Margaritifer Basin (Margaritifer Trilogy Book 1) (3 page)

“Sir, we’ve got
20,000 troops left over there to handle an area bigger than California. What
are you expecting?”

“Body bags.” Jeff
sighed. “Is there coffee?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll be in my
hooch.”

Gar Stewart had
eventually recovered from his injuries in Kuwait, made a career of the Navy and
retired as a Senior Chief. But when he heard that Jeff was in the active
Reserve he applied for a Reserve post with him. As a mere Captain, Jeff didn’t
rank an aide. But Gar Stewart was Jeff’s right hand, and as good an aide as any
in the Navy serving a four-star admiral.

It wasn’t really Jeff’s office. In fact, it wasn’t
much more than a broom closet that during the week served as the office of a
1st Class Yeoman. But Jeff didn’t really care, and he was careful not to touch
anything as the Yeoman had a real job and Jeff didn’t want to make it any more
difficult. Jeff spent the morning reading over hundreds of pages of messages –
mostly classified – detailing reports of Improvised Explosive Devices from all
over the world. Most came from Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan, but many
originated from far flung theaters. There were road-side bombs, car bombs,
suicide strap-on bombs, and bombs from which there wasn’t enough left to figure
out where they had come from. Most involved people dying. In more than 25 years
in this line of work, Jeff had become fairly callused to the personal tragedy
side of the issue. For him it was now just a job, and one for which he felt
obligated to stay current on the technology. If for any bizarre, inexplicable
reason he once again found himself commanding an EOD group, men’s lives would
depend on his leadership.

Around noon Jeff
broke for lunch. “Hey, Master Chief, anything in the commissary deli that isn’t
showing signs of life?”

“No, sir, it all
looks to be alive and well. But if you’re short on penicillin…”

Jeff laughed. “Hell
of recommendation, Master Chief.”

“Did you see the one
about the nail bomb in Nigeria?”

“Yeah. Ouch. That had
to leave a mark.”

“These clowns are
inventive, that’s for sure.”

“Yes they are. I’ll
be back in an hour or so.”

“Yes, sir. Oh,
Captain, they’ve got a fresh locker of meat on the beach. You might enjoy a
look.”

“Thanks, Master
Chief. I’ll stop by.”

The ‘fresh locker of
meat’ the Master Chief referred to was a Basic Underwater Demolition/SEALS, or
BUDS, class in ‘Hell Week’. Jeff’s drill weekends rarely coincided with Hell
Week but when they did he tried to make a point of stopping by. It always made
him grateful that he had
not
chosen the SEALs. Besides, Captain Ralph
Dillard, a SEAL, and the Commanding Officer of Naval Special Warfare Group
Three was a good friend and had been for many years.

Jeff decided to pass
on the Commissary and instead stopped by Subway and picked up a club sandwich,
chips and a bottle of water, then drove down the Coronado Strand and pulled
into the parking lot adjoining the beach obstacle course at the south end of
the base. He spied a blue Escalade parked beside the course with a familiar
figure leaning against the hood. Jeff parked behind it, grabbed his lunch, and
strolled over to join him.

“Crap, can’t a guy
get some privacy on this beach?”

“Hey Jeff, how the
hell are you?” said Ralph Dillard.

“God, Ralph, that’s
cruel. You standing here eating a Quarter Pounder with cheese in front of these
poor bastards? You know, you’re evil.”

Ralph Dillard and
Jeff had been commissioned about the same time. Ralph had remained on active
duty and was now one of the most senior SEAL officers in the Navy. Jeff leaned
against the hood, standing beside him, and began working on his sandwich.

“So, how they look?”

“Not bad. Very low dropout
rate. Looks like a good class.”

“That’s good. You
need ‘em.”

“Boy, you can say
that again. DoD seems to expect us to do everything these days.”

“Yeah, what the fuck
is the deal there, Ralph? Every time I turn on the TV all I hear about is
Special Forces. You guys can take ground better than anybody, but you can’t
hold it, not enough manpower. What the hell are they thinking?”

