The Drug Runners

Note

ONE

00:05 am, Thursday, September 19

Coast Guard Station Headquarters, Deepwater Harbour, Antigua

The distress call came in at just after midnight. It was taken by Melford, one of two crew members on duty in the comm room that night. He swallowed a bite of an oatmeal and raisin cookie and took a large gulp of lukewarm coffee as he picked up the radio handset. The frantic message was barely audible. Spoken by a male voice with a British accent, it was panic-stricken and urgent. A man on the edge of losing his cool. Melford hurriedly took down important details. The name of the sailing yacht, Atratus, reported to be approximately fifteen nautical miles southwest of Sugar Reef Bay.

Melford paged a launch request to the English Harbour crew who were based out of a small station on the south coast of Antigua. It was one of three locations manned by the Coast Guard, the maritime branch of the Antigua and Barbuda Defence Force.

Returning to the radio handset, Melford asked the captain of the Atratus if he had a DSC radio linked to his navigation equipment.

‘No.’ The crackled reply was just audible.

Melford frowned. A DSC, or digital selective calling radio, was used to transmit a distress signal to the Coast Guard and other ships within range. When connected to the onboard GPS, it could also send the location of the vessel in distress. If the search and rescue team had this information, they knew exactly where they were headed. Without it, guesswork, search patterns and luck were required.

‘Problems… electrics on board,’ came a muffled voice through a roar of white noise and static.

‘I’m alerting the lifeboat crew now,’ Melford said into the handset. ‘What sea survival equipment do you have onboard, over?’

He waited for a reply. None came. He tried again.

‘Mayday Atratus, do you have a life raft on board, over?’

Radio silence from the yacht.

‘Mayday Atratus, this is the Antigua Coast Guard. Do you read, over?’

Melford took a deep breath as he realised he’d lost radio contact with the distraught captain. He glanced at the pair of monitors on the desk in front of him. The one on the left contained radar images; smatterings of coloured dots and blurred shapes against a dark blue background. On the other screen was an electronic chart display of the coastline. A boat-shaped symbol represented every significant vessel within range of the Coast Guard station. The short range coastal tracking system known as the AIS, or automatic identification system, was used extensively in the maritime world for the exchange of navigational information between AIS-equipped receivers, both on and offshore. By clicking on a symbol, information such as the name of the ship it represented, its course and speed, and call sign, could be obtained. But in order to transmit this information, a dedicated VHF transponder was required. As far as Melford could see, the Atratus was either out of range of the Coast Guard station or did not have a functioning transponder. He spoke into the handset once more.

‘Mayday Atratus, this is the Antigua Coast Guard. Do you read me?’

There was no response. Not the faintest hiss or a crackle. It was clear the Atratus had suffered some kind of electrical failure and had lost all means of communication. Or the vessel had capsized and was sinking. Or the captain had become incapacitated in some way. Or had been thrown overboard by a giant wave.

As sheets of rain lashed angrily against the shuttered windows of the Coast Guard station, Melford glanced uneasily at a third monitor on the desk which displayed current weather information. Another complication. Outside, a violent storm raged. According to the latest charts, radar images and data alerts, a force ten gale with winds of up to sixty miles an hour was battering the south of the Caribbean island and surrounding area. Somewhere out there in the darkness of the night, the sailing boat Atratus was being tossed and buffeted mercilessly by giant, rolling waves in a blinding mist of driving rain, sea spray and dense white streaks of foam.

The AIS screen showed that there were no other boats in the vicinity of the last reported position of the Atratus. It was hardly surprising. The weather forecast and subsequent warnings had been clear and accurate. A storm was approaching. It was the middle of the hurricane season. Only a foolhardy sailor would leave the safety of harbour in a storm of this intensity. The closest ship to the Atratus was a research and survey vessel sailing under a German flag at least thirty nautical miles away. With a cruising speed of just over three knots, it would take the ship until lunchtime to reach the Atratus. Even so, Melford put out the call, just in case.

‘All stations, all stations, all stations, this is the Antigua Coast Guard, Antigua Coast Guard, Antigua Coast Guard. Report received of a fifty-seven foot white vessel Atratus, taking on water. Last reported position fifteen nautical miles southwest of Sugar Reef Bay. All mariners requested to keep a sharp lookout. Assist if possible.’

