South Pacific Ocean
12 nautical mi. from the northeastern coast of Harvest Island / 79 nautical mi. from the northwestern coast of Beithe
0355. 22 October 2018.
12 nautical mi. from the northeastern coast of Harvest Island / 79 nautical mi. from the northwestern coast of Beithe
0355. 22 October 2018.
BCGS Seahorse (PB-98) had responded to Kelpie’s alert regarding a suspicious vessel off the Harvest Island coast. The Beithe Coast Guard fast-attack patrol boat intercepted the vessel in under 10 minutes.
“Our FLIR confirm Kelpie’s analysis?” asked Seahorse’s captain when the civilian trawler entered visual range.
“Aye, captain,” a junior officer replied.
“Not enough to go off by itself. But I see the registration number’s been scraped off the hull—justification for a search right there.” The patrol boat increased its speed to 25 knots and circled its target.
“Beithe Coast Guard! Heave to and prepare to be boarded!” bellowed a sailor over a megaphone. After 30 seconds, the civilian vessel refused to comply. A machine gun burst across the vessel’s bow changed the civilian skipper’s mind, and the trawler stopped its engines and dropped anchor.
Lieutenant Edward Gladden boarded the trawler, accompanied by two petty officers armed with the advanced model, marine-grade AR-33s. They were greeted by a man wielding a Soviet AK-47 (which appeared to be quite old). “Place your weapon on the deck! Slowly!” commanded Lt. Gladden. The man complied without protest.
“Any other weapons on board?”
The man shook his head.
“Any illegal wares or anything you wish to declare before we begin our inspection?”
“You’ll see what you’ll see, I guess.”
“How many others aboard?”
“Again, you’ll see what you’ll see.”
One of the petty officers pressed the barrel of his rifle against the man’s stomach, as a warning for his attitude.
“Alright, calm down, petty officer,” the lieutenant told his subordinate. “Let’s all play nice, okay?”
Lt. Gladden ordered one petty officer to remain on the deck while he and the other sailor searched the trawler. They would begin their inspection where the IR cameras had detected an abnormal level of thermal activity.
It was pitch-black below deck in the sleeping quarters. A faint buzzing sound emanated from somewhere, and the Beithe coastguardsmen’s noses were assaulted by a pungent odor.
“Find the light switch,” Gladden ordered as he powered-on his torch and moved towards the source of the buzzing. In a far corner of the room, he found what, at first glance, appeared to be an industrial-grade refrigerator. But the air around the appliance was hot, suggesting the opposite function. Gladden searched for some type of identification and eventually found engraved on the side: Mikrologitechque Inkubator M-24.
“Found it!” the petty officer announced as the room illuminated. “Hey Lieutenant, check this out!”
Lieutenant Gladden turned and found the petty officer standing next to a bunk covered with a dark shower curtain. He watched as his partner pulled aside a corner—and then fell backwards, screaming. The petty officer jumped to his feet and ran topside; Lt. Gladden could hear him vomiting.
What the hell could have made Bob react that way?
His heart pounding with fear, Gladden slowly approached the bunk, his hand gripping his holstered P226. The lieutenant berated himself for having watched too many horror movies in his lifetime.
The pungent odor was stronger near the bunk. Gladden swatted several flies away from his face. Okay, it can’t be all that bad. He grabbed the curtain and braced himself. On the count of three.
One…
Two…
It can’t be all that bad. Three…
It was that bad—worse.
Gladden jumped backwards like a frightened cat. Instinctively, he made the sign of the cross—an act he hadn’t performed since childhood—and whispered, “Holy Mary, Mother of God…”
He had seen many corpses and disfigured persons before; he had worked as a civilian medic before joining the Coast Guard. But never anything close to this. What is IT? Gladden’s mind could not register the lifeless creature laying before him as having once been a human being.
The man — or perhaps a woman, who could tell anymore? — was indeed deceased, likely for a few days at least, maybe up to a week. Decomposition had begun; flies happily feasted upon the rotten flesh. Patches of bone were visible, and the remaining skin was rust-brown, covered in large pustules—as if the skin had been boiled.
* * *
A Beithe Navy EELS Hazmat Response Unit removed the incubator and the corpse from the trawler and loaded them onto a helicopter. Lt. Gladden, his petty officers, and the trawler’s crew of four were placed onto a separate helicopter and would be taken to the isolation ward of Willowick Naval Base’s hospital for observation.
Once the trawler had been emptied of people and evidence, BNS Kelpie was ordered to launch a single torpedo at the vessel.
---
Centreville, Harvest Island
0830. 22 October 2018.
0830. 22 October 2018.
Doctor Lawrence Vicks had been feeling ill since Saturday evening. At first, he’d believed it was just nerves: a psychosomatic reaction to the tragic loss of Sophia White. He and his colleagues had tried for days to save the poor girl. Eight surgeries total. A young life gone… for what? The victim of some petty political feud. Dr. Vicks had seen many patients pass away in his 22 years as a surgeon, including children, and though it never got easier, he had—like all doctors do—learned to move on. You had to control your emotions so that you’d be ready for the next soul needing your help. But Sophia White was different; the doctor knew that her memory would haunt him to the grave.
The fever was worse this morning, and Vicks’s stomach ached like a bomb had gone off inside him. His skin burned. Blisters had formed on his extremities.
Like most doctors, Vicks was a stubborn man. He had called off sick from work, but he refused to seek medical treatment. Whatever ailed him, it would pass, he assured his wife, Justine.
At approximately 0830, Dr. Vicks collapsed in the kitchen, bleeding from the nose and mouth. Justine Vicks found her husband 15 minutes later and called for an ambulance.
