PROXIMITY
A Novel of the Navy’s Elite Bomb Squad
Stephen Phillips
Copyright © 2007 by Stephen Phillips
ISBN-13: 978-1-4257-5172-2 (Hardcover)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4257-5156-2 (Softcover)
ISBN-13: 978-0-9828101-0-1 (Kindle)
ISBN-13: 978-0-9828101-1-8 (ePub)
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Thanks
I would like to express sincere appreciation in developing this story to my family; my wife - Christina, my sons - Stephen and Zachary, my parents - Steve and Maureen, and my brother –Tim. I would also like to thank Adam Bentley, Dick Couch, Kathryn Dunfee, James Dunfee, Mike Huete, Will Lagasse, Bob Mecoy, Chuck Pfarrar, Chris Ruediger, Tom Tyler, Steve Waterman, and Jim Wightman.
Cover Photo
U.S. Navy photo by Photographer’s Mate Airman Ryan O’Connor.
Author’s notes:
The methods, procedures, and tactics used by military Explosive Ordnance Disposal Technicians are often classified. This is to prevent the architects of military ordnance or improvised explosive devices from incorporating countermeasures into their design. This book only reveals procedures that are intuitively obvious or so widely publicized that mentioning them here could not be considered irresponsible. Where required, the methods described are fictitious while maintaining the flavor of explosive ordnance disposal work.
While this is a novel, the story is based on actual events. The characters are all fictional.
EOD Memorial Foundation
A portion of the proceeds from this novel will go to the EOD Memorial Foundation. Donations to this cause can be made through http://www.eodmemorial.org.
For Christina
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Acronyms and Abbreviations
About the Author
ONE
San Diego
Getting on base was easy. The four men drove through the gate onto Naval Amphibious Base, San Diego, without incident as they had several times before. The Marine guard observed the base sticker affixed to the bumper of their van and waved them through.
It took them a mere week to find a vehicle with a Department of Defense vehicle sticker and a “For Sale” sign in the windshield. The owner was a sailor who was transferring to Japan and did not want to ship it overseas. Gabriel pretended that he was in the Navy again, and asked the seller to leave the sticker on.
The building they were interested in was on a part of the base with little traffic outside of normal working hours. Because the Navy did not consider its contents vital to national security there would be no guards or alarms. Their initial plan was a simple break-in; it was Nasih’s training that led them to the more surgical entry.
“The gates of western society are well protected,” he had said, “but both figuratively and literally, there is always another way to infiltrate your target. There is always a back door that can be opened.”
Gabriel now fully understood what Nasih meant. This was the second time he applied Nasih’s pessimistic notion of human nature.
“In the intelligence gathering phase, befriend drug dealers and prostitutes. Find out who is in debt and who is a sexual deviant. These people can be compromised, utilized, and euthanized.”
Again, Gabriel’s past proved invaluable. He knew by reputation the bars in Tijuana that were frequented by drug users. Gabriel sent one of his cohorts to El Perro Negro in search of someone who worked in the Personnel Department, a Personnelman or a Yeoman. Miraculously, one was found during the first weekend, Personnelman Third Class Ronald Diebert. After studying Diebert closely for a month, they approached him. Gabriel explained that they were dealers of marijuana, ecstasy, and sometimes coke, who were trying to move their business on base. He and his partners solicited Diebert for a one-time deal; identity cards for drugs. Diebert accepted. Gabriel was sure that their good fortune was due to divine intervention.
Ask and you shall receive.
After driving past the Marine at the gate the intruders went unnoticed. They parked the van in the lot next to the Personnel Support Detachment building. At 5:07 the lot was empty, just as the previous four Friday evenings. At 5:10 the men got out, so they did not have to stop or slow their stride as Diebert opened the door at precisely 5:11.
Gabriel smiled and shook his head in amazement watching Diebert go about his work like a kid playing a video game. The whole operation was proceeding much more smoothly than he expected. It only took Diebert fifteen minutes to enter bogus identities into the computer and snap a digital picture of each man.
After Gabriel and his compatriots each had a laminated military ID card cooling in his hand, they gave Diebert what he craved. They were in New Mexico driving east when Diebert’s body was found in the office, the victim of an overdose.
As the sun rose over the highway in front of them, Gabriel smiled.
Now we can go anywhere.
He knew Nasih would be pleased.
TWO
Underwater
Increasing pressure was the only sign of progress for Lieutenant James J. Jascinski Jr. as he lumbered through the water like a manatee. He kicked hard pulling the cumbersome lift balloon with him as he headed for the bottom. Jascinski’s diving rig, a Mark-16 re-breather, was like a small refrigerator on his back. The only sound he heard was the whisper of his breath each time he exhaled through his mouthpiece. Three electronic sensors monitored the oxygen level and added more if it was needed.
