Storm Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 4th Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Connie Barrera Thrillers)

by Charles Dougherty

  Storm Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller

  The 4th Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series

  C.L.R. Dougherty

  Copyright © 2015 by C.L.R. Dougherty

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  rev. 1

  July 2017

  Contents

  Diamantista II’s Route

  The Virgin Islands to Trinidad

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Mailing List

  A Note to the Reader

  About C.L.R. Dougherty

  Other Books by C.L.R. Dougherty

  Sample of Running Under Sail -

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  1

  Connie Barrera's teeth were chattering. The boarding seas crashed into Diamantista II, and she gripped the helm with all her strength to keep from being washed overboard. The 60-knot wind screamed in the rigging; the fat raindrops felt like razor blades striking her face. She ducked her head as another wall of green water roared into the cockpit, flooding it again and lifting her from her seat.

  The seawater ran down inside her foul-weather jacket, drenching her to the skin. She felt her tether come up short, snatching her to a stop just as she thought she'd lose her grip and go over the rail. She was exhausted; the only thing that kept her awake was the shooting pain down the outside of her right calf.

  Diamantista II was heeled over at a 45-degree angle to the starboard, and Connie had kept her knee wedged against the edge of the starboard cockpit seat to hold herself in place behind the helm for almost three hours. The nerves in her knee were pinched and the circulation to her foot was cut off. She knew from experience that it would take weeks to recover normal use of her leg and foot.

  Offshore sailing in heavy weather gave new meaning to the phrase, "physically demanding." When she had decided to buy a yacht and go into the charter trade a couple of years ago, she'd had no idea what ocean voyaging was like. At that point, she had spent several months with her friends Dani and Liz on their yacht, Vengeance, learning the basics of cruising under sail in the warm, protected waters of the Eastern Caribbean.

  She'd gotten hooked on the magic of sailing then, and she thought she’d found the perfect life at last. A few months later, she made her first offshore passage as the captain of her own yacht. She had taken delivery of the first Diamantista in Annapolis and headed south to the islands that fall. With a couple of lowlifes she picked up as crew, she had discovered what having ultimate responsibility for the vessel meant. Sailing was not all umbrella drinks and coconut-scented sunscreen; she had weathered her share of tough situations since then.

  She wouldn't change a thing, though. "Not even the weather, damn it!" she bellowed, defiance in her voice. This was the spice that heightened her appreciation for the idyllic sailing that comprised most of her ventures down-island.

  She was startled when the louvered teak doors of the companionway hatch crashed open. A groggy-looking Paul Russo reached out to hook the doors in the open position as he held on for all he was worth with his other hand.

  "Did you call me?" he yelled.

  "No. Just cursing the weather," she screamed to be heard over the wind noise.

  "Less than 24 hours ago, you were complaining about not enough wind."

  "I know. I'm hard to please. Sorry I woke you."

  "You didn't. It's time for my watch; come on below and warm up. I made a thermos of soup."

  He reached across the bridge deck, feeling in the footwell for the hook on the end of the tether that dangled there. He snapped it onto the harness around his chest and began to slither out of the companionway. Connie watched as he tried to time his movements to the erratic motion of the boat. He slid behind the helm on the low side of the cockpit, nudging her uphill with his hip.

  "Did you get the weather fax?" she asked, feeling her leg begin to tingle as the pressure came off the side of her knee. She scooted herself around until she sat with her back against the starboard cockpit coaming, bracing her feet on the edge of the seat on the other side of the footwell to keep herself in place.

  "Yes," he said. "The center of the low is just about due east of us, right on top of Bermuda. It's moving northwest at about 12 knots; highest winds are over a hundred."

  "Wow! I’m glad we're in the southwest quadrant of the storm," she said. "At least we won't get the worst of it."

  "Right. Another 12 hours, and things should settle down a little — like to tropical storm force winds, maybe. Sea state's going to be ugly for a while, though. Go try to get a little rest; you must be beat. We're going to be in this for a long time. Don't let yourself get exhausted."

  "Okay. Love you, sailor."

  "Love you, too."

  She backed down the companionway ladder and blew him a kiss as she unhooked the doors and pulled them closed.

  "What should we do about them, Dalton?" Georgina Smith asked, as she watched Dalton Evans struggling with the life raft canister.

  "Leave 'em, I reckon. Ain't no way we can get 'em up on deck the way this sumbitch is bouncin' around."

  "But somebody might find 'em after this here storm blows out, don'tcha think?"

  "This piece-a-shit boat's gonna sink. 'Nother coupla hours of this shit and it's gonna go down like a fuckin' rock. The hell you think I'm launchin' this here raft for, anyhow. My damn health?"

  "You sure that's a good idea?"

  "What the hell's that mean, woman?"

  "The raft. It's tiny. This boat's big, and look what's happenin' to it."

