Eye of the Storm

By Joseph Allen Costa

Vietnam 1966. Six U.S. Marines run frantically through the jungle as a vicious battle swirls around them. A bomb drops in their midst, killing five and wounding one. A lone Marine comes to the injured man's aid. He removes the man's dog tags, fires a shotgun into his face, sets the body afire and disappears into the jungle. Thirty years

• Language: English
• Publisher: Costa Creative LLC
• Release date: Nov 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781508011170

Joseph Allen Costa

Joseph Allen Costa grew up in Tampa, received his B.A. from the University of South Florida and his MFA in creative writing from the University of Tampa. He is the author of three novels, including THE GOOD THE BAD AND THE GOALIE and EYE OF THE STORM, and has been published in BULL men's fiction magazine. He currently lives in Tampa with his wife and two children.

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EYE OF THE STORM

………………

Joseph Allen Costa

VANTAGE PRESS

Thank you for reading. In the event that you appreciate this book, please show the author some love.

This book is a work of fiction; its contents are wholly imagined.

All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.

Copyright © 2015 by Joseph Allen Costa

Interior design by Vook

Distribution by Vook

TABLE OF CONTENTS

………………

EYE OF THE STORM

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Epilogue

EYE OF THE STORM

………………

By Joseph Allen Costa

Copyright © 2001 by Joseph Allen Costa

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

………………

I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO my parents, John and Gloria, who offered the greatest support any son could ask for; love, inspiration and pasta on Sundays. To my siblings, Danny, Johnny and Gina, thank you for being my first and best friends. To my sister Gina I offer special thanks, for keeping me laughing, offering unending encouragement and for making me believe in myself. You’re the best! My sincerest gratitude to Gary and Ahn Cacciatore for advising me in the areas of healthcare and pharmaceuticals. Thanks also to the detectives from the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office and the Tampa Police Department who answered my questions about the complexities of a homicide investigation.

I am indebted to Mike Sherard, for all his marvelous design work.

In researching this novel, I discovered that no matter how many books I read on the subject, none could help me truly understand what happened in Vietnam, or the kind of sacrifices that were made by the men and women who served. So to the Vietnam veterans who shared their stories and photographs, I extend my greatest appreciation.

Finally to my loving wife Teresa, whose smile illuminates a world of possibilities; thank you for showing me that anything is possible.

CHAPTER ONE

………………

A SHOT IN THE DARK

VIETNAM 1966

OCTOBER 31ST, 22:00 HOURS

Seven miles northwest of Khe Sanh, in the thickest part of a jungle valley, the Earth had turned to hell. Streams of tracer bullets and explosions of rockets flashed against the darkness of a moonless sky. Machine gun fire cut through the muggy air in all directions vertically and horizontally. The dense greenery at the base of the Southern Truong Son Mountains was littered with bodies and the rancid smell of death meandered through the shredded foliage.

A group of jets roared overhead. After their passing the ground shook and smoke billowed into the sky. Six Marines moved quickly to bring themselves up from the ground after the aerial attack. They ran with reckless fear through the jungle. Their voices were taut with anger.

Where’s the rest of the platoon?

Shut-up, Waterman, ordered the NCO, Gunnery Sergeant Frank Beaty. We’re pulling back to Bravo’s position!

They’re all around us, Gunny!

Keep moving, the NCO shouted.

Gunny, we’re going the wrong way! Another sounded off in a New York accent.

A massive explosion 30 yards to their rear dug an instant crater and sent deadly shrapnel airborne. Again the Marines fell to the ground. Behind them, screams broke through the monotony of gunfire. The men pulled themselves up once more, moving toward a clearing. They stopped at the edge of the jungle using the thick brush for cover.

I’m hit, Bobby Waterman cried out as he brought up the rear. He collapsed into a ball at the foot of a tree.

God damn it, Manetti, Sergeant Beaty shouted, scrambling toward Waterman, tell’em the perimeter is crawling with NVA. Tell Bravo we need some help up here!

Bravo-6 this is 1st platoon. Bravo-6! Manetti shouted into the radio, and then to the NCO. Radio’s down.

