And Hell Followed

By Mark Scott

In this, the first book of a trilogy, reporter Bruce Martin stumbles upon a most subtle but lethal terrorist attack. He discovers that for months a confederacy of America's enemies have been smuggling high grade cocaine laced with the deadly Spanish Influenza virus. The secretive nature of the drug culture has allowed the virus to explode across the country without anybody realizing what has actually happened. Martin attempts to sound the alarm but a corrupt and paranoid government moves to silence him forever. With the aid of a coworker, Leah, Martin arrives at an old church property and seeks refuge. Here a little band of strangers unite in a common effort to survive in their sanctuary while the world around them descends into violence and anarchy.
Eventually the virus finds its way to the church with the same lethal results. A priest also arrives, having been recalled from the Caribbean. But this is no regular priest, he is the Vatican's chief exorcist. Through conversations Martin and Leah come to realize that this is a far darker event than even the terrorist attack. The destabilization of the world's governments has set the stage for the arrival of a very dark future indeed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Scott
• Release date: May 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311096524

Mark Scott

Having been raised in Florida the author spent countless hours on the water sailing and surfing. Mr. Scott has worked for NASA contractors at the Kennedy Space Center for the last 25 years. He has written several children's books as well as a trilogy of young adult books, the first being And Hell Followed.

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And Hell Followed

Mark Scott

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 Mark Scott

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter One

Bruce Martin was a journalist for the Biscayne Sun for eight years. He was a good reporter. Martin had an uncanny knack for sniffing out a story and getting to the bottom of it. He was, as so many in the press tend to be, egocentric. Martin believed that he was far more intelligent than most Americans. That fact, in his mind, qualified him to educate the rest of society. This personality trait made Bruce Martin a first rate journalist, if not a first rate human being. When Martin's chief editor assigned him a mundane story on the Coast Guard's new role since nine eleven, he was less than thrilled. He never could have imagined that it would turn out to be one of the biggest stories in U.S. history.

Martin now found himself on the Coast Guard cutter Courageous which left Miami two days earlier. The cutter arrived on station in the Windward pass the previous night. As the Caribbean Sea flows north it is funneled into a series of narrow passages between the islands. The majority of ship traffic must move through these passes; consequently many are patrolled by the Coast Guard looking for drug smugglers. The Windward Pass lies between the southeastern coast of Cuba and the western shore of Hispaniola, the resident island of the Dominican Republic and Haiti.

Martin sat on the starboard air castle, a sheltered weather deck ten feet above the waterline. He leaned his back against the brilliant white bulkhead while he jotted his impressions into a spiral notebook. Occasionally he would sweep his thick black hair from his eyes. He shifted his tall, slender frame in an effort to gain comfort. Every now and then he would stop and lift his face, tanned and handsome, to take in the beauty that surrounded him. Martin listened to the soft song of rushing water as the ship's bow sliced the Caribbean, allowing it to cascade along the two hundred and ten feet of hull. He watched the rise and fall of the cutter churn the blue water into luminous clouds of foam. The foam slid along the ship, sinking into the sea and as it did, fading from white to a brilliant turquoise before dissipating altogether. Martin stared off across the long, slowly rolling swells. He marveled at the water's beauty. The sea here was the deepest, purest blue that one could imagine. On the horizon, wearing a crown of fluffy cumulus clouds was the island of Hispaniola.

The serenity was broken by the shrill of the loud speakers. Now, all hands man flight op stations. All hands man flight op stations. Martin rose to his feet. The roll of the cutter made walking difficult. In a half walk, half stagger he negotiated the narrow passageways and ladders that took him to the flight deck level. There he could see the deck crew preparing to launch the helicopter. Opening a hatch Martin stepped into a dark passageway. He nearly lost his footing as the ship turned hard to port and into the wind. Moving up a second ladder he began to feel a little sea sick as the bow rose into the swells, then fell into the trough with a shudder.

Arriving on the bridge Martin could hear the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of the helicopter's rotor blades. The volume steadily increased until he could actually feel the noise beating against his chest. Looking out a large window Martin watched as the red aircraft glided by the bridge so close that he could see the crew inside moving around as they performed their duties. The helicopter banked off towards the open ocean. Martin turned his attention to the bridge.

