The Stinger Proxy: A Novel

CHAPTER ONE

ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN

APRIL 10, 1988

1210 HRS.

The mid-day call to prayer could scarcely be heard over the wailing sirens. Explosions shook the city and rockets flew in every direction as citizens ran in panic for cover. First responders swam against a veritable flood of humanity in their efforts to reach the site of a fire and continuing explosions. The closer to the epicenter, the clearer the devastation. Lifeless human bodies became more plentiful, along with the odd horse or donkey. People bloodied by the blasts, clutched their children, their wounded family, friends—even strangers—and sought shelter without any idea where they would find it. Debris flew in all directions and buildings were damaged—some piles of rubble. A black mushroom cloud hung over the city, rising hundreds of yards into the sky, a stark backdrop against the streaking rockets and the frequent plumes of white phosphorus falling back to earth. Hospitals overflowed in every quarter of the city.

The military camp, surrounded by two major metropolitan areas, was the site of the ongoing devastation. As the detonations persisted, and rockets whizzed overhead, the pandemonium continued unabated. The first blast to break the mid-morning silence set off a wave of frenzied speculation adding to the confusion. Was it an earthquake? Was India attacking for some unknown reason? Could it be the Israelis? And what about the Soviets? Perhaps the war in the neighboring country to the west was spilling over into their own. The camp was known to have been a weapons depot at one time. Could that be at the root of the problem? Nobody knew for certain what was happening. What the people did know was their president was out of the country attending an Islamic culture conference, and the response to this conflagration would fall at the feet of their prime minister.

FT. INDIANTOWN GAP, PA

APRIL 10, 1988

0247 HRS.

Will Carter awoke abruptly, startled. He was an early riser, but the alarm clock seemed particularly annoying this morning. The loud, unexpected sound echoed through the small barracks room, his home at Ft. Indiantown Gap, Pennsylvania—affectionately referred to as the Gap by those stationed there. When he focused finally on the bright red numbers of the clock, they displayed 2:47 a.m., then he realized it was the phone ringing rather than his usual 5:30 alarm. He dutifully picked up the phone and before he could say, hello, the voice demanded, Carter, I need you at the unit—now. He recognized the voice quickly—it was Master Sergeant Steve Jackson, the first sergeant at his unit.

What’s going on? Will inquired. Is everything okay? he asked.

Everything’s fine, Jackson replied.

Is it my family? Will pressed.

I can’t talk about it over the phone, Jackson replied, just get your ass down here.

He wasn’t scheduled for 24-hour response duty, so Carter knew something was wrong. If needed for an Explosive Ordnance Disposal response, Jackson would have told him straightaway. Carter was unsatisfied, however, with his assurances that everything was fine. Jackson was a straight shooter—direct, even abrupt at times—so it was no surprise he would want to speak to Carter face-to-face; but surely he would not have left him in the dark either. Will tried to reassure himself that if there were a family problem, someone in his family would have the good sense to call him directly rather than call the unit. It had been his observation, though, often in an emergency, good sense didn’t always prevail. And what if his parents were in trouble? Someone may have news about them and didn’t know how to call him directly.

These were the thoughts running through Will’s head as he jumped into his pickup truck—a four-wheel-drive Ford Ranger he bought the year before—and quickly headed for the 56th Explosive Ordnance Disposal Detachment.

The unit was only a couple miles from his barracks; but even with no traffic at about three o’clock in the morning, the short, pleasant drive seemed slow as Will’s trepidation grew. Finally, he arrived, coded into the security system, proceeded through the heavy front door, and headed straight to the orderly room where Jackson’s desk was located. When he walked in, Sergeant Carter saw Jackson was standing with his back to him, intermittently reading something in his hand and glancing up at the big unit roster and calendar on the wall. It was the clear, laminated kind, and there were several entries scrawled in a variety of colored grease pencils, each color having meaning. Even with all the negative thoughts racing through his mind, Will couldn’t help but marvel at six-foot-seven Jackson; his height still capturing his attention though he had served under him since his arrival at the 56th some three years earlier.

When Jackson turned and spoke in his baritone voice, he simply said, Have a seat.

Will could feel the reverberation of his words and quickly followed the instruction. Once seated, he inquired, What’s going on, Top?

