Red Tide Read online

  The premise for this work of fiction is based upon the actual science of algae blooms occurring with growing frequency in the near shore areas of the Gulf of Mexico and Western Florida. Their cause is known. Their mitigation and potential elimination is equally known by the scientific, environmental and governmental communities. As is usually the case in America today, those who first sound the alarm are dismissed as fringe thinkers until a catastrophic event forces the complacent to action.

  Prologue

  On July 6th, 2016 a huge algae bloom was created along Florida shores when the Florida Department of Fish and Wildlife purposefully released billions of cubic feet of algae covered water from Lake Okeechobee into waterways that led to the Atlantic Ocean. Once released into the Atlantic, an algae bloom grew at explosive rates, and eventually migrated south around the tip of the peninsula, and up the western shore towards Tampa. The bloom was green in color, and formed a 4 to 6-inch thick blanket clogging beaches, inlets and harbors. Dead fish wash up on tourist beaches daily, and hospitals reported a dramatic spike in respiratory illnesses, and skin rashes in near shore communities. Four Florida counties have closed all beaches, and have declared public health emergencies, as reported by all major news outlets.

  Experts agree, the algae bloom was fueled by nitrate and phosphate agricultural fertilizer run off into Lake Okeechobee. It has begun.

  Preface

  Mobile, Alabama

  When viewed from shore, ships at sea carry every man’s dreams.

  The boats, and the evening breeze off the Gulf always lifted Maxine’s spirits, as she squeezed Bob’s hand gently three times. It was their private code for the last 40 years. Three gentle squeezes said I-love-you. Bob immediately responded with four quick squeezes. I-love-you-more. Smiling, Bob glanced to his right and met Maxine’s eyes, thinking, “still my beautiful bride after all these years.”

  The pier they strolled upon jutted into the bay a hundred yards, then turned at a right angle for another forty yards. That was their destination. That’s where the fishing trawlers passed before slowing to maneuver into their moorings. Some enlightened soul had installed a bench seat at the very end of the pier years’ prior, the perfect spot to watch the sunset over the ocean and the boats come in.

  Maxine and Bob had worked very hard their entire lives, raised two boys and put them through college. They had toiled forty years building their stationary supply business in Ann Arbor, now operated by their children. Now, they could reap the rewards of a comfortable retirement in their twilight years.

  They chose the Gulf Coast for its year round pleasant climate, ocean breezes, southern charm, and golf, particularly, the Bobby Jones Golf Trail. Their nightly walk to the end of the pier was a perfect after-dinner activity they enjoyed so much. They walked the pier every evening at sunset, rain or shine. Only the most severe weather would prevent them from their appointed rounds. It was a ritual they had maintained the last two years since retirement.

  Reaching their bench, they sat, still holding hands. The first of the trawlers were returning laden with their fresh catch. Shrimp, crab, Redfish, tuna, sea bass. Nothing surpassed the Gulf’s seafood bounty.

  With the returning trawlers came phase two of the ritual. Each boat would pass within twenty yards of their bench to reach the mooring. Fishing crews had come to expect these two harbor sentries each evening, and generally made it a point to wave and signal their success. As they passed, Bob would raise his arm, with a thumbs up gesture. If the returning crew had a successful and profitable catch, the boat captain or mate at the wheel would respond with a thumbs up. If less than successful, the crew would signal thumbs sideways…not so hot, or thumbs down, a lousy catch. Rarely was it thumbs down. Today was different.

  The first trawler to pass gave no return signal at all, nothing to acknowledge Bob or Maxine. The grim faced crewman slumped at the helm made no sign whatsoever, eyes straight ahead and focusing on getting the boat berthed as soon as possible. He coughed roughly into a dirty rag held across his mouth.

  “Wow, that’s a first,” Bob said to Maxine.

