“Welcome to Mobile, Jimmy. Want something to drink?” Kate asked.
“I’m not sure this joint sells any potable beverages that don’t contain alcohol to kill the bacteria. What’s that your drinking? Looks like an e.coli cocktail without the little umbrella.”
“Southern style sweet tea, what else?”
“OK, I’m feeling lucky.” Jimmie stepped to the plywood counter, grabbed a red plastic cup from the stack, added ice by dipping his hand into a galvanized bucket, and filled his cup from the jug on the countertop. Sanitary. Back at the picnic table, he got right down to business.
“Why am I here?” Jimmy got right down to business.
“Are you familiar with the Mobile boating accident story 3 days ago?” Kate replied.
“I am.”
“That was no boating accident. Two different fishing boats returned to port about an hour apart. One of the boats rammed the pier, killing a retired couple. The crews were hospitalized. That much has been reported in the news.” Kate paused to sip her tea. “What has not been reported is the boat crews were either dead, unconscious, or under severe respiratory distress. The reason the second boat rammed the pier was because the helm was unmanned. The only surviving crew member had tied himself to the wheel helm before he lost consciousness, which he knew he was going to. The boat steered itself following a GPS coordinate entry. It was travelling at its top speed when it entered the harbor and rammed the pier.”
Jimmy was already processing these revelations, connecting the dots. “What caused the respiratory failure?”
“A microbial bacterial infection.”
“Where and how did they contract it?”
“Somewhere at sea off the Yucatan coast. Where exactly, we don’t know. How is unknown. I suspect its airborne. We traced all crew movements and contact they may have had with other people 72 hours prior to their setting sail. There is no trace of the bacteria or any other infection cases. None of the crew was ill before leaving port.”
“So, why am I here?”
“Because Simpson is prematurely closing the case for political reasons. I’ve been pulled off, and they’re trying to send me to San Diego. Whatever caused these infections and deaths is still out there. Until we know what it is, where it is, and its epidemic potential, this investigation must continue. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Who’s on our side?” Jimmy knew it always comes down to choosing sides. Good guys versus bad guys. Follow the money. The bad guys are never far behind.
“Not many. Me and you, of course. We have several lab techs back at the CDC in Atlanta who I can depend on for lab work on the down low. There’s a Commander Phillips from the Coast Guard out of St. Petersburg I spoke with briefly this morning who asked me what I knew about algae blooms, and a retired guy named Thuy Piseth in Tampa the Coasty referenced. I have no clue how he fits in.”
“Not exactly the Dream Team, is it.” Jimmy added.
“Nope, but we have to dance with the date that brought us. Are you ready?”
“I was born ready.”
Chapter Seven
Bayboro Harbor, St. Petersburg, Florida
Commander Steve Phillips eyes were locked on the plasma monitor. What he saw was shocking. The video taken from the Environmental overflight of the sea off the coast of the Yucatan depicted something he never knew was possible: hundreds of square miles of ocean the color of blood. Magnification
revealed islands of dead fish, seabirds, and marine mammals in the bloody soup. It was the sixth time he had watched the video today, and it was just past 0900.
Since receiving the report, he had made some calls, reaching out to anyone who could shed light on what was happening in the Gulf, and what it might mean. A graduate of the Academy in New London, he had been deployed for service around the world, from commanding a three sailor swift boat in Cincinnati on the Ohio River, to Alaska’s Aleutian Islands, to drug interdiction duties in the Florida Keys. He even had a combat tour in Kuwait for Operation Desert Storm, commanding a frigate assigned for sea rescue of potential downed airmen.
An object floating half submerged on the screen caught his attention. It had not been visible without the magnification. He used the monitor’s controls to enlarge the image on the screen, and immediately recognized it. Though very difficult to spot, he had managed to capture several of these vessels while stationed in the Keys.
It was the unmistakable hull of a drug cartel hand built mini submarine. These ingenious vessels began showing up a decade or so ago. Made of fiberglass, the subs were constructed in Columbia and Nicaragua by the drug cartels to smuggle boatloads of cocaine into southern Florida. The thirty foot boats were packed to the gills with bales of drugs, a GPS and a giant diesel engine and extra fuel to make a run. The run to Florida from South America was made completely submerged, making them damn hard to spot. They emitted no radar signature. They could only be seen from low flying aircraft, as they cruised just inched below the water’s surface.
Each sub sported a three-man crew. Each crewman was equipped with a gas mask, a battery powered lantern, and a couple gallon jugs of water with long sipping straws.
Conditions inside the sub were horrid. Diesel fumes filled the boat from inadequate ventilation for the three-day run, requiring gas masks to ward off suffocation. The noise from the engine inches away from the crew was deafening, making sleep impossible. They could not eat, only sip water through straws without removing their masks. Each crewman piloted the boat by GPS for an 8-hour shift night and day until relieved by a ship mate, or reaching their destination, whichever came first. Yet, men were willing to make the run despite three days of living hell. One run would earn them several years’ salary for their entire family. Each boat run earned the Cartel $10 million. They were one-way trips. When the run was complete and the cargo off loaded onto a deserted beach by crews waiting ashore with trucks, the mini sub was simply scuttled. South Florida scuba divers were the first to discover and report sunken subs just off shore. Now, they showed up off every beach in the Gulf.
