Charley Manner series Box Set

by Michael Marnier

  “What made them stop?”

  “Life, Charley. Shit happens, you know. I got involved with a girl, fell in love. She made me see that wallowing in the past was bad. Shortens your life, man. Live for the day. Look forward.”

  I thought about the simplicity of Jonesy's advice and laughed. “The Master Chiefs in the Teams always said when planning an op, KISS—Keep It Simple Stupid.”

  “So, KISS those dreams goodbye, Charley.”

  18: HAWK RETIRES

  TWELVE YEARS SINCE BUD/S, SQT and six tours in the Middle East were enough for Hawk. Time to move on. Hawk, like Charley, is not a lifer Navy guy, but the sea was in his bones. He retired from the Navy and joined the Coast Guard Reserve in Marathon.

  Charley was still dealing with the hellhole dreams. He'd been doing better with Katie living close by. She’d moved in with Hilly. Hawk knew it would be good to join her and Hilly to be sure Charley fully recovered.

  ~~~

  Six months later...

  COVERED WITH BANDAGES from toes to crotch, Hawk limped across the hot patio tiles and eased into the spa under the palm tree. I left the temp down, in fact had thrown in several bags of ice for him. It had been years since Hawk had spent time in the sun without camo pants protecting his lily-white skin. Hard to believe such a tough guy had such sensitive skin.

  “How’s the burn, bro?”

  I’d taken him out on the Straits for a little fishing the day before. The dumb SEAL wore a speedo. Ugly-ass legs attracted the sun like a greased-up pig.

  “Shut the fuck up, squid. You know how it is. Why didn’t you warn me about this Florida sun?”

  “You got to get out more, Hawk. Such a sheltered life. Now that you’re retired, you’ll have to toughen up.”

  “Not retired, CJ. The Coast Guard gig is still work. Although I'm enjoying the chopper flying and rescue diving more than dodging bullets and tiptoeing around IEDs.”

  “I sure don't miss it.”

  Hawk looked me in the eye. “Roger that.”

  “How's the ice?”

  “You know how it is. I'll deal with it. He gave me the Hawk-mind-meld look. “And how's your brain, Charley?”

  “My brain?”

  “You know what I mean, CJ. How are you mentally? How are the dreams treating you?”

  “Getting better. Fuckin Mullah. What did they do with him?”

  “Not good, bro. After they drained his swamp of a mind, they actually released him. He survived the blood infection. You believe it?”

  “What? Why didn't you tell me this before?”

  “Nothing you could do about it. And you were dealing with the demons.”

  I thought about it for a moment. “I suppose you're right, Hawk. Time to move on.”

  “CJ, what say we get together with Katie and Hilly this weekend? I'm not on call for Search & Rescue since I'm imitating a boiled lobster.”

  I smelled something cooking and it wasn't lobster. “What's the occasion? You know something I don't?”

  “Negatory, bro. Just want to gather as a family. Have a nice cookout or something. It'll take your mind off the dreams.”

  19: FAMILY REUNION

  HILLY TURNED THE SIZZLING steaks on the grill and returned to Katie’s side at the patio table. Everything was set for the cookout except Hawk’s arrival.

  “Where the hell is he, K? I thought he told you and Hilly to be here at 1300.”

  “You mean one o’clock, right Charley?”

  “Of course. Can’t eliminate every damn thing I learned as a SEAL.”

  “Hawk will be here, trust me.”

  “Why, what’s going on? You guys have been coddling me for the past month. Ever since I had another round of nightmares and fell off the dock in my skivvies at midnight.”

  Katie put her arm around Charley’s shoulder. “You can’t do it alone, Charley. We want to help.”

  “I’m not a little boy, K. Dad wouldn’t like how I’m handling this. I just need more time to adjust.”

  Hawk suddenly appeared around the side of the RV and shouted, “I smell some steaks cooking, Hilly. Better not burn them.”

  Charley turned to greet his friend and jumped from his chair when he saw a familiar animal walking beside Hawk.

  “Is that you, Spirit?”

  The dog’s ears went straight up and she strained on the leash. Hawk released her and she bolted for Charley, but stopped short and sat obediently at his feet, her tail thumping the ground.

  Charley was in tears. “Hello, sweetheart. I’ve missed you. Thought you were gone for good.”

  Hawk said, “After I left Kandahar, I left word with the CO to call me if Spirit’s active duty status changed.

  “She’s done fifty more ops since you left, Charley. A hero warrior dog for sure. The XO got word from the docs that she should be packing it in after last check-up.”

  Hilly piped in, “She’s done more than most for this country. Time for a rest.”

  “You mean she’s out?”

  “Affirmative, bro, out for good. And I’ve arranged for you to keep her.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope. She’s yours. Now give her a break and let her jump on your bones.”

  Charley looked down at the beaming face of his war dog and raised his chin slightly. Spirit stood on her hind legs and lathered his face with kisses.

  Katie looked at Hawk and Hilly. They all knew this might be a turning point for Charley. His tears proof that he was finally letting the poison out.

  “Spirit, you are going to love it here. No mountains. No caves. Lots of water. And boats. Like Coronado but no guns. Well, not as many guns.”

  “So, I did good, bro? I took a chance. Had to act fast when I heard. Otherwise they would have put her up for adoption and worse if no one took her.”

  Charley wiped the moisture from his eyes on his sleeve. “Yes, you done good. Once again, I owe you.”

  “No worries, I got your back...always.”

  Hilly yelled, “I say, chaps, the beef is well done, and the beer is cold. Let's begin the feast.”

  Spirit took a place at the end of the patio table, sniffing the aromas wafting in the air.

  “Maybe just a few bites, Spirit. We gotta watch your diet. Keep you healthy.”

  "There's a bag of her regular chow at my place. I'll bring it over later.”

  Spirit didn't move from Charley's side for the rest of the afternoon.