  It was some time before the next trawler came into view. Bob became aware of the boat by the unusually loud engine noise even as the boat was still 500 yards from the pier. What caught his attention was the boat traveling at full speed this close to the harbor, the prow raised out of the water, cutting the calm sea with a huge bow wake. Like a hound leaping out for a sprint, it’s hindquarters low as it launches itself into a chase, the trawler headed directly for their bench on the pier with alarming speed. Perplexed, Bob watched for several moments. 500 yards became 300 yards in the blink of an eye. He stood, which caused Maxine to stir. As she noticed the boat fast approaching, Maxine stood beside Bob, instinctively grasping his hand.

  “That’s not right, something is terribly wrong,” Bob quietly spoke to his wife. Maxine, not grasping the danger looked up at Bob, saying, “Whatever do you mean?”

  The boat was dangerously close by now, and aimed directly towards their bench on the pier. In an instant Bob realized the trawler would crash head on at full speed into the planking where they stood. There was no time to run, and nowhere to run if there had been.

  Bob, standing still, feeling Maxine’s confused gaze, quietly said, “Oh,” and gently squeezed Maxine’s hand three times. Then everything went black.

  Chapter One

  Mobile, Alabama

  Kate was beginning to hate Sundays, and hate herself for feeling so. Sunday was the last day before she had to return to her dreaded office. She rolled on her side throwing the covers over her face to avoid the early morning sunlight creeping around the window’s shade. “Get your lazy butt out of bed,” she mumbled to herself. But there was absolutely no reason to hurry other than to maintain her life-long habits and self-perception as a hard charger. There was nothing to charge after, and hadn’t been for almost a year. Ever since she blew the whistle on the piece of crap Sherrod Simpson.

  At the thought of her nemesis, Kate suddenly could not remain in bed another second, threw off the blankets and almost leaped to her feet. “No more stinkin’ thinkin’, get moving, Missy,” she said out loud, her father’s words out of her mouth. Dad wouldn’t allow anyone to dwell on their bad circumstances, and certainly not his daughter. “You can hold your pity party on your own time. I suggest you figure out a way to get out of whatever mess you are in. You created it or had a part in it, you fix it,” Dad would always say.

  Heading for the bathroom, Kate was diverted by her cell phone sounding the alarm, stubbing her toe on an end table with the quick change in direction. Instead of the ubiquitous iPhone ringtone everyone shared, Kate preferred customized ringtones. Friends and family shared a pleasant but distinctive ringtone, work related numbers a more ominous ringtone, and emergencies a ringtone sounding like a submarine claxon announcing an emergency dive. The sub was calling her now.

  “Dr. Kate”, she answered brusquely?”

  “Dr. Katherine O’Neal? The voice on the line said.

  “Yes, this is Dr. O’Neal.”

  “This is Detective Gordon from the Mobile PD. We have a situation down at the shrimpers pier we need your help with. I’ve sent a squad car to get you.”

  “What kind of situation? I’m no longer the emergency contact for the CDC in this district. You need to call…” Kate was cut off.

  “Dr. O’Neal, we have a boatload of dead fishermen that just rammed the pier at full speed, and we don’t know what killed them. We need you, now!” Gordon interrupted.” The car should be out front. Please hurry.”

  “Yes, of course.” The line went dead. Kate walked quickly to the window as the police pulled up in front, jumped from their vehicle and sprinted to her front door. “Oh crap,”, she thought as she raced to dres
s, not bothering to answer the pounding at her door.

  Sirens wailing, the ride to the pier was frantic, but mercifully short. Anytime before 7:00am on a Sunday guaranteed minimal traffic, but police cars blocked all intersecting streets to allow the cruiser to scream towards the scene at breakneck speed regardless. What otherwise would have taken 30 minutes was accomplished in less than ten, at the expense of terrifying the sole backseat passenger. Thank God for seatbelts.

  The police cruiser barely slowed as they approached the cordon surrounding access to the waterfront. Crowds of locals, frantic talking news heads demanding answers from police officers, and bewildered tourists were pushed roughly to the sides to allow the car to speed through. The brief gap then immediately closed like the water from a fast boat cutting through the sea.