  "Yeah, look, dumbass. It's fillin' up with water, that's what."

  "The water ain't gettin' no higher. I been watchin' it. It's just sloshin' around down there, now. Harry said he couldn't find no leaks; it just come through the hatches when we was upside down."

  "Well, the damn boat's comin' apart. The mast and the sails're gone, and the motor's outta gas."

  "Diesel."

  "What?"

  "Marilyn said it's diesel, not gas."

  "Big deal. Diesel, gas, whatever the hell it is, there ain't no more. When she tell you that, anyway?"

  "I dunno. Few days ago, I guess. I asked why didn't we use the motor when the wind stopped blowin'."

  "What'd she say?" He had tied the tether of the life raft canister to the stern rail and was struggling to lift the canister over the lifelines.

  "She said there wasn't enough to get us nowhere. Sailboats don't carry much fuel, so they only used it to get in and out of harbors. Or in an emergen
cy."

  "The fuckin' boat turnin' over in a hurricane and breakin' the damn mast off ain't enough of an emergency?" He fell backwards as the boat pitched in the erratic seas.

  "She said Harry was gonna do somethin' like jury-rig another mast, after he got through cuttin' all them wires and stuff he was workin' on when you got in the argument with him."

  "Jury-rig? Sounds like a damn lawyer, don't it?"

  "Well, that's what she said."

  "Shut up and help lift this damn raft off my leg."

  She grabbed the rain-slicked fiberglass canister and heaved, timing her effort to the boat's next roll. He pulled his leg free, and she let the raft drop onto the cockpit seat.

  "Maybe you should use them cutters he had," she said, watching him probe his leg with his fingers. "You okay?"

  "May be broke," he said. "Hurts like a sonofabitch. What cutters?"

  "Them big ones. The ones he used on them wires that held the mast on."

  "Use 'em for what? What the hell're you tryin' to say?"

  "Cut them little wires right there." She pointed at the two tiers of the lifelines. "Then you wouldn't have to lift the raft over 'em. We could just wait for the boat to roll thataway and kinda scoot the life raft over the edge, like."

  He was quiet for a moment, rubbing his leg. He flexed the knee, grimacing.

  "What d'ya think?" she asked.

  "It don't seem to be broke."

  "That's good. I meant about the cutters, though."

  "That ain't a half-bad idea. Reckon we might oughta give 'er a try. You know where they're at?"

  "Yeah. They're under that lid you're a-settin' on. Can you move your ass over a coupla feet?"

  He shifted himself with a groan, and she opened the locker, finding the cable cutters on top of a heap of canvas and rope.

  "Think you can do it?" he asked. "I ain't sure I can keep from slidin' overboard, with this damn leg."

  "Thought you said it weren't broke."

  "Ain't broke, but it's some kinda fucked up. Can you cut them wires, like you was sayin'? Then we can both push the raft over."

  "Shit, I reckon," she said, and braced herself against the side of the cockpit where she could get the jaws of the cutters around the lifeline wire. She cut the top one, surprised at how little force it took. "That's damn amazin'," she said, positioning the jaws around the second wire.

  A few minutes later, they wrestled the canister into position, waiting for the boat to roll. At the low point, they both pushed and the canister slipped into the water, floating away from the boat.

  "Thought it was s'pose to blow up automatic," she said.

  "Gotta yank this here rope," he said, grasping the tether with both hands and giving it a sharp jerk.

  There was a pop and a hiss, and the two halves of the fiberglass canister separated, sinking below the frothy surface of the water as the raft inflated before their eyes.

  "Like magic," she said, grinning. "How'd you know to do that?"

  "Read the fuckin' directions on the side of the case."

  "Bullshit. If you read directions on stuff, we wouldn't be in this mess."

  "There was pictures," he said. "Like a comic book. You should pay more attention to what the fuck's goin' on around you, ya stupid bitch. There's more to gettin' by in this here world than book-learnin'."

  They watched the raft bobbing at the end of its tether, whipping around in the wind.

  "Them pictures tell you what to do next?" she asked.

  "Yeah. You go on below and get our shit together. Grab my backpack and whatever you think you gonna want."

  "Then what?"

  "Then we reel this sucker in and climb aboard. Once we're in, we cut this here rope and off we go."

  "And we gonna just sit there, floatin' around, and wait for somebody to find us?"

  "Beats settin' here and goin' down with this piece of shit, don't it?"

  "I reckon. I need to gather up food? And water?"

  "Naw. That's all part of the stuff in the raft. Just your personal shit; that's all you need."

  "I'm pretty worried, Dick." Mary Samuels chewed her lip as she watched the 11 o'clock news. She'd waited up to catch the latest on Hurricane Ian, which was hammering Bermuda.

  "Your mom and dad have plenty of experience offshore. This isn't their first storm, and this time, they've got some help, too. It's about time they took some crew along."