The telephone rang. Melford reached across the desk and picked it up. He knew who was calling.

‘Max,’ he said.

‘English Harbour,’ the coxswain of the rescue boat replied briskly.

Brushing cookie crumbs off the desk, Melford relayed the details.

‘Yeah, I just took a Mayday from the captain of a fifty-seven foot sailing vessel, the Atratus, last reported fifteen miles southwest of Sugar Reef Bay.’

‘What’s he doing out in that storm?’ There was a note of disbelief in Max’s voice.

‘Good question. He’s reportedly taking on water and requesting immediate assistance.’

‘How many on board?’

‘Just him apparently.’

‘Is he wearing a lifejacket?’

‘I don’t know. I lost comms with him minutes after he put out the call. Maybe his electrics are out, or maybe he capsized, I’ve no idea, but I’ve told you everything I know.’

‘Did you get any information on injuries? Medical needs?’

‘No, like I said, the comms went down before I had chance.’

‘Any other vessels nearby?’

‘None close enough to offer immediate assistance.’

‘Okay, thanks Mel. I’ll see if I can make contact once we’re on our way.’

‘Take care out there bro,’ Melford said as they hung up. He felt helpless. Although he was the mission coordinator and would stay in touch from the comm room, the rest of the search, rescue and recovery operation was down to the five-strong English Harbour crew who, within less than fifteen minutes, were launching their response boat, an imposing looking thirty-eight foot vessel with an aluminium hull, an enclosed cabin and three powerful outboard engines.

‘Did the yacht send a distress alert?’ Linroy, one of the crew, shouted to Max at the helm. Cupping his hand behind his ear, Max motioned to Linroy to repeat the question. The powerful roar of the engines, combined with the driving rain and noise of the wind, was almost deafening as the boat rocked and lurched in the dark water of the harbour.

‘Was there a distress alert?’ Linroy yelled. He stepped into the small cabin and closed the door at the rear, shutting out the storm. Joining Max and the other three crew members, he checked his lifejacket was secure before he took a seat and fastened his safety belt. Colin, the navigator, was already punching buttons on the electronic chart plotter and scribbling various pencil marks on a paper chart of the coastline. He frowned in concentration as he studied the search pattern they would adopt to locate the Atratus.

Alvin, seated at the radar display, was keying in data for the search and rescue mission and tuning out interference from the rain and storm clutter. Shawn, the mechanic, was in charge of the engines and other mechanical components on board. It was down to him to ensure everything functioned properly while they were at sea.

‘No distress alert according to Melford,’ Max replied as he engaged the throttles and skilfully began manoeuvring the lifeboat through the harbour. He held the wheel firmly as the boat was buffeted by the waves. Rubber wipers flapped back and forth across the windshield in a vain attempt to keep up with the relentless rain. A red light illuminated the area inside the cabin to protect the night vision of the crew. The glare from the radar display and the other electronic screens, the chart plotter and the GPS, were tilted away from Max to enable him to pick out objects on the darkened horizon as clearly as possible. In addition, Colin had a pair of night vision binoculars beside him.

As they advanced through the channel, leaving the lights and safety of the harbour behind, they entered the wide open sea, where the waves became taller and rougher. Passing the final set of channel markers, with their red and green lights blinking rhythmically, the crew of the rescue boat were engulfed in darkness. The moon and stars were obscured by thick, angry storm clouds, churning and boiling in the night sky overhead. The stark glare of their own navigation lights reflected on the white crests of the waves, as the hull of the boat pitched violently over the swells and plunged hard into the troughs.

‘Steer two-one-zero magnetic and maintain course,’ Colin said, simultaneously studying the chart plotter and the paper chart in front of him. ‘What’s the name of the vessel again?’

‘Atratus,’ Max replied.

‘When we reach the last known position of the Atratus, we’ll start an expanding square search.’

Max nodded. He picked up a radio handset to his left and relayed a brief message to Melford detailing their current position. He confirmed they were en route to the last known position of the Atratus where they would begin the search. He gave Melford the names of the crew on board before asking if there had been any further radio contact from the Atratus. From the Coast Guard station at Deepwater Harbour, Melford acknowledged the message and informed them that he had received nothing more from the yacht.

