Hunter’s Eyes

By Jerry Reid

    From a young age, Trosclair dreamed of having a plantation-style house on the high ground west of Iberia, where he could sight his rifle on the fence line, sit on the porch with the love of his life, and listen to the mockingbirds. When the war came, his skills from the oil fields, shrimp boats, moonshine stills and poaching served him well. Trosclair found himself in the United States Marine Corps, leading a Force Recon team in Vietnam.
    The loss of two team members leads Trosclair to revenge, where he nearly loses his life, but instead finds love and riches. Returning home, he finds his land in Louisiana and shares his wealth with the friends from the battlefields. He has Mae Lee, the light of his life and kindred spirit, and the future looks bright.
    On the eve of their wedding day, while fishing for shrimp for the reception, a breaking wave over the transom caused the boat to broach. Trosclair regained consciousness to find Mae Lee missing. She was gone. Trosclair survived but was devastated by the loss, and disappears.
    As months go by, strange incidents occur which cause friends and family to think Mae Lee may be alive, and has been taken for a reason. Trosclair must be found.
    The search for Trosclair and Mae Lee is on, from faraway Alaska, to the San Juan Islands of the Pacific Northwest, to Panama. Trosclair and his friends take on old enemies, forge new alliances, and go farther than they thought possible.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oxbow Publishing
• Release date: Mar 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201463359

Jerry Reid

Jerry Reid’s passion is exploring inland waterways, bays and estuaries in his 32-foot shallow-draft sloop, observing wildlife in quiet anchorages while eating good food, drinking box wine, and reading good books with his first mate Joni. He sails out of Bellingham, Washington. Jerry’s comments: Thank you for looking at this book. The characters in my stories are largely drawn from my experiences, ranging from digging ditches in Texas, a hitch in the Marine Corps, flying charter in the mountains of the Pacific Northwest, building a 40-foot sailboat in my backyard, to sailing on a 10-year circumnavigation and visiting 40 countries. The characters also come from friends, relatives and acquaintances — so look for yourself, you may be in this book. The appeal to me of writing adventure stories is the opportunity to join with these characters, some far away or no longer with us — to enjoy their company once more in my memories, and see what they do this time. Stay safe in these times, and enjoy life. - Jerry

Book preview

Characters, in order of appearance

Jonathan Jackson Trosclair – also known as J.J. or Tros. He was a man with a dream.

Hyme – crewman on the oil rig

Jim Bradford – Mr. Jim, owner of the oil rig

Randal Lacy – known as Lacy, sometimes called Random. From Luckenbach, Texas.

Otho Bosch – car thief from Chicago, in Force Recon with Trosclair

Rainey DeWalt – burly redhead from the farms of Kansas, in Force Recon

Elroy Washington – in Force Recon, wounded early, has a bar in Zeballos.

Duane Washington – Elroy's brother, door gunner in an Army slick

James Edward Hughes – fisherman from Newport, Oregon, in Force Recon

Casey – super clerk, can do anything with paper.

Lt. Col. Paul D. LaMond – Regimental Commander, Seventh Marines. Family has venture capital firm based in San Francisco.

Corporal George Rache – known as Rachet, Company Clerk, friend of the Force Recon crew.

Master Sargeant Charles Albert Watkins – First Sargeant over Trosclair. Mae Lee's father. From Louisiana.

Lt. John Kerry – U.S. Army helicopter co-pilot, political scion

Major Randy Oats – Lindberg-like Army Investigators, blue-eyed, fair haired Viking type

Captain Ray Oliver – Army Investigator, known as the Rug Merchant due to his Lebanese heritage.