Jascinski felt his fins hitting the bottom. He kneeled and instinctively looked to the light affixed above his right eye. It would flash red if the oxygen content of his Mark-16 dropped dangerously low or green if it increased to toxic levels. Unfortunately, he could not see the light.
Jascinski tried to re-orient himself. His task was simple; find a mine in the dark, attach a lift balloon to it, and return to the surface safely—alone.
With his left hand the lieutenant dragged the cumbersome lift balloon assembly. It was comprised of two scuba tanks with a canvas balloon fastened above them. Jascinski’s other han
d held onto the AN/PQS-2A sonar. Commonly called the two-alpha, the diver’s sonar reminded him of a police radar gun or a large flashlight with a pistol grip. It was secured to his right hand with a bungee cord.
Jascinski set the lift balloon assembly gently next to his left leg. He trailed his hand from the manifold, to the scuba tanks, to the bag around the balloon. Searching for the towline with his hand was a lesson in blindness. If he lost contact with the balloon, he may never find it again. He could flail around on the bottom within inches of it for hours.
Finally, his hand bumped the line. He grabbed it and slid it into the crook of his left elbow. Now he had the use of his left hand.
Jascinski flipped the switch on the back of the sonar. It began to ping, sending sound waves through the water. If one of the waves hit an object it would bounce off, coming back toward Jascinski’s position. The audible return of both outgoing and incoming waves traveled from the sonar’s receiver, through the electronic cable on its rear face, up to the earpieces in Jascinski’s skullcap. He interpreted the changes in pitch like a dolphin searching for fish.
Ping ping, ping.
He listened for the proper return.
Ping, ping, ping. Thud, thud. Ping, ping ping.
Jascinski swung back to the “thud,” the change in pitch signifying a contact.
Ping, ping. Thud, thud, thud.
There it is, he thought.
Thud, thud, thud, thud.
Jascinski pulled his left arm back, sliding the towline from his elbow down the inside of his forearm to his left hand. Then he slid his left hand down the line until he made contact with one of the scuba bottles, and finally the manifold connecting the two together. He gripped the manifold again, pulling the balloon with him as he swam with his sonar pointed in the direction of the contact.
Thud, thud, thud, thud.
The audible return got louder as Jascinski closed the distance with the object.
THUD, THUD, THUD.
Jascinski stopped again and knelt still facing the direction of the contact. It was very close. He repeated the process of shifting his hold from the lift balloon so that he could turn the sonar off and clip it to his belt. His right hand was now free. Jascinski held his right hand in front of him hoping it would find the contact first. Almost imperceptibly, he felt something brush his right forearm. He had found it.
He knew that time was running out. Jascinski quickly ran his hand over the mine and based on its diameter, determined that it was a Mark-36 bottom mine. The mine’s shape reminded Jascinski of a 55 gallon drum, or a water heater.
Jascinski wrestled the lift balloon over the mine so that it was on the side opposite from him. His movements around it were deliberate and silent. Any noise would “wake up” the listening device. The mine’s electronics package would begin searching for an acoustic noise, or a magnetic field anomaly, or a seismic signature. Maybe the mine would be searching for all three or a combination of two of the three. He knew that the magnetic search coil would not detect his presence. All of his equipment was “Lo-mu,” or low in magnetic signature. His wetsuit, watch, booties, fins, gloves, even his knife had been inspected with a magnetometer for any signature. So had the sonar components, the lift balloon assembly, and the Mark-16 itself. Jascinski was also acoustically silent. Because the –16 was a re-breather, no bubbles escaped to make noise in the water.
“No bubbles, no troubles,” was the mantra of the Mark-16 diver.
If Jascinski made a mistake, if he burped gas from his Mark-16 and sent sound into the water, if he clunked the lift balloon onto the mine’s metal skin, or if he touched the bottom with too much force, the mine would awaken and begin hunting for prey. Jascinski would never know if he made a second mistake, the mine would simply detonate.
Under the balloon assembly were two sections of thick line. These would be used to attach the lift balloon to the mine. Jascinski blindly secured each section in a “trucker’s hitch,” one on the nose and one towards the tail of the mine to evenly distribute the weight under the balloon. Otherwise, it would slip out from the harness and plunge back to the bottom.
He checked each line twice, pulling on it to ensure it would not slip. He unsnapped the bag encasing the balloon so that it would not be hindered as it inflated. Then he performed the most important step, he reached under the scuba jug’s manifold and opened the explosive valve that would allow air to pass from steel to canvas.
Jascinski traced his hand along the balloon and again found the towline with his left hand. He knelt one more time and held up his right hand with four fingers.
“Four. I am ready to surface,” in Navy Diver language.
Jascinski felt a hand grip his right wrist. It squeezed once.
One. Hold.