This is nothing, the sergeant said, looking at Bobby Waterman’s wounded forearm. It barely broke the skin. Sergeant Beaty took a bandanna from around his head and tied it around Waterman’s forearm to stop the bleeding.

I’m supposed to be going home. Waterman said, grimacing. His steel blue eyes focused on the NCO. I’ve got my orders. You guys were supposed to walk me out. I ain’t gonna make it. I don’t want to get cut open like a pig. That’s what they do. They cut you open and stick you on a pole.

Waterman! the NCO shouted, shaking the private violently. You’re a Marine! Give up now and you’re not going to make it, none of us are. Now look at me. The seasoned Marine, who was all of 26, rested on one knee with a hand on Waterman’s shoulder. His face took on a gentle, unworried expression. He spoke calmly. Do you trust me?

Bobby Waterman looked at the NCO’s tired face and nodded.

We all gotta stick together. Remember what we said before we left camp?

Never let a buddy down, Waterman forced the words through the knot of fear in his throat.

Gunny, we can’t stay here, one of the Marines complained nervously. The other Marines agreed and voiced their opinions while keeping their weapons and eyes pointed toward the jungle.

That’s right, the sergeant ignored the warnings and spoke only to Waterman. Never let a buddy down. That means we won’t let you down and you won’t let us down. Now those fuck-ups walked your orders in here, so we’re going to walk you out. All of us. Hell, I might just get on that chopper myself. With both hands, the gunnery sergeant pulled Waterman to his feet, saying, And what are you going to say when you’re airborne?

A corner of Bobby Waterman’s mouth twitched upward. So long you fighting mother fuckers.

That’s the stuff. The NCO turned to address his men. We’re moving to the other side of this clearing. Third and fourth platoons should be right ahead of us. That’s all we can do. I can’t even tell who we’re shooting at. I’ll take the point. Preston, Johnson take the rear. Let’s move.

Without warning, three Vietcong soldiers exploded through the brush, stumbling directly into the hiding Marines. Two of the American soldiers screamed aloud as they unloaded their M-16s on the teenagers. One of the Vietnamese, a woman, managed to squeeze off two rounds from her AK-47 before falling. The deafening explosions of gunfire swallowed their screams. The American soldiers readied themselves for other attacks. They turned anxiously in all directions. There were no others.

Bobby Waterman hyperventilated seeing that Sergeant Beaty lay among the bodies.

God damn it, God damn it, Private Jerry Johnson screamed, leaning over the NCO’s body. He’s dead. He’s fucking dead.

The men stood frozen with eyes fixed on their fallen friend. Rockets overhead and nearby gunfire forewarned of the escalating battle. One by one, the Marines looked to their new leader. Manetti reluctantly gave his first order, Let’s move across the clearing. Preston, Washington, bring Gunny. Waterman, keep up.

Together the men moved into the clearing, which was approximately 40 yards across. Just 20 feet into the waist high grass, a high-pitched, airy whistle-stopped the men abruptly.

Fuck me, Manetti uttered under his breath, just before the bomb hit. Though Manetti didn’t take the full force of the blast, he was dead before the cloud of red mist, that was his comrades, settled to the ground. Bobby Waterman, who was furthest from the explosion, was the sole survivor.

Waterman lay motionless for 10 minutes before opening his eyes. He stared dreamily into the star filled sky and watched impassively as streams of white light split the darkness. His body was numb and he felt as though he were floating. The sounds of the surrounding battle were replaced by a steady ringing in his head. All at once, every nerve ending in his body came to life. Waterman jerked forward and screamed with all the strength his body could muster. He screamed until his body had nothing left to give. Lifting his head, he could see that his left leg had been blown off just below the knee. Waterman’s head fell back to the ground. He could feel the warmth of his own blood and urine. Tears rolled from his eyes. Nausea overcame him. He became cold and faint.