Jackson took his seat behind his desk, looked Will in the face, and said bluntly, Pack your s**t, you’re going to Pakistan.

What—Pakistan?! Will replied, confused.

That’s right, Pakistan, Jackson said. Here’s a list of everything you’ll need. He handed Carter a DF—a disposition form the Army used for a variety of purposes. For example, in this case, instructions to a soldier for the kind of tools he might need to take with him on a deployment to Pakistan. The DF was straightforward with no hints of why he was going to Pakistan. It mostly ordered him to have his demo kit, Kevlar helmet, flak vest—the usual tools of the trade for an explosive ordnance disposal (EOD) technician.

At this point, Jackson began his brief. He had an unusually hard look on his face, and although he was a plainspoken Vietnam veteran from Michigan, ironically, he wasn’t what one would consider a hard man. That’s why his look caught Carter’s eye; it added a level of unexpected gravity. Will was barely twenty-two years old and pinned on sergeant stripes only four months before. Still, he was a confident young man—if only slightly cocky.

An ASP went high order, Jackson explained. Big f***in’ mess, he added, referring to an ammunition supply point, or ASP. A lot of casualties and the place is still on fire—rounds still cookin’ off, he said. This is still very close hold, so you’ll get a full brief at Dix, he continued, referring to Ft. Dix, New Jersey, home to Will’s command unit. Looks like Combs got the duty, so he’ll drive you over to Dix. You’ll need to be ready in an hour, so hurry up, he instructed.

Who’s going with me? Will asked.

Just you from the 56th. You’ll hook up with the rest of your team at Dix. And by the way, Jackson added, no calls home or to your girlfriend or anybody—this s**t’s classified.

Will pondered the high order detonation of an ASP in Pakistan. Since the Soviets invaded neighboring Afghanistan years before and a raging war was happening, could this be related? Pakistan was next to Afghanistan. Details were scarce, but he thought the ASP could have been a staging point for munitions bound for Afghanistan. Jackson had a similar experience in Vietnam, and he knew what was in store for the cocky young blond sergeant, who stood before him. That could explain the dour look on his face when he made his pronouncement. Jackson, at this point, didn’t know any more than Will did, but his experience as an EOD tech in Vietnam told him the young sergeant was about to have his hands full.

Jackson liked Carter. Will had respect for him too, even though some months before they fell out over an assignment Will was excited about. He was on orders to Greece—a dream assignment for a single twenty-something. But Jackson wanted to keep him at the Gap. Paradoxically, if he hadn’t thought so highly of Carter, he would have more than likely let him go, but Jackson arranged to make him stay. Will didn’t take that as a compliment, and it affected his attitude toward his first sergeant for a while. But not for too long: As a reward for not going to Greece, Will was sent to the E-5 board and Jackson, a member of the board, awarded him maximum points. Will pinned on sergeant stripes three weeks before his twenty-second birthday.

In the moment, Will forgot about the worry he had for his family. But Jackson’s admonishment of no contact with family or friends brought it rushing back. He was close to his mom and dad and called them every few days. He knew they would be worried when they didn’t hear from him, but he had to stay focused. Will was a second-generation EOD tech, and his dad—a Vietnam vet with twenty-four years of service—would understand any silence. It was his mom he worried most about. She lived through multiple deployments keeping the home fires burning for Dad, and to him, it seemed unfair she would have to go through it again—this time with little or no information to ease her concerns. Will could contact family only when given the okay—that was the Army way.

Will returned to his barracks and began packing, which took little time because he had such a short list of things to bring and he needed to hurry. As luck would have it, he had been to the Post Exchange, or PX as it was called—a general store type establishment common on Army posts—the day before and stocked up on two items he considered essential: Big Red gum and wintergreen Certs. He carried little in his pockets from day to day but was seldom without gum and mints. He didn’t think he was obsessive compulsive; he was simply conscious of the need to maintain fresh breath. This added a strange uncertainty to his thoughts: he wasn’t sure how long his supply would last, since he had no idea how long he would be gone.