The bridge is the nerve center of a ship. It is on the bridge that the ship is steered, the engines controlled and navigation plotted. The Courageous' bridge was surprisingly small, maybe fifteen by fifteen feet. A traditional ship's helm was mounted before a huge glass window at the front and center of the bridge. Mounted above the helm was a large compass that was surrounded by monitors and other electronic equipment. On either side of the bridge there was a door, or hatch, in nautical terms. Each hatch led out to a kind of balcony called a bridge wing. On each bridge wing was mounted a machinegun. On the starboard bridge wing there was a forty millimeter gun. On the port wing there was a fifty caliber gun. Blue vinyl tarps were stretched out over the bridge wings to offer some protection against the elements. On the roof of the bridge is the crow's nest. In the crow's nest, just as in the days of the three masted sailing ships, a lookout stands his lonely vigil. A modern lookout, however, has a lot of assistance from technology. He uses a giant pair of binoculars which are mounted on a pedestal and can swivel in a full circle. The big eyes, as they are called, are capable of measuring distance, seeing in infra-red or switching to night vision. The lookout can view a suspect vessel in the infra-red spectrum and can tell if the vessel is smuggling marijuana. When compressed into bails, Marijuana gives off heat just like a pile of grass clippings in a backyard. The big eyes can detect this heat, allowing the lookout to give a boarding party advanced notice of what they will encounter. Martin thought it was ridiculous that the lookout still relayed this information to the bridge by a most primitive means; he spoke into a metal tube that ran between the crow's nest and the bridge.

Martin stood in a back corner of the bridge next to the chart table. The cutter's navigator, Dave Anderson, poured over a scattering of nautical charts. Looking up from his task he flashed a smile at Martin, What's up Marti? The crew had bestowed the traditional nickname on Martin. He thought it rather juvenile and undignified but he endured it, nevertheless, as he was a little intimidated by most of the crew. Some of the crew, Anderson being one of them, was surfers. All of the surfers were in great shape and filled with a macho zest for life that Martin admired, though he did not fully understand it.

Where exactly are we Dave? Martin asked.

We are right about... here, responded Anderson pointing with the sharpened point of his pencil to a spot on the chart.

Martin leaned forward, examining the chart. He saw where the run lines intersected at a spot nearly in the center of the Windward Pass.

Has this area been very productive for you in the past? asked Martin.

Oh sure. It's pretty much a straight shot up from Columbia. A lot of runners will bolt for Haitian waters if they spot us. Personally I prefer the Mona or Anegada Pass. 'Cause when mid patrol break comes around we're in close proximity to some great surf. P.R. has some really hollow reef breaks like the Gas Chambers. But Anegada, ah, Anegada! We have a secret spot, a reef break, accessible only by boat. That place, on a good northeasterly swell, goes off!

Martin wasn't sure he understood all the jargon Anderson had just rambled off. But he got the idea; the surfers of the Courageous had their own secret paradise.

Where's Anegada?

BVI

Where?

The British Virgin Islands

Sounds sweet! responded Martin.

You know it man. One of these days I'm gonna take some leave and bring the old lady down. She'd love it.

A group of guardsmen entered the bridge. It was the change of the watch.

Anderson nodded a goodbye to Martin before sliding down the ladder and disappearing. The radio on the bridge crackled to life. Everybody on the bridge stopped instantly and strained to hear the helicopter pilot's voice.

Coast Guard cutter Courageous, Coast Guard cutter Courageous this is Coast Guard zero six one five, how copy over?

The O.D., (officer of the deck), lifted the mike off of the radio. Squeezing the mike's key he spoke, Coast Guard zero six one five this is Courageous. I have you five by, (good reception), at this time over.

Roger Courageous, zero six one five, be advised that we have a contact at approximately zero two zero relative at twenty miles. Subject is a white trawler with a red waterline. The waterline appears to be a legitimate waterline. Venezuelan colors. Have observed two, tango whiskey Oscar, two P.O.B. at this time. How copy over?

The O.D. responded, Roger roger zero six one five. Do you have a vessel name over?

Roger Courageous that is affirmative. Vessel name is Canarian, over.

Zero six one five, Courageous, standby one.

Roger Courageous standing by on one four over.

The O.D. spoke, X.O., (executive officer), do you want to check the hit list?

The X.O. nodded his approval. With that the O.D. walked over to the chart table.

He removed a black three ring binder from a shelf on the bulkhead beside the table and began thumbing through the pages. Martin was scribbling feverishly in his own notebook.

X.O. do you mind if I ask you a few questions? Martin asked.

Fire away, the X.O. responded.

