Starfish Prime (Blackfox Chronicles Book 2) (3 page)

Madeira Beach, FL

“Well, that was easy,” said Gunnery Sergeant Malcolm Robinson.

“What, you got something?” Gunny Robinson, or Gunny Rob as he was known to his friends, nodded.

“According to NCIC, it seems our boy is a fugitive from justice.” 

“No shit? The colonel will want to know ASAP!” said Se
rgeant Buford.

“Roger that, Travis, I am already on it,” he said, reaching for the telephone. “Give me a minute,” he said as he pushed the door to his closet-sized office closed. Space was always at a premium in SOCOM and the Marines had been late to the party, only d
eciding to be a full participant in U.S. Special Operations Command in 2006. Staff Sergeant Travis Buford nodded and returned to his cubicle, thinking his chance to spend a day kicking around St. Pete and Madeira Beaches searching for the missing Recon captain was fading.

He had already planned to get Gunny Rob to stop for lunch at Hooters or the Wing House, the latter being a more risqué ve
rsion of the former. It would give him a chance to hit on some beer bunnies through the clever exposure of his rapier-like wit and by showcasing the physique that he continuously honed through near-mindless devotion to frequent arduous workouts in the MacDill Base Gym. It was said that the gym was only marginally less well equipped than the Tampa Bay Buccaneers training facility. It was important to keep special operators occupied and in peak physical condition. 

Staff Sergeant Buford cursed under his breath, as it now looked like all his plans had been foiled by the fact that the Pine
llas County Sheriff’s office had a warrant out for Blackfox’s arrest. This was not as uncommon a phenomenon as you would think, even among officers. Marines are conditioned towards a certain level of disagreeability that sometimes resulted in encounters with the law. If incarceration was the case, they would probably be stuck working the phones to find out more about the charges. Still, he remained hopeful; maybe they could hit the Wing House for a late lunch.

Rather than show off a receding hairline, Gunny Rob shaved his head, and it shone so much, rumor had it that it was due to the discrete application of a thin coat of wax. He was an even more robust figure than Staff Sergeant Buford, but if he worked out at the gym, he did so when Buford was absent, which was hardly ever. 

Gunny Rob was a barrel-chested bull of a man, who stood six foot four with a twenty inch neck.  Shortly after his assignment to MARSOC, Gunny Rob, bought twenty eight acres of farm land east of the city, out by the fairground. He spent most of his off duty time clearing it of tree stumps and installing a fence line in anticipation of becoming a cattle rancher after retiring from the Corps.  

“Grab the vehicle log book, we’re going for a ride” said Gunny Rob, suddenly appearing in Buford’s cubicle. 

“Yee-haw!” said SGT Buford, a bit too loud.

“Didn’t I tell you to belay that Redneck Mating Call in my squad bay?” said Gunny Rob. 

“Where we going?” asked Buford. 

“Staff, you ask too many questions. The Pinellas County Sheriff’s department, that’s where. And no, we can’t stop for lunch at Hooters.” 

Because the G3 Section often had to move equipment, furniture, and training aids, Gunny Rob had managed to finagle the extended dispatch of a brand new Chevy Silverado with a crew cab from the base Transportation Motor Pool. 

They walked out into the cantonment area of the high secur
ity building and into the gentle warmth of the mid-morning. Early spring was a great time to live in Florida―mid-summer, not so much.

“It still has the new car smell,” remarked Buford as he climbed behind the steering wheel. 

Buford drove the vehicle out of the parking area and headed slowly out the main gate. The speed limit on military installations was usually at least five miles an hour less than what would be encountered in the civilian world, as they were normally set by the installation commanders based on the logic that slower is always safer. He remembered being deployed to a post in Kuwait—Camp Arifjan—that had a posted speed limit of ten miles an hour, which almost made walking a faster option. 

Once outside the gate, Buford accelerated the big V8 and steered the pickup north along Dale Mabry Highway towards West Gandy Boulevard, which would take them across the Ta
mpa Bay to Saint Petersburg. 

