“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
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.”