and blasting caps. We work with those items commonly. In fact they were military. I believe they were stolen.”
“You are correct. We’ll get to that in a minute. What else was there?”
Now Atkins began writing furiously. Perhaps he was merely here to take notes for Cruz.
“Well, there were some IEDs there, or at least what Petty Officer Ball and I believed to be IEDs.”
“How or why did you come to that conclusion?”
Her voice was almost condescending.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but can I ask a question?”
“By all means.”
“Why are you asking me this? Wasn’t there an FBI agent there on the scene?”
“Yes there was. In fact, it was me. I am a Special Agent but I have also been trained in post-blast investigations. I arrived from San Antonio a few hours after you left. I conducted an investigation of the site and decided that it was in fact best that the Army EOD team take the explosives to their facility for storage until we determined our next course of action.”
Jazz sat back and breathed a sigh of relief. Cruz had agreed with the recommendation to have the Army move the explosives. In fact, she directed that exact course of action. He knew that Solarsky would be pleased to know this. He was tempted to ask to be excused immediately to phone his superior but decided against it.
“Again, ma’am, respectfully, then why are you asking me these questions? You were there? I’ll be frank with you, we thought you were coming here to try to lay blame on us for the accident.”
Cruz stared at Jazz a moment. He watched her blink several times as if she were considering something very carefully. Nobody moved.
Finally Cruz spoke, “Did you puncture the tire on the 797th’s explosive vehicle, Lieutenant?”
“Of course not, I...”
“Did you set a demolition charge on the vehicle’s gas tank? Did you shoot Sergeants West and Martin in the back of the head?”
Now Jazz had no response. The conference room became so silent that he could hear the lights humming.
“Lieutenant, I have just found out that there is a very organized group in southern Texas that would like to use military explosives to build IEDs and commit who knows what other sinister deeds. This group is so organized and intent on carrying out their agenda that they were able to discern, probably from intercepting emails, telephone conversations, and radio traffic, that Martin and West were picking up their explosives and transporting them to Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio. Somehow they punctured the 797th’s explosives vehicle right front tire, probably during a fueling stop and, if the sergeants were following procedure, while the vehicle had at least one armed guard. They then approached the sergeants while they repaired the flat some ten miles away, probably to offer assistance, which came in the form of a nine millimeter round to the back of the head.
“They did all of this with only hours of notice, emphasizing their organizational skills and planning ability. Many highly trained military units would not have been able to carry out this same mission with more warning time.
“The only silver lining in this story is that this organization, ironically, is not very knowledgeable in the use of explosives. They tried to make it appear as if the vehicle was consumed in an explosive accident, which remains the official story. They did not place the explosives correctly, nor did they use enough. Undoubtedly, they wished to recover most of the cargo.”
“Holy shit,” murmured T-Ball.
“Gentlemen, we have failed being subtle,” Cruz continued. “I hope you understand that my concern is to not let this leak. We have not even told the soldiers’ families the true story, they may never know. More importantly, it is our intention to deceive the culprits into the notion that they are not under suspicion.”
“So what do you need from us, ma’am?” asked T-Ball.
“I need any and all information you obtained during your investigation. You may have some insight or may have merely seen something that can enlighten us. Did you take pictures?”
“Dozens,” Jazz answered.
“Could we have t
hem?”
“Sure, T-Ball...”
“On it, sir.”
T-Ball got up to go retrieve the photos. After Jazz saw Ball disappear down the hall, he felt Cruz staring at him. He turned and looked back at the Agent. Cruz’s expression was indiscernible.
Is she looking at me or lost in thought? Jazz wondered.
After a moment, Cruz asked, “Lieutenant, please give me a verbal description of everything that happened. I will take notes and interject as you relay your story. Agent Atkins and I will both take notes. Okay?”
“Sure.”
During his narrative, both Cruz and Atkins interrupted him several times. Atkins’ questions seemed to be related more to the explosives and the proximity fuzes. Cruz’s questions probed more into the specific actions of Jazz, T-Ball, and the other law enforcement personnel at the scene. Jazz suspected that she might believe that someone at the scene was involved in the crime based on her line of questioning. He then realized why Iglesias was asked to leave the room.
