A Blast to Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 3rd Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Connie Barrera Thrillers)

by Charles Dougherty

  O'Brien had ordered a re-evaluation of the data from all the U.S. Customs and Border Protection Radiation Portal Monitors for the last year, but he knew well the weaknesses of that system. Any positive indications would have been investigated and neutralized long ago, and the absence of findings did not mean that no weapons had been brought in.

  He was in constant touch with his peers in the Operational Support Branch. They were running their own traps, looking for any signs of unusual activity by people on their watch lists. He knew they all felt intense frustration at the gaps in their data.

  The Analysis Branch had stumbled across the video late this afternoon, before the news media found it. O'Brien knew that their lead time was short. He had reacted quickly, passing what he had up the organization to the Assistant Director of the Counterterrorism Division within 15 minutes of the receipt of the video. By now, he hoped the information had reached the Director.

  O'Brien had been around long enough to understand the perils of organizational politics; he wasn't wasting his time worrying about what his bosses were doing with the information. His focus was on refining what they knew. Still, he hoped this one went straight to the President. He was no fan of the man in office, but he could well imagine the havoc that would result if the President saw the video on CNN before he was briefed.

  "I think we should get Rick to suggest it," Abe said. He took a sip of lemonade. "They'll be more likely to accept the offer if it comes from him."

  He and Mo sat at the kitchen table in their rented house trailer, relaxing after their day's work applying bottom paint to Diamantista II.

  "Why would he do that?" Mo asked.

  "I'll talk to him; we've done good work for him," Abe said. "We were involved in almost everything that was done to their boat; it would be a nice touch, don't you think?"

  "Maybe," Mo said. "I'm not sure exactly what you mean by 'nice touch.' Nice for the people?"

  "Well, yeah. Kind of. But I think it would be good business for the yard, too."

  "Why do you give a shit about the yard, Abe?"

  "I don't, stupid. I'm trying to explain why Rick would do it. Think about it; these people spent a lot of money with the yard. Maybe a hundred grand, right?"

  "Yeah, so?" Mo frowned.

  "So they'd probably think it was outstanding customer service if the yard manager offered to send crew along on their shakedown cruise. In case anything wasn't quite right, we'd be there to fix it."

  "Anything like what?" Mo asked.

  "Geez, Mo. For a genius, you're really thick sometimes, man. Probably nothing's gonna go wrong with the boat, but if Rick sends us along it will make them feel good, and it won't cost him anything."

  "I think we should stick to the plan," Mo said.

  "It's a dumb plan. Those goat-ropers have no idea what's going on here. They sit out there in the desert smoking camel shit and daydream. Tell me how their plan would work, okay?"

  "Well, once the boat's launched and out on one of the moorings, we swim out there like Abdul said. In the middle of the night, while they're asleep. Tie them up, or whatever. We sail away before the yard opens. Those were our orders. What's wrong with that, smart-ass?"

  "To start with," Abe said, "the work's gonna be finished early. I bet they launch by tomorrow afternoon."

  "So?"

  "So they might decide to leave tomorrow night. He's been loading groceries and stuff all day; they even filled the water tanks. They're ready. What if they take off as soon as the boat's in the water? Then what do we do?"

  Mo scrunched his face up. "Why would they leave then? They'd have to sail in the dark."

  "It's between three and four hundred miles from here to New York, depending on whether they go through the canal or around the Cape," Abe said.

  "Yeah, okay," Mo agreed. "What's your point?"

  "You really don't know jack shit about sailing, do you?" Abe asked.

  "That's why you're here, Abe. Not everybody grows up rich enough to have a yacht in the family. What's your point, man?"

  "They're gonna have to sail in the dark anyway, you dumb shit. A boat like that, it'll cover maybe 175 miles in 24 hours. Maybe 200, if everything's perfect. So they're looking at a couple of days of sailing around the clock. I heard her tell Rick they were picking up guests in Manhattan on the evening of the third, so they were cutting things pretty close. If they get a shot at leaving early, I figure they'll take it."

