Tampa Star (Blackfox Chronicles Book 1)

by T. S. O'Neil

  “I think the Zips that Sally hired to give us a hand are also planning on taking us out.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like the Sally I know; when the man eats, he eats alone,” said Jimmy.

  “Okay Char, so what do we do about it?” Tommy asked.

  “I say we let those that are drinking get a little more liquored up and then we take them all out before we land. Hell, there is no reason we have to land at all.”

  Char went back below and checked on the progress of the bottle. Handley and Ligio held glasses three quarters full with whiskey. The gold sat in the corner untouched as Sally had instructed. It dawned on Char that Sally had probably not shared his plans with Handley and Ligio otherwise, they would not be drunk. For all they knew, the hard part of the work was over. They were relaxing.

  The two faux dealers sat at the mahogany covered bar, their two Colt .45s on the countertop close to their right hands, counting money and dividing up spoils from the heist. They spoke to each other in low tones, suspiciously eying the room as they rummaged through the assortment of cash and jewelry stolen in the heist.

  Sally had instructed them to wait until they were tied up at the dock and to dispatch the three amigos, with a bullet to the head.

  Char went to the coffee urn and drew a cup of coffee. The Zips’ demeanor seemed to confirm his worst fear— they seemed like troops anxiously awaiting a firefight, whereas Ligio and Handley seemed like two guys tying one on after a hard day at the office. He returned to the wheelhouse, handed Tommy the cup and nodded at Jimmy.

  “I would say that those guys are definitely up to something.”

  They sat silently for a long time, Char with the AR-15 in his hands stood watching the doorway to the Salon.

  “Okay, so when do we make a move?” asked Char.

  “I would wait until we get closer to the islands, said Tommy. The outflow from the straits hitting the open ocean normally causes a lot of waves and it should keep those guys off balance. Stay here for a while; I will let you know just before we start hitting rough water.” Char and Jimmy nodded silently. The wheelhouse remained quiet and the mood grew unbearably tense.

  Ten minutes later, Tommy nodded and whispered, “The tide is going out, and we should be hitting some good size waves in a minute or two.”

  Jimmy crossed himself with the top of the slide on his Browning Hi-Power. Char held the assault weapon tightly in his hands. They felt the boat rise and fall dramatically and impact on the surface at least three feet below.

  Initially thrown into a state of confusion, the Zips held on to the side of the countertop and looked at each other with perplexed stares. A second later, Char and Jimmy exited the wheel house and burst into the salon. Char opened fire on automatic at the two while Jimmy leveled his .45 at Ligio’s chest and fired.

  One of the dealers fell to the floor while the other frantically reached for his weapon. He leveled it and fired blindly, striking Jimmy in the shoulder and was immediately cut down by another burst from Char. Handley ran out the back of the salon onto the stern of the boat.

  Char nudged the dealers with the barrel of his weapon—they were both dead, as was Ligio, who had a fist size hole in his back from the exit wound. Jimmy sat down heavily on one of the couches and listened to the sounds on the deck. Handley was moving to the wheelhouse. Jimmy listened intently and then suddenly fired out the side window.

  Handley ran into the wheelhouse and pointed his pistol, a cop’s .38 Special, at Tommy. Char slowly began to creep up the stairway to the bridge until he could see the wheelhouse. He could not see Handley, however, but knew that he must be there.

  “What the fuck, Handley?” Tommy asked, trying to get him to reply so Char would know where he was, but Handley remained silent. Char slowly continued to inch his way up the stairs until he could see Tommy directly in front of him. Handley was either directly to Tommy’s left or to the left rear of the cabin, which would afford him some protection, regardless of whether Char approached from outside or up the stairs.

  Char retreated into the salon and found Jimmy sprawled on the couch, a kitchen towel pressed to his shoulder in order to staunch the flow of blood seeping from the wound. He looked pale and was covered with a cold sweat. Char needed a diversion and hoped Jimmy was up to the task. If not, Handley could hold them off until they docked and then he would have back up.

