Detonating cord trailed from the demo charge of C-4 on his arm to a float on the surface comprised of bubble wrap. The Techs called the float a “dogbone” because of its shape. Encased in the bubble wrap was the initiation train for the explosive system. Two igniters each with a spring-released firing pin were married to two lengths of time fuse, wrapped within the dogbone. The time fuse had blasting caps crimped on the opposite end, which were taped to the det cord.
When a Tech released each firing pin, the time fuze would begin to burn. Upon reaching the end, the heat from the time fuse would set off the blasting caps, which would subsequently initiate the detonating cord. When the det cord exploded, it would sympathetically detonate the charge. Initiating in this way would give Det Four time to move to a safe distance before the charge detonated.
As he swam through the water, the dogbone bobbed in the waves, straining the det cord and pulling on the demo charge on Jazz’s arm.
The explosives began their journey ten days before. First, four men carefully removed a crate of composition four military plastic explosive, or “C-4,” from a shelf in the magazine of Naval Station Ingleside. The forty-pound crate was transported slowly via forklift to a special vehicle configured to transport explosives.
An inspector certified the truck safe to transport explosives and ammunition prior to each trip. He verified that the driver was a qualified to drive explosive laden vehicles, possessed the proper documentation, and that the driver’s medical record was up to date.
A police escort drove in front of the explosive vehicle to ensure it was not involved in an accident and that it got to the waterfront and USS Scout as quickly and safely as possible.
The pier was secured of all unnecessary personnel. A fire party dressed in full firefighting gear with a charged hose was staged onboard Scout. A crane lifted the forty-pound crate to the Scout where it was placed in an explosive magazine. A security watch vigilantly observed the magazine, recording its temperature every two hours.
Just the day before, with the same fire party standing by, Det Four drew the explosives from the magazine and built the demo charge on the fantail. Everyone wore safety glasses to protect their eyes from the initiators.
Now Jazz swam through rolling seas with the explosives tied to his left arm. The detonating cord alone could cut Jazz in half. If the charge detonated while he swam toward the mine he would vaporize faster than conscious thought. The standby diver and any recovery divers investigating the site would find a depression in the seafloor and bits of plastic from Jazz’s Mark –16.
I’ve gotta be fucking crazy to do this, he thought to himself.
A white blur turned into the mine. As he got right next to it Jazz could make out the stencil T-Ball had reported; ‘RONEX 99-6-15-EOD.’
Jazz turned off the sonar and again found the witness line, tugging on it five times. His buoy bobbed five times on the surface above.
“Five. Found mine.”
Jazz looked at his primary display; it was green. For good measure he looked at his secondary readings. They were barely visible, but all were within specifications.
Next he untied the bungee from his arm and tied it to the lug nut on the mine. Jazz pulled the Mark-III knife from its sheath and removed T-Ball’s pinger. It went into his vest pocket.
Six minutes later the lieutenant was back in the boat. Keating told him to off gas.
“Diver on deck, diver okay,” Jazz responded as his mask came off.
“LT, was that your first underwater demo charge?”
“You know it was, supe.”
“Case a beer, buddy.”
“Damnit!” Jazz said with a grin on his face.
“Okay guys, good job,” Keating said. “We are running out of daylight so let’s undress the divers and secure from diving for the day. Once they’re clean we’ll blow the charge. T-Ball, move to coxswain. Sinclair will be the demo supe. LT, it’s your charge, you’re gonna initiate.”
“Hooya.”
Jazz leaned over the boat and grabbed the dogbone.
“Come up more, T-Ball,” Sinclair said from behind him.
Jazz pulled back the firing pin and released it. A spring snapped it forward. Smoke popped out through time fuze.
“Smoke one!” he called.
He repeated this with the second initiator.
“Smoke two!”
“Fire in the hole!” yelled Sinclair. “Go, T-Ball.”
T-Ball hit reverse and backed away from the floating initiation train. When they were a safe distance Quinn picked up the radio and keyed his mike.