It occurred to Will he needed to get his finances in order before he traveled. He only had three monthly bills to pay—his truck insurance payment, a Visa card with about a two-hundred-dollar balance, and his phone bill. He took his dad’s advice to set up a direct payment for his truck note so that took care of itself. His plan was to leave his checkbook and the key to his mailbox in the hands of his trusted friend, Dan Hildegard. Will hated to wake him up so early, but under the circumstances, a fellow soldier would understand. He knocked on the door and Hildy quickly opened it and responded with a very abrupt, What the hell?!

Sorry, dude, Will replied. I need some help. When he explained the situation, a serious expression replaced Hildy’s sleepy look.

Yeah, man, Hildy replied. Whatever you need. Will signed about a dozen checks—still unsure that would be enough not knowing how long he’d be gone—and left Hildy with instructions to open the mail and just keep me current.

Hildy was a solid-built redhead from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. When he arrived at the Gap, it struck Will that they now had two from Michigan in this eleven-man EOD detachment. What were the odds, Will thought. He and Will became fast friends and spent a lot of off-duty time together. Hildy had little in common with his fellow Michigander, Jackson, who was a motor head and kept as many as six cars at a time out behind the unit. Jackson spent most of his free time under the hood of one those vehicles, which he bought from a local auto auction. He bought the castoffs nobody seemed to want, fixed them up, and sold them off at a little profit. In fact, one of the first things Hildy did when he came to the 56th, was to buy one of those cars from Jackson. He didn’t necessarily regret the purchase, but he did note Jackson was oddly more concerned about the car than he was. Top’s always on my ass about this car, he said often, referring to Jackson’s frequent lectures about good preventive maintenance—a topic he could expound on endlessly if given the opportunity.

I wish I was going with you, Hildy said. He didn’t have a clue where Will was going or why, yet there was no doubt he meant it. Will felt the same way. Such was the bond they had as young soldiers, who had each other’s backs. Will didn’t even know yet who his teammates would be. He had no doubt they would be competent owing to the very thorough training received in becoming badge-wearing EOD techs, but they weren’t the brothers-in-arms he knew and served with at the 56th. Still, the urgency of the situation didn’t allow much time for discussion—even between friends—and Hildy could do little more than shake Will’s hand and say, Be safe, man, see you when you get back.

With his finances more or less in order, Will quickly returned to his barracks room just across the hall from Hildy’s. No sooner had he walked in the door, the phone rang. This is Carter.

Change twenty-eight, said Jackson facetiously, referring to the latest update on the situation. Get rid of your uniforms, he said. This is gonna be civilian clothes now, he explained.

What? So, what am I supposed to pack now?

S**t, I don’t know, Jackson said. I guess, that means civilian clothes only—figure it out, he added. By the way, Control says a 30- to 40-degree temperature range, so think about that, he advised, referring to the weather information he received from their parent unit, the 542nd EOD Control Center at Fort Dix. Combs is on alert too, he may be going with you, he added. Hurry up.

This latest information complicated things. Uniforms would certainly have been much simpler, just grab and go. Will didn’t have a lot of time to plan a wardrobe, so he just gathered the basics—underwear, socks, T-shirts, a couple pairs of jeans, a few shirts, and one particular pair of pants that made him stop and think for a moment. This pair of olive drab jungle fatigue pants was one of his favorites because they were his dad’s, who wore them in Vietnam. In that instant, it struck Will as odd that this single pair of government issue OD green jungle fatigue pants would go with another Carter on another deployment some twenty years later. In his mind that had to be good luck though; and because they weren’t camouflage, he reasoned they could pass for civilian clothes and threw them in his duffel bag.

On the drive back to the unit, Will continued thinking about the civilian clothes order. What did it mean for the assignment? He couldn’t answer his own question, so he stopped thinking about it. Finally, he arrived at the unit and parked out back. He usually parked in front, but because he would be gone for a while, he thought it would make more sense if he could squeeze in somewhere amongst the many vehicles Jackson kept out back. The soldiers of the 56th referred to the lot out back as Jackson’s Used Car Lot. When Will walked into the orderly room, Jackson was at his desk.

Mind if I leave my truck on your lot, Top? Will asked.

That’s fine, go ahead, Jackson replied.