  ~~~

  “REVIERE, SPIRIT!” She assumed a search posture and circled the parking lot at the marina, nose up until she found a scent, then down, sniffing the ground with staccato breaths. When she reached the corner of the lot, over near the dumpster, she froze. A black canvas bag lay among the trash spilling out on the ground.

  “What you got, girl?”

  Before I could retrieve the bag from the pile, a black sedan screeched around the corner of the Blue Parrot, almost knocking over the menu sign on the walkway out front. It stopped a few feet from us and the window powered down half-way.

  I bent down to see the NASCAR wannabe. “What’s the rush, dude? Take it slow, will ya?”

  I got my answer when a .44 Magnum poked out, the cold steel glinting in the morning light. Before I could react, a flash of fur shoved me aside and the gun went off.

  “Arrrrgh! ¿Merda?”

  Spirit chomped on the man’s wrist and shook it till the smoking gun dropped.

  I shouted. “Poost.” Spirit released her bite and the car sped away, Spanish profanities continuing to flood out the bloody open window.

  “What the hell was that about, girl?”

  Spirit looked at me for direction.

  “It’s okay, we’re not in Afghanistan anymore. You did good, girl. Braafy.”

  I dialed the Sheriff on my cell. Ten minutes later, a squad car pulled in. A deputy got out and looked at me funny.

  “Do I know you?”

  I took a closer look at him. “I think you do, bro. The name’s Charley. Aren�
��t you Vince Walker?”

  “Well, Oorah, Charley or Hooyah as you frogmen say. Last I saw you was in Fallujah. Your team did sniper over-watch for my squad of devil dogs. Saved my ass a few times, too.” He stuck out his hand.

  “A lot has happened since then, Vince.” Spirit growled a warning and Vince froze but smiled.

  “Who is this pretty lady, Charley?”

  I looked at Spirit and pushed my arm away from my chest, palm out. “Stay.” Turning to Vince I said, “This is Spirit. My war dog and lifesaver…more than once.”

  Vince slowly lowered to a squat and extended his hand, palm up. “Hello, Spirit. Good dog.” Spirit remained alert but relaxed a bit.

  “You need to take that gun over there as evidence. And there’s a ruck-sack in that heap of garbage near the dumpster that may need careful handling.”