  Mo sat, frowning, and considered what his friend had said. "You really think you can get Rick to do that?"

  "Yeah, I'm pretty sure. The yard's gonna be closed for the holiday anyway, so he won't need us. I'll tell him we'll do it just for the experience, you know? It's not going to cost him anything, and it'll make the yard look good. I'll tell him we'll catch the bus back and be here ready to work after the holiday."

  "What if he won't go for it? Or if they say they don't want us along?"

  "Then I guess we're back to the original plan."

  "Yeah, but if you're right about them leaving tomorrow afternoon, that won't work. Then what?"

  "We could arm it before they leave."

  "Yeah, but Abdul said not to; the battery might run down too low for the trigger to work."

  "Then I guess I'd better make sure Rick sends us along. Don't worry so much. I'll make it happen."

  The dark-complected, nondescript man sat in the back room of the Internet café in London with his headset on, waiting for the voice connection.

  "Asalamu alaikum, Faisal," he heard.

  "Wa’laikum asalam," he responded. "It has been done. They have the video; they think it was posted to YouTube, but when they look there, they will not find a link for it."

  "Excellent," the voice in his ear said. "And no one will be able to tell where it came from?"

  "As you wished," Faisal said.

  "You are a genius, my friend, to think of discrediting them in advance. Now even if they discover something, their masters will not believe them."

  "Insha’Allah," the man said.

  "Subhan’Allah," the voice said, and the connection was broken.

  3

  “They're nice kids," Rick Peterson said. "They're the two guys that put the most time in on your boat, too."

  "Do you always send crew along on shakedowns?" Connie asked.

  "Well, no. But it seems like a good idea, especially given the amount of work we did on Diamantista II. They actually suggested it, so I thought I'd see if you were interested."

  "They suggested it?"

  "Yeah." Rick glanced over at the crew still at work on the boat. He scratched the back of his neck and looked back at Connie, a grin on his face. "To be honest, I think they're just lookin' for a boat ride to New York, but what's wrong with that?"

  "Nothing, I guess. Will you be paying them?"

  "Nope. And they stressed they weren't lookin' for you to pay them, either. See, they ain't exactly hurtin' for money. At least I know Abe's not. His old man's a surgeon, and his mother's a college professor. They got money; kept a boat here for several years — 59-foot Hinckley — real beauty, she is. I think she's in the Med now."

  "So Abe's got some sailing experience. Which one is he?" Connie asked.

  "The big, handsome kid that's always smiling and joking."

  "Dark red hair and freckles?" Connie asked.

  "Yep. That's him."

  "How about Mo?" she asked. "Which one is he?"

  "He's the slight-built kid, dark hair, olive skin. Quiet; he lets Abe do most of the talkin'."

  "And does he have any sailing background?"

  "No, I don't think so."

  "How'd he end up working for you, then?" Connie asked.

  "Showed up here with Abe a few months ago. They'd both just come back from a year kickin' around Europe, like rich kids do after they finish college. I hired 'em as a package, based on knowin' Abe's folks. Mo was a real find; I lucked out on that one."

  "How so?"

  "Well, that kid's an eng
ineering graduate. He don't say much, but he's smart as paint, and the best natural boat mechanic I've ever seen. Nothin' he can't fix."

  "Sorry to put you through the third degree, Rick, but I had a really bad experience with pick-up crew when I delivered my last boat to the islands. I learned to ask a lot more questions."

  "No problem. I understand. I don't know much about Mo's background, except his father's an Army officer — Corps of Engineers. Gulf War vet. Guess he's in the reserves; he works for a big commercial construction operation."

  "If they're rich kids, what are they doing working in the yard?"

  "It's Abe's doin'. He wants to be a writer; he says he likes to mix with workin'-class people. Kinda broadens his horizons, or somethin'."

  "It sounds like I can't really go wrong on this. Would I be on the hook for plane fare back?"

  "Nah. Abe said they'd take the bus. Part of his workin'-class notion, I reckon."

