Tampa Star (Blackfox Chronicles Book 1)

by T. S. O'Neil

  There were women there, Recon had its share of groupies, but the assembled group really just wanted to get drunk and share company with Michael Blackfox one last time as Recon Marines.

  After a few hours, there were only four of them left, Hayes, Michael’s old CO, Skip, his running buddy and Jose Sentore, the guy that nominated Blackfox for the Silver Star. He had been leading the Quick Reaction Force that came to Blackfox’s aid and was a personal witness to his acts of heroism.

  They were drunk, but the conversation had a deceivingly sober tone; “So, what are you going to do now, Michael?” asked Hayes, a former star quarterback at the U.S. Naval Academy, who albeit for a six year commitment to the government, had a better than ever chance of turning pro.

  “I thought I might get in touch with my roots, Skip” replied Michael, with a slight grin.

  “Hey, hey, hey, D.X. that Skip shit, there L.T.” said Hayes in a mock serious tone. The two had been friends for over two years, much of it while under fire. Hayes was a Marine who led from the front and had been wounded himself, although not serious enough to warrant anything more than a month’s recuperation in an Army hospital in Germany—spent mostly drinking good German beer and chasing Frauliens.

  “What the fuck are you talking about, Blackfox?” Sentore asked.

  “Thought I might go look for my dad, he replied. I lost touch with him a long time ago and would be interested to see if he is still alive. You know, compare war stories, and war wounds for that matter.”

  “Yeah, that’s right; the guy was in the 82nd served in Viet Nam, correct?” Skip asked.

  “And SF, said Michael, referring to Army Special Forces. He was wounded in the leg; shot by a dead guy.”

  “Will the coincidences never cease?” Hayes said with a big smile.

  “Well, to tell you the truth, there is a difference; I got shot in the arm by a guy who was alive, but is now dead, thanks to Sentore, that is,” continued Michael.

  Hearing his name, Sentore, tipped an imaginary cap.

  “Okay, but riddle me this, hotshot, said Hayes to Michael, did they award him a Silver Star before they gave him the boot?”

  “No, I think he got the Vietnamese Medal for Gallantry or some such shit,” said Michael.

  The guys continued to drink and Michael remained the center of attention. They would all miss that crazy half breed Indian who was as good a Marine as they had ever served with. The four had seen a lot together and felt intuitively that this would be the last time they would have to celebrate not just surviving but actually thriving in an environment that most logically grounded men their age would describe with no hyperbole as Hell on earth.

  A round of beers later, a twenty something blond co-ed attired in a pink t-shirt with Porn Star lettered across her ample chest and short Daisy Duke Shorts, walked by the group, apparently on the way to the Ladies Room. Hayes wrapped his heavily muscled brown right arm around Michael, using one of his sausage-like fingers that was not otherwise engaged in enveloping a bottle of Budweiser to indicate Michael and asked if she wanted to “meet a gen-you-wine war hero?”

  Stopping, as if in thought, she placed her hands on both hips, looked at the Marines and smiled coyly while shifting her hips up and down, and said, “Well, if you two aren’t otherwise engaged, I would love to.”

  Michael awoke in his bed with Suzzie softly snoring next to him—at least he was sober enough to talk her out of trying to sneak him into her Sorority House. Kappa Alpha Theta had some hot girls, as he had bedded a few and therefore would have been concerned he would be recognized entering or leaving the KAT House, as it was called. The beach cottage was definitely preferable. He had rented what had originally been a summer cottage on Atlantic Beach upon his return from Iraq, by way of Bethesda Naval Hospital, in that he knew that he no longer had to worry about getting deployed again.

  Michael slipped out of bed, careful not to wake his companion, Suzzie, with two zz, as she introduced herself last night. He walked to the kitchen and got a K-cup from the drawer underneath the machine and made some strong bold Colombian coffee, picked up a photo album that was lying on top of a bookcase in the hallway, walked out on the porch and sat down on an old white wicker chair to watch the sunrise.