I’m gonna hide my keys though so you don’t sell it before I get back, Will joked. Jackson chuckled, which was the best Will could expect since he was not a jovial man. He then instructed Will to give him the keys so Top could start it up periodically and make sure it was properly taken care of. Will could think of no one better qualified for the task. He placed the keys on Jackson’s desk and said, It’s due for an oil change in a thousand miles. A broad grin broke out on Jackson’s face, and he appeared almost delighted at the prospect of having yet another vehicle to mess with. Will was only joking about the oil change, but the truth was, he would not have been the least bit surprised to return and find his truck in better shape than the day he parked it on Jackson’s Used Car Lot.

Will walked down the hall toward his office to await the arrival of Sergeant Combs. The unit was a converted firehouse and had a big bay in the front with two huge overhead doors. At the end of the hall, two steps led down into the bay, which had once housed two fire engines and was big enough to accommodate at least one basketball goal had the soldiers bothered to place one in there. Off the bay was a retrofitted sensitive compartmentalized information facility to accommodate the unit’s classified materials. Will’s desk was in this so-called SCIF, and it was his responsibility as the Security NCO not only to ensure the physical security of the facility, but to secure all classified publications—which consisted primarily of military ordnance technical manuals, periodic classified messages, and updates from the FBI Bomb Data Center. The other desk in the SCIF belonged to Combs, the Maintenance NCO who would be arriving soon.

T.J. Teej Combs was one of the three other sergeants stationed at the 56th. He walked in, bags in hand, wide-eyed in anticipation. He was eager to deploy. Most of them felt that way: they joined the Army to do something, to see action. Serving in an EOD unit gave them a lot of opportunity for action. They worked with all levels of civilian law enforcement. They served on presidential protection details with the Secret Service. Many responded to bomb threats at schools, banks, abortion clinics, etc.—often encountering live improvised explosive devices. Of course, there was the occasional call to pick up an antique grenade or other vintage ordnance as families sorted out the estates of their deceased WWII veteran fathers and grandfathers. And they were always busy responding to the routine—if you could call it that—unexploded ordnance calls invariably accompanying the myriad training exercises conducted on the sprawling Ft. Indiantown Gap in the Blue Mountains of Pennsylvania.

This was different; an overseas deployment, one about which they knew little. While the Cold War continued through the 1980s, what was going on in Afghanistan was anything but cold. Hot as it was though, most Americans knew little, if anything, about the violent struggles of the Afghan Mujahideen, battling to expel the Soviet invaders from their country. These self-styled freedom fighters had been warring with the Soviets for close to ten years, the fighting unseen by most Americans. If what Will surmised about this assignment was correct, he was soon to get a much closer view.

Will and Combs threw their bags in the back of EOD-1—nothing more than a military Chevy Blazer—and prepared to leave. The noise of the diesel-powered Blazer made conversation difficult, but that usually didn’t stop them from talking. This uncertain trip was obviously different, so they were unusually quiet. They arrived at Control in just under two hours as the sun was rising over Fort Dix.

FT. DIX, NJ

APRIL 10, 1988

0625 HRS.

Apprehensive, Combs and Carter walked into the orderly room at the 542nd EOD Control Center. It was early, but clearly Major Aquino and Sergeant Major James Scott had been up all night. Scott was nursing a cup of coffee and reviewing some handwritten notes. He was on the phone most of the night communicating with various units under the 542nd.

About time, he said with a hearty laugh, knowing of course, they made excellent time, given the circumstances. Grab some coffee if you want, he offered. Wiley will be here shortly with some donuts if he’s not lost. He was referring to Staff Sergeant Wiley Adams, certainly a capable soldier, but one whose personality also lent itself to derisive comments, like the one by the sergeant major.

Wiley had been in the Army for around sixteen years and languished at the rank of E-6. He appeared happy as a staff sergeant, content to play a supporting role. He had to be good in that role, otherwise Scott would have gotten rid of him. Stationed in Hawaii early in his Army career, Wiley took up surfing. He wasn’t necessarily a good surfer, but he did like to look like a surfer. Even in winter at Ft. Dix, New Jersey, it was common to see Wiley wearing shorts, flip-flops, and a Hawaiian shirt in his off time, as though he were on his way to Waimea Bay. It was a type of behavior provoking scorn and amusement.

