The Long Walk: A Story of War and the Life That Follows (4 page)

Sixty seconds.

I looked up again, scanned the peaks of the tenement complexes, and saw a commotion on the rooftop directly in front of me. Several men appeared and left.

Fifty seconds.

A new man now appeared in sunglasses, stared at me briefly, then turned and left again. They were little more than silhouettes against the harsh bright summer sky. I lost track of all movement on the street, and concentrated on this one building, in view of the EFPs, in view of the traffic circle, the tallest apartment building for several blocks. I waited.

Forty seconds.

“How are you doing down there?” I asked. Castleman was cutting off foam to expose the inner core before tossing each EFP into the metal can. He was up to four.

Thirty seconds.

Three more shapes appeared on the rooftop. Children, young boys, barely older than my oldest son. They had a cell phone. They were pointing and talking. Pointing at me.

Twenty seconds.

I raised my rifle, flipped the lever off Safe, and put the red dot on the chest of the boy with the cell phone.

Fifteen seconds.

Six EFPs in the ammo can and counting. I looked at the boy. He looked at me. I put my finger on the trigger.

Ten seconds.

Ten seconds to get the last EFP. Ten seconds to not shoot this boy.

I counted to eleven, and exhaled.

II
|
The Soft Sand

I
GOT MY
first tattoo with Jeff Chaney the day before my second son was born. That tattoo eased my son into this world, his mother so angry that she went into labor.

My first tattoo is one day older than my son because Jeff Chaney had convinced me I needed some ink, and that we were going to go together. Jeff’s quest for fun had few boundaries and only occasional limits, either personal or actual. He would try anything himself twice … and then do anything with you a third time. Jeff’s devotion to the savoring of life was infectious and magnetic. He was generous with his time, his friendship, and his alcohol. He did outrageous things with lots of people. I’m lucky that I was around to be a part of it.

Jeff picked out the tattoo parlor on Route 98, the beachside strip in Destin, Florida. Jeff was in the Navy, and several years older than I, had half a career already under his belt, driving boats and ships all over the world. This was not his first tattoo, and he knew what to look for in a good artist.

We spent weeks planning our designs, in between study sessions and ordnance tests. I wanted an upside-down sword with two gas masks hanging from the hilt, one the U.S. Air Force MCU-2/P, the other the round-eyed British mask often caricatured in apocalyptic comic books. I had acquired a couple of masks from my first Air Force assignment, and Jeff and I took countless pictures of them hanging from broom handles on his back porch, ensuring that we got the angles just right to give the tattoo artist the perfect perspective to copy. They reminded me of my time before Explosive Ordnance Disposal school, before my new life. This was my rite of passage on leaving my old world, but I was not yet fully in my new one. I was closing a door behind, but the one in front had not yet been opened to let me in.

Jeff got a huge squid on his calf, and he wasn’t worried that the door was still closed in front of him as well. Inside of the sea creature’s tentacles he left space for the EOD badge, the Crab, to be placed after he graduated from the school. Actually graduating wasn’t a concern for Jeff. Of course he wouldn’t actually get the Crab portion tattooed right away. That would jinx it; superstition is ubiquitous among those who work with explosives regularly. Nor would he disrespect the EOD operators that went before him by getting a tattoo of the Crab before he had earned it. But earning it was a matter of when, not if. Jeff had never failed at anything in his life that he put his carefree mind to, and his easy positivity was a delight that drew others to him. Jeff always got the girl, got the boat, got the job, and he would get his Crab. And we did.

I was a snot-nosed, baby-faced, butter-bar lieutenant deployed to Prince Sultan Air Base in Saudi Arabia on a quick ninety-day rotation when the planes flew into the Word Trade Center. We watched on TV like everyone else. But once the second tower fell, we turned the TV off and got down to work that I never actually expected to do.

The Air Force was confused about what it wanted me to be when I grew up. I applied for an ROTC scholarship out of high school because I wanted to be an astronaut. None of my teachers had ever broken the news to me that I couldn’t fly into space, so the third-grade dream remained. The day the Air Force recruiter came to my high school, I marched up to his table and declared my intent. He looked me straight in the eye, through my thick glasses, lied to me, and said I was a shoo-in. So I took the scholarship to be an electrical engineer, and only when it was too late did I learn that my poor eyesight would ensure that flying in space was not in my future.