I was wondering if you could explain that exchange between the helicopter and the Cutter, please sir. said Martin, feeling a little intimidated as he stared at his own reflection in the X.O.'s mirrored sunglasses.

Well the helo, (Coast Guard slang for helicopter), crew has spotted a trawler that is suspicious. We have a list, that we call the hit list, anyway; this list is generated by intelligence agencies. If a vessel is on that list then we will definitely intercept and board. If a vessel looks strange or is behaving strangely then we will also board.

What is zero two zero relative? asked Martin, referring to his notes.

That is the position of the trawler relative to us, the cutter.

What was the pilot talking about...something about a legitimate waterline? asked Martin.

Sometimes, if a vessel is really loaded down, they will paint a fake waterline in an attempt to appear that they are not carrying a load. That is almost exclusively a pot smuggler's trick and to a trained eye it is easy to detect.

So this guy isn't loaded, since he has a real waterline, Martin inquired.

My guess is that he isn't running grass, I'll put it that way. It doesn't mean he ain't loaded with coke or guns, illegals, or hell in this day and age, he may be bringing in a nuke for all we know. My experience tells me if he's a trawler and he's way out here, then he's probably up to somethin'.

Okay, let's see, responded Martin anxiously as he hurried to ask his questions before the X.O.'s duties required his full attention. Venezuelan colors, he's flying a Venezuelan flag?

The X.O. nodded yes.

What is P.O.B.?

People on board.

X.O. we have a hit! exclaimed the O.D.

The X.O. raised his hand and extended his index finger indicating for Martin to wait a minute. Let's get with Miami and get all the data available on the Canarian, said the X.O. in a calm and measured voice. The O.D. turned and asked, Where's the Bo swain's Mate?

Here sir, said a young man as he stepped onto the bridge from the starboard bridge wing. Take this down to the radio shack and tell them to come up with Miami. Tell them we want all the data available on the Venezuelan vessel Canarian, number forty six on the current hit list. Got that?

Aye aye sir, replied the Bo swain enthusiastically. Then he turned and bounded down the steps leaving the bridge.

X.O. do you wish to deviate? asked the O.D.

Standby, said the X.O. as he walked over to a black telephone that hung on the back wall of the bridge. He picked up the hand piece and pushed the numbers to ring the Captain's cabin. After a couple of seconds the X.O. spoke Cap'n this is X.O., sir we have a visual by the helo that is on the current intel pub do you wish to deviate? The X.O. paused and listened intently to whatever it was that the captain was saying. Then he spoke once more saying simply aye, aye before hanging up the phone. Mister Storey, (that was the O.D.'s name), deviate to Canarian's course and intercept.

Aye, Aye, replied Ensign Storey. With that Mister Story began issuing orders which had the immediate effect of sending the bridge into a flurry of activity. He began by giving orders to the young man at Courageous' helm. Helmsman, come right zero one eight degrees.

The helmsman replied, Helm aye, right zero one eight degrees. The helmsman then began to vigorously spin the wheel to the right. Suddenly he braked it then made some minor adjustment, all the while watching the ship's compass in front of him. Gradually the compass needle drifted onto zero one eight degrees.

Then the O.D. barked another order, Navigation, project an intercept course for vessel Canarian.

The navigator responded with a simple, Aye.

Are you going to board this boat? Martin asked the X.O.

You bet! It's on the hit list. Even if he wasn't on the list just the fact that a trawler is in these waters is suspicious enough, responded the X.O.

Is it only drugs that you're looking for? I mean since nine eleven are you alert for any terrorist activity?

Let me tell ya somethin' about the Coast Guard Marti. We've been at war with terrorist way before September the eleventh. I mean step back and look at the big picture. All of these drugs that we are trying to stop; do ya think it's all about money? Oh sure there's billions of dollars being made from drugs, but the money funds an ideology. Take coke for instance, follow the money and it leads you back to several Marxist groups in Colombia, Ecuador and Peru. The politicians call them 'narco-terrorist'. The money finances the ideology and the terrifying methods of cramming that ideology down the collective throats of a population. So the Coast Guard has been in a running battle with terrorism for many decades now. The public, though, is just now becoming aware of it. But for us...it's business as usual.

