"No problem, skipper. Take your time." The attendant stepped close alongside and extended a white, oil-absorbent pad to Paul. "Here. Put this under the vent."
"Thanks," Paul said, taking the pad and folding it to wedge it under the vent. "Be right back."
"No problem," the attendant said again.
Paul went below where Connie was flipping through their folder of invoices from the boatyard.
"I heard," she said, before he could speak.
He nodded and lifted the inspection panel over the tank. He extracted the wooden dipstick from its place alongside the tank and unscrewed the pipe plug next to the fuel pickup tube, slipping the dipstick down into the tank until it hit bottom. He pulled it out and studied it for a moment.
"We're full," he said.
"How many inches?" Connie asked.
"Eighteen."
"That can't be," she said. The tank should be around three feet deep, I think. The old one was 18 inches. I'm going to call the yard and — "
"May as well wait until we're underway," Paul said. "Sam will go ballistic if we sit here trying to figure this out."
The Cohens were still on the foredeck, watching the passing ships and enjoying the carafe of coffee that Paul had served them.
"You're right," Connie said.
"I'll go settle up," Paul said.
Connie nodded and started the engine. Paul was back in less than two minutes, and they pulled away from the dock.
"You okay for a few minutes?" he asked Connie.
"Sure. Why?"
"I'm going to take some pastry up to the Cohens to keep them busy. Then I'd like to call the yard and see what Rick says about the tank."
"Fine with me. Tell him I said hi."
"He can't explain it," Paul said, a few minutes later.
"What did he say?" Connie asked. "Could they have messed up and reinstalled the old tank?"
"He said no; I asked the same thing," Paul said. "He said the tank was four feet long and three feet deep. The top's a little over two feet wide, and the bottom's a little under that, to fit the taper of the sump. He said those are rough dimensions; he didn't keep the sketch he sent to the fabricator, so he's working from memory."
"I'm upset, Paul. We obviously don't have the 200 gallon tank we paid for. Think he'll make good on it?"
"I'm sure he will. He's as flabbergasted as we are right now."
"How did you leave it with him?"
"We're going to talk again tomorrow. He was going to check with the lead shipwright who was responsible for our refit and see what he remembers about the tank. He's not there today; he's off on some personal business and Rick already tried to get him on the phone."
"Okay. I guess we're okay with 100 gallons for now; that should get us to New York all right. The last weather report I saw while we were at the fuel dock predicted a 15-knot southeast wind along the Jersey shore, so we might even get to sail."
"That would be nice," Paul said. "At least the Cohens will get a little bit of sailing in."
"I'm pretty excited about it myself; I'm tired of listening to the diesel."
"Me, too. Oh, and I ran my calculations by Rick; he said I was doing it right, but he couldn't buy that 18-inch depth. We talked through how to measure it. I tried to run my carpenter's tape down the side, but that little hook on the end wouldn't fit. There's only a narrow slot between the side of the tank and the side of the keel sump."
"So, how did he want you to do it?"
"He thought a wire coat hanger might work, if I straightened it out. If it'll fit, I can stick it down there as far as it'll go and then mark the level of the tank's top on it. Then I'll pull it out and measure it."
"I tossed all the wire coat hangers before we left the yard; they leave rust stains on the clothes," Connie said.
"Maybe the Cohens have some: I'll ask them. I need to talk to them about lunch, anyway."
32
“Sunrise at sea never fails to make me feel good," Connie said, as she took a cup of steaming coffee from Paul. "Did you get any sleep?"
"A little. Mostly I tossed and turned and tried to figure out how to measure the depth of that tank."
"I'm surprised the coat hanger didn't work," Connie said. "I looked down in there when I was off watch. The gap doesn't look that skinny."
"No, it doesn't, but you can't see very far down in there. It felt like it caught on something, maybe. I couldn't say if it hit bottom or not. I never saw what the old tank was sitting on. Rick said the other day they had to cut out a fiberglass bottom that was laid over structural foam. He said he wondered at the time why the builder didn't just put in a bigger tank to start with, instead of doing all that fiberglass work."