Anna Bond – Quaker nurse in the Saigon hospital

Mae Lee Watkins – daughter of Charles Albert Watkins, nurse’s aide in Saigon

Ival Trosclair – J.J.'s uncle, in Iberia, New Orleans

Marvin Trosclair – Uncle to J.J., Ival's brother

Eli Ramsay – Louisiana landowner

Jenny – Lacy's errant Tulsa girlfriend

Junior – Cartel gunman

Tino – Cartel gunman

Mace Jones – cook at Victor's in Craig, Alaska

Thelma – Police Dispatcher, Craig, Alaska

John Stone – Police Chief, Craig, Alaska

Maddie – John Stone's deaf dog

Andy Mullins – Deputy to John Stone, Craig

Ron & Ted – drunks in Craig

Roy Martin – rookie Deputy, Craig Police

Eve – Night nurse at Craig Clinic, girlfriend of James

Ester – Elroy Washington's wife, owns the Zeballos Bar, ex-lawyer and prosecuting attorney in Vancouver, B.C.

Luna – killer whale in B.C., rams docks, rudders, dinghies

Sally Two-Shoes – Tlingit waitress, Anchor Tavern, Lopez Island

Jake – owner of the Anchor Tavern, Lopez Island

Mr. Bright – owner of F/V EZC, fishing boat out of Newport

Roosevelt Nixon – money manager for LaMond's investment firm

Moses Acosta – Cartel leader, drug runner, mad man

Miguel – Acosta's gunman

Marie – housekeeper, Acosta's villa

Carmen – Acosta's mistress, lives in Acosta's villa

George Washington – Panamanian taxi driver, doesn't like Americans.

Willie Barron – Ex-Marine, smuggler, coffee plantation owner, friend of George Rache

Batu Yazdzik – Mongol friend and business partner of Willie Barron

Nyam Gavaa – Batu and Willie's Mongol friend from prison in Mongolia

General Noriega – Strongman, Military dictator in Panama

Marco Alvarez – river smuggler on the Ligarto River

Ruby Gonzalez – hooker at Latitude 8° Bar, Golfito, Costa Rica

Ramon and Ernesto – bank employees in Jamaica

Hunter’s Eyes

Chapter 1

Trosclair’s Frustration

At 2:00 a.m. on July 10, 1964, the primary hoist gearbox self-destructed on Bradshaw Five, a wildcat offshore oil drilling rig operating in eight hundred feet of water in Breton Sound, five miles south of Gulfport, Mississippi, out past the Gulf Islands. When the gearbox gave way, the lifting slings stopped in mid-air, causing the drill stem to swing sideways in the dead air. Hyme, the hoist operator, shut the diesels down immediately, and in the sudden silence the crew looked around anxiously, for drilling rigs could be very dangerous.

In the ninety-five-degree heat, they could smell diesel fuel, the saltwater just below them, and the drilling mud splattered on their clothes, faces, helmets and on the drilling platform. They also smelled hot gear oil from the broken gear case. The next sound was steps, rapidly coming up the catwalk, and they knew Trosclair was coming. He’d been testing core samples one floor below.

Man, the silence is loud! Is everybody okay? Trosclair asked.

Yeah, we alright Tros, looks like the gearbox shelled itself. We gonna break ‘er open and take a look. Nobody hurt, Hyme answered.

Good, let's secure the drill stems with come-alongs and clean up the deck, then you‘all get food and sleep. I’ll call the boss on the radio and tell him BS5 is down.

Then Trosclair turned and was headed back down the catwalk, talking over his shoulder, I’ll bring up a hose and air gun for the nuts on that gear case when we break it open. There’s a bejillion of ‘em, make sure the compressor is on.

Although he was only nineteen years old, Trosclair had been running the drilling crew for almost a year. The work came naturally to him. He grew up in the backwaters of Louisiana, where the family businesses included the oil patch, as well as shrimping, poaching, running moonshine and cutting pulpwood. Trosclair was an anachronism, longing for earlier, simpler times. He loved the remote backwoods and swamps of Louisiana, where he dreamed of having a plantation-style house someday, on some high ground, where he could sight his rifle in on the fence line.

He was christened Jonathon Jackson Trosclair, after General Stonewall Jackson, Bobby Lee’s last best hope for the Confederacy. Trosclair was destined to be a warrior. He stood just under six feet and weighed two hundred twenty pounds. He was big, deep-chested and wide shouldered, with curly black hair, green eyes and the dark complexion of his French Acadian ancestors. Trosclair did not suffer fools and had his own way of doing things. He was direct, quick, and believed violence was sometimes the best solution to problems. He could be explosive.