  He did this every morning, his arm injury had kept him from having to attend mandatory physical training, but he still awoke before dawn and used the time to collect his thoughts. He figured he could clear out the cottage in less than a day; aside from a few household goods, like the coffee maker and a grill, he had few possessions other than clothes. He had always traveled light. It was more of a character trait than a habit. Marines taught him that the more you had, the more you had to haul. His old uniforms went to his buddies, the furniture came with the cottage and his civilian clothes amounted to a suitcase full. Perhaps it came from his Native American ancestry as one of the few things he knew about his father, was that he too traveled light. And when things got too heavy for his dad, he normally packed his trash and left town.

  Michael’s mom had taken him north to Nashua, New Hampshire when he was still a toddler in the mid-eighties, after her marriage had fallen apart. His mother had family up there. He didn’t remember much of their time down south. They moved around a lot it seemed. He remembered living in a trailer, learning to swim in a pool in the trailer park and his father’s long tall frame, black crew cut, grey t-shirt, khaki colored shorts and the fact that he always seemed to be smoking—it was the style back then.

  He had last heard from him a few years back. A letter arrived at mail call while they were in Kuwait preparing for the invasion that would commence Operation Iraqi Freedom. It was originally called Operation Iraqi Liberation, until the Wiz Kids in the Defense Department figured out the initials spelled OIL.

  Michael’s dad, Char, not Charlie, or even Chuck, but Char for God sakes, got his address from his Mom’s sister Millie, in Nashua; Michael’s mom and dad no longer talked. Aunt Millie told him that young Michael had joined the Marines and thanks to a Naval ROTC scholarship to Boston University, was an officer getting ready to go into combat for the first time.

  Michael took a sip from his coffee and opened the photo album, and turned to a page where a dog eared slightly yellow letter sat mounted under a sheet of acetate, next to an old photo of his dad on the bridge of a boat. The letter was written in neat block letters.

  His dad’s tone in the letter was of one who actually seemed to want to convey useful information to help prepare him for the arduous tasks ahead. He talked about the fact that when the bullets started flying, he could expect to be afraid, and that it was a natural occurrence, but it was important that he still act as he was trained and to take care of the men underneath him and they would take care of him. “Strive to accomplish the mission first, but always take care of your soldiers,” he wrote, using the Army term to describe Marines. Michael was sincerely touched that the old man sought him out. He sent some pictures as well; Char in various poses both on and off the water; most of him as a young man, before Michael was born; some of the pictures were probably taken when his Dad was about the same age as Michael was now; twenty-five.

  His dad added a Post Script to the letter telling him to keep the pictures as a remembrance of your dear old dad. Michael had placed the letter and photos in an album and then as an afterthought, copied them to the hard drive of his Sony Laptop. The letter was postmarked Jan 3, 2003, Madeira Beach, FL and the return address had a box number and an address on Gulf Boulevard. Michael figured that would be a good place to start looking for him.

  A few days later, he threw the suitcase in the back of his new Ford pickup, a present he gave himself after he returned from Iraq and headed south, deciding to forgo the highway for a circuitous meander along the coast. He stopped in Parris Island to reminisce and had dinner with a Senior Drill Instructor who had been his Platoon Sergeant during the invasion. Gunnery

  Sergeant “Swanny” Swanson had been a young Staff Sergeant during the invasion, bu
t had fought courageously and took care of his men, although he was but a few years older than they were. Aside from two guys receiving minor wounds, Swanny managed to get all his guys through the invasion unscathed.

  They had a huge meal of boiled seafood and at least a gallon of beer at a place on Eleventh Street in Beaufort called the Dockside. He spent the night at a nearby hotel and headed south along the coast the following morning.

  Chapter 16 - The Friendly Tavern

  “I would consider a name change” said Michael.

  “What do you mean? “ Asked an old man

  “Given the fact that all of you just jumped me, I don’t think the Friendly Tavern is an appropriate name for this place” replied Michael.

  The old man cackled, loudly and then coughed. “Well, Hell son, you got the better of the three of us, so maybe we were just being friendly and letting you win.”