–

A lone Marine leaned nervously over the body of a dead Vietnamese youth. Two other Vietcong teenagers lay twisted on the ground just three feet away. Their black pajama style uniforms were shiny with blood. After examining their faces with a flashlight, he sat on the ground. Anxiety held him in place. For five minutes he remained hidden in the brush until a faint sound caught his attention. It was a human cry buried beneath the sounds of war. The eerie noise sent jolts of fear racing through his body, yet his mission drove him to overcome his trepidation, to seek the origin of the sound. He crawled into the clearing, toward it’s source; a wounded U.S. Marine.

Looking beyond the flashlight at his American comrade, Bobby Waterman saw a young face with blue eyes, not unlike his own. He forced a smile. Hey buddy, Waterman said in a barely audible voice. It’s my leg. I can make it. I’m going home. I’m going home. His voice trailed off.

The Marine removed Waterman’s backpack and meticulously studied every item buried inside it, while Waterman watched in delirium. He returned all the items except a sheath of leather-bound papers. He studied the papers then placed them in his own backpack. He turned out Waterman’s pockets, finding a pocketknife and a photograph of a girl. He placed both items in the wounded Marine’s pack.

Water… Bobby Waterman said grabbing the wrist of the other American. The man jerked his hand away from Bobby’s touch.

Sure Buddy, the Marine assured Bobby. I’ve got some water right here.

Bobby Waterman’s face held no expression as he looked into the end of the Remington 870 shotgun.

Trust me, the Marine said. It’s better this way. There was neither sympathy nor remorse in his voice. The heavy weapon slid uncomfortably in the man’s hands. The Marine’s heart raced with fear and exhilaration as he pumped the weapon and fired point blank into Waterman’s face. He pumped violently and fired again. His face contorted into a grimace as he pumped the weapon and fired once more. He paused, drenched in sweat and breathing irregularly. Then, as if anger had just struck him, he pumped the weapon and fired twice more into the body’s mid section.

With a flashlight the Marine searched the remains for Bobby Waterman’s dog tags. He lifted the chain from the ground—as it was no longer attached to the body—wrapped it in a handkerchief and placed it in his own pocket. With shaking hands, he poured the contents of a canteen onto the body and the backpack. He lit a match, then quickly extinguished it. A glance at the dead man’s remaining foot revealed a dog tag laced into the boot. He cut the dog tag off and placed it in his pocket with the other.

Noticing the name patch on Waterman’s uniform, the Marine realized his own name patch would give him away. He tore the name patch off of his shirt and dropped it on the dead body.

Fire erupted with a roar as a lit match landed on the lump of flesh. Smoke billowed into the night sky carrying with it a sickly stench. Without so much as a glance back, the Marine disappeared into the jungle.

………………

CHAPTER TWO

………………

SNOW BIRDS

………………

Siesta Key, Florida - Present Day

Even in mid January, weather in Sarasota County usually remained tropically inviting. But thanks to a blast of arctic air the white-sand beaches of Siesta Key, normally full of tourists this time year, were nearly empty. Forty-one degrees was the expected high for the day. Thirty was the low, but dampness in the air and 30 mph gusts off the Gulf of Mexico made it feel much colder.

Cold spells like this one didn’t come often and rarely lasted long enough to damage the plush green lawns or tropical vegetation that flourished naturally along central Florida’s West Coast. As spring approached, the blooms of lavender jacarandas would accent thick green lawns. Soon after that, the daily rains of summer would spawn cascades of orange, red and yellow poinciana blossoms.

For many Florida businesses, the cold front was good news. Tampa’s Busch Gardens was filled to capacity. Orlando’s Walt Disney World and Universal theme parks would break attendance records. And on Siesta Key’s gulf shore, disappointed snowbirds were drinking their fill at Jack Sterling’s Blue Marlin pub.

A brisk wind off the light green water whipped hard over the Blue Marlin’s empty wooden deck. Sea birds walked the railing affected by neither wind nor cold. Inside Jimmy Buffet music played on the jukebox while waitresses wearing sweaters and shorts scurried from table to table serving soup, sandwiches and drinks.

