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

by Stephen Phillips

  They were shooting right over our heads.

  Keating emerged from the cabin.

  “Oh, fuck. That fucking hurt like a motherfucker.”

  “Is everyone up there okay!” Denke called out again.

  Keating turned and stepped back into the aircraft. He emerged with an ashen face.

  “Aircrewman looks dead. Pilots are out but I think they are alive.”

  Jazz remembered that the aircrewman who was up front with them was tethered to the aircraft on a running line, but he was not strapped into a seat.

  “Lieutenant, where is your weapon?” Denke asked.

  “What?”

  “Your weapon. Where is your long-gun?”

  Jazz realized that he was more out of it than he thought. He got up and stepped into the cabin.

  The aircrewman was on his back, feet together, arms folded neatly over his chest. Jazz figured that Keating must have done that. His helmet was cracked and his face looked swollen. Jazz had a morbid thought.

  He just looks broken.

  Jazz realized that he did not even know the name of this man he flew with, cruised with, served with. He pulled off the Velcro nametag on his flight suit.

  SAM MARTON

  AD2(AC) USN

  Jazz saw his weapon on the deck. It was still on “SEMI.” As he clicked it back to “SAFE,” Jazz cursed himself.

  Damn that was careless.

  He stopped for a moment and tried to gather his thoughts. How had the weapon come unslung from his carabineer? Jazz looked down and noticed that the ‘beener was still on the sling of the M-16. The force of the impact had ripped it off of his load-bearing vest.

  Jazz stepped up to the cockpit to check out the pilots. They were starting to stir. When he turned around, he paused again. Something felt wrong. He slung his rifle over his shoulder. He looked at his hands as he tried to catch his breath. They were shaking.

  With his right hand, Jazz reached down and pulled his knife out. He gripped it, held it up, and tried to concentrate on it.

  Do this. This is why you are here.

  “LT, are you okay?” said Ashland from the doorway.

  “Yes,” he replied firmly and replacing the knife. “How is everyone else?”

  “Banged and bruised, sir,” he heard Delgado say from outside.

  Jazz stepped back into the light.

  “Quinn, Sinclair, rig up a body bag somehow for Sam here. Ash, you and T-Ball get the pilots out. See if they need any first aid. Are the other aircrewmen okay?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Denke. “They are doing a once-over on the bird for fuel leaks and such. I think we are alright though. So what’s your plan, Lieutenant?”

  “Well, first we gotta salvage the wreck and call the Inchon. Second we should set up a security perimeter and prepare for extraction. That may entail moving out of these trees to a more suitable landing zone.”

  Fortunately the pilots did a good job of crashing the airplane. As a result the det was able to get most of the gear out including the ammunition. Each man stuffed essentials into his vest and his three-day pack, leaving their kit bags behind.

  “Well, their radio isn’t working,” said Ash.

  “Do you have the E and E radio, LT?” asked Quinn.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, let’s get the ‘chon up on that.”

  Jazz got the radio, the PRC-112, out of his bag. He leaned against the helo as he turned it on. The pilots were now out of the bird sitting under the tree where Jazz had been. They still looked groggy.

  He looked over to the sleeping bag that now held Marton.

  “Bright Star, Bright Star, this is Tiburon Four, over.”

  Denke was directing the members of the det to form a perimeter around the aircraft. They appeared to be in a relatively level spot, but it was in the bottom of a valley.

  “Bright Star, Bright Star, this is Tiburon Four, over.”

  After ten tries, Denke came over next to Jazz. He spoke in a hushed tone.

  “You turn the on-off switch, sir?”

  “I did, Senior.”

  “Well, we’re too far, too low, or nobody’s listening.”

  “Maybe 218 saw us go down.”

  “I’m sure of it, sir. The pilots were probably talking the whole time.”

  Denke turned to one of the aviators. “Lieutenant, does 218 know that we are here, that we went down?”

  “Uh, I don’t know. They got hit in the field, had a mechanical issue and decided to split.”

  “Yes, I’d noticed that.”

  “Anyway, I don’t know if they heard us.”