But the Air Force didn’t want me to be a circuit geek after all. Once I finished college and earned my engineering degree and received my commission, they assigned me to be a civil engineer, pouring runways and fixing buildings. But I never learned how to do that either because upon arriving at my first assignment, I was placed in disaster preparedness, the stepchild of Air Force civil engineering. I taught people how to wear their gas mask and survive nuclear war.

So when I arrived in Saudi Arabia in August of 2001, as there was no chemical, biological, or nuclear war going on, all I prepared for was to be bored until it was time to go home. Obviously, that plan failed. We opened up crates of chemical-agent detectors that had been gathering dust for a decade. We stockpiled bleach to clean up an Al Qaeda nerve-agent attack on Osama bin Laden’s homeland. We fired up the biological-agent detectors and ran them twenty-four hours a day. We sat up all night, and watched, and waited, and scared ourselves to death, because there was nothing else to do. I was overwhelmed.

But we weren’t the only ones who were worried. One day, several months after 9/11, I was invited to a meeting whose agenda was kept secret. As a young lieutenant, I was not normally invited to meetings like this. I sat in a packed makeshift classroom with several of my fellow chemical-warfare specialists, most of the fire department, a couple of security police officers, and some emergency staff from the hospital. At the front of the classroom, looking out over the group with grim faces and closed mouths, were two guys not in military uniforms. They had hiking boots, tan cargo pants, loose short-sleeved shirts, and beards. At that time, beards were universally recognized code for “I have a job that’s special.” Sitting in the front corner were several other Air Force guys whom I recognized but did not really know. They stayed by themselves and carried guns, which the rest of us never did. And they had lots of guns, and gear, and over-vests to put the gear in. They talked quietly to the two men in beards before sitting down when the briefing started.

“The reason you are all here,” the bearded guys said to the whole group, “is because the United States has intelligence that Osama bin Laden has acquired two of the missing Soviet suitcase nukes and intends to use them. If such a device is discovered, employed and counting down on a timer, there will not be time to call for help. You are all first responders, and so most likely to discover the device. If you find it, you will have to turn it off yourself.”

The bearded guys were there to teach us how to do that.

They pulled out a package, as big as a shopping bag and covered in a blanket. Inside the wrapping was a dull green metal cylinder, fat and smooth, except for one flat end that had several dials and switches on it.

“This is a model of the old Soviet suitcase nuke,” they said. “And here is how you turn it off.”

I sat in silent rapture, and memorized every word. No one in the hall spoke, except for the small group of Air Force guys in front with the gear and the guns. They asked lots of questions, and it sounded like they already knew what they were talking about. This device wasn’t new to them. The concept was almost … commonplace.

“Those are the EOD guys, right?” I whispered to a fellow gas-mask instructor sitting next to me, looking lost in the details of the complicated shutdown sequencing.

“That’s right,” was the reply.

EOD. Explosive Ordnance Disposal. The bomb squad.

“And they get to do this all the time?” I asked, mostly to myself.

Now I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up, and I would make the Air Force let me do it.

It took me a full year of begging my commander, pleading with headquarters, and badgering the bureaucratic system to get into EOD school at Eglin Air Force Base in Fort Walton Beach, Florida. But I eventually got my wish, and one chilly January morning, after moving my uneasy wife and growing family down to the Gulf of Mexico, I sat in a plain white classroom with twenty-nine other hopefuls for my first day of training. Only three of us would graduate together nine months later.

In the first three days of class students take three tests. A passing score on every test in EOD school is 85 percent. Many questions are worth sixteen points. You have exactly one day to learn new material that you have never before encountered in your daily life—like how the inner gears and lockballs of a setback-armed, mechanically timed and graze-impact-fired mortar fuze work—and then the next morning take and pass a test. If you fail that test, you may get a second chance. If you fail your second chance, you start that section over again with the next class below you in line. But after that, your third strike, you’re out.

EOD school is an assembly line. If you fail your quality check, you may go back through the stamping machine. Fail again, and you get tossed out with the other broken widgets.

