Tampa Star (Blackfox Chronicles Book 1) (21 page)

“No drinking alcohol in the vehicle,” ordered the Duck’s Driver as he caught view of the two full size marine coolers that Michael and Triple G were in the middle of loading on aboard.

It was the same guy that Michael had dealt with the previous day.
Apparently, a one man operation
.

“O
kay, it’s cool—no drinking on board, we get it. I just didn’t want to leave these coolers in the bed of my pick-up,” said Michael, indicating his Patriot Blue F150 with a jut of his chin.  

One of the coolers was filled with an assortment of weapons—four automatic pistols, two assault rifles, an assortment of additional ammo, C-4 and a detonator.  The other cooler held two folding entrenching tools, a small pick used for working in tight spaces, empty sand bags, glow sticks, heavy duty flash lights, water, and a few other surprises.  Michael liked to plan for contingencies. 

Jimmy and Char climbed on board and the driver turned to address the Stag Party.

“My name is Mitch
, he began.  I was in 1st Amphibious Truck Company (DUKWS), 1st Marine Division, during the Korean War.  I drove one of these vehicles during the landing at Inchon and for some time afterward, until I was wounded during the second battle for Seoul. He patted the steering with his left hand, “I found this particular Duck in a junk yard and restored it myself.  I had to compromise on the color and paintings on the hull to lure in the tourist trade, but she is essentially the same vehicle that first stormed beaches in 1943.”
Apparently, he had given this speech before
, thought Michael.

“Gentlemen, respect this vehicle, as without it things would have turned out a lot worse for us at places like Normandy, Sicily and Inchon.” 

They all nodded, and thought the same thing; this guy was suddenly someone they had to respect—to Char, he was a fellow wounded combat veteran and to Michael and Triple G he was also a fellow Marine. They took turns to explain their similar histories and felt a sudden strange camaraderie with this grizzled old man—quite suddenly, he was a “brother in arms.” It made what they had to do all the harder.

When started, the Duck had the low pitched whine of a vehicle ge
ared with high torque in mind. Mitch pulled the Duck out of the lot and headed north on Gulf Boulevard towards The Friendly Tavern; the place Michael got jumped when he first came to town.  Char invited Mitch in for a beer, but he protested saying but he had to guard the Duck and their coolers.

“I’ll stay with the Duck; I do my best drinking after the sun goes down,” volunteered
Triple G.

“O
kay then,” said Mitch. “Just don’t let anyone else on board.”  

The four went inside, took a table in the back and ordered a round of Budweiser. Char was curious about how Mitch had come to own and restore the amphibious vehicle.

“Found it in a scrap yard near Baton Rouge, Mississippi, he told them.  I was going through a tough period in my life and restoring it helped center me again.”

Boy, thought Char,
hold on Old Son, as things are about to get a bit off-kilter
.  Mitch seemed happy to continue talking, it did more than center him, and it made him happy. Char could tell that the Duck was more than just a work tool that Mitch had a serious emotional attachment to it and it sucked that they would have to fuck with that. 

He w
aited for Mitch to finish his beer, figuring that perhaps it would soften the blow.

“Look here, Mitch, we need to borrow the Duck from you. We have something we have to do.”

Mitch looked shocked. He began to make a move to physically resist, but Char briefly brought the Sig Sauer 9 millimeter pistol above the table and pointed the business end at him.

“Nothing you can do. You come with us for a ride. When we are done, you drive away; no harm, no foul. ” The man thought for a minute and then spoke quickly, but with passion.

“Listen, I don’t know what you guys are up to, but I am betting it’s not sightseeing. One thing I didn’t mention was I had a hard time adjusting back to civilian life after Korea. I robbed a string of pharmacies in the Pan Handle after my discharge and ended in Apalachee Prison in Chattahoochee.”

Jimmy smiled, “just what we need—another convict!”

Mitch continued. “The duck is all I have—you fuck it up, I might as well go back to robbing drugstores.”