“I got us a meeting with the detective listed as point of co
ntact regarding the warrant on Captain Blackfox. Her name is Marilyn Ramirez―maybe she’s a hottie,” said Gunny Rob, hopefully.

“More likely a
nottie,” replied S SGT Buford, who appeared to be pouting because Rob had nixed his plans for “lunch among the Wing House honeys.” 

“How about exhibiting a little optimism there, Staff? Here we are styling around in this brand spanking new G-rod pickup on a beautifully sunny March morning, and all you can do is grouse about not getting to stop at Hooters to ogle some teenager’s scantily clad rear end over some greasy chicken wings. You could be back in Iraq or even
Marja,” he said, referring to a particularly bothersome district in Helmand Province, Afghanistan that was the Marines’ current area of operations.

“Yeah, that would definitely suck,” replied Buford with a sudden smile. “Maybe Detective Ramirez is deployment hot.”

“Shit, man, now you’re talking. Maybe she’s deployment hot!” echoed Gunny Rob. 

The expression referred to men finding women more attra
ctive based on several factors, including the ratio of men to women; the greater the ratio, the greater the multiplier. A gal who might be a plain Jane back in the burg would be virtually transformed into a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model if the ratio was high enough. And nowhere in any of the services was the ratio of men to women greater than in the Marine Corps. It was said that most women got five bonus beauty points just for being deployed with the Marines. Commanders, of course, had done their part to control the raging hormones of their young charges by outlawing sexual conduct in theater―which had worked about as well Prohibition worked for curbing alcohol abuse. 

Marilyn was on the phone when they were escorted to her o
ffice by a deputy. She waved them in and motioned towards the chairs in front of her desk.

“Dude, she isn’t deployment hot, she’s real-life hot,” whi
spered Buford. 

Marilyn Ramirez was a thin, olive skinned beauty with a kil
ler body and a face that seemed more suited to a beauty queen than Sheriff’s detective. She wore a tight white blouse that showcased her thin, but taut physique and a pair of tight, low cut, jeans, with what appeared to be a W on the pocket. Scattered about the office were several plaques and trophies that seemed to indicate an interest in competitive events, including 10K runs and triathlons.

Gunny Rob held out his ID card; the Detective gave it a cu
rsory inspection and handed it back to him. 

“OK, Eddie, I’ll tell them. Give my best to Carla,” said Mar
ilyn. She placed the handset back on the base, withdrew a business card from a silver holder shaped like a Colt forty-five caliber pistol and quickly scrawled something on the back. 

“That was Detective Doyle,” she said
, getting to her feet and extending her right hand for a quick but firm handshake. “He was originally assigned to the case back in 2004. Your Marine and his friends were a virtual crime wave a few years back―killing some people that probably needed killing, blowing holes in historical sites, stealing a vehicle, and possibly absconding with a lot of gold coins, but we’re not sure about the last part. I was involved in the case, but Eddie was the detective leading the investigation. He’s since retired, but would like to talk to you guys. Here is his address. My cell phone number is on is on the back. I’m late for a meeting. They’re using me as a decoy hooker again, but Eddie will fill you in.” Buford wanted to ask her where she was going to be decoying, but thought better of it. 

Marilyn then did something uncharacteristic for the usually demure detective.

She locked eyes with Buford, smiled and said, “Call me if you need anything at all.”
Score,
thought Buford, but he would have thought that regardless―optimism is a force multiplier, he liked to say.

They drove down Seminole Blvd to Madeira Beach, crossed the bascule bridge onto the barrier island, and turned south t
oward St. Pete Beach. Buford turned left about a half mile later and pulled into the parking lot of Mad Beach Marina and Grocery. 

Finding Eddie’s boat was easy. Marilyn had described it as being hard to miss and she was right―a Vietnam era US Navy tugboat converted into a home on the water. It was over a hu
ndred feet long, with a beam of over twenty-five feet and a broad, rounded bow. The tug remained painted in the original battleship grey, but little else about it was unmodified. 

