Tampa Star (Blackfox Chronicles Book 1) (10 page)

What eventually became known as Hurricane Gamila, developed from a tropical disturbance on October 25
th
in the western Caribbean. It drifted northwestward, reaching tropical storm strength on October 27
th
.   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 31
st
. After moving across Florida, Gamila paralleled the Carolinas, reaching its peak of ninety five mph before becoming extra tropical on November 5
th
, 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.

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 th
e 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 and 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.

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.

“O
kay, 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, but 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.