Jazz gave as much information to Cruz as he could. When they were done, Keating offered to show all the law enforcement officers the way out. Jazz resisted seeing Special Agent Elena Cruz to the door.
Jazz sat and thought for a long time about the fact that it could have been he and T-Ball who transported the explosive materials to San Antonio. He could have been killed on the job the night before instead of West and Martin.
Then something Jazz’s brain clicked. He looked up to the PQS board. The EOD crab next to his name was silver.
Jazz debated how to tell Melanie about the 797th EOD men, though there was nothing to debate. It was clear that Cruz wanted to maintain the story that the vehicle had met with some type of accident. Jazz knew after the previous night that before he was finished telling his wife what happened, the conversation would turn into another argument.
“Damnit, Jazz, this is just what I’m talking about!”
“Mel, they fucked up! They packed the explosives improperly, or smoked in the vehicle, or used a cell phone. They were knuckleheads and that’s all there is to it.”
“Yeah, well I’m sure those EOD Techs have had this same discussion with their wives!”
“That is not fair.”
“I’m leaving. Take care of the kids.”
As Melanie drove off, Jazz wondered if this was going to happen regularly.
Elena Cruz drove two hours back to the San Antonio office. Almost nobody was there. She compiled her notes and transcribed them onto the computer. It was almost ten o’clock when she got home.
Frances, Elena’s roommate, left a note stuck to a bottle of wine on the dining room table.
Thought you’d need this to end your day.
Elena consumed a few glasses of wine trying to forget about the case. The only thing that distracted her from the gruesome sight of the two victims was Lieutenant Jascinski. His blue eyes tugged at something within her. She fell asleep thinking of him.
EIGHTEEN
Denke
An oiler of the Supply class caught Jazz’s eye. She was entering the Thimble Shoals Channel at the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay. He could just make out men lined up on deck to act as linehandlers for entering port. A gathering, probably including the captain and the pilot, were on the port bridge wing.
Jazz continued without slowing. The sand on the beach reminded him of Panama City Florida, because he was running in it. Despite being the junction of the nation’s largest bay and the Atlantic Ocean, the seas were still. A light breeze blew over them and into Jazz’s lungs. The cold air in his chest burned.
Up ahead Jazz could make out first Delgado, then Ball turning right off the beach. Somewhere behind Jazz were the other members of Det Four with Keating undoubtedly trailing.
Jazz turned right, crossing the street and entering the forest beyond.
Although an Army base, Fort Story was home to more sailors and Marines than soldiers. The Army had a transportation corps and its music school there. The Coast Guard maintained a small contingent to man the Cape Elizabeth Lighthouse.
The bulk of Fort Story, the forest, belonged to the Navy and Marine Corps’ operators, though they sometimes could be seen on other parts of the base.
Dependants using the beach would sometimes see men in exotic diving gear suddenly emerging from the water. Base residents often witnessed high-speed watercraft disgorging a line of swimmers laden with weapons and tools of their trade into tepid waters. The base police force reminded its rookies not to be alarmed if they encountered soaking wet, heavily armed men working their way along the road.
Marines struggled through the last days of the Amphibious Recon Course here, patrolling for days across the base unobserved. SEALs practiced CQB, close quarters battle, inside a labyrinth of underground concrete bunkers that connected four shore gun emplacements. Now rendered defunct by radar and other technologies, the weapons were removed long ago.
The bunkers once housed Explosive Ordnance Disposal Mobile Unit Two and Training and Evaluation Unit Two. EODMU TWO moved to the Naval Amphibious Base at Little Creek Virginia. EODTEU TWO obtained a more modern facility at Fort Story, but retained possession of the ancient bunkers.
Every two years each EOD detachment in the Navy rotated through TEU TWO on the East coast or TEU ONE on the West coast to complete six weeks of refresher training called Readiness Improvement Training or READIMPT. The training was in preparation for re-certifying the detachment as a deployable asset. Now it was Det Four’s turn.
