Chapter 36 - Shadows Over Puget Sound
The late autumn fog clung to Elliott Bay like cold grease. At five in the morning, the water was black and motionless, reflecting only the distant amber glow of the container cranes lining the Port of Seattle.
Jax stood on the bow of the King County Sheriff’s 38-foot tactical response boat, his front paws braced against the non-skid deck plating. At two and a half years old, he had matured into a ninety-five-pound powerhouse of dense muscle and disciplined drive. His dark muzzle was lifted into the saltwater breeze, his copper eyes scanning the gray mist with predatory focus.
Behind us, tucked inside the heated wheelhouse, Tommy poured two cups of black coffee from a battered thermos.
"Coast Guard radar picked her up drifting two miles off West Point," Tommy said, tapping the radar screen where a faint green blip pulsed erratically. "No AIS beacon, no radio chatter, no running lights. Registered out of Juneau as the Northern Star, a commercial crab trawler. She was reported overdue four days ago."
"Any distress calls?" I asked, checking the tension on Jax’s flotation vest.
"Dead silence," Tommy said. "Just drifted into the shipping lanes like a ghost."
The response boat cut its twin diesel inboards, drifting the last fifty yards across the oily swells.
Through the parting fog, the Northern Star emerged like a rusted specter. Her steel hull was streaked with orange corrosion, her deck cranes swinging loose in the chop with a rhythmic, metallic screech. There were no lights in the galley, no crew on the bridge.
Jax gave a sharp, low whistle through his nostrils. His ears flattened against his skull, and the thick ruff of fur along his spine rose an inch into the air.
"He smells it," I said, unholstering my sidearm.
"Smells what?" Tommy asked, reaching for his tactical carbine.
"Chemicals," I said. "And cold blood."
We brought the response boat alongside the trawler’s low starboard rail. I jumped the gap first, my tactical boots hitting the wet, fish-scaled iron deck. Jax followed in a seamless, airborne leap, landing beside me in a low, balanced crouch, his claws finding immediate purchase on the slick metal.
The smell on deck was suffocating. It was not just the stench of rotting bait and sea brine; it was the caustic, synthetic stink of industrial solvents—acetone, anhydrous ammonia, and the sharp, coppery tang of unrefined phenylacetone.
Jax led the way toward the main hold, his body low, moving with the eerie silence that made working Malinois so lethal in tight quarters.
The heavy steel hatch leading down into the fish hold was propped open with an iron crowbar. Around the lip of the hatch frame were dark, sticky handprints—frantic, smeared, and unmistakably human.
I swept my weapon light down into the cavernous hold.
The refrigerated space had been gutted. In place of crab pots and ice bins sat four high-capacity stainless-steel reaction vessels, connected by a web of clear vinyl hoses and glass condensation tubes. It was a floating, industrial-scale super-lab capable of manufacturing hundreds of pounds of military-grade synthetic stimulants per cook.
At the bottom of the iron access ladder, sprawled across the aluminum floor grating, lay the vessel’s captain.
He hadn't drowned. His skin was mottled with severe chemical burns, his pupils blown wide, his hands still clutching an encrypted satellite tracking transponder that was hardwired directly into the ship's battery bank.
Jax stepped down the ladder, his nose skimming the air six inches above the dead man's collar. He circled the body once, then froze in front of a heavy wooden sea chest tucked beneath the forward bulkhead.
His tail gave two stiff, rhythmic twitches.
He didn't touch the lock. He backed up three paces, sat squarely on the iron grating, and touched my thigh with his nose.
Inside the chest was a ledger bound in waterproof oilcloth—and a shipping manifest detailing delivery drop points across five abandoned municipal sites along the Interstate 5 corridor. The first address on the list was underlined in red grease pencil: Alderwood Cold War Bunker Network, Sector 4.
May you like
A voice broke over our radio, sharp and clipped from the wheelhouse above: "Marcus! Radar has a fast-mover cutting south toward Bainbridge! Blacked-out speedboat, twin outboards, running forty knots!"
Jax looked up toward the hatch, baring his fangs in the dim yellow beam of my light. The ghost ship was only the staging platform; the harvest had already moved ashore.