“Jeff, I honestly
don’t know. I think they saw a Rambo movie and figured all they need now is a
Sylvester Stallone impersonator and the world is safe for democracy.”

Jeff looked across
the sand at the hundred men on the beach; cold, wet, dirty, hungry, tired to
the point of utter exhaustion, but still going forward on nothing more than
shear will and determination. “Why do they do it, Ralph?”

“Beats the shit out
of me.”

“Why’d you do it?”

“Beats the shit out
of me.”

“You’re just full of
useful information.”

Ralph chuckled. “Just
trying to give the taxpayers their money’s worth.”

“Yeah, good luck with
that.”

“What have you been
up to? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Same old shit. Just
gettin’ by. How are Marilyn and the kids?”

“Just fine.”

“Yeah, well, give her
my best.”

“Sure will. She
mentions you and Marsha now and then. Damn, those were the good old days.”

“Good old days? Shit, Ralph, in case you’ve
forgotten, we were in the sandbox gettin’ shot at.”

“Hey, it’s not just a
job, it’s an adventure.”

“Yeah, right.” Jeff
pointed at the BUDS class on the beach. “You think they’re buyin’ that right
now?”

Ralph shook his head.
“Probably not.”

“How much longer you
gonna be here?”

“Eh, just a couple
months, then you can color me gone. Gonna find me a little farm in New
Hampshire and a new line of work.”

“Damn, that sounds
sweet. You find a place yet?”

“No, but Marilyn and
I are looking.” Ralph turned to Jeff. “Gettin’ tired man. I’m just gettin’
tired.”

“I here ya pal.”

“Hey, why don’t you
come over to the house tonight for dinner? Let Marilyn put some real food in
you for once.”

“Oh man, I am sorely
tempted but, uh, I’ve been bad and have to go home tonight.”

Ralph laughed. “You
lazy bastard. You don’t have your taxes done, do you?”

“Nope.”

“You’re a piss-poor
example for your men, Captain.”

Jeff chuckled. “Shit.
I won’t tell ‘em if you won’t. Anyway, if I can have a raincheck, I’d sure love
to join you both next month.”

“You’re on.”

Jeff looked at his
watch. “Oh crap, I gotta run. Somebody showed up this week with a new high-tech
bomb disposal bot and I want to take a look at it before they pack it up and go
home.” The two men stood and shook hands. “You take care of yourself, hear? And
give my best to Marilyn.”

“You too, and I
will.”

Jeff took one last
look across the beach. “Fine looking bunch, Ralph. Put ‘em to good use.”

“I will. Take care.”

“See ya.”

Jeff hurried back to
his car and drove to a warehouse in the EODGRU complex. At the door he was met
by Master Chief Stewart. “Nice of you to make it, sir.”

“Sorry, I was having
lunch with Captain Dillard.”

“Ah. Well, that
sounds a lot more interesting than this.”

“Okay, what have we
got?”

“It’s out back. Cute
little gizmo.” They walked through the building to the open lot in back.
“Captain Grey, this is Ian McDonald of EUA Robotics. And this is
Irving
.”

“Glad to meet you Mr.
McDonald.”

“The pleasure is all
mine,” McDonald said with a thick Irish brogue.

“So, what’s
Irving
’s
claim to fame?”

“Captain,
Irving
is designed to disarm unexploded conventional military ordinance. IEDs and land
mines are one thing but, as you well know, conventional ordinance, owing to
potentially great explosive yields, can present different problems for EOD
personnel. Specifically, detonating the ordinance is not always practical.
Irving
’s
‘claim to fame,’ as you put it, is its ability to disarm military ordinance –
bombs, rockets, missiles, and the like – in the same manner that you would. It
has all the necessary tools and a highly sophisticated database and algorithm
that allows it to identify ordinance, determine the best approach for disarming
it and proceed to do so, entirely on its own.”