Trosclair soon returned from the radio shack and addressed the crew. Talked to Mr. Jim, and he wants a call back as soon as we know the damage. He’ll send a mud boat with whatever help we need.

The drilling crew squared away the drilling platform as ordered, drank about a gallon of iced tea each, cleaned up, and tried to get some sleep in the tremendous heat. As they lay back in their bunks, they could hear the whee, whee, whee of the air gun, spinning the nuts off the gear case.

At about dawn, Trosclair returned from his second call to Mr. Jim. He was splattered with gear oil from the air gun and soaked in sweat from the heat. He was wearing a red headband to keep the sweat out of his eyes. Looking at him, with his dark hair and complexion, Hyme thought he looked like a goddamn green-eyed Indian.

Trosclair sounded perplexed. I told Mr. Jim about the broken gear case, and the ball bearings falling out all over the deck, like a bunch of marbles, and he’s sending out a whole new gear package.

Hyme was wondering why he sounded perplexed, then it became clear.

He’s also sending out a hotshot Texan welder, who he snagged off the beach, passing through from Tulsa, to weld up that gear case. It’s a cast case, and he says it’s tricky, even though just about everybody on this crew can weld. Trosclair continued, fuming, We don’t need another goddamn Texan on this job.

Hyme flinched. He was from Fort Worth, and thought maybe Tros didn’t remember. Then he noticed Trosclair’s eyebrow go up a millimeter, and he knew he remembered.

It was well known that Trosclair did not like Texans. They were all over the place in the oil patch, and they were loud and full of bullshit. He agreed wholeheartedly with the Alaskan definition of happiness:  Ten thousand Okies headed south out of Alaska, with a Texan under each arm.

Just before dark on the same day, the mud boat arrived at flank speed, with the gear package and the Texan expert welder aboard. On the drilling rig, Trosclair and the crew were setting up lights and welding leads near the split gear case.

The sea under the drilling platform was flat calm, and it was so hot and humid, it smelled of ozone, diesel, drilling mud, fish, gear grease, and other smells from the rig that made it worse, including the latrine and French fries. It was a sickening combination of smells in the ninety-five-degree heat.

People and Parts were delivered, and the mud boat left, on its way back to shore. The welder looked over the job. His name was Randal Lacy, and he was from Luckenbach. He was not a big Texan, only five foot, nine inches tall and one hundred fifty pounds. He had blond hair and clear blue eyes that showed his German heritage. His most telling characteristic was his calmness. He was completely relaxed, and although observant, seemed unconcerned about his surroundings. His calm steadiness was sometimes unnerving to those around him.

Trosclair met Lacy and started his interview. It did not go well.

Baiting him a little, Trosclair asked, So, you’re the hotshot welder that’s going to fix our gearbox. What makes you so good? Have you been to school?

Trosclair, like many of his brethren, had learned their trade, including welding, from the time of knee britches, growing up. They didn’t need school.

Lacy, not at all defensive or put off, answered, Yep, I went to a trade school on welding, and gave a small smile.

So, where is this school you went to? asked Trosclair, turning the burner up a bit.

You wouldn’t know the place. I read about it on a book of matches. It’s up in Fort Worth.

Trosclair sensed this smartass Texan was messing with him, So where were you when you read about this school, in jail?

No. As a matter of fact, I was standing in the unemployment line in Fort Worth.

Some of the crew laughed, and Trosclair was getting pissed. Sure enough, another smartass, bullshitting Texan.

At this point, Lacy looked Trosclair in the face and asked innocently, Are you the big coonass they said was running this rig?

Coonass, the universal word that Texans used for anybody from Louisiana, was not a word Trosclair appreciated right then, so he swung from the hip with a perfect punch that knocked Lacy over a table and into a row of folding metal chairs, sounding like Trosclair had just bowled a 7-10 split.

