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

by Stephen Phillips

  Henderson was silent.

  “How many!”

  “None.”

  “None! Any of your men?” Jazz already knew the answer. “I guess not. So you walk around here with your spec ops weapons and your leather shoulder holster like you’re the shit. Then you send us up there to get shot at. Don’t get indignant with us, you are damn lucky I don’t put you in a fucking body bag with Samuel Marton!”

  “Who?”

  “Samuel Marton! That’s who you killed today! Don’t you ever forget his name!”

  Silence again filled the tent briefly.

  “Well, here’s the deal. I am writing a report that will say that on your recommendation, you guys flew into a hostile environment...”

  “No you’re not,” said a man in civilian clothes at the entrance to the tent.

  “Excuse me?” said Henderson.

  “You are not going to write anything of the sort.”

  “And who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m Tracy.”

  Henderson got white.

  “Here’s what you are going to write.”

  Tracy threw some bound papers at Henderson.

  “It says that these guys went to the facility at Kukesh with poor intel. When they arrived, the local militia, which by the way is really a black market operation with ties to a local terrorist organization, opened fire because they thought the Americans were coming to clean them out and take their territory. As a result, these men crashed, commandeered an unattended vehicle, and drove their asses back here, period. Got me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Additionally you will note that there is no mention of one Senior Chief Grover Denke in that report. Senior Chief was never here. Were you, Grover?”

  “No, sir, I’ve never been to the Balkans.”

  Denke and Tracy had a chuckle at that comment.

  “We are gathering up the other men involved. I want everyone here for a debrief of this story. We need it straight before you leave. Another front is coming in and we are expecting torrential rain. The weather is going to keep you guys here awhile—maybe another twenty-four hours. After that you are not to come back, understand, Grover?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ll work it out with your CO, Grover, don’t sweat it. Now for Pete’s sake, make master chief so we can get you back.”

  “I’m trying, sir.”

  Tracy looked at Jazz a moment. Even in the dim light of the tent, he thought he saw him wink just before he turned and left.

  There were at least three other cases that Elena worked with Kilkenney and his surveillance team. She knew them to be very good at their specialty. The last of her bagel lunch was swallowed quickly as she saw Kilkenney walking toward her desk.

  “Hey, Elena, how are things?”

  “Oh fine, George, you?”

  “Great,” said Kilkenney taking a seat on the desk across from Elena’s. “My report is short. We did all the normal stuff; mail, internet, phones, cameras, and finally the house internal.”

  “The vents again?”

  “For sure, it is becoming my signature.”

  “I see,” Elena said sarcastically.

  “Anyway after the setup we were at it for one week. We’ve got nothing so far. I can continue to watch the house, but I recommend that we back off. I can use tape on the cameras and bugs to be picked up weekly and continue to get weekly reports on mail and internet. For my money, you’re not going to get anything, not until the husband comes home.”

  “You are probably right, I’ll take that under advisement.”

  Kilkenney handed Elena a manila envelope.

  “Here is the first report. I’ll standby for your decision.”

  “I’ve already made up my mind.”

  “Oh?”

  “Let’s go with your instinct. Continue to monitor, but back the team out. We’ll get in place when Jascinski gets home.”

  “You got it, and reports?”

  “Give me your weeklies regardless of what is in them.”

  “Done.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Tirane International Airport

  The tent sagged, heavy with water. In a few spots the rain began to drip in on them. Still, they were warm and dry.

  Tirane was the perfect place to hide. The International Red Cross provided everything and even paid for their way. They had warm clothes, rain ponchos, and the best tents and sleeping bags money could buy to keep them cozy at night.

  Guido smiled to himself. He was sure there must be steam lifting from the abode he shared with Renata. It was more than cozy, Renata had been a vixen since they arrived. She was always passionate after they took violent action, but this time was different. Perhaps she liked the fact that their neighbors could hear her yelp with delight while they... made love?

  No, he thought. We’re fucking. Morning, noon, and night.

  The volunteers in the tents next to theirs would grow silent as he and Renata began to move together. He imagined them smiling and pointing to their tent while he and his woman copulated.

  Later the two would emerge, acting as if they had no idea the others could hear them. After two weeks of living in tents, Guido and Renata were not the only ones who were having loud sex. He thought it was interesting how quickly shame disappeared and base instinct took over when the higher needs like privacy and bath water were not available.

  The aid work was not unsatisfying. Guido had no love, but no hate for the people they were helping. They certainly were not enemies of his cause.

  Each morning after breakfast he and Renata helped the others load helicopters, then trucks with humanitarian aid. Some days they would fly in the helos to Kukesh or some other remote town to hand out the foodstuffs and materials donated by the Red Cross and the European Community. Most days they would ride in the back of a military truck and hand out items to those who made it to a village on the coast.

  Just as Nasih predicted, it was a perfect retreat for them. They escaped, all their needs were taken care of, and he was enjoying his woman. Guido’s only real task was to provide information through Nasih’s henchman, Ayman. Ayman told him that that a prime objective for them was to get back into Nasih’s magazine and destroy its contents, whatever they were.