‘I’ll see if I can get any response,’ Max said.

Remaining on VHF channel 16, the marine international distress frequency, Max attempted to contact the Atratus, prefixing the name of the yacht with the word Mayday. Ten seconds turned to thirty, then sixty, but there was no reply. Max tried again. He knew that during a search and rescue mission like this one, the coxswain, or another member of the lifeboat crew, would endeavour to communicate with the vessel in distress, initially on channel 16. If contact was made, the lifeboat coxswain would inform the captain that help was on the way, with an estimated time of arrival. He, or she, could also ask for additional information from the captain, such as where the vessel was sailing from and where it was going, along with regular updates on the nature of the emergency. If the vessel in distress was still manoeuvrable, the coxswain could give the captain a course to steer in order to guide the two boats towards each other. Working with the position and speed of the vessel in distress, and the wind and the tide, the rescue boat could then determine a point at which the course of the vessel could be intercepted.

Without radio contact with the Atratus, however, this wasn’t possible. Max and the rest of the crew had only the last known position of the yacht and the search pattern calculated by Colin in order to try to locate it. The atmosphere in the red glow of the small cabin was tense, although the crew remained calm and composed. As they peered anxiously into the inky black of the night, through the sheets of horizontal rain which glistened in the beam of the searchlights, Shawn voiced what they were all thinking.

‘What crazy idiot sets out on a sailboat in a storm like this? The weather warnings have been all over the news for days.’

‘There’s always someone,’ Linroy said, gripping the armrest of his seat as the boat lurched violently to the port side. ‘You know my rule, never leave a harbour to look for a harbour. This is one of the worst storms we’ve been out in for months.’

‘Turn to starboard, heading two-two-zero magnetic,’ Colin said to Max. The coxswain repeated the new heading back to the navigator as he turned the wheel, changing course as directed.

‘This ain’t gon’ be an easy one.’ Linroy spoke again.

‘Maybe he’ll send up some flares,’ Max said, wrestling with the wheel in an effort to stay on course as the boat flopped and bounced over the waves.

‘Let’s hope,’ Linroy replied. Apart from the noise of the engines and the storm, silence resumed in the cabin as the five crew members prepared themselves for the mission ahead. According to Colin, at their current speed it would take them around twenty-five minutes to reach the last known position of the Atratus. He regularly checked the compass heading and a stopwatch, cross-referencing their position on the paper chart with the one displayed on the chart plotter. In addition, he had programmed the approximate coordinates of the last known position of the Atratus into the GPS. After almost thirty minutes from leaving English Harbour, they reached the last known location of the yacht.

‘This is it,’ Colin said, glancing ahead before returning to the chart. ‘Fifteen nautical miles southwest of Sugar Reef Bay. We’ll start the search pattern. Max, take up a westerly heading turning five-zero degrees to starboard. New heading two-seven-zero magnetic.’

‘Turning five-zero degrees to starboard heading two-seven-zero magnetic,’ Max repeated as he began turning the wheel. The rescue boat slowly responded. It was buffeted by the waves as they took up their new heading with every crew member scanning the horizon intently through the darkness. Colin radioed to Melford informing him that they had arrived at the search area, that there was nothing seen and they were commencing the search. He also gave Melford an update on the wind and the tide, the sea state and their forward visibility, which was poor. There was a short acknowledgement from Melford before the radio fell silent again. After a few minutes, Colin checked his stopwatch and gave Max a new heading, turning the rescue boat ninety degrees to starboard. Soon they were tracking in a northerly direction with the wind behind them.

The expanding square search, as it was known, was conducted by carrying out a series of timed legs from a defined search point, in this case, the last reported position of the yacht Atratus. Each leg increased in length after every other turn. At the end of each leg the rescue boat turned ninety degrees to starboard, keeping speed and course headings constant. The track spacing of each leg equalled the length of the first leg of the search. With Colin announcing new headings every few minutes, the search area expanded, mile by mile. For the westerly and northerly headings, the strong, gusting wind was behind them. The easterly and southerly headings were into wind and took considerably longer. The waves tossed the rescue boat like a child’s toy in a bathtub and the rain lashed angrily against the hull.

‘I’m seeing nothing so far,’ Shawn said to nobody in particular.