Scott, on the other hand, was a jokester. He loved to laugh loudly, often at other people’s expense. He was immensely likable and fun to be around. Yet he could be all business too and had close to three decades of service, including two tours in Vietnam. A young soldier would do well to learn from him. Sergeant Major Scott would be the senior NCO leading the team to Pakistan, a comforting thought to Will.

The donuts are here, Scott said, pointing to the door. Wiley walked in with a dozen under each arm. True to form, he was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops, though his jeans, instead of shorts, were a slight change.

Surf’s up I guess, eh Wiley? Will joked.

Huh? he replied, the comment floating right by him.

How’s it goin’? Will asked.

Oh, good, he said, as he placed the boxes of donuts on the table close to Major Aquino. Combs watched without comment, grinned, shook his head, and stifled a chuckle.

Major Aquino was poring over some messages he received about the incident igniting the pending deployment. He was prepared to deliver his brief but delayed it while he awaited the arrival of the full team. Major Aquino, the commanding officer of the 542nd, was a quiet man, who paired well with his more boisterous senior NCO, Scott. The major was a West Point graduate, so he carried himself in a formal military manner. He was courteous to fellow officers, NCOs, and the enlisted ranks but also spoke plainly. He typically did not engage in bull sessions and if he had occasion to speak, it was usually to relay something official. He was a private person and shared little about his personal life. You could count on mission focus from him.

What Will gleaned from Scott was Major Aquino would not be leading the team. That task was reserved for Captain John Halstead, who was en route to Ft. Dix from Ft. Meade, Maryland. Captain Halstead was another Vietnam vet, with whom Will was only slightly acquainted. Halstead had been an evaluator at a field training exercise that Will’s unit underwent the year before. Will only had a brief conversation with him. The captain was complimentary of Will’s performance though, and even mentioned it to his commanding officer. The captain was given free rein to choose the members of his team. That could only mean Will, along with the other members of the team, must have made a good impression on the captain. Their selection was not random.

The rest of the team began to arrive, starting with Shane Hutchinson, a second term staff sergeant from the EOD unit at West Point. He was a tall, blond from a small town in east Tennessee. He was not equal to Sergeant Major Scott in rank, but he was every bit his equal in bluster. He was loud and loved to talk. He was quick with a joke, not necessarily the smartest guy in the room, but a very capable EOD tech. What’s up, f***ers?! Hutchinson exclaimed as he walked into the orderly room, unaware Major Aquino was present. Scott shook his head and shot him a look, to which Hutchinson replied sheepishly, Oh, sorry sir. Hutchinson would serve as a team leader along with Sergeant First Class Ed Morgan, who served at the working EOD unit at Ft. Dix, and who was next through the door.

Sergeant Major Scott, Sergeant First Class Morgan, Staff Sergeants Hutchinson and Adams, and Sergeant Carter, along with Sergeant Combs on standby, waited for the rest of the team. They were expecting two more E-5s and, of course, Captain Halstead.

Combs was hot to go and the look of deflation on his face when Major Aquino, who had been on the phone, ordered him back to the Gap, reflected utter disappointment. The major hung up the phone and bluntly said, Combs, the team is full, go on back to your unit. As much as Combs was disappointed, Will was relieved. They were close friends, and when Will wasn’t spending time with Hildy doing single guy things, he spent a lot of time over at the Combs’s house with T.J. and his wife, Dana. Will shook TJ’s hand and said, Take care of Dana, Teej. He just smiled a disappointed smile and said, Roger that, see you when I see you. And with that, Combs turned and went through the door toward the Blazer that brought them from the Gap, only to return there alone.

About this time, Captain Halstead arrived. Will noticed immediately his countenance was different than it was when he first met him during the field training exercise. Despite the seriousness of the mission before him today, he appeared fully prepared for the task, without apprehension, and ready to go. His only concern was his wife and two dogs at home. The Halsteads had no children, so their dogs—Irish setters—filled that void, if there was one.

The team was almost complete. Sergeants Chad Campbell and Tom Thiessen were traveling down from Ft. Devens, Massachusetts, about a five-hour drive and were expected within an hour or so.