  Vince shifted his eyes away from Spirit to the revolver on the pavement behind us and then to the garbage pile. “A gunshot was reported while I was on my way here. What happened?”

  “Spirit and I were getting some fresh air. I thought I’d test her search and find skill using this empty lot. She locked on the bag. Before I could get a closer look, some maniac sped up to us, lowered his window halfway and stuck that gun in my face.”

  Vince was taking notes on his pocket pad. “What kind of vehicle?”

  “A black Mercedes sedan. A late model. An E550 from the badge on the trunk lid.”

  “Plate number?”

  “Negatory. He peeled rubber out of here when Spirit released his arm.”

  Vince looked at the blood splattered on Spirit’s snout. “I hope that’s not hers.”

  “She’s fine. Can’t say the same for the hombre in the car. Oh, I think he may be Cuban or Mexican. Had a lot to say in Spanish when Spirit shook his gun loose.”

  “Got it. Let’s see why he pulled a gun on you. I think we’ll find the answer in that bag.”

  As we walked closer to the bag Spirit froze and assumed a posture only too familiar to me.

  “Stop. She’s telling IED, or at least something with explosives in it.”

  Vince pulled out his radio and called for bomb squad assistance and asked for an APB for a black Mercedes sedan speeding away from Marathon, no doubt. Probably headed north toward Miami. He picked up the gun and carefully placed it in an evidence bag.

  He turned back to me. “There’s a bomb unit in Key West that will be here in fifteen minutes.”

  We took a seat in his squad car to wait. Spirit jumped in the back seat and stretched out—her job well done. “Braafy, Spirit.”

  “So when did you get out?”

  “It’s a long story, Vince. I got out almost a year ago. Had an unexpected stay in a shit-hole in the Khyber Pass as a guest of the Taliban.”

  “No shit?”

  “Err, yes shit. So much I nearly drowned in it. Spirit and Hawk—you remember Hawk—found me before I sunk to the bottom. Still have nightmares. Smelly ones.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Inside snitch is my guess. We were ambushed. Overwhelming odds. We called in a gunship to even things up and I got caught in the crossfire. Separated from my squad. Bad news, man.”

  Vince shook his head. “Got that right, Charley. But you survived.”

  I forced a smile. “And here I am. Dealing with the aftermath.”

  “You're not alone, bro. There's a local group. You should go.”

  “I'm a SEAL, Jarhead. No can do.”

  Vince placed a hand on Charley's shoulder. “Think about it.” Spirit took note of Vince's hand placement and growled.

  The bomb squad arrived and took out their shields, placing them around the garbage pile. Vince had moved his wheels back a hundred yards. We had a ring-side seat. Ten minutes passed.

  Mack, squad leader yelled, “All clear, guys.”

  We got out to see what the bomb guys had found in the bag. Mack held up two packages. The first, a familiar brick of C4. A pound of powerful explosive popular with car-bombers and first choice of terrorist IED makers. The other bag looked like white powder, probably cocaine. Both explained the Mercedes driver's behavior.

  I leaned into the back seat and gave Spirit a major hug. “You've still got it, girl.” She gave my hand a lick and rolled on her back. Time for a nap.

  Vince bagged the evidence, said goodbye and followed the bomb squad truck out of the parking lot after rousting Spirit, check that, coaxing Spirit with a dog treat out of the back seat.

  She and I found a place on one of the benches facing the eastern horizon and watched the fog burn off out on the Straits near the Bahama Bank. Another day in paradise with Spirit at my side. I can do this, Dad.

  20: FISHING THE WALL

  THE SCUTTLEBUTT on the docks says there are big fish at the Wall the past few days, coming up from the Deep Strait to feed. I'm heading out in the Ocean 35 with a brand-new fish-fighting chair installed on the aft deck. Too bad Hawk pulled Search & Rescue duty. His part-time gig with the Coast Guard Reserves is spoiling his fun time. Jake's got the helm and Milo will handle deck duties. I'm going to catch me a Blue Marlin.