EOD school focuses the mind in a way high school or college never did. I never worked so hard or wanted something so much. It dominates your time, your thoughts, your conversations, and every aspect of your life. You arrive before dawn to study, and leave late in the evening long after dinner. The only true day off was Saturday, since Sundays were “optional” study halls; in truth, anything but. The only way to absorb so much material was to think of nothing else. The only way to graduate was to want nothing else.

By the time I was done, the only thing I could imagine doing for the rest of my life, however long that might be, was taking apart bombs.

In my initial class of thirty on the first day of EOD school I was the only commissioned officer. I got used to that pretty quickly, and was often the only officer everywhere I went for the rest of my time in the military. The Navy runs EOD school, on an Air Force base, with instructors of all four services, and students of each branch get mixed together. We had seven Army soldiers, five Navy guys, fifteen other Air Force kids (all but one straight out of boot camp), and two Marines. Four didn’t last the first week. Barely half lasted the first two months.

Boatswain’s Mate First Class Jeff Chaney was the highest ranking enlisted guy in the class. That meant he was my number two, my partner, my problem solver and my confidant. He also was chief party planner, beer procurer, morale enforcer, and physical-training guru. He led the runs in the morning, and got the kegs for the weekend at the beach. He made sure everyone was studying, that the new kids were staying out of trouble, that the “deck” got “swabbed.” He quickly became my best friend.

EOD school builds in complexity and momentum every day. We started with physics and the fundamentals of ordnance: bombs, rockets, missiles, grenades, land mines, and more. Then basic demolitions. Remote tools. Biological and chemical agents. Ground ordnance. Air ordnance. IEDs—improvised explosive devices. And finally, the culmination, nuclear weapons.

Explosive theory becomes practical application becomes physical trial to master. First, the science: how materials detonate. The fine details of the explosive train, starting with a small speck of sensitive compound and culminating in a powerful burst of heat and light, transforming potential into chaos. How detonations are simply supersonic chemical chain reactions. How the speed of the wave flowing through a block of C4 relates directly to the velocity of the frag then thrown by that blast—the chunks of steel, ball bearings, nuts, bolts, nails, or pieces of dead dog now moving at a rate we referred to as Mach Oh My God.

Next, how to harness that explosive power for your own ends. To propel steel slugs, wedges, forks, buckshot, and water into the delicate mechanisms that make ordnance work. To shear a firing pin before it strikes. To unscrew a fuze on a bomblet dispenser. To melt a pressure pad on a land mine.

And most important, to shoot jets of water into improvised devices to tear them apart before they function. When water is concentrated, focused, and directed by explosives, it creates an unyielding blade that rips and pushes without sympathetically detonating an IED’s hidden payload. Water does not compress. The wooden boxes, PVC pipes, burlap bags, and sheet metal containers of the renegade bomber all succumb to that universal solvent.

Finally, book learning done, go out to a range and do it for yourself under the unblinking eye of your ever-watchful instructor.

Using what you learned on day 1 to solve a problem on day 4 is hard enough, considering the three tests you have sweated over in between. Applying what you learned in demolitions in month 1 to dissect a Soviet guided missile five months later is more vexing. Students become overwhelmed with the mountain of material, the broad scope, the relentless pace, and the stress. Always more stress. Make a mistake, fail a test. Fail two tests, start over. Fail three, and the dream is done. All your energy, your desires, your focus, revolved around passing the next test.

Everyone had rituals. I had a lucky set of red boxers, ratty with holes, and a lucky pencil, still squirreled away in the back of a dresser drawer in my bedroom upstairs in case of emergency. Some guys always had sex before a test, and some poor saps never did. One guy managed to convince his girlfriend he needed a lucky blow job every time. I started with my wife on the lucky sex, but soon had to give it up with the birth of our second son, post-tattoo. Even so, every night before a test I sat on our bed, closed my eyes, and visualized every step of the next day. Being called by an instructor, walking to the practical area, doing a long-range recon of the Chinese spin-stabilized rocket, choosing a technique to disarm the firing system, placing the explosives. Every step. Blasting cap on time fuze, crimpers on, turn your head, squeeze. Every step. To pass and survive to the next day. For nine months.