  He varied the time of day that he would take his trip to the base of the mountain. Guido was trained to both change his routine and to watch the routine of others. The Americans were predictable. They changed the guard at the same time each day, they never altered the number of personnel watching the magazines, and they rarely questioned foreigners. Guido thought that it was fortunate that he was not the only aid worker who liked to stroll through these woods and up to the mountains.

  Renata threw her leg over him. She put her hand on his chest and kissed him softly on the ear.

  “Again,” she whispered.

  “I must go have another look.”

  She reached down and rubbed him gently a moment. He continued to look at the ceiling. His lover gave up and rolled over pulling the covers off him.

  Guido disappeared in plain sight yet again. Nobody noticed the civilian with a camera bag walking along the runway in the rain. The guards on the airfield were all huddled in and under the aircraft to keep as dry as possible.

  Poor bastards, he thought.

  He crossed into the woods by the fuel farm and headed toward the mountains. As Guido stepped into the first clearing he crouched down and looked back toward the field. The low brush was thin enough here that he could observe the flight line opposite the tent city and the international airport.

  The Apache attack helicopters looked frightening even on the ground. He counted them twice and wrote the number down in the notebook he kept in his pocket. The number did not change for four days. He noticed them flying in pairs from time to time, but they always returned.

  “Probably training missions,” Ayman had surmised.

  “Why does Nasih want to know these things?” Guido asked.


  “I do not think he cares,” said Ayman shrugging his shoulders. “I think he is selling the information.”

  Guido and Ayman met sporadically. Guido would give him information and film. Ayman provided him with light supplies that were not readily available in the aid camp. Guido sold as many cigarettes as he smoked.

  He worked his way through the woods to a spot at the base of the mountains north of the magazines. The road running along the base of the mountain and the last magazine were visible from here. Guido climbed the mountains, circling above and around the last two magazines. He sat in the mud at his observation position and waited. Within two minutes he was soaking wet and cold.

  Who’s the poor bastard now? he thought. And to think I could be shagging right now.

  The tail section of the Sea Dragon provided pretty good protection from the torrential rain for Jazz and Ashland as they ate their MREs. They were the only men in or near the two helos parked on the grass at the far end of the airfield. Everyone else had made their way to the mess hall or one of the other tents of Camp Tirane.

  One of the concrete airstrips stretched out from their left toward the tent city and the international airport. They could just barely see the lights of the tower through the curtain of water. The tents disappeared into the landscape. Every now and again they would see the lights of a military vehicle driving toward them, dropping off watch-standers or aircraft maintenance personnel.

  The weather grounded all the NOBLE ANVIL aircraft for hours now. The man who identified himself as “Tracy” was right, there was even talk of staying overnight. Jazz had not thought to pack a sleeping bag.

  He looked at his knife, the blade that his father gave him, stuck in the mud just beyond the ramp. He had used it to pierce the top of his plastic MRE cooking pouch. Its contents leaned against the knife emanating steam with a distinctive chemical smell as it cooked his chili macaroni. Jazz sucked some more water from his Camelbak, washing down the thick crackers and peanut butter.

  The rain on the runway popped like applause, the drops hitting the fuselage above his head thunked like a thousand base drums beating out of rhythm.

  At least I’m dry, he thought. Dry and alive.

  “What do you think of all this shit, LT?” asked Ashland.

  “What do you mean?” Jazz tensed.

  “I am sick of this shit. Fucking Haiti, sir. Fucking Somalia. Fucking Bosnia, Kosovo, and Albania. The mother-fucking Balkans! What the fuck are we doing here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Think it is worth getting killed over?”

  “No.”

  Jazz sensed that Ash strained to hold this in for some time; that he needed to vent.

  Should I bring up Rome?

  “You know I gotta buddy who’s a gunner at Mobile Unit Two,” Ash continued. “He took a det to Bosnia. While he was there one of his interpreters told him, ‘Whether you leave in five or fifty years, the second you’re gone we are going back to war.’ Can you believe that shit?”

  “Sadly, yes. I just keep remembering a cold morning in 1992, driving to SWOS in Newport Rhode Island with some classmates. We listened to the President’s speech from the night before on the radio when he said we’d definitely only be there one year. Now its nineteen fucking ninety-nine and I know guys who’ve been there three times. Personally, I do not know what we are doing there. What is our strategy?”

  “Exactly, LT. Now we are doing this shit. I’m an EOD Tech for God’s sake, not a ground-pounder. This mission is for the Marines. Excuse me for saying so, sir, but sometimes I think we oughta leave and let all these motherfuckers kill each other.”

  “I agree.”

  “The purpose of the military in my view is to drain the lifeblood of our nation’s enemies until they either submit or succumb to our will. Anything that detracts from that is pure unmitigated bullshit.”

  “Like this op?”

  “You’re damn right like this op. You wanna get killed handing out chow to refugees? Is it worth your life?”

  “No.”

  “Sir, this is a European problem yet we’re footing the largest chunk of the bill in money, materiel, and people. And watch, two months from now, the French and the Germans will be back to criticizing us. Fuck, let those motherfuckers come down here.”

  “There are some Frogs here.”

  “Fuck those guys. They got a company of paratroopers and four helicopters.”

