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?”