In one corner of the bar a group of sun burned college students played pool on the Marlin’s only pool table. Across the room, a glass trophy case housed dozens of ribbons, medals, photos and framed newspaper clippings. All but three of the awards were from swimming competitions. The other prizes, three-second place plaques, were for police department shooting tournaments. Sterling was the name inscribed on all of the awards.

Damned this son-of-a-bitch, Jack Sterling complained under his breath. Jack was behind a dark mahogany bar leaning into a freezer. Both of his knees rested on the floor while his right arm was working hard with an ice pick clutched in its hand. Wasn’t the manager of this establishment supposed to call the freezer man? Jack’s voice echoed a slight Midwestern twang.

The repair shop said that someone would be here before five, Casey Detillio answered. "That gives him or her another three hours." Jack glanced back at Casey and lifted a corner of his mustache with a smirk. Casey stood directly behind Jack with arms crossed. She rested the end of a pencil in her mouth and clutched a clipboard while watching Jack chip away ice chunks and drop them into the sink. Occasionally she would have to dodge an ice chunk that Jack unintentionally sent airborne.

At 34, Casey maintained a youthful allure. She stood just 5’ 2" and had a petite, but sturdy frame. Brown hair fell in tight curls around her face. Olive skin and bright green eyes added to striking features that she considered handicaps to her professional aspirations.

See that? Jack pointed to a stainless steel metal label, which had been buried under the ice. Made in France.

You’ve sold out your country, Casey retorted in mock anger.

It came with the bar, Jack said continuing his work on the ice block. My next cooler will be a Sub-Zero. I’d like to take a loaded .45 and put this French popsicle maker machine out of my misery.

Thought you didn’t like guns, Casey said, then winced, regretting having said it.

I don’t, Jack said without turning around.

Jack, whatever gave you the notion that you could run a bar? Casey purposefully changed the subject.

When you’re a cop 15 years you get to hanging around a lot of bars. Hell, it looked damned easy from the other side.

I’ll bet it did.

Why do you think I keep you around? Jack said. He turned briefly, flashing a crooked smile under a bushy, gray and brown mustache.

Because I’m the only one who can run this place. Anyway you’re too lazy to find someone else to do it.

You’re right, Jack said over his shoulder. In fact, I’m not sure I should even be around here as often as I am. The place runs smoother without me.

Casey squinted suspiciously. Are you pulling out on me tonight?

I’m just agreeing with you, Jack replied without turning around.

So you are working the bar tonight.

Well, I wanted to talk to you about that.

Casey raised her voice in disbelief, "Jack, I scheduled you to work at your request. Now I need to get someone else to fill in. That’s something else I have to worry about besides my real job. You know, the regulars like to see the owner now and again."

Sorry boss, but Jeff McReynolds is coming into town tonight. He called while you were at the city council meeting this morning.

Well why didn’t you say so in the first place? Casey asked, knowing that Jack was just trying to make her mad before springing the news. Is he bringing Audrey and the kids?

Nope. Insurance convention at the Gulf View Hotel.

Just like a man. Comes to town so you guys can get drunk and swap war stories while the wife and kids are snowed under in North Dakota.

Jack smiled wryly, not looking back at Casey. Well, I guess some women just know their place.

Without hesitation, Casey reached under the bar for the ice scoop, which sat buried in crushed ice. She filled it with one hand and with the other she grabbed the back of Jack’s baggy jeans, pulling hard to ensure the load went deep.

Is that so? Casey said with a satisfied smile.

Jack stood up immediately and began to shake the ice out of his jeans. His face wore a grimace. He cursed Casey in a good-natured way. She watched him, smiling happily at her accomplishment.

Jack was 6’ 3" and solidly built. He had thick silvery hair with a few tinges of brown left in it. At first glance most people assumed that he was a person to be taken seriously, so watching him bob up and down and shake his trousers behind the bar was quite a sight. Two of the waitresses clapped their hands and cheered. A few of the regulars laughed out loud.

That was for all womankind, Casey said, tugging at Jack’s mustache.

And if you think it’s cold down there now, just wait. She whispered so that no one else could hear.