"Guess the original owner didn't want it," Connie said. "Any idea when he's going to call?"
"I expect it'll be around 8. Figure they all get to work around 7:30, and he'll need to get everybody going and catch up with that guy who managed our refit."
"Sam seemed pretty happy last night when I told him we'd be in early this evening," Connie said.
"Yes. He was almost pleasant. He said he was going to take Miriam out to dinner; that I shouldn't fix anything for them tonight."
"It was nice that he let you know," she said.
They sailed on in silence for a few minutes, sipping their coffee and enjoying the rest of the sunrise.
"Could you drop the mainsheet traveler and come down on the vang a little?" Connie asked.
"Sure," Paul said, putting his coffee in a corner of the cockpit and turning to reach the mainsheet traveler control line. "You have weather helm?"
"A little. It's just the onshore breeze, I think, adding to the ambient wind. Sun's up enough to warm the land just the least bit. I figured I should anticipate it, because you're likely to be fixing breakfast when it really starts to build."
"Speaking of that, I should probably go get a pot of coffee ready to go if you're set for a few minutes."
"Go for it; they turned in pretty early last night. They'll be up any minute."
Bill O'Brien scanned the list of emails that had come in during the few hours he had been at home asleep. Several were flagged as urgent. He opened the oldest of the flagged ones and began reading. The message was short. The analysts had managed to crack the crude code that had been used for the text message sent from St. Mary's City. O'Brien's pulse accelerated as he recognized the contents of the message; it was almost the same as the contents of the data file from the mysterious device that Ferraras had been carrying.
He considered what that might mean. They were pretty sure Sam Cohen had sent this text message. He must have a tester like the one that Ferraras had, but he certainly wasn't arming and disarming a security system on Diamantista II. O'Brien felt a chill as it dawned on him that the diagnostics might be from a weapon. If so, it seemed likely that the weapon was on the boat already. His knee-jerk reaction was to call Connie and Paul, but he reined in his impulse. He should read the rest of the urgent messages first; they might well shed more light on the contents of this one. Besides, it was early morning. The Cohens would be waking up, if they had not already, and Paul and Connie wouldn't have any privacy.
He took a sip of his coffee and opened the next urgent email.
"Paul?"
"Good morning, Rick."
"Can you put Connie on the phone with you?"
"She just went off watch about 20 minutes ago. I hope she's asleep. Anyhow, we've got charter guests aboard. I wouldn't want them overhearing us."
"Oh. Okay, sure. I didn't think of that. You need to call me back?"
"No, that's okay. They're stretched out in hammocks up on the foredeck right now. We're having a beautiful sail along the Jersey shore, just a few miles out."
"That sounds nice. I can imagine that Connie's not very happy with this. Did you get those measurements?"
"I couldn't find anything slender enough to slide down between the tank and the hull, so no, I didn't."
"That seems
strange; I cut patterns from three millimeter plywood and allowed a half inch. There ought to be a quarter inch on each side. If the tank's shifted it might be skinnier on one side, but it'd be wider on the other, see?"
"I follow that, Rick, but it feels like I'm hitting something about 18 inches down. It's kind of rough and uneven; I don't think it's the bottom of the sump, but it goes all the way along the starboard side. The cabin sole hangs over the port side just far enough so I can't stick anything down there on that side. You think the bottom of the sump would feel that way?"
"Naw, that's smooth fiberglass. I saw the sump myself before they went and got the tank. It's a good three and a half feet deep; left room above the tank for the fittings and valves and such. Don't make sense."
"Did you talk to your lead shipwright?"
"Yep, sure did. Turns out Mo and Abe took our flatbed truck up to the fabricator's shop on a Friday afternoon late and picked up the tank. Joe, he's my lead man, he told 'em just to take the truck on to their place for the weekend and bring it in on Monday. Said Abe suggested it, to avoid us havin' to pay him and Mo overtime."