‘Me neither,’ Linroy added grimly. ‘Alvin, you getting anything on radar?’

‘No.’ Alvin shook his head without taking his eyes off the screen. ‘But I got a lot of clutter with this storm.’ Although the onboard radar was used primarily as an aid to navigation, during search and rescue missions it could be used to locate vessels in distress such as the Atratus.

Colin gave Max a new heading to steer before picking up the radio handset and checking in with Melford. He confirmed their current position and heading, which coincided with what Melford was looking at on the monitor in front of him.

‘There’s still no sign of the casualty.’ Colin concluded his radio communication and replaced the handset in its cradle.

‘Wait a sec, what’s that ahead?’ Shawn said suddenly, leaning into the aisle from his second row seat. ‘It looks like a light.’

‘Where?’ Linroy asked, following Shawn’s gaze. He picked up the night vision binoculars and scanned the horizon.

‘Straight ahead,’ Shawn replied. ‘It’s maybe a mile or so away.’

‘I see it too,’ Max said. ‘It’s an SOS signal: three short flashes followed by three long ones.’

‘There’s a blip on my screen but it’s hard to know exactly what it could be,’ Alvin said.

Colin punched more buttons on the GPS, enlarging the area of the Caribbean Sea immediately ahead of them.

‘If it’s the Atratus, it’s further west than we thought,’ he said, studying the chart.

As the sturdy response boat laboured valiantly across the rough sea and giant swells towards it, at times the light signal disappeared.

‘Maintain course,’ Colin said tensely. ‘Where’s the light gone?’

‘I think I have a visual,’ Max said.

Sure enough, as the beam of the powerful search lights from the lifeboat penetrated the haze of rain, the white hull of what looked like a sailing yacht bobbed into view before being engulfed by a giant wave and streaks of flying foam. As the wave swelled, the stricken yacht, listing precariously, reappeared. The enormous mast, half of which had broken off in the storm, was being dragged forlornly behind the yacht, along with the remains of shredded sails, attached and unfurled, hopelessly battered by the wind and waves. It had to be the Atratus.

Colin radioed a brief sit-rep to Melford, informing him they had a visual with a vessel fitting the description of the Atratus. With some relief, Melford acknowledged the message. It would be a few more minutes until they reached the yacht, however, and the crew released their safety belts and began making preparations for the rescue. There was an air of tension on board heightened by the lack of comms with the casualty, fuelling the anticipation of not knowing what they were about to encounter. Colin made a final attempt at calling the Atratus on the radio but there was no reply. As they came closer to the yacht, Max pulled back the throttle levers.

‘I’ll get as near as I can,’ he said, ‘but with the mast broken and collapsed over the port side of the yacht it’s only gonna be possible to approach from the starboard side.’

‘We can work with that,’ Shawn replied. ‘Apart from the damaged mast and sails, the boat looks to be holding up pretty well.’

‘Those fancy sailing yachts have sturdy hulls,’ Linroy remarked. ‘They’re built to be ocean-going.’ He picked up a handheld radio and slid it into one of the pockets on his cargo pants. If he boarded the Atratus, he’d need to maintain comms with both the Coast Guard station and the rescue boat.

‘Signs of life,’ Colin said suddenly. ‘There’s a man at the stern.’

‘I see him,’ Linroy said.

As Max manoeuvred the lifeboat closer to the Atratus a bead of sweat trickled down the side of his forehead. He looked at the pattern and pitch of the waves in relation to the yacht, which would determine how he would bring the rescue boat alongside. It would make it easier if he could communicate with the captain to explain the plan and invite him to cooperate with them, but without comms, it wasn’t possible.

‘I’m going out on deck,’ Linroy said. As he opened the door to the rear of the cabin, he stepped into a swirling mist of sea spray and rain. Alvin, pulling his safety helmet firmly down on his head, was close behind.

With one hand on the throttle levers and the other on the wheel, Max battled with the waves as he piloted the response boat closer still to the Atratus. The swells tossed the two vessels close together and then apart as Max attempted to move alongside the yacht without colliding with it. They could see the captain on board clearly now. He was soaked through and hanging onto the wheel in the cockpit at the stern. The canvas of the rigid bimini above him was ripped to shreds and he was exposed to the full force of the howling wind and sweeping bands of rain. The plan was to manoeuvre the rescue boat alongside the Atratus, close enough to put Linroy and Alvin on board. Providing the yacht hadn’t suffered too much damage and the hull was still intact, they would attach a tow rope and bring the vessel safely back to harbour. It would be a dangerous mission.