  "But I haven't heard from them; the last email was 15 hours ago."

  "Could be any number of reasons for that. I imagine things are pretty wild aboard Blue Wing. At least they're on the west side of the eye, from the last position."

  "What's that got to do with anything?"

  "It puts 'em in what's called the navigable semicircle; that's the weaker side of the storm. On the east side, the forward motion of the storm increases the apparent wind strength, but on the west side, it decreases by the amount of the storm's forward motion, and the worst weather will be moving away from them."

  "Okay, but I'm still worried."

  "I understand. They aren't far from Bermuda, though. If they're in trouble, they'll pop their EPIRB, and the search and rescue people won't be long getting to them."

  "Even in that?" She had muted the sound, but her eyes were fixed on the screen.

  A man in rain gear held a microphone as he huddled behind the corner of a building, his free hand pulling the hood of his parka down to shield his face as he spoke. The camera swung to take in monstrous waves that were crashing over a seawall, the wreckage of several yachts mute evidence of the devastation being visited upon the harbor at Hamilton, Bermuda.

  "Yeah, they'll try. Gotta hand it to those Coast Guard people. They go out in unbelievable conditions."

  "I feel so helpless; I just keep picturing what it must be like on the boat when it's like that in the harbor."

  "You've been out in bad weather; you know it always looks worse seeing it on TV, especially from land, when those news morons are dramatizing everything. Blue Wing's meant for offshore sailing; she's not like these modern, lightweight toys."

  "I know, but the email ... "

  "Their radio could have gotten drenched."

  "They've got the satellite phone; they know I worry. Do you think I should call the Coast Guard?"

  "That's up to you, Mary. If that's what it takes to put your mind at ease, then you should."

  "But you don't think so, do you?"

  "Well, I've been there, kinda. I guess I think it's a little early to push the panic button. I can imagine that they're tired and cold and the time's gotten away from them. It happened to me on the last Marion to Bermuda race I sailed, remember?"

  "Yes, but when I called, you answered the satellite phone."

  "You tried calling them?"

  "Yes, several times."

  "No answer?"

  "No. I left a message. Does the weather affect satellite phones?"

  "It can; they've got to have a clear line of sight. Probably more vulnerable than your dad's HF ham radio email system."

  She thought about that. "Doesn't GPS use satellites?"

  "Yes," Dick said, "and sometimes it won't work in conditions like that. It's more robust most of the time, because there are more satellites. It's not quite as prone to signal loss as the phones."

  She was silent for several seconds. "You're probably right. I just worry about two 70-year-olds out there on the ocean in a hurricane. I'll give it a few more hours, but if I don't hear from them by the 24-hour mark, I'm calling the Coast Guard."

  "I think that's reasonable; they might not notice they're a few hours late calling, but after a full 24, they'll realize they missed their check-in with you."

  2

  Connie sat up in her sea berth, startled. Disoriented from her abrupt awakening, she blinked and rubbed her eyes. The motion of the boat threw her against the lee cloth, which kept her from falling out of the berth as the boat rolled. She shook her head, groggy from exhaustion, as she tried to clear her
vision. Then she noticed the silence. She wasn't seeing well, and she couldn't hear. Fully awake, she knew from the jerky motion of the boat that they were still in the grip of Hurricane Ian.

  Her vision clearing by the moment, she swiveled in the berth until she could get her legs past the end of the lee cloth. With her feet braced on the cabin sole, she sat for a few seconds, noticing that her hearing was returning. She reached to the shelf behind her and found her flashlight, using it to illuminate the clock on the bulkhead across from her. She'd been asleep less than an hour.

  She struggled to her feet against the rolling of the boat, smelling acrid smoke as she shuffled aft past the chart table. She was about to mount the companionway ladder when one of the louvered doors of the companionway swung open, revealing a worried-looking Paul.

  "What's going on?" she yelled, conscious now of the howling wind.

  Before Paul answered, there was a brilliant flash of lightning with a simultaneous crash of thunder.

  "That was close, wasn't it?" she asked, as Paul poked his head below.

  "Not as close as the last one. I'm still mostly blind from the flash. I think it struck the mast. It woke you up?"

  "Something did. I couldn't see or hear for a few seconds after I opened my eyes."

  "My ears are still ringing, too," he said.

  "You smell that?" she asked.

  He leaned in farther and sniffed. "Electrical fire," he said. "Can you check it out? I'd better get back behind the helm."

  "Sure," she said. "Close the door."

  Her nose led her to the electrical panel over the chart table. She switched on the overhead light, but nothing happened. She turned on the flashlight again and saw wisps of smoke coming from behind the panel. Turning the latches that held the panel closed, she folded it down on its hinges, exposing the wiring behind it. There were burn marks from electrical arcs in several places, but no flames. The pungent odor dissipated in seconds once the panel was open.