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

by Stephen Phillips

  Donohue stepped back. Guinness was ready to do the dirty work if needed. There were three other officers within ten yards ready to react.

  The man got out of the car and looked at him. He was sweating. Donohue thanked Saint Michael again for his police instinct.

  “Turn around slowly and place your hands on the front of the vehicle.”

  The man did as instructed.

  “Officer Perelli!” Donohue shouted.

  Perelli came up. Donohue put one hand on his service weapon.

  “Put your right hand behind your back,” commanded Perelli.

  He clipped a handcuff on the suspect.

  “Now, the other one... okay, turn around.”

  “Step away from the car,” said Donohue. “Smoot, let those good people get to their cars so they can leave now.”

  Gabriel could not see Donohue’s eyes through his sunglasses.

  Calm down. You are not in control of the situation. Don’t give him anything.

  “Lieutenant Smith, as I stated before, I stopped you for a routine safety inspection. While on federal land, the Defensive Protective Service, of which I am an officer, has the right to conduct such inspections as a matter of routine. In fact by driving your vehicle on federal land you tacitly agree to have your vehicle searched at any time. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. But... no, I don’t understand. Why the handcuffs?”

  “Well, sir, my dog is trained to detect explosives and illicit drugs. He detected a substance in one of those two categories in your vehicle. Can you explain that?”

  “No, I... I don’t do drugs or anything.”

  “What about explosives, sir? Do you have any firearms in your vehicle or fireworks... something like that?”

  “No... none.”

  “Okay. Here is our second problem. We have no record of a ‘Lieutenant James P. Smith.’ What is your social security number, sir?”

  “Five one two, three three, six six seven nine.”

  This was the first thing he had done correctly, memorizing his false social security number. Gabriel swore that he would never forget or ignore another lesson that Nasih taught him if he got through this.

  “Okay, LT. Here’s what we’re going to do. I am going to ask you to wait in the back of Officer Perelli’s squad car. We’re gonna figure out what to do about all this.”

  Gabriel remained silent. Perelli walked him to his car and put him in the back. The door closed behind him. There was steel mesh separating the front from the back. Perelli opened the front door, leaned in, and turned off the radio.

  “The air conditioning is on, Lieutenant. You should be comfortable. If you become ill or if you need medical attention... anything like that... call out. I’ll roll your window down a skosh.”

  He watched the officer walk back toward his car.

  Donohue put Guinness back in his vehicle. He opened Smith’s car and found the trunk latch below the dash, left of the steering wheel. Donohue pulled it and heard a click. He walked back to the tail of the Grand Am.

  “Perelli.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Better get the bomb squad down here.”

  Elena sipped a cappuccino in the Starbucks across from the federal courthouse in San Antonio. The clientele this Wednesday morning were either clerks or lawyers who would spend their day across the street or tourists on their way to and from the shops and cookie cutter restaurants.

  She looked into the swirls of white and brown foam on the top of the paper cup bearing the café’s logo and considered one last time what she was about to do. Elena was almost surprised that her boss accepted her theory. Perhaps it was the desperation of the case. There were rumors that even the Governor of Texas was calling the FBI weekly now, wanting to know how the hell someone could kill two soldiers and steal explosives within the border of his great state and not leave a trace of evidence. The criminal investigative services of both the Army the Navy were maneuvering carefully to get more involved in the investigation, but Cameron was keeping them at bay.

  Elena wrestled with her uncertainty, and yet Jazz seemed the only lead. She remembered the sounds of Cam’s voice passing through coffee and tobacco stained teeth.

  “If you fucking screw this up...”

  Was she just grasping at straws? Had she missed something? Or was there nothing to be found?

  Deep down she believed that there had to be something else, some evidence buried somewhere within the case files in his office that still eluded her. The FBI Academy taught her one certainty--there is always at least one remote clue that leads to the perpetrator. The key was to find it and exploit it before the criminals were able to separate themselves from it. But it had to be the right clue.