When Captain Halstead walked in, he noticed Will sitting at a table with a Coke in one hand and a donut in the other—he was yet to take up the habit of coffee, opting for his caffeine consumption in the carbonated form—and he walked right up to Will, smiled, and said quietly, Glad you could make it. As Will stood to salute, he winked and said, Keep your seat. He walked over to Major Aquino on the other side of the room, saluted dutifully, then shook the major’s hand. The two fell into serious conversation.

Will’s selection made him proud, but was coupled with trepidation that he had better not screw up. He was given a special opportunity and needed to make good on it. Deployment as a member of Captain Halstead’s team was indeed a welcome change from the daily routine at Ft. Indiantown Gap.

Campbell and Thiessen walked in together, at which point Hutchinson loudly announced, Better late than never.

Not too damn late, Campbell said. We made it in less than five hours.

Well, it was four hours and forty-seven minutes to be precise, Thiessen said. About 278 miles, he added with a heavy Wisconsin accent. Very nasal in tone, with a distinct inflection on the Os, which was characteristic of his region. Tom was meticulous and felt the need to communicate the exact details of the trip, lest anybody become confused about when they left, and when they arrived.

Whatever, Campbell added. We’re here.

Chad Campbell was a straight-up, no-nonsense scrapper from western Kentucky. He was not a big guy—barely five foot seven with his boots on—but you would want him on your side if you were ever in a fight. He was stout built and did pushups and sit-ups for fun to help pass the time.

With the entire team finally assembled, all took a seat in the orderly room and awaited the major’s brief. The Pakistani Army used an installation found between the capitol city of Islamabad and the city of Rawalpindi—home of the Pak Army—to store weapons bound for Afghanistan. The two cities combined had a population close to two million people. Somehow—the intelligence was not clear yet—there was a detonation that triggered a chain reaction within the stored munitions. There were more than one hundred estimated dead at this time, with over a thousand casualties reported—and rising. The fires were still burning. High order detonations were being reported with rockets going ballistic and live fused ordnance being kicked out over an estimated twelve-mile radius.

The weapons were stored improperly which led to the chain reaction causing the devastation. The Pak Army was not skilled in operations of this nature and would require U.S. help. A three-man Navy EOD detachment from the USS Enterprise was deployed and on the site. The Army team would meet with them, collect the necessary intelligence, and relieve the Navy team. They should expect to find U.S. weapons, such as Cobra, Tow, Redeye, and Stinger missiles. In addition, there would be a variety of other munitions from multiple countries. The team would find and secure as much U.S. ordnance as possible, and record serial and lot numbers before disposal operations began. They would also collect as much technical intelligence as possible on any foreign ordnance found. Render safe procedures—RSPs—would be performed only to save lives. Otherwise, after the technical intelligence data was gathered and recorded, blowing in place would be the preferred method of disposal whenever and wherever possible. Captain Halstead and the sergeant major were experienced in these types of operations, and the Pak Army assured them they would defer to these two experienced leaders.

With that, the major turned the brief over to Captain Halstead. The sergeant major and I did this kind of s**t in ’Nam, he said. It’s tedious, it’s dangerous, and it’s slow going, he added. We have to take our time and do what we’re trained to do. Pay attention and keep your head outta your ass, and you’ll be fine, he said. Sergeant Major.

Yes sir, Scott said. Heads out of your asses at all times. The s**t will be real out there. This is not a training exercise, he emphasized in his thick Georgia accent. You will follow safety procedures to the letter. You will help your teammates. This is a hot zone—literally, he said. It’s still on fire, for *****t’s sake. Y’all do what we tell you and you’ll be fine.

Any questions? the captain asked.

The team wasn’t bashful, but no one wanted to speak first. Finally, Hutchinson, who hadn’t been blessed with a well-developed sense of self-awareness, broke the silence with a very loud and raucous pronouncement, Sounds simple enough, he said. We’ll wrap this thing up in a week, he added.

All heads turned in unison toward Hutchinson. Were you listening at all to any of this, Hutchinson? the sergeant major loudly inquired. The captain just said keep your head outta your ass and that starts now, he added. Now pull yours out and pay the f*** attention!

That also got everyone else’s attention. They began to rethink the wisdom of asking any questions now, but after a long and awkward silence following Hutchinson’s rebuke, Will decided to begin. "Sir, it looks like we have a pretty good handle