  “Damn shipmate, you sound pissed.”

  “You don’t know the half of it, LT.”

  “Huh?”

  Ash looked at Jazz a moment, then he looked away.

  “Forget it, sir. Forget I said anything. I’m just amped up from that mission. Plus, I’m just tired of being deployed I guess... and like I said this shit does not seem worth dying for.”

  Jazz stepped down the ramp, leaned over and pulled on the knife, removing it from the bag. He poured the hot water onto the grass as he replaced the blade into the sheath on his rigger’s belt. Jazz then picked up the bottom of the bag and slipped out the pouch containing his lunch. He sliced it open long ways with the blade on his multi-tool.

  Three spoonfuls into his chili mac, he heard T-Ball calling out to them.

  “LT! Ash! Come here!”

  T-Ball was standing on the flightline next to a HUMMVEE.

  “It’s raining, man!” shouted Ash.

  “Come here, Ash! You are not going to believe this! I have something I want you to see!”

  The first class petty officer and the lieutenant looked at each other. Ash shrugged his shoulders, grabbed his M-16 and stepped off the ramp. Jazz sighed, picked up his weapon and followed Ash toward the HUMMVEE.

  Ash got in the back seat behind T-Ball, so Jazz walked around and got in behind the driver. He noticed when he shut the door that it was heavier than the other HUMMERS that he had been in. The inside of this HUMMER was very comfortable.

  “What kinda HUMMER is this?” asked Ash.

  “Bulletproof and air-conditioned” answered the driver. He was a black Air Force sergeant. Something about him was familiar to Jazz.

  “Guys, this is Benny Ironhorse,” said T-Ball. “Benny, this is Ash and LT Jascinski.”

  “No way!” said Jazz as Ironhorse turned around exclaiming. “Holy shit, Lieutentant, what’s up! Damn, T-Ball, why didn’t you tell me Jazz was your LT?”

  “Benjamin Ironhorse. EOD’s only Native African American, or is it African Native American, Ben?”

  “Shit, sir, you know I ain’t politically correct. Whenever they have me fill out them forms I check ‘other.’”

  “You guys have met?” said Ashland.

  “Benny and I were in EOD school together. I almost convinced him to transfer over to the Navy.”

  “Believe me, I am still thinking on it, Lieutentant. Say, you were in that helo thing too then, huh?”

  “Uh, yeah. It really wasn’t as big a thing as people are saying, Benny.”

  “Okay, okay. So what’s this about, T-Ball?” asked Ash.

  Jazz looked at his LPO.

  Good transition, Ash, he thought.

  “Well, I bumped into Benny here over the way getting chow. Fellow crab-wearer, we start shooting the shit, right?”

  “Right.”

  Jazz noticed now that Benny and T-Ball both had shit-eating grins.

  “As you guessed he is with the 617, the sign we saw the other day. So he tells me that the Albanians used this airport for military aircraft as well as civilian. They have a bunch of magazines across the way in the hills. When these guys rolled in here they said we could use them to store explosives and such as long as we cleaned them up. Apparently they were ransacked and booby-trapped during the siege in ‘95. Benny and his boys went in to clean up.”

  “That’s right, man,” added Benny. “We rendered a lotta shit safe and did a bunch of disposal shots. There were booby traps, and a lotta land mines, bombs and shit.”

  “But then they come to the last magazine.”
>
  T-Ball looked at Benny. They were both smiling again.

  “What!” said Ash and Jazz together.

  “Let’s just show ‘em,” said T-Ball.

  Ironhorse put the HUMMER in gear and stepped on the gas.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Magazines

  They passed the tent city compound that belonged to the non-governmental organizations (NGOs). It was smaller than the U.S. facility and had no security perimeter. Here the homes were all commercially bought at camping outfitters. Geodesic domes of yellow, blue, and red sat precariously in the mud, protected only by moats that drained the downpour toward the forest beyond. Doctors, priests and philanthropists sat and smoked under homemade porches of plastic tarp that once covered humanitarian pallets. The standards of Switzerland, France, Austria, America, the Red Cross, and the Red Crescent drooped in the rain on makeshift flagpoles.

  Jazz noted that the rain chased even the media into shelter.

  Ironhorse drove off the runway and down a dirt path cutting through the woods that was now nearly a canal. As they rounded a bend Jazz made out a gate similar to the one at the airport proper. The -60 gunner looked asleep. His compatriot reluctantly came out from the sandbagged fighting position only to open the barbed wire gate and let the HUMMER through.

  They were now heading closer to the mountains whose presence began to overpower the narrow view through the HUMMVEE’s low windshield and the rain in front of the EOD Techs. The inside of the vehicle became darker as the peaks loomed over them.

  The HUMMER circled left back toward the international airport. The tower and the top edges of the largest of the aircraft on the field could be seen. The last remnants of the sun were blocked by dark clouds; the late afternoon was now completely illuminated by headlights, campfires, navigation aids, and chemical sticks.

  The diesel grumbled and stopped as Ironhorse flipped a switch on the dash. Rain sounded louder on the roof of the HUMMVEE than the -53.

  Ironhorse pointed to the mountains on their right.