Char seemed unmoved
, “sorry, Mitch, but this is going to happen whether you like it or not.”

“It’s difficult to handle in the water, which is what I assume you want it for?”

“Smart man,” replied Char. 

“You need me driving it, especially with the surge from the incoming storm. You fuck up and turn too sharp, the craft will swamp and you and your plan sink with it!” Mitch locked eyes with each one of them in turn; Char, Michael and Jimmy, to make sure they understood the implications of what he was saying.

“One final thought— you take my vehicle, you will need to tie me up and that’s kidnapping, but I have a deal for you. I will take you where you want to go and not say a word to the cops, agreed?”

Char looked at Jimmy, who nodded his head affirmatively and then to Michael who shrugged.

“Okay, maybe we can make it a win-win scenario,” said Char as he signaled the waitress for the check.     

As twilight gave way to full dark, Char directed them south down Gulf Boulevard towards Gulf Way, passing condominium complexes, high end beach houses, restaurants and bars. At the end of Gulf Way, a left turn would loop them back to Gulf Boulevard, instead the Duck turned left down a sand access road that led out to a low concrete fishing pier.  They were all keyed up; after all this time, it was finally happening.   The duck took a right at the fork and pulled out onto the beach and into the heavy surf; the sea was beginning to churn with the incoming storm.

The Duck glided into the heavy surf, Mitch engaged the single propeller and they began maneuvering southwest to skirt the various islands that made up Shell Key Preserve.  While in water, the Duck’s exhaust was automatically rerouted to the front of the vehicle, where it escaped from a vent in the hood.

Fifteen minutes later, Mitch steered due south towards Mullet Key. The island was shaped like an arm, with the upper portion running north to south to the elbow and then northeast toward the Skyway Bridge and Tampa Bay.
Mitch steered the Duck towards their target—the old sand covered bunkers that once contained ammunition for the mortars and direct fire cannons, which sat roughly at the point of the elbow. 

The key sat in near complete darkness and Mitch was having difficulty seeing the shoreline.

“Use these,” said Michael, handing the man a pair of night vision goggles he had found on the battlefield and neglected to turn in during redeployment from Iraq. 

Mitch was amazed with his suddenly enhanced vision, “wish I had these in Seoul, I probably could have avoided being shot,” he said to no one in particular. The goggles were effective, but you lost depth perception and bright lights would cause temporary vision loss, but they were a definite improvement over night blindness. 

***

Marilyn pulled her Nissan Pathfinder off the Pinellas Byway south of Tierra Shores at Saint
Barbe Key, just short of the bascule bridge that crossed onto Mullet Key.

State officials always raised the bridge during a storm closure, but that didn’t matter as she would just paddle across the bayou and land on the east side of Mullet Key. She pulled a yellow waterproof bag and secured it under the shock cord in front of the cockpit, slid the kayak into the water, stepped in and sat down in one coordinated move. Marilyn pushed off with her paddle and was soon gliding across the unusually choppy waters of Mullet Bayou— dead reckoning as there were no lights to aim for as the park was closed and the sky was overcast with ominous looking clouds. 

As if on cue, the sky opened up with a deluge of wind driven rain—she was glad she had taken the time to slip on a wetsuit and Sheriff’s Department ball cap.

“The sea was angry that day, my friends; like an old man trying to send back soup in a deli,” she said aloud, repeating a line she remembered George
Costanza saying in an episode of Seinfeld. She smiled, despite the weather and continued paddling. 

After fifteen minutes of determined effort, she could just barely make out the shoreline of Mullet Key a short distance ahead.  Ten minutes later, she heard the kayak scrap along the sandy bottom of the bayou and felt relieved.  She dismounted the kayak, carried it ashore and pulled the waterproof bag from the
bungie cords that were securing it.

The bag contained everything she felt she might need in a confrontation—a flashlight, Sig-Saur 9 m
illimeter pistol, two extra fifteen round magazines, her official Smartphone, and Sheriff’s Department credentials—little did she know she was vastly outgunned.