  “Well, at the very least, Tirane will notice when we don’t return,” remarked the co-pilot.

  Quinn came over with a handheld GPS.

  “We’re up now, Senior.”

  Denke turned to Jazz.

  “LT, I think we need to separate ourselves from this aircraft a little; do a little escape and evasion while it is still light.”

  “Okay.”

  “I think we should mark the helo’s position on the GPS, pick up our fallen shipmate, and patrol to higher ground. We can make a call then about digging in and waiting or continuing to move, who knows? Maybe we can reach the ‘chon from up there,” he said nodding toward the ridge.

  “Escape and evasion?” said the pilot incredulously. “I’m staying with the bird. Someone will come and get us.”

  Just then the sound of metal piercing metal, “dink, dink, dink,” was immediately followed by gunfire from the slope in the direction of Kukesh.

  “Shit, they followed us!” yelled Denke.

  Now Jazz saw the pilot holding his leg. Blood poured from between his fingers.

  “CONTACT RIGHT, CONTACT RIGHT!” someone yelled from the nose of the aircraft.

  Jazz ran to the nose and flipped his weapon back to “SEMI.” He could see movement but no distinct man or men coming down the hill.

  T-Ball was prone on the ground ten feet in front of him. He saw his teammate open fire, and did the same.

  As he was changing his clip, Denke grabbed Jazz by the shoulder.

  “LT, you gotta lead us outta here. Head up that hill, the airmen will follow. Me and the boys will cover the back door.”

  Jazz turned around and saw the co-pilot carrying the wounded pilot in a fireman’s carry. The two aircrewman held either end of the sleeping bag that secured the body of Sam Marton.

  A large volume of fire erupted behind them. Jazz kept turning around, tempted to run back. He knew he could not, not yet.

  Jazz caught up with the men carrying their dead shipmate, slung his weapon and grabbed Marton around the middle.

  “Go! Let’s go!”

  The co-pilot in front kept stumbling. He even ran the pilot’s head into a tree, knocking snow off the branches. As they climbed higher and higher, the brush and the patches of snow thinned. The land became a little rockier, with boulders beginning to dot the landscape.

  They had not quite reached the peak when Jazz thought he saw a good position. There were several boulders close together. They hooked around to the left, away from Kukesh. The ground sloped away from them on all sides.

  Jazz could still hear shooting and when he looked back he occasionally saw muzzle flashes.

  “Here, stop behind these rocks. I’ll be back,” the lieutenant commanded.

  Now he ran down the hill toward his teammates. Quinn was the first one he saw.

  “Quinn! Over here!”

  T-Ball came running from somewhere. Quinn pointed toward Jazz. T-Ball ran toward his OIC.

  “We’re going up that way, T-Ball.”

  “Got it.”

  The firing had stopped now.

  After T-Ball came Ash, then Denke, Dee, Keating, Sinclair, and Quinn. As Quinn passed Jazz he tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Last man!”

  Jazz flipped his selector switch from “SEMI” to “AUTO.” He scanned the forest in front of him for the enemy. There was no sign of movement.
>
  He gave Quinn about two minutes to leap frog up the hill then he followed. First he passed T-Ball and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Last man,” he whispered.

  The det had to be quiet now to hide their escape. When Jazz got to Denke he pointed up the hill to where the Hurricane crew was.

  “We’re going up there.”

  Denke nodded.

  Then he got in position further up the hill from Quinn. Jazz held up a fist. Quinn saw it and repeated the signal.

  Hold.

  He waited for the signal to get passed back from T-Ball. Then he motioned by waving his arm.

  Follow me.

  Quietly the det patrolled the last twenty yards to the aviators. There, behind the cover of the rocks, they huddled.

  “Sinclair, rear-guard down that hill. T-Ball, watch to the right in case they try to flank us. Everyone else, smoke ‘em if you got ‘em,” said Denke.

  Canteens, MREs, and energy bars came out of vests and cargo pockets. Keating tended to the wounded pilot. Jazz tried again to reach the Inchon.

