Stephen Phillips
Proximity: A Novel of the Navy's Elite Bomb Squad
For Christina
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.
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.
ONE
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
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 hand 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.