  "All right. Let me talk it over with Paul when he gets back from the grocery store, but I don't see why he'd object. You still think we'll launch this afternoon?"

  "Yep. Got the travel-lift crew scheduled for one o'clock. Figured we'd put you out on a mooring for the night."

  "Paul and I were talking about that last night. If we splash that early, we'll get underway today. We can be well offshore by dark, and it'll give us a little extra time to get to New York. I wouldn't mind a day to rest there before our guests come on board."

  "Makes sense to me," Rick said.

  "You think the boys would be okay with that?"

  "Yep. Abe figured you were gonna do that, matter of fact. So I reckon they'll be ready. You or Paul just let me know quick as you can."

  "That sounds okay to me," Paul said. "It would take some of the pressure off to have a couple of extra watch-standers."

  "I thought the same thing." Connie frowned and scuffed the toe of her boat shoe in the gravel, watching the travel lift creep into position straddling Diamantista II.

  "You look worried," Paul said. "They won't drop her. These guys know what they're doing."

  "It's not that," she said, looking at him and forcing a smile.

  "What, then?"

  "The idea of strangers on our boat."

  "The two kids? Or the charter?"

  "The kids. I guess I thought we'd have her to ourselves at first. And I know what to expect with the charter guests. That's old news, by now."

  "Something about those two boys bother you?" Paul asked.

  "I guess it's not them, specifically. I mean, Rick knows Abe's family. They used to keep a big Hinckley here in the yard."

  "Hinckley, huh? Some money there."

  "Yeah. He said both of them come from well-off families. It's just ... " She shook her head.

  "Connie, we don't have to take them. We can handle the trip between us without any trouble."

  "I know, but it would be better if we had the extra hands; we won't have much recovery time as it is. I'd hate to be exhausted when our guests come aboard."

  Paul put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a hug. "The most important thing is for you to be comfortable. We'll be okay, either way."

  She smiled up at him. "I know. I'm just being stupid. I remember the last time I took on pick-up crew."

  "Yeah. I thought that might be it," Paul said. "This is a little different."

  "It is. You're right. I've got you to watch my back, and besides, we know something about these guys."

  "And it's only for two days, not two weeks," Paul added.

  "Right. And we're only going to be a few miles offshore. If things don't seem right, there're plenty of places to drop them off, and we've got the extra time if we need it."

  Paul nodded. "It's still your call, skipper." He winked at her and grinned.

  "Okay. Let's take 'em up on it. Would you go tell Rick, and talk to the two of them?"

  "Sure. What're you going to do?"

  "I have to watch them lift her; I know it's dumb. There's nothing I can do if they drop her, but I still have to watch."

  Bill O'Brien was tempted to drink his lunch. He wasn't a drinker, beyond an occasional glass of wine with dinner. He never partook of alcohol during working hours, but today was wearing on him and it wasn't even half over. He knew he would be in the office until late this evening, even though his boss had told him to stand down. He'd encouraged Bill, in a patronizing tone, to take the rest of the day off. Bill and his boss both knew that wouldn't happen; it was just the man's way of covering his own backside.

  The video clip was the cause of O'Brien's problems. When it had first come to him, it had been via a YouTube link in an internal email. By the time he had run all his checks yesterday afternoon and passed his recommendations up the line, the link no longer worked. The video had disappeared from YouTube. In the absence of other supporting evidence, the higher-ups had accused him of overreacting. He knew what he had seen, and his gut told him that this was the real thing. They had a copy of the video, of course, so he didn't look like a complete fool, but it was a near thing.

  Aside from the question of whether the threat was credible, there was also the problem of political sensitivity. The brass never wanted to risk rocking the boat, and the notion of a terrorist nuke in a major metropolis on the Fourth of July was way beyond a minor upset. They did not even have a clue as to which city might be targeted. It was much easier to discount the threat than it was to attempt to deal with it, especially since none of the media outlets had picked up on the video while it was live on the Internet.