“Come on aboard,” Eddie shouted from the pilothouse door. They walked across the short aluminum gangplank while Eddie climbed down the narrow stairway that led from the pilothouse to the stern and greeted them.

“I’m Eddie Doyle, formerly of Pinellas County Sheriff’s Robbery and Homicide section. Marilyn called and filled me in. 

“Sergeants Robinson and Buford, MARSOC,” replied Gunny Rob.

Eddie ushered them to a circular leather and rattan couch that occupied the starboard side of the stern. “Please have a seat,” 

“Nice boat,” said SGT Buford. 

“Thanks, I bought her from an Oil Rig Service Company and restored her myself. Well, mostly myself,” said Eddie looking toward the cabin. 

A statuesque blond suddenly appeared in the doorway to the main salon. “Arnold Palmer’s anyone?”

Both Marines jumped to their feet while Carla introduced herself, distributed the drinks, and took a seat beside Eddie. She looked to be in her late forties, close to six feet tall, with a large chest that was barely contained by her white bikini top. She wore a short, tropical wrap around her waist to conceal her bottom.

“Sorry, I was taking advantage of the spring sunshine on the bow,” said Carla. 

Eddie opened a thick leather-bound photo album that sat resting on the glass-topped coffee table in front of the couch.

“This is why I asked you guys to come out to see me. I’ve been accumulating articles, photos, and other artifacts concerning the robbery of the Star of Tampa and the resultant killings, thefts, kidnapping, and other assorted mayhem stretching over thirty years. I was always planning on writing a book about it, because it is without a doubt the strangest case I was ever involved in.” 

On the first page of the album were several old black-and white glossy photos of the Star of Tampa.

“I finished out my career at the Sheriff’s Department looking for Char and Michael Blackfox, began Eddie. In 1974, Char Blackfox, Michael’s father, robbed the Star of Tampa. Carla was on the boat when it was robbed.” 

Carla nodded, slowly. “The robbers killed the man who was my fiancée at the time. The Star of Tampa was subsequently sunk by a rogue wave while it was at a dead stop because of the robbery.” 

“Rogue wave? I heard one hit a cruise ship a couple years ago,” interjected Buford. 

“Correct. The Norwegian Dawn was hit by a seventy foot wave on April 17
th
while returning to New York. It broke several windows and flooded at least sixty cabins. The one that hit the Star was estimated to be at least one hundred feet in height,” said Eddie.  “Pretty good memory,” said Gunny Rob. 

“Eidetic,” corrected Carla. “Excuse me.” “He’s got an eide
tic, or photographic, memory. Trust me, Eddie never forgets anything,” said Carla dryly.

“Oh, right, you're Eidetic Eddie. I've heard of you from Glenn McGregor, a Tampa cop I golf with on MacDill,” said Gunny Rob. 

“Yeah, I know Glenn. He was the patrolman that responded after I shot Sally Boots. Good guy―horrible golfer!” 

“That’s him,” replied Rob with a laugh. 

Carla continued, “Char is the father of the guy you’re looking for. He was in with a pretty bad crowd back then, a couple of small-time Irish hoods and a crooked cop named Guy Handley who was on the take of a local Mafia captain by the name of

Sally Boots.”

Both Marines were enraptured by the tale being spun, but Rob snapped out of it long enough to address the obvious. “

E
xcuse me, Detective Doyle, but what does this have to do with Michael Blackfox?”

“Fair enough, Gunny, he replied, and
call me Eddie. I’m retired.” Gunny Rob nodded and Eddie continued. “The gang escaped. The rogue wave was actually the leading edge of a hurricane that hit the Tampa Bay area on Halloween night.”

Eddie turned the page of the album and displayed several news articles preserved behind the acetate pages containing d
etails of the surprise tropical depression that struck the coastline around St. Petersburg during the evening on October 31st. On the facing page was another article with a photo of the Star of Tampa and a headline that read ‘All Aboard Feared Lost.’ 

The next page contained photos of damage from the storm, including several photos of a beached Hatteras yacht lying der
elict on its side with the name
Bull Market
clearly visible on the stern.