He looked back to the mine. It erupted in a flash of fire and black smoke, followed by water spray and white smoke that lifted high into the air. All the sailors shouted simultaneously.
“WHOOOOHOOOO!”
Keating slapped Ashland on the back
Grinning, Ash mimed jerking off. “EOD, BABAY!” he yelled. “DAMN I LOVE THIS SHIT!”
Just as Ash and Keating sat down, Jazz bent over and threw up a stomach full of seawater all over his feet and the deck.
They both looked at him in disbelief as he sat up and screamed, “HOOYA!”
“ARE YOU ALRIGHT, LT?” yelled Keating.
“HELL YEAH! THIS IS MUCH BETTER THAN STANDING THE MIDWATCH!”
As Jazz laced up his boots in the locker room, Denke handed him a message to call Captain Solarsky. Jazz dialed the number on the det phone. Solarsky answered after one ring.
“EOD Mobile Unit Six, Commander Solarsky speaking, may I help you?”
“Sir, it’s Lieutenant Jascinski.”
“Jazz! How are you? I’ve heard you guys are doing very well up there.”
“Yessir, we are learning a lot.”
“Good. It seems you are wanted at the Explosive Ordnance Disposal Technical Division. It is related to your recent IED call in San Patricio. Ops is having orders cut for you and Petty Officer Ball. The rest of your detachment will return to Ingleside upon completion of training.”
“Are we going now, sir, or after we finish here at TEU TWO?”
“You are going now. Your team has only a week left correct?”
“Yessir.”
“Fine, I see that you have done your IED, Surface, Small Unit Tactics, and the first part of MCM. You have done a few MCM-rides since you’ve been to Ingleside?”
“Well, sir, I have not embarked a minesweeper, but we did an exercise with Scout.”
“You’ll be fine then. You and T-Ball proceed to Stump Neck post-haste. Your orders will be waiting there for you.”
“Roger, sir. How long will we be?”
“I don’t know.”
Jazz realized that his family vacation was about to go in the toilet. Melanie was not going to be happy when he told her the news. At least she would not have to drive to Norfolk.
TWENTY-THREE
Indian Head
The next day Jazz drove the rental car down Indian Head Highway to the main gate of Naval Surface Weapon Station Indian Head. As he passed through, a wave of old feelings returned. He wiped them, reminding himself that he was already a Tech.
He saw the base club, The Powder Keg, on the right hand side. Jazz turned into its lot and parked there.
The memorial was not far. Jazz always paused when he first saw the four obelisks of granite each with the seal of one of the four services on top. Under each seal were bronze plaques bearing the names of EOD Techs who died in the line of duty.
Jazz was first drawn to the list under the seal of the United States Navy. Its most recent addition was an instructor Jazz knew as a student.
GMC (EOD/PJ) Stephen J. Morris, USN
Morris died in a training accident the very day Jazz graduated. Jazz was on leave and did not hear the news until he reported in at Mobile Unit Six. As he looked at the name, Jazz recalled the cold November mornings less than two years before, his class standing in shorts on pool deck. He remembered Morris, warm in a sweatsuit with coffee in hand, the class taskmaster.
“Get in the water!”
“Hooya!” the students would yell as they plunged into the cold water. Morris would wait a moment until a quorum of his charges was shivering.
“Anyone wanna quit?”
There would not be an answer.
“Ten thousand yards, crawl. Go!”
Upon finishing the swim, the students were required to exit the pool and get into the ‘leaning rest,’ the pushup position until the last of their classmates finished the swim. Jazz recalled looking at Morris’ boots as he stood in front of him.
“Mister Jascinski, you had better square these people away. Two more failed room inspections yesterday. Come by after class today and we’ll discuss.”
“Aye, aye, Chief!”
Jazz looked to the Army column.
Timothy A. West, Sgt USA
Cameron P. Martin, Sgt USA
Jazz still struggled with his role in their deaths. He made the phone call that set their demise in motion.