Womankind needs a sense of humor, Jack said, shaking ice from one of his boots. I’m going to the head to clean my shorts.

Oh I’m not done with you, Sterling, Casey said, waving the clipboard. I want to talk to you about the spotters report.

Those are the people we pay to drink and have a good time in our bar.       They’re efficiency experts, Jack. Remember: A small leak will sink a great ship. Ben Franklin said that.

They find any leaks, besides the one in this freezer?

Well according to this report, one of our employees is costing us from 40 to 50 dollars a night.

A big leak, Jack said nonchalantly.

Casey read from the clipboard: Apparently a certain bartender was pouring doubles for his pals and charging for singles.

Giving away the profits, Jack exclaimed in mock disbelief. We can’t have that.

Twice he rang up orders and pocketed the cash.

Now that’s down right stealing.

"And finally, this same barkeep, gave free beers to two, very young, beautiful girls, who flirted with him, saying, and I quote, ‘Babes like you shouldn’t have to pay for drinks in my bar.’"

Well don’t keep me in suspense. Did he go home with them?

Jack, this is a business, Casey said in exasperation. You’ve got to start taking it seriously. You’re setting a bad example for your employees. And you’re a flirt! Those girls are half your age, if that. You know what your problem is? You can’t commit to anything. You’re flirting with life, instead of living it.

At the end of the bar, a pale-faced girl with a blond ponytail opened the door to the office. She watched Jack and Casey for a moment, timing her interruption. Jack, telephone.

Jack bee lined toward the office. I’d better get this.

Saved by the bell.

You know how lucky I am, Jack said over his shoulder. Then as an after thought, he turned and asked, Who were the spotters anyway?

Oh these two young, beautiful girls I know. The kind men your age can’t resist.

That’s cheating. Jack shouted from inside the office. You’re starting to think like a politician. Jack was referring to Casey’s political aspiration.

I’ll take that as a compliment.

A corkboard on the wall in front of Jack’s worn oak desk had Post-it notes scattered across the bottom. Order Kettle One. Call the freezer repair. Order coffee. Above the yellow slips of paper was an aging newspaper article. The lead on the story read: Former Olympian Hits The Beat. Next to the newspaper clipping hung a time-faded red, white and blue ribbon with an Olympic Silver medal hanging from it.

On one corner of the desk sat a iMac that Casey had purchased for the business. The machine had been on the desk for two years, but Jack still wasn’t quite sure how to use it. The only time Jack touched the computer was when he forgot the code number to the bar’s alarm system. The numbers were taped to the underside of the Mac’s keyboard.

Jack leaned back in a creaky wooden chair and rested his boots on the desktop. He put the phone on his lap and said hello into the receiver.

Incoming! Jeff McReynolds replied exuberantly, followed by a contagious laugh. Jeff was a heavyset man of average height. Chubby cheeks and a quick smile added to his jovial appearance. He wore a dark blue suit with a light blue tie knotted in a clunky double Windsor. His hair was dark and he combed it all to one side. Jeff sat on the edge of a double bed watching the scores of white sailboats scattered across Sarasota Bay.

Jeffrey, as usual, you have impeccable timing. Jack winked at Casey who stuck her head in the doorway and whispered to say hello for her.

Only this time I’m sober, Jeff added.

We’ll have to remedy that pretty damned quick, Jack said. Umm, Casey says hello.

I can’t wait to see her. How’s she doing?

She’s fine. Jack said, watching Casey through the office door. She’s still a bleeding heart liberal. Jack made sure to catch Casey’s eye. And she’s was elected to the city council, so she’s got some juice in this town.

How are Audrey and the boys? Jack said, gazing at the corkboard above the desk.

Tommy just turned nine, the kid’s hitting triples in little league, Jeff beamed. And my six year old, Terry, he’s into everything. They’re great kids Jack. You ought to try it.

Maybe, some day. Jack noticed the silver medal that hung in front of him. Why don’t you settle in and I’ll be by in an hour or so. What’s your room number?

Two-sixty-six, Gulf View Hotel.

Drinks are on me.

