Tampa Star (Blackfox Chronicles Book 1) (15 page)

The mission of the Louisiana State Police Air Support Unit is to enhance statewide public safety by providing effective aerial support to the Louisiana State Police and other Louisiana law enforcement agencies. The Air Support Unit currently has ten pilots who are available to respond to police emergencies twenty-four hours a day.

All Louisiana State Police Pilots are commissioned State Troopers with full arrest powers and extensive road experience. They are required to be dual rated, that is, licensed by the FAA to operate both rotary and fixed-wing aircraft.

The Air Support Unit’s aircraft inventory includes
four airplanes and seven helicopters. These aircraft are configured for Night Vision Goggle (NVG) operations and are equipped with a Forward Looking Infrared (FLIR) camera and a Night Sun searchlight.

Missions performed by the Air Support Unit include Protective Services Support, helicopter demonstrations, disaster relief, criminal surveillance, photo flights and reconnaissance, marijuana eradication, manhunts, speed enforcement, SWAT operations, downed aircraft searches, missing person searches and emergency police response.

One of the men produced a special key and a small Ball-Peen hammer. He shoved the key into the hole and taped it several times with the hammer and turned the key—lock bumping the door.

The other man carried a long plastic suitcase, both carried bags containing their flight helmets.  The voluminous hanger was a left over from the days when this small airport was a naval air station housing PBY aircraft, an American flying boat of the 1930s and 1940s produced by Consolidated Aircraft. It could take off and land on water although that experience was fraught with hazards not encountered in normal landings. The old hanger now contained a UH1E and two other smaller helicopters which barely took up one quarter of the floor space within. 

They selected this particular helicopter for the job because one, it was located only forty five nautical miles from the Angola

prison
farm and two it was painted the same deep blue color as  those high speed tax payer funded machines that the hot-shot state troopers flew in. 

The fact that it was a Vietnam era UH-1E and not the same model flown by the troopers was a fact that they hoped would escape notice at least for the short time they figured it would take to do the job. The men spread out around the aircraft and quickly applied long adhesive backed decals that spelled out Louisiana State Police in bold gold and black script. 

They wore similar blue flight suites with patches shaped like the great state of Louisiana on their shoulder—it was indeed interesting what was available for purchase on the web.  All they needed was to be able to deceive the horse mounted guards for long enough to get within one-hundred feet and that should be all she wrote.

The helicopter was perched upon an electrically operated floor jack called a
Heli-Carrier, which allowed one person to easily roll it out of the hanger in preparation for take-off.  While one of the men sought out the controls to open the hanger doors the other powered up the device and grabbed the hand held control lever to begin moving it out onto the tarmac. Once clear of the hanger, he released the helicopter and quickly returned the jack to the hanger while the other man climbed inside the cockpit to begin preflight procedures.

Jimmy had been transferred into general population about a week previous and had sought a position on the farm to avoid the two mobbed
-up prisoners who had previously sought to have a discussion with him at the behest of Sally Boots.

The transfer had been readily approved, which led Jimmy to believe that some inside moves were being made by his lawyer to keep him breathing and above ground, although he doubted the two mobsters would kill him—he figured they would employ some type of crude torture to get him to talk and he had no desire to test the effectiveness of their methods; plus some work out-of-doors would do him a world of good. Today they would be harvesting scallions and it would be a grueling day as Jimmy was not used to hard manual labor.

They lived in military like barracks— forty inmates to a building and after his extended stay in isolation, Jimmy found

the
sudden crowd of other prisoners to be frightening, at least initially.  The prison grapevine would put a sewing circle to shame for the volume of gossip it generated. Word reached those in the know that Jimmy had robbed a casino and gotten away with it, this current sentence notwithstanding. He was somewhat of a celebrity in their unique environment; someone who had taken on the system and held his own, at least for now.

There were also those cons who thought that he might divulge where that great amount of gold was hidden; if he could be properly motivated.   They broke up into work groups of
twelve to be overseen by two guards mounted on horseback, per department of corrections standard procedure, one carried a twelve gauge pump shotgun while the other carried a scoped Winchester .308 high powered rifle.

They had been working one of the fields farthest from the camp, about three miles as the crow flies and they would finish the work there today, come hell or high water, as extended time that far from the fence-line gave the inmates strange ideas and before you know it one of the guards was being investigated for blowing a fist size hole in the back of a fleeing con with a high velocity rifle round.

The cons worked steadily for the last hour and a half and would have to put in another hour before they got a mid-morning break for some Kool-Aid and a piece of fruit, most likely an apple. Jimmy had been working bent over, pulling up the scallions and depositing them in large green containers that looked like oversized shopping baskets, when he heard the low thump, thump, thump of a helicopter. The area of the farm was restricted airspace and pilots violating it were subject to a large fine and possible arrest.  