The crew looked on in astonishment as Lacy calmly dug himself out of chairs strewn to and fro, his mouth bleeding. No one tried to help him. Then he stepped up to Trosclair, with no emotion on his face, and stood there, still relaxed, taking his time. His mouth was bleeding and there was a strip of flesh hanging down from his lip, cut by a tooth when hit. Still looking at Trosclair, unemotionally, he moved his mouth around and bit the strip of flesh off his lip and spit it on the floor.

He said, Before I was interrupted, I was going to suggest you move the welding leads closer to the job. As it is, the return current will make a big magnet of your metal workbench; and will screw up any electronics you lay on it.

Trosclair and the crew just stood there looking at Lacy. This was not what they expected.

Then Lacy spit more blood on the floor and said, By the way you telegraphed that punch, you would have missed me, but you’re pretty fast for a coonass.

Trosclair, exasperated, said, Just fix that gearbox and get the hell off my rig.

Chapter 2

Glorious Corps

Eighteen months later , Trosclair was sitting on a heavy oak bench in the basement of the Federal Building in downtown New Orleans, watching a little old black lady, who weighed about ninety pounds, run a buffer on the hallway floor. He was amazed at her skill and dexterity. The buffer weighed about half of what she did, but she controlled it beautifully, lifting and lowering the handle, causing the buffer to spin to starboard, then port, polishing the waxed surface precisely to the baseboards, never touching them, even once. The hallway shined with her efforts, and he could smell the fresh wax. Trosclair smiled at her artistry. He could appreciate good work in any form.

Then his reverie was broken by a flat central Texas accent, asking You here to join up, too?

Trosclair looked up into the face of the wiseass Texan welder he’d last seen on the oil rig. Ignoring the question, Trosclair asked, What the hell are you doing here?

Standing there, very calm, with a small grin, Randal Lacy answered, Well, it looked like the government was about to run me to ground, with a draft notice. So I figured, unless I want to be army cannon fodder, I’d best hook up with a good outfit.

Trosclair could see a small scar on Lacy’s face, from when he’d knocked him over the table. He was incensed that this goddamn Texan was in his town, obviously joining the Marine Corps, like he was. It took something out of it.

Why don’t you join the Corps from Texas? he blurted, upset that he was upset. Texans were a pain in the ass.

Lacy looked over his shoulder, like the U.S. government was right behind him. Well, I cut it pretty close. I was having a lot of fun up in Tulsa and got my third notice when I was down here on a job. Then he shrugged, and asked, Did that gear case hold up okay?

It did until October, almost a year ago now, when we had a well fire and the rig blew. We all got out except Hyme; he got trapped in the winch cab.

Lacy’s face showed shock and concern, the first emotions Trosclair had seen, even when he took the punch.

Did the gearbox overheat, and start the fire?

Nah, I think we got some gas, and a spark from a chain, Trosclair frowned, thinking of the death of Hyme.

Hearing brisk steps down the immaculate waxed hallway, they turned to see a huge black man in dress blues, with stripes all over his arms, coming toward them. As he stepped past the little old lady running the buffer, they heard him say, Hi, Momma, and continue on.

In a deep bass voice, he said, Good morning, gentlemen. I understand you are enlisting in the United States Marine Corps. Are you joining on the buddy system so you are kept together?

Hell, no! stated Trosclair. He did not want to be joined at the hip with this damn Texan.

To his surprise, the big Sergeant laughed and said, Just as well, the buddy system is a recruiting ploy. The way it works is, your soul belongs to God, and from now on your ass belongs to the Marine Corps, to send it where they want. You got that?

A question, Sergeant. Is that lady in the hallway really your momma? Lacy asked.

Jesus Christ, thought Trosclair, Now he’s harassing the brass.

Chapter 3

Tijuana Escape

Trosclair and Lacy were assigned different training platoons at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego. They saw each other occasionally, at Camp Matthews for marksmanship training, and drilling on the grinder back at the Depot, but neither spoke, and couldn’t have if they’d wanted to.

Strangely, their next conversation took place at a streetlamp on a side alley by the Blue Fox, a bar and whorehouse in Tijuana, Mexico.

