by T. S. O'Neil
“Can we have this print? Because if we can blow it up, we should be able to read the vessel registration number, as they might have changed the name again,” said SGT Buford.
“Already took care of that,” said Eddie, handing Buford a manila envelope from the back of the photo album. I looked for them for quite a while after the incident, but came up empty.
Perhaps you’ll have better luck.”
Buford opened the envelope and slid out one of the photos. It was a close-up of the boat’s registration numbers.
“I am not sure that you guys know the law concerning vessel numbers?” Both Marines regarded Eddie with curious looks. “It’s permanent and remains with the vessel as long as it is operated or stored in Florida, even though the ownership may change. Registering it elsewhere, especially in a foreign country, would generate new taxes that can be excessive, as much as one hundred percent the value of the boat in some countries. My belief is that they might have changed the name of the yacht again, but the number has not changed. Find a boat with that number and you will probably find Michael Blackfox,” said Eddie.
Gunny Rob took a sip from his drink, placed it on the coffee table, and looked at Eddie.
“What is Captain Blackfox wanted for?”
“Possibly, a half dozen charges ranging from manslaughter to receiving stolen goods, not to mention the theft of the amphibious vehicle, but we would need a grand jury to sort that matter out. Char, on the other hand, is wanted for the original robbery and felony murder,” replied Eddie.
Gunny Rob finished the Arnold Palmer, set the empty glass on the table, and looking puzzled, asked, “Manslaughter?”
“Yes, we recovered two bodies in a warehouse. A body was identified as the attorney of Jimmy O’Brien, one of the other members of the gang. The corpse had two tightly grouped shots in the chest and one in the center of the forehead. It looked to me like something a Recon Marine would be capable of.”
“That’s one way of settling a large legal bill, said Buford, but why not murder instead of manslaughter?”
“The lawyer was armed,” replied Eddie.
“Maybe Blackfox triple tapped him, but if that’s all you got, it’s mighty thin,” said Gunny Rob noncommittally. “I also think he may have had something to do with four other motorcycle gang dirt bags that turned up dead in the parking lot of Fort Desoto, but again, it’s all circumstantial at this point. I do have a question for you, however.”
“Shoot,” said Rob.
“What does MARSOC want with Michael Blackfox?”
“I am not at liberty to share that information,” said Rob, not completely sure he knew himself.
“Fair enough, but mind if I share my opinion?” Eddie didn’t wait for a response. “He racked up a pretty good-sized body count around here just a few years ago, and I was stuck cleaning up the mess.” Both Marines looked at Eddie with rapt attention.
“Remember the oft-quoted line about war made by Marc Anthony in Shakespeare’s Julius Cesar?” said Eddie.
Gunny Rob nodded. “Do you mean ‘Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war’?”
“Ah, you appear to be a well-read man,” replied Eddie, visibly surprised.
“We’re not all knuckle-draggers. My father loved the classics and made sure his son did as well.”
“So, it would seem one of MARSOC’s ‘dogs of war’ is off his leash, and you want to get him back on it so you can sic him on someone else, said Eddie as he slowly got to his feet. You need anything else from me; don’t hesitate to give me a call.”
The Marines left Eddie and Carla on the stern and returned to their pickup to make the drive back to base, Buford’s desire to hit the Wing House forgotten.
Chapter Five - Club Naval
Cartagena, Colombia
El Laguito Peninsula was shaped like an upside down lower
leg―the calf, ankle, and foot that attached it to the old city of Cartagena. Just behind what would be the kneecap, another narrow peninsula jutted southeast for about a half mile. At the very end of the point of land, overseeing the entrance of the inner harbor stood the ruins of the Castillo Grande, a Colonial-era fort that gave the peninsula its name. The massive stone structure once guarded the western approach to the inner harbor, until it was destroyed by the English in the late 18th century in their failed attempt to sack the city of Cartagena.