Jimmy knew the guards more by reputation. The cons had nicknamed them
Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber, as they looked so surprisingly alike it was difficult to tell them apart— heavyset, medium height, handlebar mustache and short cropped curly black hair. They both seemed to revel in the authority that came from being armed with high powered weapons while mounted on horseback overseeing a bunch of hapless cons.   

A helicopter appeared over the horizon with smoke billowing from beneath the engine cupola. Everyone stopped work to view the spectacle, while the two guards rode back and forth between the rows shouting at the inmates to return to work.

The aircraft fishtailed across the sky seemingly in trouble and attempting to land.  It descended at a rapid pace and flared its nose up before smacking down in visibly hard landing among the scallions half a football field’s distance from where the cons worked.

Standard department of corrections procedure in such a case dictated that the prisoners
be secured and the situation be called in, however, one of the guards had an application pending to join the state police and was always interested in making unofficial contacts that would speed his application through the process.

One of the pilots exited the helicopter and walked towards the guards carrying what appeared to be a yellow shotgun.  The guard rode towards the trooper in order to offer assistance and to warn him that weapons were not allowed in the vicinity of prisoners. 

He figured he’d give the trooper a friendly warning, introduce himself, glad hand the cop a bit and do whatever he could to facilitate getting their copter back in the air.  After they did that, he would give the state trooper an “Oh, by the way” to see if he knew anyone on the hiring board that might help him get a job offer.  He trotted towards the trooper, who still wore his flight helmet and visor—weird thought the guard, as it was hot out and it didn’t seem like he would be taking off any time soon the way the engine was smoking. 

He was within shouting distance of the cop, later analysis would determine that to be thirty feet, when the man suddenly dropped to one knee, aimed and fired the shotgun at him.  The guard felt the connective energy of the fin stabilized round hit his chest as well as two smaller pinches as electrodes contained in the round ripped through his uniform shirt and attached to the copious amount of belly fat.

The impact of the round sent him flying backwards off his horse, falling five feet to the ground. He was momentarily stunned by impacting the soil and struggled to remain conscious just as five hundred volts of electricity coursed through his body, rendering him helpless.

Tweetledumber
witnessed his fellow guard get bushwhacked by the Taser and was not about to go down so easy. He wasn’t sure who the two in flight suits were, but they weren’t cops. He ordered the prisoners to get down on their faces and he leveled his Remington .308 at the counterfeit trooper. The man in the flight suit brought his shotgun up to his shoulder and fired, not once, but three times in rapid succession and three fin stabilized rounds arced towards the mounted correctional officer.

All missed him, but one round impacted against the neck of his horse and juiced it with electric current; causing the horse to rear

up and buck, but the correctional officer held on.  He steadied the horse and leveled the crosshairs of his scope on the figure as the assailant struggled to reload the Taser.

Just as he was about to introduce the fake cop to a badly needed injection of copper jacketed lead justice, he felt something hard and massive
hit the back of his head. He fell from the horse and landed face first on the ground, falling at the feet of his horse. Blood seeped from a six inch gash on the back of his head.  Jimmy had grabbed a long rake from the back of one of the prison vehicles and smacked Tweetledumber in the back of the head. 

The man in the flight suit approached him and spoke, “You must be Jimmy O’Brien?”

“Yep, that’s me,” replied Jimmy with a cautious smile.

The pilot pointed the Taser at Jimmy’s stomach and fired.  The round impacted Jimmy midsection—he doubled over and fell to his side.  The pilot quickly picked up the guard’s high powered rifle, pointed it at the convicts and ordered them to carry Jimmy’s quivering body to the helicopter.

The deck was bathed in autumn sunlight, and although it was late October, the temperature still resided comfortably north of seventy degrees.  They were seated at the outside bar at the American Legion Post located right next to the drawbridge that took you to Madeira Beach or Mad Beach
, as the locals called it.  It was definitely a working man’s beach, lots of ramshackle beach houses, cheap bars and restaurants. It was where Eddie kept his boat and the Legion was where he felt most at home.  

“We flew the old Grumman HU-16 Albatross back in those days out of the Coast Guard Station located at the St. Pete Airport,” said Pops Werner.  “It was a large twin-radial engine amphibious flying boat that we used for search and rescue. They use the C-130s now. In fact, there should be one flying overhead any minute now, but they can’” continued Pops.  He had been a pilot with the Coast Guard for over 20 years and had retired sometime back in the early 90s. 

