Tampa Star (Blackfox Chronicles Book 1) (20 page)

“Only one problem, said Char, after the park gets evacuated, they close the causeway to traffic; no way on and no way off.” He stood in front of the open refrigerator in the motorhome, withdrew three cans of Coors and handed a beer to Jimmy and Michael. 

“Okay, so we go in on a rubber raft,” replied Michael.  “I’ve done it hundreds of times—slip in and out unseen.  We use an RB 15 or something like it.”

The RB stood for “Rubber Boat” and the
fifteen was for the number of soldiers, sailors or Airmen or Marines it could carry, was the workhorse of clandestine special operations forces used during covert maritime operations. It was normally employed with a small outboard, a twenty-five horsepower heavily muffled engine—although Recon Marines sometimes used it with just paddles both to limit noise as well as to gain appreciation for the existence of an engine; the latter being done during recon training when candidates for Recon undergo Outboard Appreciation Day by operating the RB 15s for a day with just paddles.

Char opened his beer and took a deep swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Can it carry a short ton of gold?”

Michael thought for a moment before replying, “Yeah, up to 3300 pounds, but including the four of us and equipment, that will put us pretty close to maximum load.” 

“Okay, sounds do-able, but where can you lay your hands on this boat?” Jimmy asked as he reclined in one of the blue leather Captain’s chair in the front of the RV.”  It’s basically a Zodiac with some military specific modifications to enhance the hull strength, but a commercial version might do.” 

But the more he thought about it, the less Michael liked the idea. A commercial version of the RB15 would have a lot less strength than the military version and the boat’s civilian outboard would be un-muffled. They would load up the boat and be at the mercy of the heavy surf that would accompany the storm. There had to be a better way.
As a former Marine, Michael’s thinking tended towards vehicles used for amphibious operations; LVTP7s commonly called Amtracs, landing boats with drop front ramps, and hovercrafts.  All were in a category of too hard to obtain, as they would most likely reside on a military reservation, such as the nearby Marine Corp’s Reserve Center.

But borrowing one would be both difficult and hazardous, not to mention
being a felonious crime of the federal kind. Michael was in this deep enough already, no sense adding theft of sensitive government property to this venture. There had to be another way—then it hit him, he had seen an old amphibious bus called a Duck driving around St. Pete Beach offering tourists rides through surf.

The Duck, was actually a “DUKW”—Michael didn’t remember what the military acronym stood but knew it was a military amphibious truck that was designed in early World War Two by a partnership between some yacht designers and General Motors. It was originally used for both transporting goods and troops over land and water and for use approaching and crossing beaches in amphibious landings on hostile beaches; hundreds were used during the D-Day landing at Normandy.

The Duck was really just a two and one half ton capacity truck with amphibious modifications, such as the addition of watertight hull, six wheel drive, a water propeller and a ten ton winch. They also served during the Korean War and some of them even survived and provided service during Viet Nam. Most of those remaining served as tourist craft in marine environments. A little research indicated that it was capable of carrying a heavy payload over land or water. It would do.

Originally, the Duck’s designers had proved its seaworthiness by using one to cross the English Channel in high seas, but that one had been brand new and in a high state of readiness.  Michael hoped this Duck was in similar condition, but he seriously doubted it.    

The vehicle sat to the back of the old sun cracked parking lot. Michael at first took it to be a derelict.  It was painted a serene ocean blue dotted with illustrations of happy sea animals— a sea turtle, a manatee and several dolphins decorated the hull. A tall blue canopy of high grade vinyl protected the passenger compartment from the weather.

“Yeah, it’s a bachelor Party,” he told the somewhat disheveled old guy in a sweat stained safari shirt sitting behind a
counter in a twelve foot aluminum office trailer that had once been a real estate office for the condo complex next door. “The guy getting married used to drive one of those things,” said Michael indicating the large blue vehicle parked outside the window. “What do you call it?”  

“A Duck” the man replied dryly, in the manner of someone who gets asked that question way too often.

“Well, my dad said he drove one in Viet Nam or something like it and I thought that it might be fun to take a drive around St. Pete Beach and hit some bars in it. We would rent the whole thing from you for the entire day.”

The man smiled for the first time.
One was born every minute
. Since starting this business he had lost money every week but at the height of the season when college kids would rent it out to have drunken pub crawls, the other plus side being he got to see a lot of naked breasts as the co-eds liked to flash on lookers from the relative security the Duck provided. 

