He rose up hitting his head on the rack above his. Cursing, he slid out of it onto the floor. His flight suit hung on a hangar by the locker corresponding to his bunk number. The ship’s laundry washed all of the detachment’s clothes during the night, their third at sea.
The chow line was already too long. Many of the sailors in line had obviously been on watch, awake for the last four to six hours. Others were early risers, ensuring they got their fill before relieving their shipmates who kept them safe during the night.
Ash headed to the aft gun mount, one level below the VLS deck. The sun was just rising into view. He saw the silhouette of a few other sailors in front of the red light racing over the horizon.
The hatch closed with a heavy, “CLINK!”
Ash turned and went up the ladder. There were more sailors there, silently studying the helo. They spoke quietly, as if at a funeral, out of respect for their fallen shipmate. Most of them did not know Lieutenant Commander Lung well, but they knew who he was. They had sailed with him; that was enough.
A quick look revealed that the ordnance recovered from the wreck was still secured on the pallet. They fashioned a makeshift lid for the missile to encase the weapon with the MER attached.
Ash walked back over to the port side where he performed his render safe procedure thirty-some hours before. The tripods were still there, but the chain falls were gone. He noticed a fire hose laid out, but nobody was manning it. The crew had long ago secured from general quarters, but they were still ready to respond in the unlikely event that the helo should re-flash.
Normandy did not return to Norfolk. She sailed further up the James River to the pier at Naval Weapon Station Yorktown, Virginia. Tied up outboard of her was the salvage ship USS Grasp. Lieutenant Commander January spoke with the OIC of EOD Mobile Unit Two Detachment Yorktown. They would store the missile in a magazine for demolition later. Undoubtedly some data would be collected on its survivability for the program office and defense contractor that developed the missile.
Ash watched as the crane lifted the crate to a flatbed waiting on the pier. After the weapon was swung clear, Grasp would lift the aircraft onto its deck. Like the missile, it would be thoroughly studied by the crash investigation team.
Chief Smalls of Det Yorktown drove his compatriots back to their facility at Norfolk. As they left the weapon station he spoke over his shoulder.
“Hey, Ashland, saw your orders on the message board today brother.”
“Really? What’d they say?”
“You’re going to Ingleside.”
TEN
Melanie was in the auditorium already feeding the baby again. Jazz stood just outside the entrance of EOD School’s main building with his two sons. He kept his eyes on the road, watching for his parents.
The boys were unusually quiet.
“I’m very excited to have you guys pin on my crab.”
“Yeah, we practiced,” said Nick.
“You guys are awfully quiet.”
Nick spoke up again. “Mommy said if we’re good we get ice cream!”
Jazz looked at his reflection in the glass door again. He still wore the gold Surface Warfare pin above his ribbons. He was proud of the destroyer’s bow steaming through the sea superimposed over crossed swords. Jazz worked hard to earn this warfare qualification. It was recognition of his tenure as a mariner.
Today he would not be awarded a warfare designation but a qualification — Basic EOD Technician. In about an hour, Nicholas would pin the silver EOD crab commonly called the “slick bomb” on the pocket below Jazz’s ribbons.
The Admiral’s grey Volvo turned left into the parking lot and pulled up to the entrance where Jazz and his sons were waiting. Eleanor got out and the Admiral drove on, looking for a parking spot.
“He’s just parking the car, dear.”
“The Admiral’s not in uniform today?”
“He didn’t want to upstage you on your day. He didn’t want the focus to be shifted from you by all the fanfare of having a flag officer present.”
The thought surprised Jazz and he suspected that it came from his mother. Jazz did not like to advertise that he was an admiral’s son. Officers in the Surface community plagued him constantly with the question, “Are you Admiral Jascinski’s kid?” Jazz knew that an answer in the affirmative was usually accompanied by the unspoken notion that any success he experienced was due to his lineage rather than his own talent or hard work.
It was yet another reason to move to Special Operations. The community had no admirals. As a result its officer corps was less political. Culturally, EOD men were measured by performance, not by the rank worn by their parents.
Melanie emerged from the schoolhouse cradling the baby, now sleeping.
“I finished just in time. They’ve just marched in all the Navy students. They’re all in formation in the back of the auditorium.”
“Oh, dear,” said Eleanor. “Can I take her?”
“Sure, Mom. We’ve got a seat for her inside.”
“Mel, Mom, why don’t you take the boys inside and get a seat?” said Jazz.
“Sure,” Melanie smiled. “They’re being so good aren’t they?”
“Yes, they are.”
Both lads looked up at their dad and smiled at his approval.
“You guys are doing great. Nicholas, do you have my pin?”
“Right in here, Daddy,” said the five-year-old patting his pocket.
As the family disappeared into the building Jazz spied his sons holding hands. The eldest cupped his hand to his mouth and whispered something to Tyler, a reminder about ice cream.
The Admiral walked up and extended his hand. Jazz shook hands with him.
“This is a great day, son.”
“Yes, sir. ‘Couldn’t ask for better weather.”
“No, I mean I’m proud of you,” the Admiral replied.
Jazz imagined his mother reminding him to utter these words sometime during the course of the day. The Admiral could relax now knowing that he met his obligation.
The Admiral and his son stepped past the formation of naval students to the front of the auditorium. Jazz noted that the hall was set up as if there were a full class graduating. He did not expect that. There were chairs for fifty people, a lot more than would be attending for the three students graduating. The stage was decorated with the Stars and Stripes and the flags of each of the four services. On the curtain at the rear of the stage was the seal of NAVSCOLEOD and the Basic, Senior, and Master EOD badges. The whole area was surrounded by ordnance from the mine museum that were disarmed and cut in half so students could study their innards.
Jazz took his place in the front row next to Fireman Hopkins and Hull Technician Second Class Huang. His extended family sat several rows behind him.
“Huang,” Jazz whispered, “do I recognize those two women?”
“You mean my dates?”
“Uh, yeah. Who are they?”
Huang grinned. “Strippers.”
“Oh shit, it’s Mercedes and Jasmine.”
“My favorites.”
Jazz started to laugh. “You dumb sonofabitch. Keep that shit low key.”
“Gonna celebrate later, LT.”
Jazz shook his head in disbelief.
Lieutenant Commander Massie eyed Huang’s guests as he stepped up on the stage. He removed his smile by the time he reached the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please rise. Naval School Explosive Ordnance Disposal, attention.”
York came to attention and bellowed, “NAVSCOLEOD, ATTEN-HUT!”
The students came to attention.
Massie spoke again, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the Commanding Officer of Naval School Explosive Ordnance Disposal, Captain Thomas Grant, United States Navy.”