  Was it the blue-eyed naval officer?

  One more time Elena went over it in her mind. It was the best thing she could do right now to keep the case moving. She remembered what Frances said to her just hours before.

  “Listen, I think you should go to the judge and get the ball rolling. I mean worse case you don’t find anything, right? Then you guys pack your stuff and go home. Nobody gets hurt, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess, except it would mean that we devote a lot of time and energy to nothing.”

  She watched Frances take a drag on her cigarette.

  “Does that ever happen?”

  “Yes, but not often.”

  “What is it about this case?” Frances asked. “This one seems different somehow.”

  It’s different because I want to bed my suspect.

  Elena’s thoughts returned to Jascinski. She finished her drink and looked at the form requesting surveillance on Jascinski one more time. Maybe this will lead to something, she tried to tell herself.

  She got up and threw her paper cup in the nearest trash can. Then she walked across the street, up the steps, and into the Chambers of Judge William Normal.

  Thomas Donahue was exhausted after a long shift. He entered the department’s locker room at dawn, and considered napping on a couch in the squad lounge before driving home. He couldn’t stop thinking of the incident the day before. Perelli came in the locker room just behind Donohue.

  “Donny, that was good stop,” he said slapping Donohue on the back.

  “Then why the hell is he walking?”

  “The man posted bail,” Perelli replied.

  “He was going to blow up the fucking Pentagon! He had a false ID card!”

  “Illegal possession of explosives of firearms and impersonating an officer.”

  “So why isn’t he behind bars?”

  “The man has got himself a lawyer,” Perelli said with resignation.

  Perelli took the nine-millimeter Sig-Sauer out of its holster and released the clip. He pulled the slide back and ejected a round from the chamber. Out of habit, he sited the bore in the light above his locker to make positively sure there was not a round in the barrel. Then he released the slide and set the weapon in his locker. He looked at Donohue sitting on the bench in front of his locker, hunched over with his head in his hands.

  “Listen, Donny. I have seen a lot of things in my day. Believe me this is not the first time some James Bond, Dick Marcinko wanna-be drove around the parking lot with an arsenal in his trunk.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “No. You should know by now that there are a lot of nuts out there. Heck, we even had a guy a few years back who posed as a DPS officer.”

  “No way.”

  “I shit you not. The guy studied us closely. Bought uniforms from the same supplier. He got a patch from somebody at a recruiting fair.”

  “How did you catch him?”

  “Bud Coffey caught him doing a traffic stop.”

  “In what? Did he get a car?”

  “Yep, bought a surplus cruiser from Prince George’s County. He had it painted white and acted as if it were an unmarked car.”

  “No shit.”

  “Donny, you done good. Now put it behind you. Let the lawyers do the re
st of that stuff.”

  Fortunately, Gabriel still had the contact number Nasih provided him in case he was ever in legal trouble. He noticed that the attorney that took care of him, like Nasih, spoke flawless English but seemed to be Middle-Eastern. Gabriel cursed himself again for his foolishness. He knew that his mentor would be angry with him. In the last few hours, much of Nasih’s teachings were coming back to him.

  Damn, why didn’t I pay more attention?

  He now realized that there was more to be learned from the man’s rhetoric than he originally thought. Gabriel endured Nasih’s ramblings just to get to the good part.

  Come on, man. Teach us how to make bombs, he recalled thinking once during a particularly long session, besides we’re missing Monday night football.

  It was becoming clear just how brilliant the man was. As he descended the stairs of the Navy Annex, Gabriel looked down the hill toward the Pentagon. He recalled something else Nasih said that same night.

  “The Justice System of the United States of America will be your greatest ally.”

  It would be a busy night. Gabriel would have to ditch the car, the “James P. Smith” Virginia license and accompanying social security card, and then the credit cards. He decided to make some purchases at a surplus store first. It was time to slip into the mountains. He was pretty sure that the Appalachian Trail was only a few hours away.