“Pathfinder, this is Tiburon Four. Fire in the hole, fire in the hole, fire in the hole, over.”
Smoke emanated from the burning time fuse for five minutes. Then a plume of water rose twenty feet in the air. The “boom” did not reach the divers until a second later when they saw the spray returning to the ocean. The pressure wave cracked and thundered, echoing across the waves as it made its way outward, toward Mustang Island and Scout.
“Hooya!” said Sinclair.
Jazz just smiled to himself. As he put the knife into his dive bag he wondered what the Admiral would think of this day.
Quinn called Scout again, “Pathfinder, this is Four. All clear.”
The thirty-mile transit home was a beating the whole way. Det Two had already gone home by the time they arrived. Senior Chief Reed was still there. He helped his teammates unload and clean all the gear. The sun was below the horizon when Det Four assembled in the conference room for a quick debrief.
After they were finishing, Jazz looked to the board.
“Can we change the crab to silver now?”
“Hell no, LT,” said Keating. “You still ain’t done any real shit.”
Jazz began the next day at the base pool. Swimming was always his favorite exercise. He often did not even count his laps. Jazz would just swim until he was tired. The Naval Station Ingleside gym had one of the better weight rooms in the Navy and a pool second only to the one at dive school.
As a specialized command, Det Two and Four were authorized time for physical training, PT, each morning. Each member of the det had their own routine, some liked to run, some lifted weights; Quinn rode his bike into work each day. Although still in his fourth week, Jazz developed the habit of driving straight into the gym and using the weight room for forty-five minutes, followed by a thirty minute swim. Fridays were reserved for volleyball, an important tradition that Jazz saw no reason to interrupt.
By nine all Techs were in the building, beginning their workday. Back in the compound, Jazz showered and donned cammies. He walked around with a coffee cup in hand to visit everyone in the det each morning. It was a habit from Jazz’s days in Surface Warfare. The lieutenant asked each sailor what their plans for the day were and what assistance they might need from him. As Jazz finished this routine he entered the office he shared with Chief Keating. Sitting in front of Keating’s desk was a sailor dressed in summer whites. The sailor stood as Jazz entered.
“Good morning, sir. I’m Petty Officer Ashland.”
“Nice to meet you, welcome aboard.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Ash just came from Det Norfolk, LT,” said Keating. “I told him to do whatever he needs to do to get checked in.”
“Sure, no sweat.”
“Sir, I told the other guys that today we are going to do post operation maintenance and stow everything. Next week we will begin preps for Readiness Training.”
“Sounds good.”
“One more thing, sir,” Keating pulled a piece of paper from his cargo pocket. “Dee gave me this off the message board.”
“What is it?”
“Orders for our last replacement, one Senior Chief Boatswain’s Mate Grover Denke.”
“Reed’s relief.”
“Yes, sir,” Keating had an unrecognizable expression.
“Something wrong, Chief?”
Keating grinned widely and then started a belly
-wrenching guffaw.
“Do you know him, Chief?” Jazz asked.
Keating held his breath a second, looked at Jazz and resumed laughing. Jazz noticed that Ashland had dropped his head and was hiding a grin. Just then T-Ball emerged from the hall.
“LT, what’s so funny?” asked T-Ball.
“Our new senior chief, apparently.”
“Who’s that?”
“Senior Chief Denke.”
Now T-Ball had a grin to match Ashland’s.
“T-Ball, Ashland, you guys know him too?”
“Hell yeah,” said T-Ball. “He was at Two with us.”
“Alright, T, why are you guys grinning?”
“‘Cause you ain’t gonna get along, LT,” said Ball. This made Keating laugh even harder.
Jazz looked at Keating. “Are you going to give me the gouge on this guy?”
Keating calmed down a little. “Hell no, LT. You are gonna have to find out for yourself.”
As he left, Keating handed Jazz the message.
Thirty minutes later, Jazz walked past the vault back into the Det Four workshop. Quinn, Sinclair, and T-Ball were there conducting maintenance.