Within the ruins of the ancient fort stood the Castillo Grande Santa Cruz, a relatively modern, white stucco building that housed the Naval Officers’ Club. The Club was equal parts museum, recreation center, and four-star restaurant. It was founded in 1939 by a group of young officers looking for a place to relax with their families and was now a favorite place to host a naval wedding reception or take in a formal dinner.
An old stone lighthouse sat like a guardian overlooking the club’s private beach. The park-like grounds of the club were kept in pristine order, driven by the Navy officer’s rigorous attention to detail. It was an honor to be invited to such a storied and prestigious place. Hangover or not, Michael knew enough not to pass up the opportunity.
He was dressed in tan slacks, a light blue oxford shirt with alternating blue, green and gold stripes and a navy blue blazer he purchased at minibar prices in the hotel boutique. Rather than soak his attire with perspiration in the late-day sun, Michael took a taxi the short distance from the hotel to the club.
He arrived at seven p.m., approached the guard shack, and was directed to the bar. He found Ramos and two others drinking cold Azores and talking jovially in Spanish. Although Michael was fluent in Spanish, they all switched to English upon his arrival.
Like Ramos, both Alberto Villegas and Stefan Muñoz were captains in the Naval Infantry, and were also from affluent families. Although there was conscription in Colombia, it was easy to circumvent. In Colombia, for those who came from a prestigious lineage, serving the country was of tantamount importance and serving as an officer was essential.
Ramos handed Michael a frosted green bottle, signaled his two companions to be quiet, and offered a toast.
“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Captain Miguel Blackfox, using the Spanish version of the name, formerly of the Second
Recon Battalion, the Gringo Pendejo that saved my life!”
They all laughed, but Villegas looked at Michael in earnest, “please tell us, Miguel, how you saved Marco from his need to always be the center of attention.”
“Yes,” Muñoz chimed in, “I would like to determine if
Capitán Ramos has matured since being the young, inexperienced
Subteniente that he was in Iraq.”
“Not much to tell. Marco was in the lead vehicle, and he came under what was later determined to be a withering amount of accurate fire from a combination of small and medium automatic weapons, as well as rocket propelled grenades from Iraqi military and paramilitary forces. His vehicle was disabled, he was wounded—albeit slightly—and was probably peeing his pants. It looked like he was in imminent danger of causing an international incident. Thinking quickly, I mounted my vehicle, had my fifty-caliber gunner lay down a copious stream of Haji suppressing fire, and went and got his sorry ass. Anyway, that’s what the citation says on my Bronze Star.”
They all laughed and Marco feigning outrage exclaimed, “Pinchy Gringo, you lie. It does not say I pissed my pants on the certificate!”
“You’re right. I added that part,” admitted Michael.
“Marco, you have not changed a bit. I had to get him out of a similar situation in Tumaco two months ago, except it involved the humungous boyfriend of a strikingly beautiful Morena that Marco was trying to kidnap,” said Villegas.
“No me jodas,” said Ramos, which roughly translated meant, stop fucking with me.
The group ordered another round of beers, and a short time later, a waiter arrived to announce their table was ready.
They were led to the far end of an ornately furnished dining room done up in the traditional Colombian Colonial style o
f large, heavy mahogany tables with high-backed, leather cushioned wooden chairs that looked to be over a hundred years old. The whitewashed walls were populated with long, ornately stitched silk tapestries in yellow, blue, and red interspersed with gold leaf framed paintings of Colombian Naval heroes.
The waiter seated them and immediately departed only to return a moment later with a bread basket and a stainless steel pitcher of cold drinking water. Ramos expertly perused the wine list and selected a bottle of 2001 Chateau Latour, which probably cost the equivalent of his monthly salary.
At twenty-four years old, Marco Ramos was heir to a family wealthy from interests in coffee and exotic lumber. The two other officers were similarly well heeled: Muñoz’s family owned several liquor distributors, and Villegas was adopted at five years old by his father’s brother―a magnate in the textile and clothing industry. Villegas’ parents were kidnapped and murdered by guerillas during the insurgency and his uncle adopted the suddenly orphaned youngster.