  THIRTY

  NOBLE ANVIL

  “So, what the hell is Noble Anvil?” Jazz asked Duvall as he sat across from him in Inchon’s wardroom.

  “It’s the operation going on in Kosovo and Albania. Seems Milosovich and his boys are doing some ethnic cleansing on the Ethnic Albanians. They are fleeing over the border into Albania.”

  “Whoa, I’m confused already. Ethnic what, to ethnic who? Albanians fleeing to Albania?”

  “Yep. You missed our intel brief the other day. Way back when, and I mean like in the 800’s, the Serbs revolted against the Turks and got their asses kicked. As a punishment the Turks forced them out of Kosovo and moved in Albanians who were also under their control.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “No joke. Milosovich in his mind is trying to correct a two thousand year old wrong.”

  “So, what are we going to do?”

  “Security for the helos. Apparently there are few good roads in Albania. The Air Force is flying humanitarian rations into Tirane, the capitol. Our MCM helos are now going to become heavy lift cargo birds. They’re going to take rations, blankets, and other humanitarian stuff to the displaced Albanians.”

  “In Albania?”

  “Right. There are no Marines in theater, so Mobile Unit Six Forward has been directed to send EOD Techs along for force protection.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, we are about to morph from MCM to Mobile detachments. It is not like we are welcome in the Balkans. The intel guys said that the government in Albania supports us being there, but they are not in real control. Apparently, Albania is like Beirut in the 1980’s; every village is controlled by a separate faction. Heck, in ninety-five they had a coup and weapons were stolen all over the country. So now every farmer has a Kalishnikov or an SKS. One major news station even has footage of a farmer towing a MIG with his tractor. “

  “Unbelievable. So what are we going to do?”

  “Like I said, ‘Security. Force Protection.’ We are going to ride shotgun on the helos and keep the refugees and the minor warring factions from stealing the chow and humanitarian stuff.”

  “Fuck, this sounds a lot like Mogadishu, not Beirut.”

  “Oh, I hope not.”

  Jazz thought for a moment before asking Duvall about Italy. Nobody else was at their table. He lowered his voice a bit.

  “Hey, Duke?”

  “Mmmm?” Duvall mumbled through a forkful of peas.

  “Anybody say anything about Italy?”

  “You mean your Secret Service job?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow, sure. I dunno if you realize it man, but you got the thousand yard stare going on.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yeah. Are you okay?”

  “I guess. I’m mostly wondering if people think I fucked up.”

  “Well, we talked about it at first, but the conclusion was that we’d all have done the same thing. I mean it was a conference center for God’s sake and it was only SECSTATE. If it was POTUS you definitely screen everyone, but SECSTATE.”

  “So, nobody blamed us?”

  “Nah, never. Heck, I already forgot about that. We’re on the Inch-long, man, we’ve focused on planning for Noble Anvil.”

  Jazz did not completely believe Duvall’s answer. He wondered if some of his brethren thought he was culpable. Despite Denke’s words back in Sigonella, he knew that he was still wrestling with it.

  Portland became more comfortable as the temperature dropped with the sun. Melanie felt like a shepherd herding her two boys through the neighborhood. They laughed and giggled, pushing and shoving each other. Abigail cooed, observing everything from her stroller.

  Melanie called out, “Stay on the sidewalk, boys!”

  Melanie could sense the weekend beginning as she passed by each house. Teenagers were heading out on dates, families were packing their cars for San Antonio or Mexico, and shirtless men were cutting their grass or working in their garages.

  She slowed her pace to watch a particularly handsome and muscled man mowing his front lawn. As Melanie got closer she saw his wife on the porch sipping tea and keeping eye on two little girls playing on the steps.

  The fact that he was a family man only made him sexier.

  As she passed, Melanie kept facing forward. A lump rose in her throat. She was jealous of the woman.