He looked at how the potential customer was dressed and tried to determine a number that would both sufficiently fleece him,
while still allowing significant space to negotiate downward—it was more art than science.

“O
kay, well the standard price for chartering the DUKW is twelve hundred dollars a day,” he said as if quoting a price sheet.

Michael smiled earnestly, figuring it would help if the guy thought he was a rube.

“That would be fine, but you have to let my dad drive it in the water for at least fifteen minutes as he used to do that in Nam and said it was a blast; one of the best parts of his job. He was a Boatswain’s mate.”

The man nodded and tried not to smile. He never did anything more than drive it through shallow water for a few minutes as the Duck was over fifty years old and he hadn’t quite kept up its maintenance—business conditions being what they were. 

“When do you want to do it,” he asked.

“This Saturday,” Michael said with a neutral expression on his face.

“Sorry, son, but there is a tropical storm due in late Saturday evening  and the weather will probably be getting bad.  I was going to put it into storage over in Tampa to avoid having it swept out to sea.” “Please, it would be a lot to my old man and it will be the last chance to do it, as he’s getting married on Sunday.”  The man’s expression remained interested, but not quite convinced.

In a sudden moment of inspiration, Michael added “I will kick in another three hundred if we could do it on Saturday.”  The guy couldn’t help but smile.

“Well, I suppose I could take it over to Tampa after we finish up, as long as it’s not later than nine o’clock in the evening,” he replied.

“I’m sure we will be done by then,” said Michael with a wide grin.

A few weeks previous, Internal Affairs had successfully recruited a pretty young patrol officer formerly of vice, who had gotten tired of acting as a decoy for prostitution stings on Route 19.  Rumors were carefully spread about her not being up to the task and that she was being transferred back to the Patrol Division.  As luck would have it, she had just been partnered with Guy Handley on a two officer patrol. 

“Hey Guy, wait a minute will you?” Handley had finished the work day and was getting into his tan 2004 Jeep Cherokee when he heard her call out from across the parking lot.  Turning, he was surprised to see Marilyn Ramirez strolling towards him wearing not much of anything—tan high heeled strap sandals, white high waist Tuxedo shorts worn tight enough to show a Camel Toe and a sheer blue silk baby-doll top. 

He took a long look—taking her in from head to toe. She had well-tanned and long athletic legs earned from years of running 10K and half-marathons; she said preparing for a full marathon made her tits disappear and she couldn’t have that; they were full B-cups at best, but Handley imagined that they were firm and defied gravity, he could see her nipples popping though the shear silk top, sans bra, he thought.

“Hey, baby, you back to playing decoy hooker?”  Somewhat perplexed by the appearance of his new partner dressed so provocatively on her day off.

“Nope, just going down to the beach to meet some girlfriends and have a few cocktails, I just wanted to see if you would like to join us.”

Handley had a finely tuned bullshit alarm, having dealt with pimps, whores, gangsters, junkies and other assorted scumbags for most of his life. From the moment he was suddenly partnered with the tall, exotic looking Latina, he got the distinct impression that Ramirez was conning him.

Hell, he was a fifty eight year old balding patrol cop with a bot belly and a drinking problem
—hardly the stuff that twenty-something females lusted after—unless they wanted something. Still, he could picture himself behind her, sliding those white shorts down over her tan ass and down to her ankles.  He felt his groin twitch, but he had bigger fish to fry and if things went his way, he would be retiring south of the border where he would have a never ending stream of hot Latinas sliding their panties to the floor.

“Sorry, kid, I have got something I
gotta do tonight,” he replied while blatantly looking down her top and catching a glimpse of her small hard breasts topped with eraser shaped nipples.

“Some other time,” he said while getting into the vehicle—leaving her standing there with a confused look on her face; all dressed up for battle—with no one to fight.  He quickly backed up and drove away, with little more than a wave.

She waited a minute for him to leave the parking lot and then retreated to her blue Nissan Pathfinder to make a call.

“He’s up to something, she told Eddie, I did everything short of offering him a blowjob in the parking lot and he turned me down.”

Eddie admired her zeal, but didn’t want her to get involved further. He knew that Handley fancied himself a Lady’s Man, albeit it with ladies you rented by the hour.  In his opinion, Handley would never have turned down an opportunity to slip it to this young sweetie unless he had something urgent to do. She verified he did and that was all he wanted her to do.