There was a noise behind him. Jazz turned around to see a fossil of a man in a short-sleeved shirt with a bow tie. The man was stooped and wore thick glasses. He had long ago ceased combing the thin wiry hair on his head that matched the bush in his ears.
“Zero eight five eight,” he said.
“Excuse me?” replied Jazz.
“Zero eight five eight.”
“Uh, was that your class number, sir?”
“No. Ever heard of the Combined Federal Campaign?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get a pen and write it down. Zero eight five eight,” the white Yoda growled as if Jazz was negligent to not have known and remembered this important number.
Jazz nervously pulled a pen from his shirt pocket. He then extracted an old receipt from his wallet.
“Zero eight five eight,” the man repeated.
Jazz mimicked as he wrote it down. “Zero eight five eight.”
“What is it?” he asked.
“The number for the EOD Memorial Scholarship Fund in the Combined Federal Campaign. I assume you are a student?”
“I graduated a few months ago. I’m Lieutenant James Jascinski,” he said extending his hand.
“Nice to meet you, sir. I’m Sergeant Horace Pickney, United States Army Retired. I’m one of the curators for the EOD Memorial and the scholarship fund. Army? Navy?”
“Navy.”
“Are you here for someone in particular? That chief who was an instructor I guess.”
Jazz studied the sergeant’s face. He noticed that his eyes were glossy and that his teeth were stained from cigarettes and coffee. When he raised his bushy eyebrows in anticipation, Jazz snapped back.
“Uh, yes. The chief, and the two most recent Army Techs from Texas.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I didn’t know them directly, but we kinda worked together. How about you, do you know any of these men?”
The old man smiled at Jazz. “Well, Lieutenant, I’ve only met four of them, but I know all of ‘em.”
As soon as Jazz and T-Ball reported aboard at Stump Neck they were separated. Jazz knew that it was not by accident that they were met by a lieutenant commander and a first class petty officer, both Master EOD Techs and both senior to their counterparts. Jazz was invited to the wardroom for coffee, T-Ball to the enlisted mess. While the maneuvering was subtle, Jazz sensed it and Ball’s look showed that he had too.
The wardroom looked much like that of a ship. The furniture was standard Navy issue. There was a combination dining room and conference table in the center and a small lounge area. A row of coffee pots, condiments, newspapers, and a bowl of fruit sat on a table along the wall adjacent to the entrance. Above them was a long mirror. The other walls had still photos of missiles, mines, and bombs. Jazz figured they were ordnance items tested by TECHDIV.
Lieutenant Commander Evans put a cup of black coffee in Jazz’s hand. Jazz studied the ribbons between Evans’ gold Special Operations pin and his silver Master EOD crab as he listened to his superior relay his six minute resume of where he was from, places he was stationed, and whom he knew in EOD. Jazz recognized some of the names but was too distracted to discuss any of Evans’ sea stories.
Jazz sensed something odd about Evans. He thought this suspicion might not be about Evans specifically, but that he was still put off by being separated from his teammate.
“So where’s Petty Officer Ball?”
“He is somewhere else in the building, the enlisted mess or a conference room I think. He will be interviewed separately.”
“Interviewed or
interrogated?”
“Relax, James. I heard that you were nervous about that. This is an interview. Nobody is out to find fault here. We are just trying to get some information.”
Jazz thought about Evans’ response for a moment.
“Then why have we been separated?”
“Because we want to compare what each of you says. If you are both sitting in a room together the tendency is for the junior man to agree with the senior’s version of events. This is especially sticky in your case, since Ball may have better insight into the technical aspects of the devices that you encountered due to his broader EOD experience.”
“Great,” Jazz said sarcastically.
“No offense.”
“What is this really about? You are not who you seem to be. You are wearing a Special Operations pin, but I’m not sure you are really an 1140.”
“What?” said Evans almost choking on the words. “How the fuck do you know that!”
“I can just tell. You’re polished but I can smell ‘TED’ all over you.”