He felt the pull on his mask as the thick duct tape was removed from it. After almost forty minutes of darkness Jascinki’s eyes were overwhelmed. He felt like a newborn as he tried to focus on the light blue color of the training pool’s sides and bottom. Opposite him was Senior Chief Benson, also in a Mark-16. Benson was the senior instructor of the Underwater Division at Naval School Explosive Ordnance Disposal.
Benson held up his wristwatch so Jascinski could see it.
“41:23.”
To pass his lift balloon test, Jascinski had to assemble the balloon, locate, and raise the mine, within forty-five minutes.
Benson inspected the lift balloon attachments. From where Jascinski was sitting they seemed okay. The senior chief looked up at him and flashed him a Four. Jascinski turned and swam to the surface following the towline. He heard the “beep” of Benson starting his stopwatch again.
Jascinski broke the surface at the edge of the pool and flashed the “OK” sign at Petty Officer Lynch standing on the pool deck above him. Lynch, another instructor like Benson, was the dive supervisor.
Lynch clicked two stopwatches hanging on a lanyard around his neck and called out, “Diver reached surface time one three two three! Time’s ticking on this problem; let’s get him up and over!”
Two other students came over to the edge of the pool to help. Jascinski took off his weight belt and handed it up to one of them.
Lynch stepped to the edge and looked down at Jascinski.
“Go off-gas, sir.”
Jascinski cycled the barrel valve on his mouthpiece to the closed position and pulled his facemask/mouthpiece assembly off and over his head.
“Diver on surface, diver okay!” he shouted.
“Get moving.”
Jascinski undid the waist strap and crotch strap of the rig, and slipped it off like a jacket. Tim Bullock, a fellow officer, lifted it up to the pool deck. Jascinski scrambled onto the deck and over to Lynch.
“Petty Officer Lynch, I am ready to initiate my lift balloon.”
“Wait until Senior Chief gets to the surface. I’ll give you the extra time if you need it.”
A few seconds later, Lynch handed Jascinski the Mark-186 detonator transmitter. Jascinski pressed all of the requisite buttons to ensure it was working properly.
“FIRE IN THE HOLE! FIRE IN THE HOLE! FIRE IN THE HOLE!”
Jascinski pressed the fire button and a “Pop!” came from the pool. Fifteen seconds later the balloon popped to the surface, hissing and gurgling. Across the pool he saw Benson still in full dive gear, but with his mask off. The chief was holding on to the side but had his face in the water looking at the mine with a pair of swim goggles. He lifted his head.
“It’s holding!” he called out.
Jascinski breathed a sigh of relief but anxiously wondered what the time was.
“What’s the time?” Lynch asked.
“Forty-four twenty-five.”
Jascinski had done it.
Lynch chuckled and shook his head. “You did it, sir. And believe it or not I’ve seen a lot of guys come closer.”
Jascinski breathed a sigh of relief. He surveyed the rest of his class and their cadre of instructors. He noticed that the other officers in th
e class - Bullock, York, and Smitty - were no longer in UDT swim trunks; they had switched to camouflage utilities.
Lynch said, “Lieutenant Jascinski, you have to go see the executive officer with the other O’s. Hit the showers. Lieutenant Smith will observe you until you are clean—no pun intended.”
The onset of arterial gas embolism, or AGE for short, was foremost in the dive supervisor’s mind. When gas bubbles expand in the body’s pulmonary system blocking oxygen to the brain, the symptoms usually appear within the first ten minutes after a dive. Naval diving protocol held that all divers remain on station and under close scrutiny for the first ten minutes following a dive. If no telltale signs of AGE appeared, the diver was termed “clean.”
Jascinski showered with Smith just outside the stall, watching him. Smith continued to observe Jascinski as he dried off and donned cammie trousers and boots. Jascinski tightened his rigger’s belt and slipped a lock-knife in his right pocket, both accoutrements of the men in Special Operations or “Spec Ops” as it was commonly known.
Just as he finished dressing and blousing his trousers, Lynch came in.
“Sir, how do you feel?”
“Hooya, Petty Officer Lynch.”
“You’re clean.”
Lieutenant Commander William Massie was the Executive Officer of Naval School Explosive Ordnance Disposal, also known as NAVSCOLEOD, or simply “EOD School.”
The four lieutenants casually walked through his open office door without knocking. Massie was on the phone. He motioned for them to all sit down on his couch.
As Jascinski sat, he realized he could still smell the chlorine on himself. He looked over Massie’s head and admired his “I love me” wall. Besides the normal plaques and degrees, Massie had photos of himself taken during Desert Storm. He spent a lot of time aboard a minesweeper, USS Affray, with his EOD detachment. There were photos of him placing explosive charges on various mines and a plethora of “Farewell Disposalier” certificates from different EOD commands.
Proximity: A Novel of the Navy's Elite Bomb Squad Page 1