"So they brought it in on Monday, then?"
"Yep. Brought her in and set her in the sump; bedded down in some mush made with chopped-strand glass and epoxy, so's it'd be a good fit. Joe said it was the right size. I mean, he didn't measure it, or nothin' but it fit right in like it was meant to."
"I see. Well, it only holds about a hundred gallons, Rick. I don't know what to make of it."
"Me neither, but you know we're goin' to make it good, Paul, however you an' Connie want to do it. If you don't trust us to do it right, an' I can't say as I'd blame you, then you get 'er fixed right like you want it and send me a bill."
"Thanks, Rick. We never doubted that you would fix it. Once we get clear of these guests, we'll figure something out and get in touch."
"Okay. I appreciate your understanding, and I'm sure sorry this happened. Give my best to Connie."
"Will do, Rick. Thanks."
As Paul was putting the phone in his pocket, it vibrated. Glancing down at the screen, he saw that it was a text from Bill O'Brien. He opened the message and read: "Call me when you and Connie have some privacy. Not urgent yet, but imperative we talk before tomorrow morning. Better if the Cohens aren't around. Maybe you could take Connie out for a drink after dinner." Paul sent a response indicating that the Cohens were planning dinner ashore and that he and Connie would call when they left.
"We're both here, Bill, and the Cohens are ashore for at least a couple of hours. What do you have?" Paul asked.
"The crypto-analysts had some breakthroughs. They cracked the code these people were using, starting with that text that Cohen sent from St. Mary's City."
"So what's going on, then?" Connie asked.
"I'm going to hit the high spots to give you an overall picture. We can come back to the details, okay?"
"Whatever you think's best," Paul said.
"Okay. First thing, we think the weapon's already aboard Diamantista II. Nobody can figure out how we missed it, but the text messages don't leave much doubt. That one Cohen sent included the results of some kind of diagnostic routine."
Paul and Connie traded glances. Paul raised a finger to his lips, and she nodded.
"Okay," she said.
"Second thing, the guy you took out in Solomons Island was carrying a diagnostic tester and had just run a check on the weapon when you surprised him. We matched the data from his tester to the text from Cohen's burner phone. That's how they broke the code. Then they went to work on all the other text messages we've captured. Bottom line: Cohen is supposed to arm the weapon by the morning of the 30th, and there's someone ashore who will keep an eye on the boat at the 79th Street Boat Basin and trigger the weapon at noon. It's got a three-hour delay after he triggers it. If he sees anything strange, he's got the discretion to use some kind of override to blow it immediately. That's the overview. Questions?"
"Yes, but first, we're pretty sure we know where the weapon's hidden," Connie said.
"What?! How — "
"Let her talk, Bill."
"Okay. Sorry, Connie."
"That's all right." She summarized what they had learned about the fuel tank.
"And you think it would fit in that space?" O'Brien asked.
"It's the right volume, and the dimensions leave plenty of room, from what my friend told us about the warheads that are the key component," Paul said.
"Not to mention that it puts the weight down low so it wouldn't cause any noticeable change in the boat's trim," Connie added.
"This is a big step forward," O'Brien said.
"So can you send in a team to get rid of it now?" Connie asked.
"Not just yet. There's that guy with the override switch. He's got pictures of you and the Cohens, and they sent him instructions to push the override button if he sees anyone else board the boat."
"So how are you going to handle this?" Paul asked.
"Well, you've just given us a new option. We were going to use the diagnostic tester that we recovered to monitor the weapon's status tomorrow morning. These things work almost like Wi-Fi, but on a different frequency. We'll be all over that marina; in fact, I'm in Manhattan now, and you're under our surveillance already. When the guy actually sends the signal to start the timer, we'll be able to spot him using some radio direction finding gear. Once we've got him and we've taken away his override capability, we'll send in a team to disarm the weapon. We've got all of Mo Ramiz's notes; we finally managed to break into the hard drive on his laptop last night. We know that you can arm or disarm the weapon by sliding a common magnet past a reed switch that's wired into the weapon's control system. We just have to figure out where it is. We'll have three hours to find it."