Holding firmly to the side of the rescue boat, Linroy and Alvin, already soaked through, waited on deck as Max skilfully piloted the boat as close to the Atratus as he dared. They were joined by Shawn who would remain on the lifeboat ready to throw the towline to his crew mates. The engines roared and subsided over the noise of the wind and rain as Max manipulated the throttle control levers. The two boats rocked violently alongside each other. With every rise and fall and crash of the waves, the crew were showered with a salty, dank mist of sea spray.

Finally, a small amount of luck and a lull in the storm brought the two vessels close enough for Linroy to leap across to the deck of the Atratus. He was followed soon after by Alvin. While Linroy made for the captain of the yacht at the stern, Alvin headed to the bow to look at possibilities for connecting a towline. Even for the experienced crew members, the sea conditions made it a difficult and precarious task. Max radioed to Alvin informing him that he would attempt a couple of mock runs before Shawn threw the towline across, in order for them to get a feel of the strength of the wind and the swell height and direction of the waves as he manoeuvred alongside the yacht. Shawn, at the stern of the rescue boat, kept one eye on Max and the other on Alvin, who was inspecting the cleats on the Atratus.

Linroy had reached the captain of the yacht. Radioing on his handheld, he confirmed that the man was exhausted, dehydrated and suffering from mild hypothermia, but otherwise uninjured and not requiring immediate medical attention. The message was acknowledged by Melford, back at the Coast Guard station, who added an informal comment of encouragement to the crew to hang in there and stay safe.

‘Linroy, have you requested a tow, over?’ Colin asked from the lifeboat.

‘Yeah, he’s agreed. We’re all set,’ Linroy replied. The yacht Atratus was now the responsibility of the rescue crew.

Max wrestled with the rising swells as he commenced the first mock run for transferring the towline. Wrapped in a foil blanket, the pale-faced captain of the Atratus, who insisted on remaining at the helm with Linroy, was slumped on the floor of the cockpit. Exhausted, he leaned against the wood-slatted bench on the starboard side, swigging water from a plastic flask given to him by Linroy. As Max began the second dry run, Shawn and Alvin confirmed they were ready to set up the tow, Shawn from the stern of the rescue boat and Alvin at the bow of the yacht.

Completing the mock run, Max manoeuvred the rescue boat into position for what he hoped was the final time. The waves thrashed against the hulls of both boats and he focused on keeping them apart, but close enough for the towline to be successfully transferred to the Atratus. The thick rope was attached to a buoyant heaving line, which would be used to messenger the heavier towline across the water. Shawn, who had secured himself to the rescue boat to keep his balance, had carefully coiled the heaving line in preparation. He received a nod from Alvin and, as the two boats pitched towards each other, he hurled the line hard to the Atratus. It landed in the middle of the deck as a wave crashed over the side of the yacht. The crews on both vessels watched nervously as Alvin dived for the line. He caught it and held it tightly as the wave swept across the deck and the yacht lurched violently into a trough.

Steadying himself on his hands and knees and barely able to see through the mist of sea spray, Alvin fastened the tow rope as securely as he could to the cleats on the foredeck. When he was satisfied that the line was firmly attached, he signalled to the rest of the crew. Max, who had been maintaining the position of the rescue boat slightly ahead of the Atratus, gave a nod of acknowledgement and slowly opened the throttles. He powered tentatively ahead, taking up the slack in the towline, although the rolling waves prevented any degree of precision handling. In calmer seas, Max knew that to ensure the line didn’t come under immediate tension, the manoeuvre needed to be performed as slowly and smoothly as possible. But the towering waves smashing into the hulls of both vessels, and the strong, gusting winds, prevented them from having any hope of a fluid towing operation.

When the rescue boat was a little further ahead of the Atratus, Max pulled back the throttles in order to give Alvin and Shawn a chance to check the line before they began their perilous journey back to English Harbour. The length of the towline was determined by the distance between each wave, with the aim of ensuring that both boats were on the peaks and in the troughs at the same time. Shawn had lengthened the tow rope to keep the vessels further apart in the rough sea.