While in training the detachment would learn the newest information regarding each of their mission areas. The training routine was one or two days of classroom time followed by two or three days of drills imposed upon the det by the TEU TWO instructors. It was a great time for the det to hone their skills and to develop teamwork. It was also a great time for the junior EOD Techs, the Basic Techs, to work on their Personal Qualification System. Jazz intended to get his PQS book signed off in order to pursue Senior Technician.
When he told Melanie about READIMPT she was not happy. She could not fathom that he had to go to Virginia for six weeks while she was alone in Texas.
“This is feeling like the ship again,” Melanie said as her shoulders slumped.
“How?” Jazz asked though he already knew.
“You’re gone even when you’re home.”
Jazz could see that Melanie was defeated. He put his arms around her. “Maybe we’ll fly you guys up while I am there. You could stay with Mom and Dad.”
Jazz ran on an asphalt road now, he passed the demolition range and the helicopter landing zone. He continued on the access road winding through the forest until he arrived at the “Hill of Woe,” a long steep incline of sand and turned ankles. He could see Dee and T-Ball already at the top gasping for breath.
As he ascended he felt the pain, mostly in his hips. Several times Jazz fell forward digging his hands in the sand in front of him as minor avalanches of sand slipped away from under his feet. He was nearly walking when he reached the top.
“Hooya,” he croaked, trying to show spirit to his teammates.
“Bitch ain’t it, LT?” remarked Delgado.
“Mmmhmm.”
When the last det member, Keating, reached the top, they formed up and ran their last half-mile back to TEU TWO together.
In the parking lot T-Ball spoke up.
“Ash, recognize that truck?”
“Yep, looks like Denke’s here.”
Keating patted Jazz on the back.
Det Four was in the classroom phase of IEDs. Their instructor was a chief petty officer named Potter. Like all instructors at the training unit, Potter kept abreast of the latest intelligence and technology in his mission area by interfacing with the FBI, ATF, and the EOD Technology Division in Indian Head, Maryland. His first lecture covered bombings in the recent past carried out by known terrorists, followed by those that had no claimants. After that they took a coffee break and he gave a lesson on the newest techniques used
by terrorists. The afternoon class was scheduled to be a review of tools and methods used in the IED mission area by U.S. forces and their allies given by Hull Technician First Class Yurwitz.
Through Potter’s class, Jazz sat in the back of the room eyeing Denke sitting up front. Grover Denke was skinnier than Jazz imagined. He expected the senior chief to be built like a mythical superman, tall, blonde, and with an atlas-like figure. Instead, Denke was built like a triathlete. The senior chief was of average height, thin, and bald. Jazz surmised Denke would run like a gazelle and swim like a fish.
He approached him during a coffee break in the Potter’s class.
“Hey, Senior Chief, welcome to the det.”
“Why thank you, sir, and welcome to EOD. I look forward to working with you.”
“How ‘bout we get together over lunch and talk things out.”
“Ah, the ‘OIC –LCPO coffee klatch.’”
“Exactly.”
“You got it, sir. I’ll be here.”
Denke and Jazz decided to meet in an empty classroom. Jazz poured himself a cup of black coffee and entered the room. Denke was already there.
“Senior Chief.”
“Sir, how are you doing?”
“Fine thanks. Again, welcome to Det Four. I look forward to working with you.”
“Same here.”
“Good. Let me tell you a little bit about myself,” said Jazz. Jazz sat down across from the senior chief. “I started as a SWO, so I have a few years of fleet experience. I served two tours before lateral transferring to EOD. Obviously, this is my first assignment in Special Operations.”
“Obviously. Well how do you like it so far, sir?”
“I like it a lot. Coming into EOD has been a goal of mine for a long time. How ‘bout you? Have you always been an EOD Tech? I mean, since you entered the Navy.”
“No, sir. I also came from the fleet,” Denke took a sip of his coffee. “Look, LT, this is about the OIC- LCPO thing right?”
“Uh, correct. I think we need to get things straight before we can work together.”
“Well, sir, you need to get this straight, I did come from the fleet and I do understand the ‘lieutenant to senior chief relationship,’” Denke said curtly, “I want to make sure that you understand the ‘Master Technician to Slick Bomb relationship.’”
Proximity: A Novel of the Navy's Elite Bomb Squad Page 14