"I think I know where it is," Connie said.
"What?" Paul asked, his jaw dropping.
"While you were redoing all your calculations, remember I was studying the tank with my makeup mirror?"
"Yes, but — "
"I didn't say anything because I didn't know what I was looking at, but there's a skinny wire coming up from down low on the port side of the tank. Would this reed switch thing fit in a matchbook, say?"
"Yes. It's maybe an inch long and an eighth inch around, with two wires coming out. Tiny. You saw a matchbook somewhere down there?" O'Brien asked.
"Not a matchbook, but a glob of fiberglass about that size, up under the cabin sole just above the forward corner of the tank on the port side. It's all painted off-white just like the bilge and the tank, so it's hard to see."
"Wow," O'Brien said.
"Let's check it out right now," Connie said.
"Huh?" Paul asked.
"Check it out how?" O'Brien asked.
"Get somebody with that diagnostic gizmo down here to the marina, and I'll swipe a magnet past the thingy. You can tell if that arms it, right?"
"Yes, but I — "
"Do I need any special kind of magnet?"
"No, the tech said even a refrigerator magnet would — "
"Okay. I've got a screwdriver with a magnetic handle that I use to program our voltage regulator. I guess the regulator's got one of those reed switch things in it. How soon can you be ready?"
"One of the agents who's already there has it; she's disguised as a street person, hanging out by the restaurant."
"Great," Connie said. "Call her right now."
"Okay, hang on," O'Brien said.
Thirty seconds passed, and he said, "She's watching the tester."
Connie was sprawled on the cabin sole, having lifted the access panel. She contorted herself, twisting her arm up under the brace that held the tank in place. "Can't quite reach it," she muttered. "How close do I have to be?" she asked in a louder voice.
"I don't know," O'Brien said.
She rolled to her side and dragged the screwdriver handle along the edge of the cabin sole above where she thought the switch was.
"Bingo," O'
Brien said. "The tester just told her that it detected a network ... it's connecting ... it says the system is armed ... it says diagnostic routine results normal."
"Okay, great," Connie said. She swiped the screwdriver past the same spot again. "How about now?"
"It says 'system disarmed ... searching for network.'"
33
Amal nursed his coffee; he had eaten an early lunch at the restaurant overlooking the 79th Street Boat Basin and was killing time until noon. He was tense; he hadn't been able to pick up the wireless signal from the weapon's control system. It was supposed to be in place last night, and it should have been armed no later than this morning. If there was a second failure, heads would roll, literally, and his might be among them. As he watched the activity in the marina, he saw the large, white sailing yacht. He recognized it from July 4th; it was the one with the beautiful woman aboard. He had speculated then that it might be the one carrying the weapon. He could read the name on the canvas that covered one of the sails. This was the boat; there was no doubt.
He looked down at his triggering device and was relieved to see the green LED glowing. The weapon had been armed when he arrived an hour ago, but the last time he had looked, the green LED was dark, causing him to puzzle over how he could get aboard the boat to rearm the weapon. He had a wireless signal from the weapon now; maybe it had been static interfering with the radio waves earlier, he reasoned. He pressed the trigger button and waved for more coffee. He had received new orders; he was to stay and monitor the situation.
The most recent email had included pictures of four people, two of whom were the ones in the cockpit. If he saw anyone else board the boat, he was to use the override to trigger the weapon immediately instead of waiting. He knew that the reason for the wait was so that the blast would coincide with an announcement to the world's press from the Caliph, but he also understood that this time, there could be no failure. As he took a sip of the fresh coffee, he saw the man and woman settle down in the cockpit of the yacht, cups of coffee in hand.
A Blast to Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 3rd Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Connie Barrera Thrillers) Page 21