  Michael laughed a little and then felt his lip, one of them, the big guy, caught him a good one in the mouth. For that privilege Michael laid him out with a Marine Corps Martial Arts move called the reap, Michael was going to follow with a finishing move—perhaps a strike to the nose or chin, but the man was already out. MC-MAP was part Brazilian ju-jitsu, part Muy Thai with other Asian Martial Arts thrown in.

  “Okay, the fights over,” Michael announced to no one in particular. He and the old man were the only ones left standing anyways—the other two had been successfully put out of commission for the present time. The old man had called the other two to action and for that, Michael had bitch slapped him, which definitely got his attention.

  “Why did you jump me?” he asked.

  “You said you were looking for Char Blackfox and the last guys looking for him ended up trying to kill him, so we were just being careful.” said the old man.

  Shit, any more careful and they would be slipping at least one of these guys into a body bag; and me into a jail cell, thought Michael.

  The return address corresponded to the Gulf Breeze Trailer Park and no one there admitted to knowing his father. He had walked the beach thinking about how to find his old man and it occurred to him that his father was a man of habits—he smoked and he drank, so Michael sought out all nearby bars and found this place; the Friendly Tavern.

  He inquired and was told to come back at closing time as the night bartender probably knew the guy Michael was looking for. The old coot was behind the bar when he got there, the other guy that he reaped grabbed him from behind and the third guy tried to slug him, but hit the guy holding him when Michael slipped his grip. He hadn’t actively trained in six months, but muscle memory apparently saved him as Recon used to practice MC-MAP every duty day as part of their physical fitness regime.

  “I’m his son,” said Michael, pulling the letter from his pocket and handing it to the old man. The old man pursued the letter in the manner of a scholar studying hieroglyphics and then stared skeptically at Michael. “What’s the address on the letter?”

  “It’s my unit at Lejeune; 2nd Recon Battalion, here is my ID Card.” Michael held his Common Access Card with his name and picture on it for the man to see. Somehow, he had forgotten to turn it in when he out-processed.

  “Well, shit, son, why didn’t you say so.” The old man turned around and reached for a bottle that Michael recognized immediately as Blanton’s Bourbon, then reached under the bar and produced two tumblers. He filled both with three fingers of very fine bourbon and handed one to Michael.

  “Here is to your old man!”

  Michael drank because he had a sore lip, needed to befriend this old coot, but mostly because you never passed up an opportunity to drink Blanton’s, if you could help it.

  One of the bodies on the floor started to stir and make noise and then the other one did the same. They might have been playing possum waiting to see how the whole thing turned out as Michael felt he didn’t hit them that hard, but it could have been the ancillary effects of hitting their heads on the tile floor. In any case, they seemed to be okay and he felt grudgingly relieved.

  The old man produced two more glasses and poured them full.

  “Boys, meet Michael Blackfox, Char’s son!” Both men, now standing, managed a nod and a mumbled greeting before taking and downing the glass of bourbon. Michael drank with the trio for another hour and learned very little. Char used to come into the pub off and on for years, but they hadn’t seen him in almost six months and didn’t know where he might be. They said that he liked to camp when he was visiting and that he still had an old trailer.

  He learned that the old man, Ben, had unintentionally helped two thugs locate Char when he was living at the Gulf Breeze and Char came into the pub a week later with visible evidence of a beating. It was a bad debt that he owed someone, explained Char. From that point forward, the bartenders at the tavern were very cautious when anyone asked about Char.

  Michael left the tavern with more questions than answers. The one useful piece of information he got from Ben is that there was an old guy that lived on a house boat over in St. Pete Beach who might know where his father had gotten to.

  The following morning, he awoke hung-over and a bit sore. After a greasy breakfast of bacon, eggs and hash browns from the diner next to his motel, he headed south down the beach looking for the Manatee Marina right across John’s Pass. He found the marina easy enough and the boat was right where Ben said it would be. Ben told him to look for a mid-1970s vintage catamaran houseboat about 45 feet in length with a metal plate on the side that said “Carri-Craft.”

  He found another crusty old guy who looked at him quizzically when Michael asked if it was OK to come on board.