I wouldn’t have it any other way. Jeff smiled and hung up the phone.

Jack stared at the memento of his glory days hanging on the corkboard. He was quite surprised to see it. Casey must have found it somewhere, he thought. It was her way of sending him a message. Jack hadn’t really looked at the silver medal in at least 20 years. The red and blue in the ribbon were faded, and the white had yellowed. The silver was tarnished. Jack took the medal between his thumb and index finger and smiled a little, thinking about his first race.

Water splashed on all sides of the Olympic sized pool as boys clapped and shouted for their favorite swimmer. The coach, a stout 60-year-old-man with silver hair and leathery brown skin, stood firmly at the water’s edge. His arms were crossed in front of him over a clipboard.

Two boys were obvious standouts. They were in the center lanes running neck and neck. The other three boys in the race lagged far behind. In lane two, a lanky ten-year-old with a brown crew cut was breathing hard and running two lengths behind the third and fourth place swimmers.

The wooden stands surrounding the park pool were empty except for a uniformed policeman with graying brown hair. He sat in the upper tier of one of the stands watching the practice.

Cheers rang out and then died down as the run ended. All of the swimmers swam hard to the end, except the last place swimmer. He stopped short. When the race finished, the boy smacked his hand onto the top of the water in anger. The boy’s tantrum prompted the policeman to walk down from the stands. He placed a hand on the coach’s shoulder and whispered something. The coach nodded.

You guys aren’t in shape, the coach growled, turning his attention back to the team. "Your technique is sloppy. You’re swimming like a bunch of girls. Now I want my 100-yard sprinters down here. The rest of you…girls sit down and watch."

As the four young swimmers exited the water and walked towards the stands, Jack Sterling stopped at the edge of the pool and was handed a towel by the policeman. Practice isn’t over yet, Dad, Jack protested while lifting himself from the water. He was embarrassed by his father’s appearance poolside.

Sam Sterling took off his sunglasses and placed them into his pocket. Putting his arm on Jack’s shoulder, he led the young swimmer away from the others so their conversation wouldn’t be overheard. Jack stopped and squinted up angrily, saying, Dad! Practice isn’t over.

Sam Sterling stood relaxed. He placed his hands in his pockets. Sweat beaded on his brow as he stood under the unforgiving Florida sun. His pressed gray uniform had sweat stains under the arms. Well Jack, it looks to me like you quit, he said in a calm, Midwestern accent. Why don’t you say good-bye to your friends and Coach Murphy. I’ll be waitin’ for you in the Ford. He motioned to the blue ‘57 Galaxie that sat in the parking lot of the recreational center.

Jack’s face grimaced in anger, but no tears appeared in his eyes. Jack Sterling stood firm, saying, I didn’t quit!

The coach’s whistle sounded off behind them, starting the next practice round. Again the boys cheered their teammates.

Well Son, it looks to me like you quit before the race was finished?

The race was too long. I’m no good at long races.

Maybe you’re just not in shape for that race yet, the senior Sterling offered. You’ve only been out here a couple of weeks. These boys have been out here all summer. When you consider that, I don’t think you did so bad, ‘til you up and quit.

I stink, Jack said bowing his head.

"No Jack. You gave up. You quit and then you got mad. Son, listen to me. There is nothing embarrassing or shameful in not coming in first, if you give your all, in whatever endeavor you attempt. Never give up Jack. Never. And I’ll always be proud of you. Most importantly, you’ll be proud of yourself."

Sam Sterling walked up two rows to sit in the stands. Jack followed. Remember our bicycle race last Sunday?

Jack nodded his head without looking up.

Who won?

I did, Jack replied in a voice that was soft, but firm.

And why was that? the elder Sterling probed.

‘Cause I was faster, Jack’s mouth turned upward into a crooked smile.

Why? Sam Sterling said, placing a hand to his ear, I didn’t catch that?

Because your bike blew a tire, Jack offered the truth. Then added. But I was right on your tail.

Sam Sterling placed his arm around his son and smiled. "That you were, Son. So, now you understand? Anything