Back in the detachment’s shop, Jazz asked again about responding to IEDs.
“You told me to remind you about IED incidents in town. I talked with Solarsky about it when I visited the command in Charleston. He said we only go out in a few circumstances.”
“Not exactly true. Like I said, it is actually a little complicated. First, we do not have jurisdiction down here. Geographically it belongs an Army EOD unit in San Antonio, the 797th.”
“Wow, that’s two hours away.”
“Right. Remember that we are a mobile det, not a shore detachment. So we have a memorandum of understanding to respond to calls out in town only when in extremis. If the stuff is stable, or once it is stable, you call the Seven-Niner-Seven.”
“Then they come pick it up?”
“Yeah. We have transported stuff up there for them a few times when we have been free and they’ve been busy. As a result, they allow us to use their demolition range for training from time to time.”
“Hmmm.”
“Listen, you are not going to have to deal with this anyway. The ordnance that we find down here is usually either old World War II mines that get caught in commercial fishnets or hand grenades that grandpa brought back from the war. So, don’t worry about it. You will never have to respond to an IED.”
At the day’s end Jazz went into the conference room and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. He studied the plaques and photos around the room. Most were given as in appreciation for one of the EOD det’s support during a Gulf or Squadron Exercise.
Hooya to Det TWO RONEX 95-1. From the men of OSPREY.
From GLADIATOR to DET 4, RONEX 97-2.
Clean Sweep! GOMEX 97-4
There were photos of Techs performing various EOD missions sprinkled in between the plaques.
A board in the middle of the room caught Jazz’s eye. His name was on it, so was Delgado’s, and two of the names he recognized from Det Two. The top of the board read, “SENIOR TECH,” with a Senior EOD badge affixed below it. Each of the names had a Basic crab next to it. Jazz’s was blue.
“Chief!”
“Sir?”
“What the heck is this?”
Chief Keating got up from the desk and came into the conference room.
“What’s what, sir?”
“This chart or board or whatever….”
“Ah, that’s the progress report on all the slick bombs going for Senior Tech. As they progress by completing qualifications we move the Basic pin over to the right. Once they reach the end, they get to sit on the Senior Board.
“Why the fuck is mine blue?”
Keating smiled. “Inert.”
“Huh?”
“See the two holes drilled in it? Inert ordnance is painted blue and has holes drilled in them. We figure you’re inert till you do something.”
“So, I’m worse than a slick bomb?”
“And an officer to boot…” the chief said with a twinkle in his eye.
“You dirty bastards.”
“Welcome to EOD, sir. You realize that as an 1140, you will catch more shit from the team than anyone. I hope you can dish it out or at least you’re thick skinned.”
“Great.”
“Oh and another thing, every first is a case of beer.”
“What?”
“After your first dive you owe the det one case of beer. Same for first time underway, first cast operation, first fast-rope, and anything else we can get ya on.”
Jazz smiled. “Wonderful.” I am gonna love this place.
THIRTEEN
The RHIB’s radio crackled, waking Jazz.
“Tiburon Four, Tiburon Four, this is Pathfinder, over.”
“LT, Scout’s callin’ us,” Delgado said from behind the helm. Jazz sat up at the sound of his new nickname, L-T, the initials for Lieutenant. He opened his eyes, squinting in the sun. The whole det sunned themselves while Scout hunted for mines in the exercise field.
“Maybe they finally found something,” Quinn suggested.
Jazz grabbed the radio.
“Pathfinder, this is Tiburon Four, over.”
“Four this is Finder. Standby to copy lat and long of mine-like object.”
Keating grabbed the Dive Supervisor’s binder from the seat behind the console. He nodded at his OIC.
“Pathfinder, this is Tiburon Four. Send it.”
“This is Pathfinder. November two seven decimal seven one tree tree six niner four, whiskey niner seven decimal one zero seven zero seven zero niner, how copy? Over.”
“Got it, LT,” Keating said.
“This is Tiburon Four, roger. Interrogative water depth, over.”
“Four this is ‘Finder. Five nine feet, over.”
“This is Four, roger out.”
The boat immediately sprang to life as Keating began shouting orders.
“This is Chief Keating. I have the side! Delgado, enter those points in the GPS and call it waypoint ten. Ball and LT dress out. T-Ball, you’re diving. LT is standby. Quinn, Sinclair, you guys are tenders.
“Dee, after you enter the waypoint, come up slow and head for it. We can close the distance, but I want these guys to be able to dress on the way there.”
“I know, Chief, especially since the seas are picking up.”
“Right. Okay, let’s do it.”
Jazz and Ball slipped on ‘shorties,’ one-piece wetsuits with long sleeves over the arms, but only shorts for the legs. They both stuck their heads into Mark-4 life vests that were shaped like a horse-collar yoke around their necks. Jazz thought of the Admiral as he strapped the knife on his left inner calf.
“Where in the heck did you get that dinosaur, LT?” asked Keating.
“Uh, my Dad got it for me at an antique shop.”
“Damn, I haven’t seen one of those bad boys in years.”
“Yeah, you only see ‘em in the schoolhouse these days,” agreed Quinn.
Quinn and Sinclair helped the divers don the Mark-16 dive rigs, weight belts, and fins.
Keating staged the two-alpha sonar and then looked them both over quickly.
“Looks like you guys are basically ready. Okay get ‘em sitting down low in the boat. Good. Scout is way the hell down on the other side of this minefield. I’m going to have Dee skirt the field, come back up in speed, and then turn back in. Everyone hold on.”
“Comin’ up!” Dee shouted.
Jazz felt like a fish out of water. He sat across from T-Ball who appeared to be dozing. The weight of the dive rig made the shoulder and waist straps cut into Jazz’s shoulders and gut. Even though they were in the stern he could feel the RHIB pounding through the seas. Each bounce jarred his fillings. The hot Texas sun baked him, the thick neoprene of his wetsuit making it worse. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the mission.
The seas were definitely getting rough, though it was a beautiful day otherwise. Not a cloud in the sky, just a light breeze, no portents of bad weather were there. It was just as Fontaine described.
An old familiar feeling crept into Jazz’s mouth. He felt sweat beading on his forehead. His stomach began to churn like a washing machine.
I’m getting seasick.
He fought the urge to throw-up.
“There’s Scout, Chief!” Delgado called out.
Jazz looked toward the bow. Scout was coming toward them on the starboard side.