Commander Phillips had no doubt he was looking at a floating coffin holding the remains of three dead souls.
A newly minted Ensign knocked once on his office door.
“Enter.”
“Three visitors to see you, sir.”
Show them in, Ensign.”
Laying the remote on his desk, but leaving the monitor on, the commander rose from his seat, and rounded his desk as the visitors were ushered in.
“I’m Commander Phillips. Thank you for coming.”
Three of the most unlikely characters ever assembled in one group entered. Phillips had requested and obtained background information on each, and knew their basic profiles before inviting them to this meeting. Homeland Security was at least good for that much. The likeliness of these three individuals having anything in common other than their shared maternal mitochondrial DNA from the first human female ever to walk the Earth, was zero. Yet here they were. He briefly ran their credentials through his mind.
Dr. Katherine O’Neal, noted physician and published research scientist, currently with the CDC, and first on the scene in Mobile. He was still not sure of the Mobile boat accident’s connection to the environmental issue happening in the Gulf, but it needed exploring. Early-forties, still damn attractive with a fit figure.
James Falcone, investigative reporter for the Atlanta Herald, looked like a smarmy mid 40’s lounge singer from the sixties who just stepped out of a time warp. Hawaiian shirt under a cream sport coat with the sleeves rolled up, wrap-around sunglasses and sockless loafers. His reputation was mixed. He gained some notoriety and a Pulitzer in the late 90’s for exposing some dirty politicians, then definitely fell out of favor for a dozen years for using the press to accuse a lot of powerful people of committing boatloads of improprieties. None of the accusations came to anything. That is until his recent home run exposing bribes at the CDC. Now, he was back in the limelight. The commander wondered why Dr.
O’Neal and Falcone would even enter the same room together after his published CDC expose. As for Falcone, the expression, “Friends may come and go, but enemies accumulate,” could not ring more true. In his decade long quest to re-establish himself as a serious investigative journalist, he had pissed off a lot of powerful people. Phillips could not decide whether Falcone would be an asset to this team, or a liability. Time would tell.
Then there was Thuy Piseth, retired chemical engineer with BP, turned environmental advocate. Appeared much younger than his age. The Commander knew his facial marks which appeared to be acne, were the result of exposure to Agent Orange during the Vietnam War. A Cambodian refugee from the 70’s fleeing a genocidal civil war, he looked like an Asian version of Dick Clark. Ageless. Piseth was an advocate for the environment, not an activist. The horrors of war he had experienced as a child had forever seared his soul against violence and confrontation. And, he was a self-taught expert on algae blooms in the Gulf, and their destructive potential. Bingo.
Phillips was himself a commanding figure, the son of a career Naval Officer. His father was first officer on the USS Dale, the only ship to make it out of Pearl Harbor during the fierce attack by Imperial Japan. When Phillips chose the Coast Guard after completing his education at Annapolis, his father’s disappointment was eventually replaced with pride in his son’s accomplishments. It was rumored Phillips was in line and being groomed to assume command of the Coast Guard. The commander became a big fish in a much smaller pond. Dad would have liked to witness this, if he were still alive.
Phillips was the kind of officer who never raised his voice to a subordinate, officer, or civilian for any reason. He was able to command their respect for his authority naturally as a born leader. Unlike other military officers, a Coasty officer dealt with the general public almost on a daily basis. Hopefully, that experience would guide him today in trying to focus this eclectic group towards a common objective. Exactly what objective he did not know.
As the Commander extended his hand to each guest, the Cambodian stopped suddenly, hand extended but eyes entranced on the plasma monitor. He stared in disbelief.
“Where is this, Commander?” Thuy asked.
“It was off the northern Yucatan. It’s migrating north, northeast with the Gulf Stream.” The Commander watched Thuy’s expression intently. He had learned words can mislead, but the eyes are windows to the soul.
“How fast?”
“Two to three km per hour.” The Commander responded.
“Is it growing or receding?” Thuy’s questions came rapid fire.
“It appears to be stabilizing. The edges are being eroded by the action of wind and waves. That said, it’s still huge.”
“How big?” Thuy demanded.
The commander was immediately impressed with the retired engineer turned self-taught algae expert. In less than a dozen words, he had managed to get right to the heart of the matter.
“Have you managed to acquire a sample, Commander?” This from Dr. O’Neal.
“We have. The private lab we sent them to identified the algae as a strain of Karenia brevis.” The Commander faced Kate.
Dr. O’Neal and Thuy Piseth both tried to ask questions at once, causing enough confusion that neither was able to be understood. The Commander held his hands up, and intervened.
