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

  A Blast to Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller

  The 3rd 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 – Maine to New York

  Diamantista II's Route – New York to Norfolk

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Mailing List

  A Note to the Reader

  About the Author

  Other Books by C.L.R. Dougherty

  Excerpt from Storm Sail, the 4th Connie Barrera Thriller

  Chapter 1 - Storm Sail

  Chapter 2 - Storm Sail

  Chapter 3 - Storm Sail

  Prologue

  A person unaccustomed to the environment would have gagged on the heavy smoke in the dark, low-ceilinged room. Two men stared at one another through the haze with the febrile eyes of zealots as they sipped their glasses of steaming tea.

  "It is in place," the younger one said, after he put his glass down on the rough table.

  "And the yacht?" the older man asked, scratching his chin as he looked at a photograph.

  "Yes, as we planned." The younger man nodded, watching his companion stroking his long, black beard.

  "The battery?"

  "What about the battery?" The younger man frowned and lifted his glass, taking a sip. He was annoyed by the questions.

  "It will last how long?"

  "Years, until the device is armed. After that, at least seven days, perhaps longer, depending on the ambient temperature."

  "And this arming mechanism, it is well hidden?"

  "It is embedded in the structure, completely sealed. No one will know it is there."

  "And how will it be armed, if it is inaccessible?"

  "It is beneath a thick layer of glass-fibre. Two wires connect to a magnetic reed switch that is a few millimeters beneath the surface of the glass-fibre. Passing a common magnet over the surface will close the switch. The arming circuitry will transmit a radio signal which will arm the device. It only needs to be within several hundred meters." The younger man smirked; he knew this was incomprehensible to the older man.

  "And to disarm it, should we need to do so?"

  "Another pass with the magnet, at least one minute after it is armed. That will disarm it."

  "What about triggering it after it is armed?"

  "Also done by short-range radio waves, but on a different frequency."

  The older man nodded. He picked up his tea and sipped it, thinking. "The device —20 kilotons? Like the evil ones dropped on the Japanese?"

  "Yes. That is correct."

  "They will think September 11 was like nothing. It is too bad that we could not make this happen on May 2," the older man said.

  "The infidels don't know May 2. Sheik Osama would have been happy to have it happen on their Independence Day," the young man said. "The death toll will be much greater."

  "Insha’Allah," the older man said. He finished his tea and waited, saying nothing.

  After a while, the younger man nodded and stood up. He stooped as he stepped through the low doorway and went out into the clammy night.

  1

  “That'll be 15 bucks, skipper," the cabbie said, interrupting Paul's thoughts.

  He looked up and realized they were parked in the gravel area just inside the gates of the boatyard.

  "Sorry," Paul said, as he reached in his pocket. "I wasn't very good company; I'm a little stressed."

  He handed the man a twenty. "Keep it," he said, waving away the change the man offered him.

  "Thanks, cap'n. Hope things get better for you."

  "Thanks," Paul said, as he climbed out and closed the door.

  He noticed that there was no activity among the boats as he wove his way around and under them, walking to the back row where Diamantista II was stored. His frustration had been building since he and Connie had arrived at the boatyard this morning; the yard's work on Diamantista II was behind schedule. He had been ready for a set-to with the yard manager, but Connie had pulled rank on him.

  "You go turn in the rental car; I'll handle this," she had said, shooing him away.

  Paul and Connie had planned to cruise from Maine down to the Chesapeake to be sure everything was as it should be before they set off for the islands with the new boat. They had hoped to pick up a few charters while they were at it.

  The optimum departure window from the northern U.S. for the Caribbean was in early November, after hurricane season wound down and before the winter storms in the North Atlantic set in. Four months had seemed like plenty of time, but that was before they had gotten a look at the boat this morning.

  He heard the distinctive voice of Stan Rogers played at top volume from cheap speakers. Several live male voices joined in the chorus of Barrett's Privateers. As he stepped out of the forest of jack stands supporting the sailboats, he was surprised at the frenzied activity that centered on Diamantista II.

  The music came from a big, paint-spattered boom box on her foredeck, and several men were hard at work, re-bedding the chainplates. There were several more men engaged in rigging the mainmast and the mizzenmast, which were resting on sawhorses in the shadow of Diamantista II's hull. Another crew in hazmat suits was sanding the bottom of the boat in preparation for applying a fresh coat of antifouling paint.