They sat at the wooden bar overlooking the Inter gulf canal as the sun began to retreat behind the hotels lining the beach.  It was steak night at the Legion and they sat drinking Bud Light awaiting the arrival of the twelve dollar rib eyes that the Legion served every Wednesday. Pops had been one of the senior pilots at the station when the
Star of Tampa
failed to return from their Investor’s Cruise and he had personally flown search and rescue missions when they got word that the ship had probably sunk.

Pops was a legendary figure around the club
—he had logged more hours as a pilot than anyone else in the Guard and while doing so, had conducted some pretty hairy water landings to rescue crews from ships who were sinking too fast to be rescued by a Cutter.  And most importantly, he had managed to retire as a Captain, which in a tiny service like the Guard, was no small accomplishment.

Pops was also a long standing member of the Legion, having served as chapter president for three consecutive terms,
preferring it over the stuck up snobbery of the VFW, which requires all their members to have served in a war zone. 

Eddie was also a member; but he normally shied away from discussions with some of the old warriors for various valid reasons
—

h
e had never served in combat. But that did not bar him from membership in the Legion. Once it became known that Eddie was a cop, either people asked him about his work or asked him for a favor. He wanted to discourage both, but he didn’t actually want to be alone with his thoughts, as it was sort of like being along with someone who would not under any circumstances, shut the fuck up. 

He normally settled for drinking a few beers and a couple of shots to get a little numb, but not tonight, as he was there on business. Eddie wanted to find out as much as he could about the sinking of the
Star of Tampa
.

Eddie was a patrolman when it happened, but to tell you the truth, the storm was treated as a nonevent because no bodies were ever found―they had all presumably gone down with the ship. There was little wreckage for the same reason and the event was overshadowed by another; Hurricane Eloise would strike the gulf coast a few short weeks later with murderous fury and cause the loss of one hundred eighty lives.

“I flew patrols over what we thought was the area where the ship went down, found a few life boats, a large oil slick and some other assorted debris; deck chairs, life-preservers, but no bodies.  One odd thing was we found one lifeboat that appeared to have been occupied—the survival kit was torn out and emptied.”

“Huh?” Said Eddie, this was the first he was hearing of this.

“Yeah, one of those old aluminum survival kits filled with high caloric biscuits; they taste like crap, but they can keep you alive for a while.” 

“So, what do you think happened? “
Asked Eddie.

“Hard to say for sure, but I would say that someone probably got out of the ship alive; at least for a while. There was a water jug that was almost empty as well. ”

“So, whoever got out, drank all the water, ate most of the biscuits and what, decided to swim to land?” asked Eddie.

“Maybe, or maybe some ship happened by and picked them up,” countered Pops.

“Them?” Asked Eddie.

“Yeah, the tin weighed ten pounds and the water jug held five gallons of potable water, so I would say that based on the time that we discovered the empty lifeboat, less than
twenty four hours after the ship failed to return to Tampa, it would be logical to assume that more than one person was subsisting on those rations.”

“But, wouldn’t the ship report picking up survivors?”

“Maybe not, if the ship was doing something illegal like smuggling, they might just pick up the survivors and take them where ever they were heading. We caught folks smuggling all kinds of stuff in my day—marijuana, cocaine, people, you name it,” said Pops, before upending his Bud Light to take a long swig.   

A middle aged waitress appeared with a plate over flowing with beef in each hand.

You ordered the rib eye Pops?”  He smiled and nodded. “Very bad for your high cholesterol,” she said in mocked concern.

“I’ll just double up on my meds,” Pops replied with a laugh.  

“Any idea as to who they might have been?” Eddie asked.

“Nope, but one of them was definitely a woman.”

“How do you know that?”

“We found a pair of woman’s panties in the bottom of the boat. Still got them as a matter a fact—French cut, white lace, very fashionable for back in '74.
You know where that ship sank don’t you?” asked Pops as he cut into his rib eye.

Eddie gave Pops a questioning look.

“The Star sunk in the DeSoto Canyon, the second deepest part of the gulf.  That’s why no one ever bothered to try and recover the gold,” he said before placing a chuck of steak into his mouth.  “It’s too deep to make it a profitable endeavor.”

Eddie had read about the gold, but it hadn’t yet dawned on him that the sinking of the
Star of Tampa
was anything more than an act of God.

He and Eddie ate their steaks and had another round of beers before parting company. Eddie drove through the darkness across the bridge towards his houseboat.  Pops may have been

pushing seventy years old, but he still had his mental faculties intact.  If he thought a couple of people got out of the ship before it sank, Eddie trusted his opinion. The question remained, what happened to them after they got out of the ship?