  “That depends. Are you a bill collector, a criminal, or from the government?”

  “None of the above” said Michael. “Ben from the Friendly Tavern said you might be able to help me. I’m Char’s son.”

  “Char?” he said rubbing his chin as if trying to remember the man. Michael stepped on board and the man welcomed him into the main living area. He introduced himself as Bob Couflin.

  The place was immaculately maintained; plush blue grey carpeting surrounded by dark wood paneling, on one wall sat a Bose entertainment system with speakers strategically located throughout the cabin. Soft jazz played in the background. Michael introduced himself and the man offered him a seat, indicating a Scandinavian designed leather chair. “Nice place you have here.”

  “Yeah, it’s all the wife left me; never marry a much younger woman Michael, they will drive you to drink. Speaking of which, he said with a nod to indicate the bar in the corner, care for a little eye opener?” Michael figured it would probably get the guy talking so he agreed to the offer and was soon presented with a tall glass containing Bob’s secret Bloody Mary concoction. “The key is the horseradish,” he confided.

  “To your father, said Bob as he clicked his glass with Michael’s. Your dad was a maintenance man here for a while and we used to drink beer and fish together, but mostly drink beer.” Bob hadn’t seen Char in over a year and he confirmed the beating that Char had suffered.

  “One day he showed up to work with two black eyes and a gash down the side of his face.” He failed to show up for work a day or so later. The marina GM took him for a no-show and fired him. I just assumed he moved on,” said Bob.

  It was lunch time by the time he finished so Michael invited Bob to lunch—they crossed the bridge and went to Hooter’s for some beer and chicken wings. Bob was well-known there as evidenced by the hugs he got from most of the servers.

  He was kind enough to introduce Michael to some of the girls as a “genuine war-hero and son of a friend of mine.” Michael asked for the phone number of a petite, but large breasted college student named Aimee, but was surprised when she said, well, shoot Marine, just tell me where you are staying and I will come over to service the troops!”

  Bob laughed and slapped Michael on the back almost causing him to snort out a mouthful of beer. “I haven’t checked into my room yet, but just ask fo
r Michael Blackfox and they will direct you to my room.”

  The manager had been hovering around, intent on “comping” the war hero’s meal as that was his standard procedure, hell they deserved it, he thought. It was an ugly war with kids his son’s age coming back missing a limb or worse. But, he heard the last name and froze, then quietly slipped off to his office to make a call.

  Lunch turned out to be on the house as everyone seemed to love veterans these days, thought Michael. He dropped Bob back at the marina and returned to his motel for a nap. Michael hadn’t seen his father since he was eighteen or nineteen, but one thing he knew about the man is that he always seemed to be looking over his shoulder. If the same people his old man was running from when Michael was a teen were still chasing him, then they had amazing staying power. Only money or murder causes such dwell time, he thought as he nodded off to sleep. The phone rang and awoke him from a dream.

  “Hi Sweetie, would you like some company?” said Aimee.

  “Sure would,” said Michael.” What time is it?”

  “Around six, I am off in five minutes and can guarantee you’ll be getting off shortly after that. I also have some left over wings and fries,” she said, invitingly.

  “Great, pick up a six pack of beer on the way over and you will be the perfect woman,” he said without thinking.

  “As long as I am not expected to disappear in a puff of smoke at midnight, you have yourself a deal” she replied with a laugh.

  Chapter 17 - Hooter’s Hottie

  She had just left, after perfuming the bed, as the Boss was known to remark. What a freak! How someone so young could be that good at sex gave him pause. Lots of practice, Michael guessed, as he reclined on the bed, balancing a cup of coffee on his chest while watching television.

  He made the coffee from the coffeemaker in the room. It tasted like crap, but what the heck, it was convenient and free. It reminded him of the movie, The Usual Suspects. Verbal Kint, the character played by Kevin Spacey, remarks “back when I was picking beans in Guatemala, we used to make fresh coffee, right off the trees. That was good. This is shit but, hey, I'm in a police station.” Michael loved that line.