Without asking, the waiter brought large cocktail glasses filled with ceviche de corvina, a raw fish and vegetable salad immersed in lime juice. Even though the restaurant sat mere feet from the water, its specialty was beef―both local and imported.
The waiter returned and addressed the table in officious and meticulous Spanish.
“Gentlemen, Chef Andre has prepared something special for you tonight.” The men listened with the appropriate level of deference. “Dry-aged filets served Oscar style, topped with crab meat, blanched asparagus tips, and béarnaise sauce.”
The conversation ceased when the food arrived at the table, but the meals were devoured so quickly that no one seemed to notice. They ordered coffee and brandy, and Ramos withdrew a leather cigar case and offered them around the table. Michael accepted one against his better judgment as he could still taste the one from last night. However, a hard and fast rule of smoking Cuban cigars was that you should always do so and this went double for Cohibas. Muñoz joined them, but Villegas waved off the offer.
“None for me. I have to travel early tomorrow morning and don’t want to taste a cigar while I undergo my final evaluation,” he explained.
Ramos nodded. “Alberto finds that the infantry is not elite enough for him, so he has joined the Special Forces Battalion.”
The Colombian Marines had one Special Forces Battalion among twenty or more line units. Most battalions belong to separate brigades, while the COLMAR SF Battalion fell under the direct command of COLMAR headquarters.
“Yes, I love to suffer,” deadpanned Villegas while lifting a snifter containing four fingers of twenty year old Pierre Ferrand Reserve Cognac to his lips.
“Tell me, Villegas, how will it feel to be working for me?”
Michael looked perplexed and Muñoz explained, “I am taking an assignment with headquarters and will be serving as a deputy on their operations staff, so if Villegas makes the cut, he will be working under my operational control.”
“Even working for a bobo like you is preferable to sitting at a border post in Poyare,” replied Villegas.
“Yes, in the heat of the war, we used to chase FARC guerillas across the border all the time. Now, you have to be careful as no one wants to piss off that clown, Chavez,” interjected Ramos.
Michael nodded. The situation was not unusual and could be helpful to them both. It was nice to have someone on your side at higher headquarters, and if you needed something done at ground level, it was helpful to have a buddy in a line unit.
“What about you, Ramos?” asked Michael. “Any great plans for the future?”
Ramos laughed, blew a smoke ring towards the ceiling, and replied, “Not me. I am happily satisfied to patrol the waters near the border and catch drug traffickers.”
“Ah, don’t let this payaso fool you, Miguel. He loves the media attention,” said Muñoz. “His Marines captured a homemade semi-submersible near the Ecuadorian border loaded with over one thousand kilos of cocaine and who do all the newspapers and that rubia caliente from Tele Noticias end up interviewing? None other than one Capitan Marco Ramos, Sinvergüenza!” said Muñoz, using the Spanish word for shameless to further berate his friend.
After cigars were finished, Ramos paid the bill, which, given the quality of the food and drink, was surprisingly modest at just four hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of pesos.
Villegas and Muñoz departed, both offering excuses related to military necessity. Villegas would be required to travel to Bogota for the final assessment board, which would determine whether he would be allowed to join a unit that was considered to be the elite of the elite. Muñoz left with him as they had arrived in his black Range Rover, a favorite vehicle in the mountainous country.
Marco and Michael walked out to the bar where Marco ordered another round of brandies. He handed the snifter to Michael and suddenly looked very serious.
“Miguel, said Ramos, I haven’t known you very long, but as they say, I know you well.” Michael cautiously met Marco’s gaze. “As your First Sergeant used to say, why do you try and bullshit a bullshitter?”
Feigning disbelief, Michael replied, “What are you talking about Marco?”
“Perhaps you have forgotten the time you told me that your father was nothing more than a glorified trailer-living beach bum who occasionally earned a living teaching scuba diving and working as a handyman? And now you show up in a four million dollar yacht!”
Michael exhaled and felt somewhat relieved; he didn’t like lying to Marco, as he considered him to be a trusted friend.