“All right, T-Ball, help me out. What’s the deal with Denke?”
“He hates 1140s.”
“Great, who doesn’t? What else?”
“Denke is the exact opposite of Keating. Chief K is a diver with EOD skills. Denke is an operator first; totally high-speed, low-drag. Denke’s all about fastroping, parachuting, IEDs, patrolling. Operating with Marines and SEALs is his thing.”
Jazz remembered his conversation with Captain Solarsky about wannabe-SEALs in the EOD community.
“You said he’s from Two?” Jazz asked.
“Well, he grew up there, and is officially stationed there, but recently he has been somewhere else.”
“Yeah, Denke’s with the boys who deploy to La Spezia,” added Quinn.
“Yeah? I hear everyone talk of that place in hushed tones. What do they do there?” the OIC inquired.
“Black ops,” Quinn responded. “Nobody knows until they goes. I guarantee they ain’t sightseeing. Those boys are in the real shit. Point is, Denke is a bad motherfucker.”
“So why is he coming to an MCM team if he’s a pseudo-frog?”
“He needs an MCM tour to make Master Chief,” said T-Ball. “I’ll tell ya what, things are going to get interesting with Denke and Keating on the same team.”
Jazz noted that comment with silence. Being a new OIC with Keating had been easy. He wondered how he would lead a man like Denke.
After his morning rounds, Jazz spent most of the day in Det Four’s office. As the day was winding down, he drank cold coffee and typed away on his laptop completing the paperwork required post-exercise. Jazz felt administrative work was the bane of the officer’s existence. He had to write an after–action report for the command and review the logs from all of the detachment’s dives. He also had to write several messages. There was a message reporting use of explosives, a message reporting the training accomplished, sometimes he would even send a message changing the location for receiving messages.
Jazz looked up as Chief Keating threw his black backpack over his shoulder to leave for the day.
“Hey, LT.”
“What’s up, Chief?”
“You done good, sir.”
“Huh?”
“You did well out there this week. You’re not half bad for an 1140. ‘Course I’ll never admit that outside this door.”
Jazz wondered if Keating’s comment was genuine or if he was prepping Jazz for Denke’s arrival.
“Thanks, Chief.”
“You’re still blue though.”
SIXTEEN
Incident
Jazz finished the last of his paperwork when T-Ball opened the door.
“Sir, we got a call. I think you should take it.”
The “sir” in T-Ball’s voice registered seriousness. Jazz was also surprised when the petty officer followed him into the office. Jazz sat at his desk and picked up the phone.
“Lieutenant Jascinski, can I help you?”
“Lieutenant, this is Sergeant Weaver, I’m the shift desk sergeant for San Patricio Police Department. We need your help. We have entered a residence that appears to have military explosives inside...”
“Whoa, hold on, Sergeant, let me get a pen.”
When Jazz looked up, T-Ball handed him the IED binder and a pen.
“Okay, Sergeant, shoot.”
“Well, sir, there’s this old woman who owns a house north of town. She has been renting it to some guy; we’re not sure who. Anyway he’s been missing a few days and she stopped in to look on things. She went into the basement and found what she thought originally was drugs or something. Point is, she thought it was strange. She called us, so we sent a patrolman out... who went in with her. He saw in the basement what he believes to be military explosives.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“No, sir. We think he might be right, so naturally we decided to call you.”
“Okay. Wait one,” Jazz put his hand over the phone and spoke to T-Ball. “We have military explosives in a civilian home out in town. San Patricio County is asking our assistance. Who else is in house?”
“Just you and me, sir. Everyone else has left for the day.”
“Okay, get the MU Six command duty officer on the phone.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Jazz turned back to the phone. “Thanks for waiting, Sergeant. Now I need you to help me paint a more precise picture of what you got there. Can I assume you have this place secured and are watching for this guy to show up?”
“Yes, sir. We have a roadblock on both routes into this place. We have a photo of him and a description of his vehicle. The house itself is cordoned off and we have all kinds of uniforms around.”