Marilyn
had landed near one of the numerous sand roads that crisscross the island connecting pavement to boat launching sites and estimated that she had a half mile to cover on foot before reaching the fort.  Marilyn took off at a jog toward the bunkers. 

***

The Duck was made to operate in surf of up to ten feet in height so the early storm surge barely challenged the vehicle’s capabilities. As they approached the coastline of Mullet Key, Char directed Mitch to exit north of the area where the remnants of the gun battery were located and main north south thoroughfare to approach the bunkers from the back. 

As the Duck approached the shoreline, Mitch disengaged the propeller and shifted power back to the drivetrain for the three axles powering the vehicle up and over the beach in a roar of torque and diesel exhaust.

“Dry land,” said Jimmy with relief.

***

Eddie arrived at the draw bridge and cursed as he had forgotten that it would be up because of the pending storm. He cursed again and pulled out his Blackberry when he recognized Marilyn’s vehicle parked by the boat launching ramp.

“What do you think you’re doing, officer?” he asked in an exasperated tone. 

“Investigating,” replied Marilyn into her cellphone.  He knew arguing was futile, so Eddie pleaded with her to j
ust observe and leave the arrest and whatever else to SWAT.

Eddie next called the SWAT C.O., Lieutenant John Trevino,
and a former tight end from Florida State who gave up a chance to try out for the Pros to instead join the Army Rangers.  He had served with distinction in Panama, and returned to active service after 9/11, serving one tour in Afghanistan until a close call with a rifle propelled grenade left miraculously unscathed, but shaken and convinced him to seek a relatively safer line of work.  It was hard to argue that being the commander of a Special Weapons Unit was any safer these days, but normally his enemy was not armed with RPGs and the hours were certainly an improvement. Better still, he got to call the shots— not some pinheaded general officer working on a new bullet point for his Officer Efficiency Report. 

Trevino was a strapping six foot four inches and weighed a solid two hundred twenty pounds. He had become accustomed to having a high and tight hair-cut as it was the simplest to manage—years of continued stress had speckled his black hair with grey.

Just as defensive line got used to being one-armed out of the way as he piled through with the ball in tight pass coverage, his men got used to their commander being out front in any high risk situation—that was just the way God made Johnnie Trevino. 

“You’re got no seaside coverage as the marine unit’s sitting this one out—the seas are too high and they are standing down,” Trevino advised Eddie. 

“Shit, the only thing those guys are good for is handing out boating citations for not having enough life jackets on board,” lamented Eddie.

“Well, if push comes to shove, I have a buddy who is the duty officer over at the Coast Guard station and I can ask for a harbor patrol unit off shore.”     

Trevino ended the call and told his Team Sergeant to alert the unit for movement.  The team—eight men divided into two fire teams and a two man sniper team, mounted the GPV Sergeant 4x4 armored personnel and prepared to move south through quickly worsening weather conditions.

The GPV was a two-axle urban tank
, equipped with advanced thermal and low light imaging systems, ballistics resistant and multiple firing ports, and even a battering ram, painted a bright green and white—the official colors of the Pinellas County Sheriff’s Offices. 

They had two patrol cruisers that would provide escort to Mullet Key
—seven miles away. Because of the need for secrecy, the convoy would travel south under code two—emergency lights, but no siren.  The group of SWAT troopers and line deputies sat waiting anxiously for the arrival of a representative from the Harbor Master’s Office to arrive so the drawbridge could be lowered to allow the armored vehicle to enter the park. 

After about ten minutes, a late model Dodge pickup pulled into the lot and a bald, somewhat portly man, dressed in the brown polo shirt sporting the logo of the Harbormaster’s office, approached the team.  Trevino, nodded— “pull your vehicle behind the GPV and try to keep up; you’ll have
a cruiser behind you, so don’t stop for