  That in itself was suspicious, O'Brien thought. There were a number of things that made this look like a prank. The failure of the supposed terrorists to leak the video to the media was near the top of the list. Among the few who took the threat seriously, the theory was that this might be an extortion attempt, and that the terrorists were smart enough to leave the government some room to meet their demands without causing a public outcry. While there was a certain logic to that, O'Brien didn't subscribe to it. These people didn't think that way; they weren't that subtle.

  In spite of his boss telling him to back off, O'Brien had all his resources focused on the question of how the video had been delivered. The trail was convoluted and crossed organizational boundaries, bringing interagency rivalries into play. No agency so far had been willing to claim the original intercept, which made it impossible to come up with even a rough approximation of where the clip had originated.

  O'Brien logged off his computer and picked up a gym bag from under his desk. He thought an hour or so on the treadmill might clear his head.

  Connie rested her hand on the helm between two spokes, still getting a feel for Diamantista II. She felt the slightest bit of weather helm and decided to wait for a moment before trimming the sails. On a beam reach in a 20-knot, southwesterly breeze, they were headed directly out to sea. Diamantista II had been underway for two and a half hours. They were a little over 20 miles offshore, well clear of Maine's coastal hazards. The sea state was moderate, and the heavy, full-keeled boat tracked like she ran on rails. Connie wasn't surprised; she had learned to sail on Vengeance, a sister-ship, but she had been sailing a much lighter displacement boat for the last 18 months. She had forgotten how smoothly the heavy boats rode, and how much more a part of the sea they seemed. She studied the sails and took her hand off the helm, watching as the boat began to round up.

  "Hey, Paul?" she called.

  "Yes?"

  "Let the mainsheet traveler down and crank in the sheet; let's flatten the main a little. I've got a bit of weather helm."

  Paul stepped to the front of the cockpit and made the adjustments. He looked back at Connie. "How's that?"

  She tweaked the helm, watching the sails, with an occasional glance at the compass. Satisfied with her course, she took her hands off the helm. After a minute, she said, "That's perfect," and grinned at him.

  Abe and Mo had been sitting on the leeward side of the coachroof all afternoon, watching Connie
and Paul put Diamantista II through her paces. Other than a few brief, whispered exchanges as Abe explained what Connie and Paul were doing, the two had been quiet. Connie had specified that she wanted to get a feel for what it was like to sail the boat double-handed. She had asked Abe and Mo to relax and let her and Paul do the work.

  "Abe? Mo?" she called.

  "Yes, ma'am?" Abe answered, standing and facing her, an easy smile on his face.

  "I didn't mean you guys had to be invisible; come on back and join us, if you'd like."

  "We're okay. I understand your wanting to check her out. Did you guys have a sea trial before you bought her?" He worked his way back to the cockpit as he spoke, using the handrail on the coachroof to keep his balance as he kept an admiring eye on Connie.

  "No, we didn't. We've got some sea time on a sister-ship that belongs to friends, so we passed on sea trials." Connie noticed that Mo hadn't moved. "Is Mo okay?"

  "Yeah, he's a little queasy, I think. He's never sailed before."

  "Rick said your folks had a big Hinckley. You must have grown up around boats."

  "I did. My folks are sailing nuts."

  "He thought their boat was in the Med."

  "Turkey," he said. "Mom's a college professor; she's got some kind of visiting prof gig over there somewhere."

  "Sounds nice," Paul said. "So where did you and Mo meet?"

  "College. We both went to the University of Maryland."

  They passed a minute or two in silence. Connie picked up on the way Abe kept staring at her when he thought she wouldn't notice.

  "Can I get anybody a soft drink?" she asked, before the silence became awkward.

  "No, thanks," Abe said.

  "Mo!" she called, raising her voice slightly to be heard over the sound of the wind in the rigging.

  "Yeah?" Mo said, turning slightly, a wan look on his face.

  "How about a cold ginger ale? Might help settle your stomach; Abe said you were feeling queasy."