The storm had subsided a little but the wind remained strong and the driving rain reduced their forward visibility to no more than a few feet, the mist producing a glare in the powerful navigation lights. Although Alvin had attached the tow rope as securely as possible, there was a risk of the force of the line ripping the cleats out from the deck of the yacht. Max knew he had to limit the towing speed to no more than three or four knots. In addition, there was extra drag from the broken mast and sails trailing along the port side, causing the yacht to slew in one direction. It would be a long, slow and turbulent ride back to English Harbour.

Almost five hours later, the exhausted, windswept and sodden crews of the Atratus and the Coast Guard boat glimpsed the twinkling lights of Antigua in the distance. Max breathed a sigh of relief and felt the pull of the Atratus on the towline behind as it lurched over a wave. He was grateful to be nearing the safety of the harbour at last. It was still raining hard, although the swell from the giant waves and the strength of the wind was finally diminishing.

Dawn was breaking as they approached the welcoming glow of English Harbour, beyond which rose the darkened silhouette of the island’s rocky, undulating landscape. Max radioed to Melford to confirm they were entering the channel. The red and green lights of the floating markers blinked intermittently as they made their way into the harbour, red buoys on the starboard side of the channel, green buoys on the port side, although Max knew he could pilot the course in his sleep. The water was much calmer here and the harbour entrance was deep, wide and easy to navigate. The only real danger was the reef extending from Charlotte Point, on the south side. Favouring the opposite side of the channel, closer to Berkeley Point, Max kept an eye on the glimmering lights of a stone-coloured hotel high on the hill ahead of him, aligning them with a course in degrees magnetic on his compass.

As the boats crept into the harbour, Max slowed the speed of the rescue boat to two knots. The speed limit for all marine craft in the harbour was four knots, but he was conscious of the trailing remnants of the broken mast and torn sails and would need to manoeuvre with caution, giving a wide berth to any boats moored nearby. He radioed to Linroy and agreed they would pick up a mooring to which they would secure the yacht, before returning to shore. Linroy replaced his handheld radio into the pocket of his cargo pants and glanced down at the captain of the yacht. The man was still wrapped in the foil blanket and slumped on the deck, leaning awkwardly against the cockpit bench. His eyes were open now and he gazed straight ahead. Linroy checked his breathing; it was regular and his respiratory rate was normal. The man was still alive.

Looking back up, something caught Linroy’s eye. He frowned in puzzlement. In the steely grey light of dawn, he could just see inside the shadowy interior of the yacht through the open door leading to the companionway. On the port side a u-shaped bench in expensive cream leather surrounded a wooden-topped table. Secured to the bench with thick nautical rope was a row of large, blue plastic drums, perhaps seven or eight in total. On the table was a line of another four or five, Linroy couldn’t quite see the exact number. They were the same blue plastic, probably with a capacity of around fifteen US gallons, tied tightly together with the same thick rope. Whoever had secured the drums looked to have made a decent job of it. The knots had weathered a force ten gale at sea without a single one slipping. The ropes which secured the drums to the bench and table had also held fast.

Still frowning, Linroy stole another glance at the captain. He had given his first name as Oliver but had revealed nothing further, although perhaps that was not uncommon in the circumstances. Linroy considered the picture before him. Something felt wrong. For starters, severe warnings of the approaching storm had been in place for days. Experienced sailors and yachtsmen would have been aware of the ominous forecasts and changes in the weather. They would’ve hunkered down in the safety of a harbour until the storm had passed. Never leave a harbour to look for a harbour.

Oliver would have needed some kind of sailing experience to pilot a fifty-seven foot yacht singlehandedly out at sea. Why had he not heeded the stark weather cautions and taken note of the warning signs? Instead, he had chosen to brave the storm, risking his life and his expensive yacht, and now also the lives of his rescuers.

And that was the other thing. He was sailing alone. Fine, it wasn’t completely out of the ordinary, but the whole point of sailing around the Caribbean on yachts like this one was that it was a social pursuit, usually enjoyed by a group of people. The Atratus was a very nice, expensive yacht, probably worth well over half a million dollars. The sloop should’ve been drifting lazily around the islands, dropping into exclusive harbours for lobster dinners and boozy night stops. It certainly wasn’t made for ferrying around crude plastic drums tied together with industrial-grade rope in force ten conditions. It wasn’t a container ship. As Linroy contemplated what might be in the blue plastic drums, the faint sound of alarm bells began to go off in his head.