“‘TED?’”
“‘Typical Enlisted Dude,’ no offense,” Jazz said trying to mimic Evans’ voice.
“Fuck you, Lieutenant.”
“No, fuck you, Evans. Who are you and what is going on? Do you work for the FBI?”
“How did you guess that?”
“First, how did you know that I was nervous about being questioned? Special Agent Cruz had to tell you. Second, you know too much about EOD and too many people to be acting the part, so you are a crab-wearer, but I think you were enlisted. Eleven-forties do not suggest to one another that their experience is lacking so flippantly. I think your Master crab is real... but I think that you were enlisted.”
Evans looked to one of the photos, frowning. Jazz watched him. Then he saw it, a camera lens was hidden in the corner. A microphone was probably behind the frame. This was an interrogation.
“Fine,” he said turning back to Jazz. “I’m with the FBI. Damn... you want a job?”
Evans slumped with defeat. He sighed heavily before beginning again. “I’m surprised you got me this quick. Before you get your panties all in a bunch, hold on and hear me out. I was in EOD and I am an officer, though not an 1140 as you so astutely pointed out, in the reserves.”
“What? Explain.”
“The bio I gave you is mostly true. I served twelve years in the Navy in EOD when I decided to get out. We don’t have the time or the beer required for me to tell you that story right now. I joined the FBI and became a Special Agent, but I stayed in the Naval Reserves. I was stationed at Mobile Unit Ten down there where you just were.”
“Fort Story?”
“Yep. Anyway, after two years in the reserves I was offered a commission as a Reserve Intelligence Officer.”
Suddenly the door opened and Special Agent Elena Cruz stepped in. Despite the circumstances, Jazz was still surprised.
“Lieutenant Jascinski, it is good to see you again,” she said extending her hand.
Cruz did not have a jacket on, which showed off her figure more than the first time they met. As Jazz shook her hand he noticed that her cream colored blouse was open at the neck.
One more button and I’d see cleavage.
Jazz reminded himself not to stare. He forced his eyes downward to Cruz’s waist. On her belt, she was wearing a sidearm, a badge, and handcuffs.
Jazz engaged her green eyes again through her dark rimmed glasses.
Sophisticated yet sexy.
Cruz smiled at him almost devilishly and said, “Why don’t we all sit down?”
Jazz and Evans sat at the conference table across from each other. Cruz topped off her coffee cup at the sidebar. While she took her time adding sugar and cream, Jazz could not help watching her. He tried to calm down, then he remembered she performed this same maneuver in Ingleside. She took her time with the notebook, ensuring everyone in the EOD conference room was made to feel that they were waiting for her.
This woman uses her feminine wares to keep men off balance.
Finally Cruz stood at the head of the table. She took off her glasses and looked at the two men. Evans seemed just as captivated as Jazz.
“Lieutenant Jascinski, I am to blame for this,” Cruz said in a conciliatory voice. “I thought this was the best way to retrieve accurate information from you and Petty Officer Ball. We were trying to create a low key, no pressure, ‘Please, help us.’ kind of environment. I have a murder investigation to run, one that certainly involves domestic terrorism. For understandable reasons, our first encounter was just not that helpful. You were clearly nervous, as we have said, and Chief Keating told me that your CO was pressuring you. I know how that is. My goal today was to remove that pressure and gain more insight to the deaths of your EOD brethren. Forgive me, but I am sure you can understand our motivation.”
Jazz calibrated his brain before speaking.
“I understand your motivation,” Jazz sat back in his chair, “but this isn’t about Martin and West is it? What I mean is... they are not really your main concern anymore. This is not about the murder investigation, it is about the IEDs.”
Cruz dropped her notebook to the table and looked at Jazz for a long moment.
“You are very perceptive, Lieutenant,” she said through a sly smirk.
“That’s what I said,” Evans interjected with a guffaw.
“How did you reach this conclusion?” inquired Cruz as she sat at the head of the table.