Marilyn was a young capable cop, but she was batting above her average and these thugs would think nothing of slitting her throat and laughing while she bled to death.

“Okay, let me work it from my end, take the night off and I will call you tomorrow.”

She ended the call and cursed under her breath.  Marilyn was used to winning; whether it was in a 10K or busting
Johns stupid enough to mistake her for a prostitute. She hated Handley even before she knew him. He was a rare specimen of a slowly dying breed—the crooked cop. And she longed to speed his demise.

Given his distracted demeanor in light of her come-on and slutty attire, she could probably guess where he was headed with such exigency and with the storm looming toward the Florida Gulf Coast
.

S
he guessed that the robbers Eddie was tracking would use the closure of the park as cover for their activities. Weather in Florida was good for at least three quarters of the year—the summer was too hot and fraught with storms, but other than that people tended to spend a lot more time out of doors than their northern brethren.

Marilyn had taken up a lot of hobbies since moving here from New York and kayaking was one of her favorite—she often spent her days off
paddling along the gulf shore, sometimes fishing, but more often than not, just exploring the many coves, canals and estuaries.

“It might be a nice night to do some night fishing around Mullet Key,” she said aloud as she turned the ignition of the pathfinder and sped towards her house. 

***

Eddie looked over at Carla, who was reclining on his couch wearing a short silk robe he had gotten years ago in South Korea while he was assigned to the CID Command at
Yongsan Garrison. It did little to conceal her ample charms.

“I have to go out for a while. Do me a favor and answer the phone, but if anyone asks who you are, say you are my sister, Cheryl, visiting from out of town.”

She nodded solemnly, “Be careful, Eddie.” 

“Sure baby, always,” he smiled at her confidently, but felt strangely uneasy.  

Eddie figured he would head over to Tampa and check with the Tampa cops who routinely surveyed Sally Boots’ expansive house more as harassment than as part of an active investigation. He called ahead and they cleared him to come on over.

“Not much to see here,” said
Sandovol, the cop on the night shift assigned the thankless duty of watching Sally Boots’ house from inside a clandestine surveillance vehicle disguised as a power company van. 

The van had an array of cameras, low-light and infrared and a range of non-invasive electronic listening devices, but no active listening devices were planted, so he could not ordinarily hear inside the house, although sometimes he got lucky. “You just missed him.  A
ninety eight brown Dodge piece of shit pulled in about an hour ago. About thirty minutes after that, he and the driver left on his yacht that was docked at the back of the property,” explained Sandovol. He

consulted
the digital clock embedded above one of the television monitors and wordlessly backed up the surveillance media to the point where the sedan entered the property and disappeared behind the cavernous four car garage.

“Guy Handley,” said Eddie, immediately recognizing the figure stopped at the sp
eaker in front of the black iron gate.

“You haven’t fired that crooked cocksucker yet?”

“Fucking union,” replied Eddie, while slowly shaking his head. One way or another the scumbag cop’s days were numbered and this tape could probably help that initiative along.

Sally was well-insulated from most of his alleged crimes, therefore it was difficult to get probable cause for the issue of a wiretap warrant, but the Tampa Organized Crime Unit was not without hope that he would eventually slip up.  Until then, they would randomly
surveil his house to let the old mobster know he was still in their sights.

Eddie thought about calling the Sheriff and giving him a full report. He figured that Waller being a cautious man would order SWAT, the Maritime Unit and hell, maybe even the Dive Team in and around Fort
DeSoto. It would be like the Marines landing at Iwo and they might possibly scare off their quarry.  Eddie figured he could wait to call in the cavalry. He would drive across the causeway, park his sedan, hoof it into the park and see what he could see.

Both
Blackfoxes: Char and his son, had proven to be cunning, resourceful and quite possibly homicidal. Eddie had little doubt that Jimmy had killed at least one of the bodies they had discovered last week in the warehouse and the “double tap” on the other corpse indicated that he was killed by a professional—perhaps a battle-hardened, Recon Marine.

Eddie figured that Sally and Handley would sit off shore of Mullet Key, the island that served as host to Fort
DeSoto, and wait for Blackfox and O’Brien to make their move—it was pretty sure that involved digging up the gold, he just wasn’t sure exactly where on the fort that would be.