  Handley stood toward the back of the cabin in the very corner, covering either avenue of approach—the stairs from the salon or the sliding doors from outside. He saw the barrel of the AR-15 clear the bulkhead indicating that someone was on the stairs and he pounced, firing madly. Jimmy had crawled up the stairs with the rifle pointed in front of him. Handley’s initial shots had passed over Jimmy’s head. Handley aimed at the top of his head and fired just as there was a bright hot flash of light and heat erupted on the right side of his face and something with the force of a giant wave enveloped him.

  Chapter 14 - The DeSoto Canyon

  What eventually became known as Hurricane Gamila, developed from a tropical disturbance on October 25th in the western Caribbean. It drifted northwestward, reaching tropical storm strength on October 27th. It became a hurricane just before crossing Cuba, near Santiago and maintained that strength as it crossed the island and the eastern Gulf of Mexico, largely unnoticed by the primitive weather radar of the time.

  It reached eighty five miles per hour (Category 1) hurricane when it made landfall at St. Petersburg, Florida during the evening of October 31st. After moving across Florida, Gamila paralleled the Carolinas, reaching its peak of ninety five mph before becoming extra tropical on November 5th, near Nova Scotia. It caused over seven million dollars in damage, almost all of it in Florida.

  Rumors of freakishly large ocean waves were once dismissed as a nautical myth. Some of these waves were known to be as tall as a twelve story building and had been rumored to be the cause in the sinking of otherwise unexplained demise of hundreds of large ships in many different locations throughout the world.

  These rogue waves can result when strong, high storm waves slam headlong into a powerful current traveling in the opposite direction. The interaction can push together the storm swells, so that their frequencies combine, creating one immensely powerful wave that can reach a height of one hundred feet or more. A hole in the ocean is an apt description of the phenomenon that precedes this steep crest of water.

  The clamshell vehicle deck doors that sat at one end of what had once been the vehicle deck on the Star of Tampa had not been replaced due to cost considerations and over the years the doors had become a bit damaged and twisted, especially since the bottom part of the clam also served as a vehicle ramp.

  The rogue wave generated by Gamila had hit them at such an angle as to wrench one from its moorings, allowing the cold waters of the gulf to surge in unabated. The sudden inrush of water following the failure of the watertight doors was devastating to the integrity of the ship and she rapidly began to fill with water.

  The Star of Tampa would soon find her watery grave in along the northern edge of the De Soto Canyon, over two mile deep trench approximately sixty five miles south-southwest of Pensacola Florida—it would sink not in the deepest part of the gulf, but in the second. Recovery of anything inside would fall outside the realm of current technology.

  Carla was unsure what actually caused her to regain consciousness, the coldness of the sea water or the impact of it slamming her against a bare metal bulkhead, but she was awake and alive. She was also a seasoned swimmer—having grown up in the waters of the gulf, she had been on the girls’ swim team in high school, was a scuba diver in an age when the sport was populated mostly by former military men and even spent several seasons as a mermaid at Weeki Watchee Springs.

  She found herself in near complete darkness as the engines and generators they powered had been silenced by the coursing sea water. She surfaced near the top bulkhead of casino floor and winced as her head struck the metal roof. She used her hand to feel for
the roof, found to her dismay that she had just two feet of air space left and the water was rising quickly.

  Still, she knew the metal arches that ran across the length of the casino and that if she followed them; they would either lead deeper into the interior of the ship or to the vehicle doors. Chose the wrong way and it probably meant death. She pondered that for a moment and then it hit her; the current was pushing her away from where it was flowing into the hull and that had to be the way out! She quickly pushed herself into the artificial current created by its flow and began swimming toward the stern. The going was tough and slow. When she first began swimming, she neglected to swim with all her might and she felt herself being swept back against the arch where she had begun.