  “Bright Star, Bright Star, this is Tiburon Four, over.”

  He drank from his Camelbak while he waited for a response.

  “Bright Star, Bright Star, this is Tiburon Four, over.”

  Denke looked at him and shrugged.

  “How’s he doing, Chief?” Jazz inquired of Keating.

  “It’s just a flesh wound. I’ve ‘ad worse,” responded the pilot through gritted teeth.

  Suddenly everyone was laughing.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Nothing

  Dee and Ash took the next watch. All the men sat quietly and tried to stay loose. Periodically Jazz made a call on the radio to Inchon. There was no answer.

  “I haven’t seen a thing,” Dee said keeping his eyes down the hill from his observation point. “Do you think we scared ‘em off?”

  “Ha!” Denke chuckled. “Who scared who off? They are pouring through that helo right now, gathering intel and probably having a late lunch of HDRs. The first chance they get, they’ll be back.”

  “It’s been almost two hours,” said Sinclair. “Search and Rescue should be up here soon.”

  “Count on another four, Sinc,” responded Keating. “It was a two hour flight from Tirane to Kukesh. That means two hours for 218 to get back or for us all to be noticed missing. Then they’ll need two hours of prep to get their poop in one sock followed by a two-hour flight back.”

  Jazz felt the eyes on him again.

  What are we going to do, Lieutenant?

  “LT, Senior... come look at this,” said Ash.

  Jazz got up, hunched over to reduce his profile, and scooted over to Ash. Denke was right beside him.

  “Look between those trees. See that dirt patch?”

  “Yeah,” said Denke.

  “I think it’s a road.”

  “Huh?” said Jazz.

  “Watch, every now and then I think I see something... maybe a vehicle.”

  Jazz saw something moving across the spot that Ash was pointing toward.

  “See it?”

  “I do, I do, Ash.”

  “Well maybe we can Shanghai a truck or something... find our own way back.”

  Jazz looked at Denke.

  “I think that’s a good idea, sir. We should at least have a look-see. The pilot is stable now, but for how long? Four hours from now we could be south-a here, on radio comms to a bird coming here.”

  Jazz gripped his rifle and thought a moment.

  “Okay, Senior. I’ll take Ash’s position here. You two go recon the road first and see if it is even feasible. We’ll hold here.”

  “Got it, LT.”

  Several scenarios began to dance in Jazz’s head as he watched Ash and Denke descend the hill further to the left, almost ninety degrees from where they came.

  Thirty minutes later the det moved to a position along the road. Jazz could see first-hand now why they had to get rations to the Ethnic Albanians via helo. It looked like it would take days for a convoy to get up here even with four-wheel drive. The road was washed out in several places and was pitted with holes. Jazz wondered if they were from ice or from mortar rounds.

  He reviewed the plan in his head once more. Denke was on the road, closest to Kukesh. He would check each vehicle as it passed. If one looked like a real option, they would commandeer it. On his signal, they would rush the vehicle with weapons drawn, hoping that the occupants would surrender quickly.

  Another thirty minutes passed before they heard what sounded like a truck coming toward them from Kukesh. As it drew near, Jazz could make out what appeared to be a Russian-made quarter-ton truck with a canvas covered flatbed.

  Perfect.

  The vehicle sputtered and stopped right in front of them. Jazz watched incredulously as the driver, an Albanian soldier, got out and walked around to the back of the truck. He saw Denke moving down toward the road. Had he missed the signal?

  Jazz looked at Ash who gave him the “hold” sign.

  The driver emerged from the flatbed with a jerry can.

  Holy cow, he ran out of gas.

  On any other day Jazz would have been shocked what he saw next. Denke emerged from the forest with a knife in hand. He ran up behind the driver, grabbed his jaw and lifted it up and to his left. Then with his right hand he plunged the knife into the soldier’s neck.

  Denke got blood on himself as he dragged the solider to the road’s edge and rolled him into a ditch.

  As the rest of the Hurricane 224 survivors stepped onto the road, one of the aircrew exclaimed, “Holy shit!” Everyone else was silent.