“I’ll be damned,
that’s pretty slick. Bet you could have made a fortune with this in London in
the 1940s. It doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen before, but there’s
something familiar about it.”

“Indeed there is sir.
As such an instrument would likely be deployed in a range of inhospitable
environments, we borrowed from NASA technology and designed the system based
upon the Mars Exploration Rovers,
Opportunity
and
Spirit
.
Completely self-contained, intelligent, able to identify objects and navigate
on its own, and able to traverse rugged terrain.”

“That’s a novel approach. Show me.”

“My pleasure. So as
not to prejudice the test, I’ve asked your Master Chief to pull something out
of your warehouse at random.”

Jeff looked over at the bomb sitting in a cradle.
“Soviet FAB-500. Okay, we’ve seen plenty of those in Afghanistan. Have at it.”

Ian keyed
Irving
’s
remote control and the robot immediately trundled over to the bomb and stopped
about ten feet from it. A tilt and pan head began surveying the bomb; the
robot, at intervals, moving in a circle around it. “
Irving
is using
visual recognition techniques and laser measurements to identify the weapon,”
Ian said.

After a few minutes,
Irving
rolled around to the bomb’s nose, again carefully surveyed it with its cameras,
then extended a robotic arm, grasped the dummy fuse and deftly removed it.

Jeff nodded.
“Impressive Mr. McDonald. You trying to put us out of a job?”

“No, sir, just make
your job safer.”

Jeff walked over to
Irving
,
squatted on the ground and looked it over for a minute. “Hmmm. I wonder if we
might have one more demonstration?”

“Of course.”

“Master Chief, screw
the fuse back in this thing, then,” pointing in back of the building’s concrete
slab, “haul it out to that sandpile.”

The Master Chief
replaced the fuse then picked up the bomb with a backhoe and dropped it some
ten meters into a soft sandy area. “How’s that?”

“That’s fine.” Jeff
turned back to Ian, “One more time?”

“Certainly.”

Irving
rolled off toward the bomb, made it about two meters into the sand and
promptly got stuck, unable to move forward or backward.

Ian frowned. “Bloody hell.”

Jeff sighed. “Mr.
McDonald, that sand is from the Iraqi desert. It’s not like this sunny southern
California beach sand we have here.
That
is some nasty shit. Mars may
not be the most inhospitable place in the solar system. Master Chief, you want
to help get
Irving
unstuck?”
            The Master Chief grinned. “Aye, sir.”

“Mr. McDonald, thanks
for the demonstration. I like your idea but it may not be quite ready for prime
time.” Jeff turned and headed toward his car. “By the way Mr. McDonald, didn’t
those rovers get stuck in the sand on Mars?”

Jeff drove back to
Long Beach Saturday evening and managed to finish his tax returns and get them
in the mail. Sunday was again spent at EODGRUONE, where he and the Master Chief
amused themselves with jokes about
Irving
and drafted a few sketches of
how they thought it might be improved.

“It’s not an
altogether bad idea,” Jeff said. “Why don’t you fax this stuff off to McDonald,
just to let him know that we’re not entirely cruel and heartless.”

“Aye, sir. And my
complements on that brilliant example of your devious nature, it was funny as
hell.”

Jeff grinned. “All
you had to do was look at the wheels on that thing and, given its mass, you
just knew it would get stuck.”

#

After stopping for
dinner at a small Italian restaurant in San Clemente that he liked, Jeff
finally arrived home around 9:00 Sunday evening – another weekend of service to
God and country crossed off the calendar. He poured himself a scotch, dropped
into the sofa and turned on the news, thinking he might catch the baseball
scores before bed.

“The big news of
the weekend is still Friday’s Mega Millions lottery drawing. $750 million, the
largest lottery purse in history. And, according to the California Lottery
office, just one winning ticket that was sold in a convenience store in Long
Beach, California and has so far gone unclaimed.”

Jeff hit the mute
button on the remote and looked at the numbers on the screen. “No way.” Then
turned the sound back on.