“I recommend that you pull back away from the house as far as reasonable. You never know if this guy may have placed a booby trap in there.”
“We thought of that. Nobody has disturbed anything.”
“Good. Okay, I need some more questions answered.”
Jazz got as much information out of Sergeant Weaver as he could, including his phone number. When he hung up, T-Ball pointed to the phone on Chief Keating’s desk.
“Lieutenant Harmon on button four, sir,”
Jazz met Harmon while they were at EOD school. Harmon was in the Navy class ahead of Jazz’s.
“Thanks, Ball, start a recall—get everyone in here.”
“Roger that, sir.”
T-Ball sat back down at Keating’s desk and began dialing. Jazz punched the button flashing on his phone.
“Harmon, Jazz here.”
“Jazz, what’s up man?”
“Did Ball tell you anything?”
“Yeah, explosives in some guy’s house.”
“Right. I’ve been told never to roll without calling you guys.”
“Cool, got it. Well, I got the CO on the other line. T-Ball said they were military explosives.”
“Suspected.”
“Right, suspected military explosives. So the CO said go and advise. No RSPs, no blowing in place. No countering booby traps.”
“Uh, okay.”
“Take your cell phone and call us when you get things figured out.”
“Got it.”
“Hooya, brother.”
T-Ball again pointed to the phone on Jazz’s desk.
“Chief Keating, button two. I’m going in the back to load gear, sir.”
“Chief?”
“Wassup, sir?”
“San Patricio PD asking for assistance in a house. They found what they believe to be military explosives. I know you guys just got home...”
“I’m not coming in, sir.”
“What?”
“You and T-Ball can handle this. What did the mobile unit say?”
“We are to advise the San Pats on...”
“Advise, sir, advise.
Take a radio, a cell phone, a pad of paper, and the digital camera. Call us if you need us.”
“But, Chief...”
“Sir, you are going to a secure area where they suspect there may be military explosives that are undoubtedly in a storage configuration. Could there be booby traps... maybe... okay so take your flak gear. Be careful, that is what they pay you the big bucks for. If a render safe procedure needs to be done, wait and let the Seven-Niner-Seven do it. Got it?”
“Yes, Chief.”
“Be safe, sir, I’ll be by the phone.”
The detachment’s pickup truck was not obvious in South Texas. Fortunately the police on scene were briefed that some Navy bomb squad technicians would be arriving. A patrolman on the perimeter directed the Techs to the police command post. Jazz walked up to the first plainclothes officer he saw.
“Howdy, I’m Lieutenant Jascinski, Navy EOD from Ingleside.”
“Great, I’m Detective Iglesias. We’ll have someone escort you in, sir.”
“That may not be necessary. Could we get a map?”
“Uh, sure.”
By the time he got back to the dually, T-Ball had already put on a flak vest and a Kevlar helmet with a large face shield attached. Jazz noted that the sailor was affixing his IED thigh pouch, which hung from his rigger’s belt. T-Ball snapped the leg strap holding it in place, then he helped Jazz to don his vest and helmet.
T-Ball wore the response pack. He handed Jazz two radios. As they walked back by the command post, Jazz gave one to Detective Iglesias.
“We’re on channel two.”
“We’ll be standing by.”
The hand-drawn map was inaccurate. T-Ball pointed to a door in the kitchen.
“I’ll bet that’s it, sir.”
“Yeah or it’s a pantry.”
T-Ball took a flashlight from the IED thigh pouch and walked over to the door next to the refrigerator. It was slightly ajar. He pointed the light into it.
“Cereal and canned goods. That’s gotta be it,” he said pointing to the second door.
“Do we remote open it?”
“Nah, looks clean and someone has already been through it.”
Jazz opened the door. The lights in the basement were already on, illuminating open stairs and part of a workbench. The two men slowly descended.
Proximity: A Novel of the Navy's Elite Bomb Squad Page 12