  She can’t appreciate how lucky she is just to have him home, Melanie thought to herself. What a luxury to sit on the porch while her husband does yard work, to have someone to help her with the children, to have a man to share her bed. I’ll bet she even has a career. She focused on her kids again. Meanwhile, I’m basically a single mother.

  Eleanor advised her a long time ago that developing a routine was key to surviving a deployment. The routine gave the kids comfort and helped all of them cope with the time that Jazz was gone. Melanie followed this advice on each of his first two deployments and found out that Eleanor was right. Now Jazz was on his third deployment. Before he left, Melanie expected this third deployment to be the easiest—she was seasoned, she knew all the pitfalls. Sadly, she was mistaken. Nicholas and Tyler were older, in a stage where they definitively needed a father’s influence. By the day’s end, they wore her out physically and emotionally. Whenever all three kids vied for her attention at the same time she was reminded of the adage, “Three is not one more than two.”

  While Melanie believed that her children were gifts from God, she maintained her sanity during the moments when she had time to herself, like when they were asleep. Jeannie was also heaven-sent. If naptime secured her sanity, Jeannie repelled her sadness. Their friendship was carrying Melanie through the separation. Jeannie often fulfilled the role of husband in all but one way.

  When they invented “Margarita Night” it solidified their sisterhood. This auspicious occasion was held every Friday night. After only a few weeks, Judy Ashland and the other wives frequently joined them. They all started using it as a way of marking the time until their husbands returned. Thus the ladies who were married to the men of Det Four commiserated and endured together.

  The Ball residence became the most popular meeting place. The ranch house on Sycamore Street was central and within equal walking distance, albeit a long walking distance, from all the others.

  “Slow down, boys!” Melanie called to Nicholas and Tyler.

  They both stopped and turned to face their mother. Each had a look of disdain as their mother strained to catch up to them from behind the weight of the stroller.

  “Okay, go ahead now.”

  They raced ahead again, pla
ying some nondescript game with a secret language that only lads under seven understand.

  “Boys!”

  Two days after Judge Normal signed Elena’s warrant, a surveillance team from the San Antonio office headed by Special Agent Kilkenney arrived in Portland. They spent two days studying the physical layout of the Jascinski residence and the surrounding area. Kilkenney and the men of his surveillance team then observed Melanie Jascinski and her neighbors’ routines for three weeks. They determined that a Friday night between 6:00 and 8:00 p.m. was optimum for entry. By that time Melanie should be at the Ball residence with the other Detachment Four wives and things in the neighborhood normally quieted down. Only one neighbor, the insurance salesman across the street and two doors down, seemed to spend a lot of Friday nights in his garage and driveway, tinkering on his car or woodworking.

  A camera placed in the grill of an FBI car parked across from the Ball home transmitted its feed to room 514 of the Portland Inn. On his video screen, Kilkenney saw Melanie Jascinski and her sons follow Judy Ashland into the Ball house.

  “Subject and children have reached destination,” Kilkenney said into his radio. “Recommend a ‘Go.’”

  “Corner One recommends a go,” said Steffensen from the park bench on one end of the block where the Jascinski’s lived.

  “Corner Two, go,” agreed Agent Magee from his car on the far corner, almost ten doors down.

  “Roger. Entry Team, go,” Kilkenney ordered.

  “Entry.”

  Kilkenney’s team used this bugging method five times before. It worked like a charm. He kept his eyes on the screen displaying the Ball house, but was visualizing what was happening at the Jascinski’s. First, a van with a false air conditioning company name on the side pulled up. Two men got out and quickly approached the house. The first picked the lock to the front door easily. They were inside before the insurance salesman even looked up. Then they methodically placed the bugs into the air ducts in each room.

  The air conditioning van was Kilkenney’s touch and he was proud of it. If anyone came in unexpected, the team would feign ignorance and claim they were asked to inspect the ducts while the family was gone. They even used paperwork with a similar, yet different address to aid in the ruse.