Trosclair, like most Cajuns, felt the need to party, following graduation from Boot Camp and prior to assignment to the Infantry Training Regiment at Camp Pendleton. The reputation of the Blue Fox as a wide-open establishment, where anything goes, seemed like a good therapeutic break from all the spit and polish training. Trosclair wanted to ‘Get Down!’

Trosclair ended up down, alright. He was beat to pieces, cuffed to a streetlamp, bruised and bleeding, with loose teeth and maybe a broken jaw. Also, one arm was useless, and he was having trouble breathing—broken ribs, he figured.

With the party just starting good in the Blue Fox, Trosclair remembered heading for the baño, and next thing he knew, he was covered up with Mexicans pounding on him from all sides. It was sort of fun at first, taking out months of frustrations by bouncing Mexicans off the wall, but they overwhelmed him, and they were mad, pummeling him with no mercy. As Trosclair pitched forward and landed, rolling into the gutter to avoid the ostrich-skin boots aimed at his head, he heard the beautiful clear notes of Herb Alpert's trumpet playing Tijuana Brass, from the open back door of the Blue Fox.

Laying in the gutter, bleeding, cuffed to a lamppost, Trosclair looked up through the blood in his eyes and saw the goddamn wiseass Texan, Lacy, talking to him. He thought maybe he was having a nightmare.

Yo, Trosclair, is that you, man? Whew, do you stink! Lacy glanced back toward the street. Bosch and I were walking by and saw the ruckus. You did pretty good for a coonass, but you're still telegraphing your punches. Lacy shook his head. The cop—you would pick on a cop—just ordered everybody back into the bar. He left to get help to load you up, so we don't have much time.

Trosclair nodded. His head hurt and his ears were ringing. He was lying in an open sewer by a dead rat. Cockroaches were scampering along the curb. During the fight, Trosclair had rolled back and forth in the choking, stinking slime to avoid the cop that kicked at him, trying to crush his hands against the curb. The odor was so bad that the cop swore, shook his head in disgust, and then cuffed him to the lamppost before leaving to get help to bag the big gringo.

Lacy continued talking in a relaxed cadence, but he was moving fast. How do you figure a shithole like this has streetlamps, when their people drink water out of fifty-five-gallon drums, and they have open sewers in the street?

He looked down at Trosclair, seemingly oblivious to the Cajun's condition or the terrible odor wafting over them in the heat. Lacy helped Trosclair sit up, leaning him against the pole. As Lacy talked, he carefully inspected the lamppost and handcuffs.

These are cheap Mexican cuffs. If we could stick a link in the crack in that steel post, and get some leverage, we might get lucky. We need a tire iron. Lacy looked down the street expectantly. And a tire iron might be on the way.

Do you know Bosch? Lacy asked. That boy has talent. He's the best car thief in Chicago. He laughed, as he positioned a link of the cuff in a crack in the post. Bosch says, 'Just give me an order and I'll fill it. You want a convertible? A sports car? A truck? I can fill your order.'

Trosclair and Lacy both looked down the alley, expecting a cop and reinforcements at any moment. Lacy continued his story, So I ordered us a nice modern sedan, thought it might help get you across the border, and I swear, Bosch almost wagged his tail like a pointer as he took off to find that car. I have confidence in Bosch, he's a professional.

At that moment, a large black sedan pulled up to the curb, and Bosch emerged from the drivers' side. Lacy did a double take, shook his head, and yelled to Bosch to bring a tire iron. The tool worked fine. They were able to break a link in the cuffs without damaging Trosclair further. They loaded him in an odorous heap in the over-sized back seat; and made their escape from the infamous Blue Fox.

As the Mexican/USA border loomed, Bosch was worried. How we gonna get this guy across the border? He's busted up, stinks awful, and is bleeding all over the place. They're going to bust us at the border, for sure!

Lacy had been uncharacteristically quiet. He looked at Bosch, smiled and shook his head.

Bosch asked, What? What're we gonna do?

Lacy said, Get out in the clear lane, with your lights on. Drive majestically and wiggle your fingers at the guards on both sides. Drive through and don't stop.

Bosch asked again, What? Drive majestically? What are you talking about?

Lacy answered, "Bosch, if this works, we are driving all the