Her voice and demeanor changed. Jazz felt like suddenly there was real respect, as if he had genuinely broken a barrier with her.
“Because you are certain that Martin and West were murdered, not killed by an explosive accident. Which therefore means that my knowledge of the IEDs has next to nothing to do with their deaths. So, you think or you know that the bad guys, these terrorists, are going to or have already built more of the IEDs that T-Ball and I encountered.”
Cruz and Evans exchanged a knowing glance.
“You’re right,” she responded.
“Well, then let’s get down to business. Turn on your tape or your camera, or whatever. I’ll tell you everything I remember.”
Cruz had Jazz and T-Ball sit for two to four hour sessions, reviewing what happened and what they remembered again. They each reviewed the incident four times separately on the first day. Cruz then decided she obtained as much uninfluenced information as possible. The second day she had them review the incident together on the chance that they would stir more information from each other’s memory.
Emphasis was placed on the IEDs. The two EOD Techs described the devices and even drew what they remembered.
After two days, Cruz decided to take a break. Jazz and T-Ball were not, however, released to return to Ingleside.
“We may need you for a few more days. You must remain in the greater Washington DC area. We will contact you at your hotel when we need you again.”
Jazz left immediately to visit his family in Annapolis.
Melanie turned off the baby monitor next to the infant sleeping in the portable crib. The sound of their sons playing in the pool twenty feet below came through the open window. The Admiral sounded uncomfortable being in charge. The man who once commanded a squadron of destroyers was still figuring out how to be a grandfather.
Jazz closed the window silently. When he turned, Melanie was waiting for him on the bed. He lay beside her and put his arm around her. She rolled toward him and kissed him softly, throwing her leg over him.
His mother’s voice erupted from the kitchen.
“James!”
“Yes, Ma!” he yelled.
“Phone! A Mister Teebah for you!”
“Jazz! The baby!” Melanie hissed.
Jazz looked in the crib. Abigail stirred, but did not wake up. Melanie sighed heavily and sat up on the edge of the bed as he picked up the phone on the end table.
“T-Ball?” he said quietly.
He heard his mother hang up.
“Hey, sir. They want us back tomorrow morning.”
“Damnit, Melanie just got here.”
“Yeah, I was enjoying a mini-vacation myself. Oh well. At least we get to visit with Ms. Cruz again.”
“Shut-up.”
“I think she’s into you, LT.”
“I think you’ve been on the road too long,” Jazz lied. So maybe she is interested in me.
“Whatever, LT. You want me to pick you up somewhere?”
“Nah, I’ll see you there.”
“Roger.”
When he hung up the phone Melanie looked sick.
“Going back tomorrow?” she inquired to confirm.
“Yes.”
“There is more to this than you’re telling me, isn’t there?” she asked.
“Melanie, come on... don’t be a conspiracy nut.”
“You are not a good liar, Jazz. What happened in Texas? What really happened to those men?”
“Nothing... it is just like I told you.”
Melanie frowned at him, disbelievingly. She said nothing else as she put on her one-piece bathing suit, turned the baby monitor back on, grabbed a towel, and headed downstairs. Jazz realized that protecting Melanie from the dangers of his job was driving a wedge between them.
When Jazz walked into the interview room the next day, Cruz and T-Ball were leaning over the table, studying something.
“‘Morning.”
As they turned toward him, Jazz saw one of the IEDs from their incident in San Patricio on the table.
“Holy shit, where’d you get that? Have you guys captured another one?”
“No,” replied Cruz proudly. “It’s a replica.”
“Pretty impressive, huh, LT?” said T-Ball.
“Yeah, it looks exactly like the damn thing.”
Jazz studied the device closer. The mock-up appeared as if the builder was just about to finish the last stage of assembly. The lid was off, exposing the contents inside.
“Getting at this is going to be a sonofabitch,” reported T-Ball. “Are you guys going to work on a render safe procedure?”
Proximity: A Novel of the Navy's Elite Bomb Squad Page 18