“One at a time, one at a time, please. Dr. O’Neal, you first.
“I don’t mean water samples. I want air samples.” O’Neal explained.
“Air samples? I don’t understand?” The Commander was confused.
Before Kate could explain, Thuy, whom she had just met outside Commander Phillips office spoke up.
“Mutation and aerosolizing.” The Commander was now more confused than ever. Thuy immediately continued.
“A single-celled plant-like organism is called Karenia brevis is algae that can form dense, red color patches near water surface. It is commonly found off western coast of Florida in warm months. Why it is in the southern Gulf I do not know. The patches sometimes bind into blanket covering large area of coastline, but never in open ocean. This I also do not understand. If patch very big, and remain intact for long time, algae can produce toxins as it depletes dissolved oxygen in water. Fish unable to breathe. Toxins can become aerosolized by action of sea waves and wind. Same wind and waves that usually break up algae bloom, but not this time. This creates invisible cloud above water surface. Birds fly through it, and die. Ocean mammals, porpoise, seal are next. Respiratory poisoning. They die.” Thuy paused, but Kate jumped in with her own rapid fire questions for Thuy.
“Can this toxic air effect humans? Has this ever happened before?” Kate bored in. She needed answers.
“Yes and yes.” Thuy responded. “Every year. Algae blooms are natural, and occur every year along coastline. Every year people get sick if bloom stay a long time. Population living on coast grows every year. Very old and very young with existing respiratory problems get sick. When algae dissolves, people get better. Some go to hospital for treatment. Some die before getting better. Everyone blame existing condition in deceased person. I think otherwise.”
Commander Phillips began, “Mr. Piseth… Before he could finish, Thuy interrupted.
“I ask now. Commander, how large is bloom?”
“When first spotted off the Yucatan, the bloom was roughly oval shaped, a hundred miles long and fifty wide. Since then the bloom has shrunk in width, but grown in length. It is now approximately 125 miles long, and 25 miles wide. It is more like a stream being carried by the Gulf currents.” It stretches from the bottom tip of Texas, south along Mexico’s eastern waters. From what I’ve just heard from you folks, we’re lucky it’s still 30 miles offshore.”
“Depends on how you define luck.” Kate spoke up. “I have six infected fishermen in Mobile, three of which are dead. They were fishing off the coast of southern Mexico in the middle of that thing three days ago.”
“Is that why the fishing boat rammed the pier?”
“Yes. The three-man crew were all infected. Two were unconscious when the third realized the danger, tied himself to the wheel and set a GPS course for home. He lost consciousness sometime on the trip home. He was the sole survivor on that boat. A second boat was in the same area, but exposed for less time. That crew made it to home port, then checked themselves into the hospital. Two out of three lived. One died. He had pre-existing respiratory issues.”
“I assume you are responsible for keeping that bit of information out of the press so far. Boating accidents are a lot less sexy to reporters than epidemics.” The commander responded. “A retired couple died. Were they…
“No, they weren’t infected, just unlucky. They were strolling the pier when the boat slammed it. Just bad timing.”
“So, if you were concerned enough to withhold the infection news from the media, why is Mr. Falcone with us here today? He’s here at your request, Dr. O’Neal.” The Commander was direct as well as curious.
Kate responded immediately. “Mr. Falcone was instrumental in helping me expose Sherrod Simpson for accepting bribes based upon private donations to the CDC Foundation. I tried to remain in the background, but that didn’t work out so well.”
Click! Pieces were falling into place for the Commander.
“Simpson tried to cover it up. The good news is the cat is out of the bag, and the IRS, FBI, and Department of Health and Human Services are all investigating. I was promoted, and promptly exiled to Mobile when my research grant was pulled by some obscure House subcommittee.” Kate explained.
The Commander needed clarification, “What is Mr. Falcone’s role in the algae bloom incident?”
“The CDC Director has prematurely shut down our investigation, and is trying to transfer me to San Diego. That whole retaliation thing. I’m not going to cooperate with him until we know where this outbreak came from, how communicable it is, and how to contain it.” Kate replied. “The best way to do that quickly is to harness the press to force them to ramp
up the investigation. From what Mr. Piseth has shared, we may need to evacuate some coastal areas, too. Jimmy can help get the word out quickly.”
Stepping forward with his arms outstretched, and Hawaiian shirt flapping, Jimmy introduced himself a second time with a bow and a flourish.
“TA DA! Jimmy Falcone, at your service, Admiral!”
Chapter Eight
Bayboro Harbor, St. Petersburg
Thuy removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose between his eyes. Eye fatigue. It happened every time he became immersed in solving a problem that appeared to have no solution. Thuy had been at this puzzle all night. Now, the rising sun was beginning to filter into the room. He had been pouring over the video of the bloom, as well as maps of the Gulf of Mexico currents the Commander provided at his request after the Commanders meeting adjourned.
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