  The cruiser mercifully screeched to a stop at the head of the pier. The scene before Kate was horrific to say the least. The end of the pier was simply gone. In its place was what remained of the shrimp boat. The bow of the boat was destroyed all the way to the wheelhouse. The wheelhouse glass was shattered. The badly listing trawler was held by the pier’s support posts and shattered decking, and ropes tied to the support posts. Masked EMT’s and firefighters were extracting a body from the boat on a stretcher.

  As Kate exited the police vehicle, a portly black man in a baggy suit with a badge on his lapel quickly approached. She recognized Detective Derick Gordon from previous disaster drills and Emergency Response exercises.

  “Dr. O’Neal, thanks for coming.”

  “As if I had a choice. Tell me what you know, Detective,” Kate responded.

  Detective Gordon sighed heavily, removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. A migraine was taking hold fast.

  “At approximate 9:03pm the Magnolia crashed into the pier at 24 knots. Witnesses say two senior citizens on the pier were struck. We are diving for the bodies now. Mercifully, there was no fire or explosion. Emergency personnel arrived, boarded the boat, and discovered one crewman with minor injuries from the crash in the wheelhouse. He was alive, but unconscious. And, he had tied himself to the wheel. He was extracted. EMS quickly determined he had an extremely high fever, dehydration, and had difficulty breathing. He was taken to University Medical Center, downtown. We couldn’t immediately gain access to below deck due to the wreckage. And, the boat was starting to sink.” Gordon paused.

  “It took some time to secure the vessel to what was left of the pier, and clear the wreckage. When we got below deck, we found the boat captain and a crewman dead in their bunks. There was no external trauma on either body. EMT’s decided this was beyond their pay grade. One body is still on the boat. The other they’re bringing out now.”

  Kate interrupted. “And the survivor taken to University Med?”

  Gordon continued. “At 4:51am I circled back with University Med regarding the wheelhouse survivor. I was told he is in critical condition with severe respiratory infection leading to possible respiratory failure. He may not make it. The ER docs began asking me questions, like where had this man been the last 48 hours. So, we accessed the boat’s GPS in the wheelhouse. This boat and crew have been nowhere near land for the last 96 hours, almost four days. They’ve been at sea. So, I called you.”

  Kate took control. “Clear all personnel from the boat and pier, Detective, including your divers. Those bodies in the water aren’t going anywhere. Have the EMT’s put the body back on the boat. Anyone that set foot on that boat or had contact with someone who has are to be quarantined immediately. I want the county Hazmat team here now with an extra hazmat suit and respirator for me. I need to examine the bodies and the boat. Call University Medical and have the survivor placed in isolation with all quarantine protocols in place.”

  “Copy that, doc. On the way.” Gordon spun on his heel, and started his officers on the task of securing the pier, then placed the radio call for Hazmat.

  Kate began to pace as she thought to herself about the scenario. “Respiratory infection can be caused by many factors, including environmental, biological, and chemical. Whatever this is, it came on fast. Too fast for the crew to sail to home port.”

  Kate retrieved her iPad from the satchel that doubled as her purse, and began entering sketchy notes while leaning over the hood of a patrol car. There wasn’t much to go on. Two dead, one barely alive. No contact with other persons for 96 hours. Whatever the crew has, it was either picked up landside before the Magnolia sailed, or was something the crew encountered at sea. Kate said a small prayer in her head asking God to make the mystery infection land based and spread by contact. If it was something the crew encountered at sea, it had to be airborne. At the moment, that was Kate’s worst nightmare. You can’t quarantine air.

  “Doc, Doc!” Her thoughts interrupted, Kate looked up to see Detective Gordon jogging towards her at a pretty good clip for a man his age and weight. Gordon reached the car on the opposite side from Kate, using the vehicle to stop his forward momentum.