  Denke snapped them out of it.

  “Dee, gas ‘er up. Everyone else get in back. Lay our shipmate in the bag on the deck. I want two Techs on the tailgate ready to shoot anyone who causes us a problem. LT, you are riding shotgun with me. Let’s move!”

  After Dee poured the contents of the jerry can into the gas tank. He hopped in back. Someone banged on the cab. Denke turned a switch on the dash, put the vehicle in gear, and started driving.

  “Don’t know where we’re going, LT, so I am going to follow standard liberty procedure for the Med.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Head downhill.”

  “Ha!”

  “Seriously, get the GPS outta may bag. I did a ‘mark mark’ in Tirane. We can at least make sure that we are closing distance with it.”

  “Senior Chief.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I want you to teach me how to do that.”

  Denke looked at his lieutenant. “No you don’t.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  After six hours of no word on Hurricane 224, Solarsky decided that he needed to at least call the next of kin for everyone in Det Four. He thought it necessary to at least inform them that an incident had occurred. Using a satellite phone on the Inchon, he called Melanie first.

  “Melanie?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Commander Solarsky, the commanding officer of EOD Mobile Unit Six.”

  “Uh, yes, sir?”

  “I’m calling to inform you that there has been an incident.”

  “Another one! Oh, oh my God... Is Jazz alright?”

  “Well, we don’t know. The helicopter that he was in departed this morning for Kukesh, Albania. The aircraft has not returned. Most of the other detachment members are with him.”

  “So, do you think they crashed?”

  “Well we are not sure. They may have set down for mechanical trouble and are unable to contact us,” Solarsky lied.

  He already decided to give the families one piece of news at a time. In fact, while they knew from the return of Hurricane 218 that the flight was shot at, they may in fact have landed somewhere due to mechanical failure.

  “What are you doing to solve this?”

  An astute question, he thought.

  “We are sending out search and rescue teams to find them right now.”


  This was another lie. The weather precluded anyone from taking off from Inchon or departing from Tirane.

  “The executive officer is still in Charleston. He and the ombudsman will do anything you need to get through this. Please stay in contact with them, and they will be in contact with you. Okay?”

  “Okay. Thank you, sir.”

  “I’m going to call the other wives next. Uh, can you give me some time before you speak to them? I think this information needs to come from me.”

  “I understand.”

  “Okay, thank you.”

  Melanie hung up the phone. Just then Abigail began to cry. Melanie extracted her from the crib took her to her own bed and lay down, crying with her.

  Nine and a half hours later the co-pilot, Denke, and Jazz were standing in the briefing tent. Though it was now early morning, they were rested. The drive was long but uneventful. Jazz even slept in between attempting to reach someone on the radio.

  Henderson came into the tent with an Air Force captain in tow. The captain had a sidearm slung under his armpit in a shiny black patent leather holster as if he were a police officer.

  “Where the fuck have you guys been?” said Henderson. “And what the fuck happened up there?”

  “I dunno. You tell me,” said the co-pilot.

  “You guys landed in a damn Albanian military compound for chrissakes!”

  “Well, now I realize that it was a mistake. They were obviously not happy about it.”

  “You’re damn right they weren’t...”

  “Hey!” shouted Jazz. “Hold on a second...”

  “Fuck you, Lieutenant. You’re the clown who said it was safe to land there in the first place.”

  “Yeah, and you are the clown that sent us up there with fucked up intel. Why didn’t you tell us there was a military base? Why did you not tell the military we were coming? Why did you not have someone there waiting for us to get the stuff? It was safe to land... and if it is not safe to land in the host nation’s military base, you, sir are the one who should be telling us.”

  “Now calm down, LT....”

  “‘LT!’ It’s ‘LT’ now! Bullshit! I am an officer in the United States Navy. You will address me as ‘Lieutenant,’ Mr. Henderson! All of the men on that flight got shot at, got shot down, and had a shipmate killed because of your shoddy preparation. You didn’t know there was a military base there did you, you dumb motherfucker? How many times have you been up there?”