  As he stood wondering what happened, Connie appeared on deck, clad in her skimpiest day-glow orange bikini — the one that she wouldn't wear when anyone but Paul was aboard. She balanced a tray of canned soft drinks in one hand and sashayed around the deck. Work stopped as the men noticed her.

  When she had served the crew working on deck, she swung a lithe, tanned leg over the lifelines and stepped onto the ladder that was lashed to the rail, making her way to the ground. The men's appreciation was palpable as they watched her negotiate the ladder, still balancing the tray on her right hand. After the men working on the masts had cold drinks in hand, she set the tray down and stood chatting with them.

  Paul forced himself to relax his clenched jaws and willed his blood pressure to return to normal. She hadn't seen him yet, so he stepped back into the shadows, not wanting to confront her until h
is anger was in check. He leaned back against the keel of one of the boats, out of sight, as he fought to control his emotions. He wasn't a jealous man, and he knew that he was conservative in his views. They had talked about all that; part of it was the age difference, and part of it was the difference in their backgrounds. Still, he was stunned at Connie's behavior; he knew how she felt about men's unwelcome glances.

  He felt a light touch on his shoulder and jumped, hitting his head on the bottom of the boat.

  "Sorry," Connie said. "I didn't mean to startle you."

  He rubbed his head and fought for composure. "I feel like a voyeur, or something. Should I go away and come back later?"

  "Later?"

  "Like, after the floor show?"

  "Don't be that way, Paul," she said. "A girl's got to use what works."

  "I'm trying not to. Could you maybe put on some clothes? I feel like, I don't know ... "

  "Come on out. Grab a soda and let me introduce you to the guys. I'm sorry if I've upset you, but if you make a big deal out of my being in the bikini, you'll make things worse."

  "How, Connie? I don't under — "

  "I know, but trust me. Right now, I'm just a girl who was getting some sun and enjoying the unseasonably warm day while I got to work on re-bedding my chainplates. If I start acting like I'm guilty of something, it'll send all the wrong signals."

  "I think you've already — "

  "Don't, Paul. This isn't the time. We'll settle this later. I love you; I worried that this would upset you, but we've got a business to run."

  "What?"

  "Elaine called while you were gone. We've got a charter in five days."

  "We can't be ready," Paul said.

  "We'll launch day after tomorrow."

  "How? Just because you put on the bikini?"

  "No. Because I also offered a $15,000 bonus to the yard. We're booked for a $30,000 charter, but the pickup is in Manhattan on the evening of the third."

  "Of July?"

  "Yes."

  "That's six days from now, Connie."

  "I know. They'll finish up the day after tomorrow. We're scheduled to launch late that afternoon. That gives us three days to get to the 79th Street Boat Basin. I've got a slip booked for the afternoon of the third, and the guests come aboard after dinner."

  "Where are we going, then?"

  "They want to watch the festivities from the harbor on the Fourth and then cruise Long Island Sound. Probably up to Boston, maybe back up here. It's perfect; we get our shakedown cruise and get it paid for, too."

  Paul stood in silence, processing what she had said.

  "Come on; let's introduce you around," she said, tugging on the sleeve of his polo shirt.

  "I'm not sure I — "

  "Damn it! I need you to walk around with your arm around me like you love me, Paul. I want those guys to know I'm taken, okay?"

  Paul nodded, doubt on his face, but he accepted the hug she offered. After a moment in her arms, he forgot his anger. "Okay, let's go."

  Amal scratched his close-cropped beard as he dawdled over his late breakfast. Through the window next to his table he had a clear view of the docks at the 79th Street Boat Basin. Part of New York City's park system, this marina was on the waterfront on Manhattan's West Side, just to the west of Central Park. It was the ideal spot for ground zero, he reflected. Not that he had anything to do with the choice of the bomb's location. They didn't even trust him with the name of the vessel that would be the delivery system. That did not bother him; he understood the need to compartmentalize such information. He wondered if the yacht carrying the warhead was already in place. It could be any of the gleaming toys tied to the docks below him.

  He didn't have the trigger yet. That would come on the morning of the Fourth of July; it was arranged. He would be summoned to one of the midtown hotels to pick up a package for delivery to the marina office. Traffic should be light on the morning of the holiday; he wondered if there would be tourists trying to flag him down. Cabs might be scarce. From habit, he considered how much money he could make by exploiting that opportunity. Then he caught himself and laughed. Making money wouldn't matter after noon on the Fourth of July.