  She tried again, this time sinking below the water level where the current was a little less forceful and was able to progress about ten feet. She surfaced on the bow side of another arch and held on to the metal edge to keep from being swept back. This arch was lower to the water, allowing just one foot of breathing room and then it dawned on her why; the ship was sinking as the stern filled with water; she had very little time to get out before the top of the stern remained above the sea line and her air supply was cut off.

  She thought she had perhaps another fifty feet to get to the door, but could not be sure—all she could keep doing was to swim with all her might, but she was quickly becoming exhausted and was uncertain how long she could continue.

  The next arch she reached had just six inches of air space and she had to turn her face toward the overhead so she could breathe—this could be the last gulp of air that she would have. Desperation swept over and she began to panic.

  Quite suddenly, she was overcome with a strong sense of calm and resolve; she had held her breath for as long as five minutes when she was a teenager working as a mermaid at Weeki Watchee Springs; she knew she could do this!

  Carla pulled herself on the other side of the arch, took a deep breath and used both feet to push off from the steel surface. She used a modified breast stroke to clear as much space as possible and did not want to surface before she was sure she had cleared the ship as if surfacing before doing so and finding no air, she would be done.

  Her lungs felt like they would explode, but she resisted the urge to gasp for breath and struggled on. Up ahead, she saw the shadow of lighter blackness towards the surface of the water and thought she had found the way out. She surfaced just shy of the top of the still intact vehicle door and nearly panicked thinking that both doors were still intact until she realized there was a wide open space to her right. She swam out the great maw of an opening and into open water just in time to watch the upper deck of the Star of Tampa begin to slide beneath the surface of the sea.

  Out of caution, she swam another one hundred feet from the sinking behemoth in order to insure she was not sweep under in its wake, but could go no further as she was simply exhausted, so she began treading water. She was unsure how long she could continue and realized that while the immediate problem of going down with the ship had been resolved, it had been replaced with a new problem—how to survive in the open ocean.

  Something nudged her head and she turned to find a circular form life preserver. She grabbed it, let out an audible sob of relief and relaxed a bit. Carla began slowly scanning the surface to see what else she could find to assist in her survival. She spied another life preserver a short distance away and swam to it. She shivered in the cold water, but with two preservers was able to support her entire

  weight and she drifted off to sleep with them both encircling her body; nestled under her pendulous breasts.

  She awoke with the rising sun and scanned the surface around her. In the far distance she glimpsed something white bobbing in and out of view behind the waves. It could be a boat or it could be a mirage. The only acceptable course of action was to swim to it; she had already decided that giving up was not an option. One half hour later, she was still at least fifty feet away, but she was able to definitely identify it as a life boat and that served to stiffen her resolve.

  Once alongside, she was unsure whether she had the strength left to pull her aboard. She reached the gunwale and tried to pull herself up, but could only manage to rise about half a foot out of the ocean. She swung a leg up over the gunwale, grabbed the gunwale with both hands and tried to wrestle her way on board. Quite suddenly, the figure of a man appeared over her. He reached between her legs, found purchase and unceremoniously pulled her on board. She landed at his feet and began to thank him profusely, until she realized who it was that had rescued her―the same scumbag who had shot her fiancé.

  He looked at her and she at him, time seemed to stand still. Then, as if he had made a decision, he handed her a jug of water. She took it and drank deeply as she could do nothing else—recent events had placed her in the survival mode. He handed her some biscuits from a metallic tin and she shoveled them into her mouth, chewed and swallowed without tasting. He handed her more and she repeated the process. They continued in this mode for a while—he would hand her a few biscuits, she would eat and he would then hand her the water jug.

  Finally, she was satisfied. He handed her a survival blanket from the same footlocker where he had gotten the food and water. She wrapped herself in it, sat down against the side of the boat and almost immediately fell into a deep sleep. It would seem that at least for the time being, a truce had been struck.