Martin stood there for a moment rather stunned. The X.O. really understood, not only his mission, but the geopolitical forces that necessitated his mission. The X.O. spoke concisely and articulately. Martin had looked down upon the Coast Guardsmen. In Martin's mind, he was a college graduate and most of them were not. Those that had finished college, in Martin's estimation must be some sort of loser to be in the armed forces. Yet here was one that was every bit as educated and perceptive as himself. Martin was taken aback. It would not be the last time that these men would surprise him.

The X.O. excused himself and joined the O.D., who was hunched over a nautical chart. Martin stepped out onto the port bridge wing. He looked out across the rolling blue Caribbean. The sky was a vibrant blue. Enormous towering clouds drifted slowly, suspended in the air by balmy breathes of the tropics. The cloud tops were a brilliant white. Each was etched with shades of blue that grew darker and darker until, at the base of the cloud, the blue was nearly black. Veils of rain linked the clouds with the sea below. The warm wind chilled as it picked up in velocity and the water faded from deep blue to a dirty green color and then, to slate gray. The orderly march of the long rolling swells became disrupted. The sea fell into confusion with the waves cresting and spotting the ocean with frothing whitecaps. Martin watched as a luminous spear of lightning leapt from a cloud to the water below. Seconds later came the low rumble of thunder. Off to his left Martin saw another cloud bulging at its base. Being a Floridian, Martin knew what this was and so he waited with eager anticipation. Slowly, ever so slowly, the bulge elongated. Finally a thin and wispy waterspout began its' slow dance across the waves. Martin watched it twist and writhe like some kind of strange atmospheric belly dancer. He stood, mesmerized by the spectacle until the cyclone diminished and receded, disappearing into the belly of the gathering storm.

The Courageous sailed on into the wall of rain. The drops beat so furiously upon the tarp stretched over the bridge wing that the noise was akin to standing in a drum. Martin retreated onto the bridge. The cutter's bow rose and fell as it plowed through the angry seas. The Courageous began to roll from side to side. Martin started to feel a little queasy. For forty five minutes the Courageous sailed through the storm. Slowly the rain abated and the clouds began to part, allowing shafts of sunlight to illuminate areas of the still choppy waters.

Finally the cutter passed from the storms influence and made a heading for the Canarian's position, now just twelve miles off the starboard bow. For the next thirty minutes Martin sat in a corner of the bridge writing all he had observed into his notebook. Then came the voice of the lookout, Bridge, lookout.

Bridge aye, responded the O.D.

Bridge I have a contact bearing zero six zero relative at approximately five nautical miles.

Bridge aye.

The O.D. strode over to the phone and called the Captain's cabin. Captain, he said,

we have a visual contact with the subject. The O.D. hung the phone up and walked out onto the forward bridge wing where the X.O. was standing staring at the Canarian through binoculars. A couple of minutes later Martin heard somebody call out, Captain on the bridge! That statement drew the X.O. and O.D.'s attention. The Captain nodded to them approvingly. Then the Captain took his seat at the front of the bridge to watch his junior officers intercept the Canarian.

By now the Canarian was plainly visible through the large windows at the front of the bridge. The Canarian looked to Martin to be about a mile ahead of the Courageous. The O.D. left the X.O. watching the vessel through his binoculars and walked back onto the bridge. Standing beside the helmsman the O.D. reached up above the helm and removed a microphone from one of the radios situated over the ship's wheel. The O.D. brought the mike to his mouth and spoke confidently, Motor vessel Canarian, motor vessel Canarian , this is the United States Coast Guard Cutter Courageous, heave to and prepare to be boarded. The only response was the crackling static of an empty radio channel.

Motor vessel Canarian this is the United States Coast Guard, do you copy, over? Again, no response. The O.D. walked over to the helmsman and guided him as he steered the Courageous to within twenty yards of the lumbering old trawler. Now Martin had a good view of the Canarian. The vessel seemed innocuous enough. She was around sixty feet in length and her movement through the water seemed labored in comparison to the cutter. The gunwales were a weathered white, thin and cracked to reveal the lines of the planks from which her hull was constructed. Here and there, along the trawler's length, the white paint was streaked with streams of rust. The waterline was a faded red. The Canarian's thick bow responded clumsily to the swells. Her wide beam made her roll heavily first to port and then slowly back to starboard. With each roll the bottom of her hull was visible and Martin could see that she was infested with barnacles and algae. On the main deck, amidships, was the pilot house. The structure was basically the boat's bridge and like the Courageous' bridge, the pilot house was lined with many windows. Martin wondered how anybody could see out of those windows, as they were filthy and encrusted with salt spray. Inside the dark figure