  Hoping for beginner’s luck in my new fish-fighting chair—set me back eighteen-grand—it’ll make hauling in the big ones a snap. As we slowed to trolling speed, I let out some line, settled into the seat cushion, and took a slug of tequila.

  ~~~

  THE LINE SCREAMED out, nearly cutting off my fingers. The beast leaped out of the water. I'd hooked a shark. Looked like a Great White. The biggest I’d seen on the Straits. Sometimes, like many things in my life, it’s more than I can handle, but that’s when friends and family have my back. Hooyah.

  THE END

  ❖

  TROUBLE ON THE STRAITS

  Book 1 of the Charley Manner Action Adventure Series

  TROUBLE ON THE STRAITS

  MICHAEL MARNIER

  Copyright © 2015 Michael Marnier

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed

  or electronic form without written permission. This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the

  author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any

  resemblance to actual persons, living or

  dead, businesses, companies, religious

  entities, events or locales

  is entirely coincidence.

  Charley Manner’s retirement in the Florida Keys is full of surprises. A shark sinks his boat. A dead man with a treasure map bobs up out of nowhere. And a Cuban drug lord shows up demanding the map. Charley’s training as a former Navy SEAL prepared him for dangerous situations but this may be more than he can handle alone. Join Charley on a raucous ride from the Keys to Cuba and back, as he battles with trouble on the straits.

  FISH TALE

  THE REEL SMOKED HOT as the line screamed out nearly cutting off my fingers. I adjusted the drag and yanked hard to set the hook. The fish kept pulling like a tugboat hauling a barge in a riptide. On a good day, I’ve caught nine-hundred-pound tuna and thousand-pound marlin without breaking a sweat, but this beast seemed intent on snapping my rod in half.

  I planted my feet against the chair footrest and tightened my grip. “Gonna need a little help here guys.”

  Jake, my helmsman, started backing down the boat so I could gather in line. The monofilament stretched tight and sliced through the water, straight at the boat.

  I hollered to Jake, “Quick. Shift to neutral. The props will cut the line.”

  Before she reached the stern, the fish went straight down. My reel squealed like a pig when the drag brake failed and the line unspooled.

  “She’s diving for the bottom.”

  All I could do was lean back, hold on and hope the line didn’t run out. It was a thousand feet to the bottom of the Wall. We were trolling for the big ones that come up to hunt near the surface.

  I was harnessed into a new
fishing chair. It creaked from the strain. My deck hand clambered down the ladder from the bridge and grabbed my shoulders. “She’s too big, Mr. Manner. Maybe you should let her go?”

  I consider myself a certified fish-fighting machine with the charbroiled tan and salt-crusted hair to prove it. “No way, Milo. I’ll land this sucker. Throw more chum to bring her back up. And get the gaff ready.”

  I adjusted my grip and pulled, ignoring the burn in my biceps. The harness kept me from rocketing overboard.

  Halfway through a pull, the fish stopped. The line slackened. “Wait, she’s coming up.”

  I dug my heels in, reset the drag and cranked hard but the line stayed loose.

  “Damn it, she’s coming up too fast.” I cranked harder. “What the hell’s this fish doing?”

  Jake scanned the water from the fly bridge, pointed and said, “Look, Charley. Over there.”

  Ripples marked the surface behind us. She flashed a dorsal fin but that was all we could see in the murk. Might be a shark. The water over Cay Sal Bank was warm and cloudy this time of year. Dead plankton floated up the Wall from deeper water. Smelled bad but attracted bait fish. Bigger fish followed the schools of baitfish.

  “How much line you got out, Mr. Manner?”

  Still reeling in the slack, I checked the spool. “Only a hundred feet. Watch out, she’s close.”

  “Do you see her?” Milo leaned over the port rail, straining to locate the fish. A violent crash sent him sprawling onto the deck. It felt like we’d run aground. No way, not in a thousand feet of water.

  Eyes bulging, Milo got up, wiped his bloody nose and said, “She head-butt the stern.”

  This fish was serious. My twenty-thousand-pound Ocean 35 Sport just got spanked by a fish. It wasn’t a blue marlin, that’s for sure. Much bigger. I caught a glimpse of her razor teeth when the Great White lunged from the water and bit into the transom.