  “We got three more that just checked themselves in to University Medical. Severe respiratory distress. They all walked in, so it must be early stages of whatever the hell this is. They are crew from the shrimper Helena. They arrived at this same pier last night, 20 minutes ahead of the Magnolia. And, they are talking.”

  “Get me to University Medical, now.” Kate exclaimed. “When Hazmat arrives, I want the Magnolia and the Helena sealed tight. No one goes anywhere near those boats without full hazmat gear.” Kate started for the cruiser, then turned to Detective Gordon with another thought.

  “Oh, and Detective, as far as the media is concerned, this is a boating accident, nothing more. Hazmat is on-site to secure fuel spills. I want an air tight lid on this until we know what we’re dealing with. Got it?” she asked.

  “Copy that, doc. Lid on tight.” Gordon turned towards his officers, and began issuing orders.

  Kate withdrew her mobile to make the dreaded call to her boss. “This is going to suck,” she said under her breath.

  Chapter Two

  Villa, Coast of Costa Rica

  Sherrod strolled from the great room overlooking the beach onto the veranda. Carmen and Arisdelsie greeted him with warm smiles. Both were very beautiful, and very topless, a condition required by their benefactor, Sherrod Simpson, when on the premises. The Villa was spectacular, nestled into the cliff overlooking a white sand beach within a perfectly shaped bay. An escalator ran from the base of the cliff up to the Villa. A yacht had entered the bay, and was just mooring at the pier.

  “Girls, our guests have arrived. Please greet and escort them to me.” Sherrod was always a gracious host.

  The bikini bottomed ladies both rose, donned their five inch heels, and departed on their mission. Sherrod poured himself a drink, and relaxed on a lounger. Life could not be better. He closed his eyes, and smiled. The gentle ocean breeze cooled the air, and swept the mosquitos back into the jungle away from his home. A misting device added to the comfort of the air. He watched as his guests stepped onto the veranda, arms linked with Carmen and Arisdelsie.

  “Gentlemen, welcome.” Sherrod approached the pair of executives. ”Sherrod Simpson, Director, Centers for Disease Control.” He shook their free hands. Neither were in a hurry to unhook themselves from the two hostesses. “Please, make yourself comfortable. Girls, make our guests a drink.” The ladies unhooked, and strode to the bar. All were seated around a glass patio table with palm frond canopy. Introductions were made.

  John Billings, CEO of Pachel Pharmaceuticals spoke first. “Dr. Simpson, allow me to introduce Mr. Conover, CFO, Royce Biomedical. You may recall, Royce’s parent company, Pachel made a handsome donation to the CDC Foundation in 2012 to encourage expanded testing for viral hepatitis.” Billings said. “Since 2010, when the CDC and the CDC Foundation formed the Viral Hepatitis Action Alliance, manufacturers of hepatitis C tests and treatments have donated more than $26 million to the coalition.”

  “You have certainly allowed the Coalition to e
xpand our mission to bring best practices healthcare to the American people. Thank you, sir, and please thank the Board of Directors at Pachel for their generosity.” Simpson replied.

  “Well, we would like to continue to aid the Coalition in this vital effort.” Conover spoke up. “We would like to earmark an additional $600, 000 donation to the CDC Foundation for the CDC’s continued efforts to promote expanded testing and treatment of viral hepatitis.” Conover brought a suitcase from his side, and placed it on the table. Sherrod placed a hand on the briefcase, and nodded his thanks. He didn’t bother to open it at this time. That would be rude.

  “I must say, this property is splendid. How did you ever find it?” Conover asked.

  “I ran across this little slice of paradise some years ago while vacationing with my wife. We just had to have it as our own.”

  “Oh. Is Mrs. Simpson here?” Conover got a sharp look from his boss. Did this moron really think Simpson’s wife had ever seen this property decorated with topless cuties?

  Sherrod handled it smoothly with a smile. “Not at this time.”