  Chapter 15 (Part II) - Camp Lejeune

  To All Who Shall See These Presents Greeting: This is to Certify that The President of the United States of America Authorized by the Act of Congress July 9, 1918 Has Awarded The Silver Star Medal to: 1st Lieutenant Michael L. Blackfox, United States Marine Corps. For service as set forth in the following citation:

  The President of the United States takes great pleasure in presenting the Silver Star Medal to Michael C. Blackfox, U.S. Marine Corps, for conspicuous gallantry and courage under fire in action against the enemy as a Platoon Commander 3rd Platoon, Company B, Second Reconnaissance Battalion, SECOND Marine Division, II Marine Expeditionary Force, U.S. Marine Corps Forces, Central Command, in support of Operation IRAQI FREEDOM, on 3 April 2004. In Al Anbar Province, Iraq, 1LT Blackfox was leading a patrol when over seventy five insurgents ambushed them from well-fortified positions. Lt Blackfox immediately took command of the situation and directed his platoon to take immediate action to flank the enemy machine gun positions……

  “You know if you had lost the arm they would have upgraded it to a Navy Cross” said 1st Lieutenant Skip Rodgers, Battalion S1 and a former Platoon Commander in Company B.

  “I think he would have been a shoo in for the Medal of Honor had he simply fallen on one of them Iraqi grenades instead of shooting the shit out of all the Hodgies,” said Captain Mike Hayes, Blackfox’s former Company Commander, using the pejorative term that Marines and Soldiers normally used to refer to Iraqi males. The politically correct crowd thought it was a disparagement of the word Hodge, a highly religious cleric, however, in actuality, the term stemmed from a popular cartoon that aired during the late 1970s that was later re-launched in the 80s, Johnny Quest, which had a character named Hodgi who was usually seen wearing his trademark turban.

  The group was gathered in the Camp Lejeune Officer’s Club for the dual purpose of celebrating Blackfox’s award and wishing him farewell. They wore desert camouflage pattern utilities called MARPAT for Marine Camouflage Pattern in acknowledgement of the basis for the ceremony; conspicuous gallantry in the desert of Iraq, although during the war, they wore a different design.

  “Sucks getting an award and getting fired on the same day” said Jose Sentore, another Platoon Commander, while shaking Michael’s hand in a tight death like grip that every marine seemed to use as a part greeting and part challenge.

  “Yeah, well, they are always hiring at Wal-Mart,” he deadpanned.

  “Oh, shit Sentore, it’s the other way around, Ole Blackfox finally realized that if you ain’t recon, you ain’t an
d is getting out of his own volition,” said Hayes.

  Michael was leaving the Corp on a medical discharge, the incident that caused the award also resulted in an injury to his right arm that the “geniuses” on the Medical Review Board determined made him unfit for continued service to his country—at least as a Recon Marine. He could stay in with a permanent medical profile which would mean he would be riding a desk for the rest of his career and this would also result in difficulty getting promoted. As Hayes had just commented, Recon was what he knew best in the Corps and it would be hard to go back to being less. So, he would take the discharge and the thirty percent disability; just like dear old dad.

  There were at least twenty officers assembled there in the bar. Recon was a tight knit group and most of them had served at least one tour under fire together. Michael was going to miss the camaraderie as aside from some cops and firefighters, it was unknown in the civilian world. He supposed he could go back to war as a contractor, but to him, they were just a bunch of “wannabes” or “has-beens” still trying to play a game made for the young, fit and foolish.

  He supposed he could become a cop, but most of the ones he knew were assholes more interested in using their badge to enhance their ego more than actually protecting and serving people.

  The party continued at a low ebb until the Battalion Commander and Senior Staff left. The Old Man made a point of shaking Michael’s hand vigorously and patting him on the back before departing—it was the closest he ever got to hugging anyone, thought Michael.

  After that, the core group of officers, mostly Lieutenants and Captains, headed off post to the Jarhead’s Tavern in Morehead City for the real party. The place was a notorious hangout for Marines in general and Recon in particular as it was owned by a legendary former Force Recon Gunny from the Vietnam era.