  He had been encouraged to reconnoiter the site of his coming martyrdom. They pretended that this was not a suicide mission, but he knew better. Three hours, they had told him. He would have three hours from the time he triggered the device before it obliterated Manhattan. He could trigger it from anywhere within a half-mile radius of the marina. He doubted that three hours would allow him to get far enough away to escape the effects of the nuclear detonation. It didn't matter; he was ready to make his entry into the garden of paradise. He would share in its delights with his father and his brothers who had gone before him, valiant warriors fallen in the service of Allah.

  He wondered at the number of yachts that sat idle in the marina, awaiting the pleasure of the rich infidels with their whores. He didn't presume to understand Allah's forbearance in allowing these unbelieving scum to live so well. They flouted every precept of Sharia, encouraging their women to go about naked, or nearly so. He had been sickened by what he had seen in this great cesspool of a city. These people who used the yachts were among the worst of the worst, so it was fitting that the cleansing would begin here, in the heart of their nest.

  "I'm sorry, Paul, but I just don't get it," Connie said. They were in their room at the bed and breakfast, a short walk from the boatyard. She stood at the sink, rubbing moisturizer into her skin. The air here was much drier than what she was accustomed to in the islands. "You know I'm yours; I'm not interested in those men."

  Paul watched her and considered what she said. His initial anger had cooled as they went about preparing Diamantista II for launching. By the time they had stopped in at the local greasy spoon for dinner, he felt only a dull ache at the memory of Connie's flaunting her body before the yard crew. Her actions had advanced the launch schedule; there wasn't a man in the yard who wasn't fighting for the opportunity to work on Diamantista II.

  "I know that," he said. "It's not that at all."

  "Then what?" she asked.

  "I know how you feel about men staring at you."

  "So?" She turned to face him, her brow wrinkled as she tried to put herself in his position.

  "So why put yourself on display, if you hate it so much?"

  "Men are such easy marks," she said. "They're so driven by their silly fantasies. It makes me feel like I'm getting even, sort of."

  "Getting even? How?"

  "They lust after every woman they see; it really pisses me off."

  "I'm confused." Paul looked down at the floor, shaking his head. "If their reaction irritates you, why do you lead them on like that?"

  "A woman's appeal to men is like money in the bank. It's not my fault that they're stupid enough to run after me with their tongues hanging out, falling over each other hoping I'll smile at them. Don't tell me it didn't work, either. We're going to launch early."

  Paul looked crestfallen at that. Elbows on his knees, he put his face in his hands for a moment. He looked up at Connie and shook his head.

  "What, Paul? Say what you think; I can't read your mind, damn it."

  "That all sounds so cynical, and ... "

  Connie frowned, waiting. After several seconds of silence, she prompted him. "And what?"

  "I was going to say cheap, but I — "

  "Cheap!" She slapped him so hard that her palm stung, and then she burst into tears, her flash of anger quickly changing to frustration and then to pain at the grief she felt. She swallowed a sob and focused on him. Her heart melted at the vulnerability written on his handsome, weather-beaten features. He sat there, stunned, a hand to his cheek where the imprint of her palm was a dark red against his walnut-tanned skin.

  "Oh, Paul," she sighed. "God, I'm so sorry. Me and my temper. I knew it would upset you. Can you forgive me?"

  "Nothing to forgive. It's my problem; I just have to deal with that
part of you. It's just a small bit of the whole package that I've fallen for."

  He held out his arms, and she settled herself on his lap, leaning her forehead against his.

  2

  Bill O'Brien had lost count of the number of times that he had watched the YouTube clip. In a less perilous situation, he might have found humor in the irony of his plight. He was at the heart of the intelligence gathering operation that kept the U.S. safe from acts of terrorism, and he was getting more information from YouTube than from anywhere else.

  When he watched the video the first time, he had initiated a search through the databases maintained by the FBI's Counterterrorism Division, where he ran the Counterterrorism Analysis Section within the Analysis Branch. As he studied the resulting report, he became increasingly convinced that the threat made by the masked terrorist who claimed to speak for ISIS might be credible. The man had spoken flawless English with an American accent, and he had warned that a major East Coast city would be obliterated by a nuclear weapon on a major holiday in July. O'Brien and all the other analysts had concluded that meant July 4th, which was three days away.

  O'Brien's team had been unable to find any evidence that the jihadist's threat was real, but that didn't mean it could be ignored. The obvious targets were in the Boston-Washington corridor, but there were plenty of other places to worry about. With over half of the U.S. population living within 50 miles of the East Coast, the detonation of even a small nuclear weapon anywhere along the coast would be devastating.