“Okay, let me explain.” Michael began talking and didn’t finish until he had told the whole sordid tale: the Star of Tampa, Sallie Boots, the crazy cop Handley, and a little over a million
dollars in long-stashed gold coins.
Chapter Six - Bartolomé de Las Casas
“I thought we were going to Bonaire for a few days of diving and chasing Dutch girls,” said Char offhandedly while studying the Northstar GPS on the bridge of the Good as Gold. He was dressed in an old pair of faded green board shorts and a khakicolored Columbia short-sleeve shirt, his latest purchase from the marina’s surprisingly well-equipped store.
“This is better, replied Michael. Since all of Bonaire is a marine sanctuary, we wouldn’t be able to spearfish or catch lobster. We can do both in the Islas de San Bernando. Ramos knows where there is an unoccupied Naval Infantry forward operating base on one of the smaller islands. He ran counternarcotic ops from there for a few months last year and says the reefs around the island are teeming with lobster and crab! We can tie up at the pier and use the place as a base of ops.”
“Shit,” said Char, “you sound like a used-car salesman. This boat is a very comfortable base of ops; there is no reason to stay anywhere else.”
“True dat,” replied Michael, looking around the well-appointed bridge. “Still, if we go there, we can spend a few days diving and then drop Ramos off for a temporary duty assignment at Turbo.”
“Ah, there it is. I knew there was a catch in there somewhere,” said Char.
“Listen, I told Ramos we would do him a favor and give him a lift to his base, but he doesn’t have a reporting date until April 1st and he would like to relax before being thrown back in the fray.”
“Fair enough, but there’s no reason he can’t just accompany us to Bonaire. After all, it’s got things that Ramos’ island doesn’t.
“What’s that?” asked Michael.
“Pussy,” replied Char.
“Shit, you sure are a horny old bastard. What happened to your Colombian girlfriend? I thought you two were in love.” “She introduced me to her mother―all three hundred pounds of her. If you want to know what your wife will look like in twenty years…” said Char.
“Look at her mother,” replied Michael.
Char nodded slowly. “I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”
“On the bright side, you probably won’t last another twenty years,” said Michael dryly.
Char ignored the dig. “Tell your buddy he needs to be here in an hour because as soon as we fuel up, we are out of here.”
He’s already on board,” replied Michael.
“Nice. I guess your old man is easy to con.”
No, you have a big heart,” replied Michael with a slight grin.
They filled the yacht’s 2,858 gallon fuel tank with marine diesel and idled out of Boca Grande Bay, past the Peninsula of Castillo Grange and the Club Naval, and into the open ocean. Char powered up the twin diesels to half throttle and headed southwest towards the coordinates that Ramos had given him for Islas de San Bernando, located about seventy three nauts from Cartagena and about twenty off the Colombian coast.
Char estimated they would be there in three hours at their present speed. He would need to conserve fuel if he wanted to drop Ramos off at Turbo and make it to Bonaire without refueling. The cost of diesel had recently gone up, and he got tired of shelling out seventy five hundred bucks every time he filled the tanks.
Michael was in the galley diligently chopping up peppers and onions for omelets while Ramos fried some plantains in olive oil to make patacones instead of potatoes. Char checked the radar to ensure there were no other boats in range, then engaged the Simrad AP20 autopilot and climbed down the stairs to the galley.
“Just in time, but I was going to bring this up to you,” said Michael.
“Autopilot’s engaged and there’s not another boat in sight, so I can eat down here. I wanted to hear a little bit more about this Marine base we are headed for,” said Char as he sat down at the dining table facing Ramos.
“Not much to tell, Mister Blackfox.” “Char,” he corrected.
“Char.” Ramos continued, “The contingency base is little more than a collection of C-huts with a composite dock located on a small islet about one nautical mile off to the northeast of a larger island that tourists frequent, Isla Tintipan. The smaller island is called Isla de Bartolomé de Las Casas. It’s named for a Spanish Dominican monk who became famous for defending the rights of the indigenous people of Colombia. It’s off-limits to most civilian personnel, but not to those in the company of a captain in the Colombian Marine Corps,” said Ramos with a smile.