‘Where did you say you were sailing from again?’ Linroy asked, his eyes fixed on the rescue boat ahead.

‘Saint Lucia,’ Oliver replied, referring to one of the islands further south of Antigua.

‘That your point of departure?’

Oliver paused before responding.

‘No,’ he said shortly.

Linroy waited but Oliver remained silent.

‘What was your original point of departure?’ Linroy asked.

‘Port of Brighton.’ The reply was abrupt. Linroy knew the port was a small harbour in southwestern Trinidad. He gave it some thought.

‘Where were you headed?’ he asked.

‘Sugar Reef Bay,’ Oliver replied.

Sugar Reef Bay was a mile-long stretch of sugar crystal pink sand on the southeastern coast of Antigua, facing the Atlantic. Rising from the beach were tall palms and lush green hills. The bay was home to an exclusive enclave of multimillion dollar beach houses and luxury villas.

‘You got your own mooring there?’ Linroy asked curiously.

‘Yeah.’

‘You were almost home then.’

‘Yeah. Almost. Before I got caught in this blasted storm.’

‘You didn’t check the forecast before you set out?’

‘Sure. I thought I could make it before the storm hit.’ Oliver shivered and tugged the crumpled foil blanket tighter around him.

Linroy considered the route again: the point of departure Trinidad, just off the coast of Venezuela, to a private mooring in an exclusive bay in Antigua, via Saint Lucia. The fact that Oliver was sailing alone, risking life and limb and a rather nice boat in a violent storm. And the fact that the yacht was new, luxurious and — most of all — expensive. And the blue plastic drums. Something was very wrong with this picture.

Keeping half an eye on his dishevelled passenger, Linroy retrieved the handheld from his cargo pants and called the Coast Guard. Melford responded from Deepwater Harbour and Linroy relayed another message. He knew his fellow crew mates would hear and understand.

‘Yeah, Coast Guard, we’re in the harbour now. About to hit the mooring. We got anyone meeting us back on shore, over?’

There was a pause at the end of the line.

‘You need some assistance?’

‘Yeah. Might be a good idea.’

‘No problem. I’ll have Delano meet you there. Anything else, over?’

‘Nope. That’s all.’

‘Got you.’

Melford hung up and Linroy pocketed the handheld. He shot a suspicious glance at Oliver who was staring straight ahead, apparently disinterested and unmoved. But Linroy knew he’d overheard the radio communication.

TWO

6:35 am, Thursday, September 19

Hibiscus Cottage, Mamora Bay, Antigua

It was still early but the storm had kept Delano Reid awake for most of the night. He stood in his kitchen in a pair of navy boxer shorts, scrolling through the headlines on his cell phone as he deposited a generous amount of roasted coffee beans into the bean container of a one-cup coffee machine. It was still raining hard outside. The rays of dawn light splashed a pale grey through the half-open jalousie windows of the small one-bedroom cottage. Delano lived the simple life as far as material possessions went. The coffee machine was probably his most extravagant purchase.

He had one teenage daughter, Tamesha, who was his pride and joy. He doted on her. She was doing great at school, was top in her maths class and had just made the school netball team. She lived with her mother. Delano lived alone. He saw Tamesha every other weekend and occasionally he’d meet her from school too. They’d hang at the beach together before going back to his cottage for grilled shrimp, corn salsa and fried Johnny cakes — Delano loved to cook — followed by chocolate ice cream sundaes with whipped cream, nuts and hot fudge, Tamesha’s favourite.

If Delano had his way Tamesha would live with him all the time. His current job wasn’t conducive to this longing, although many times he’d considered quitting anyway. He dreamed of investing in a handful of plastic beach chairs and cheap parasols. He’d set up his own enterprise on a beach nearby, renting the chairs and parasols to tourists by the hour. It would at least be a step closer to realising a dream of owning his own beach bar. But for now, the dream was on hold. He wanted to ensure he could provide for Tamesha in every way possible and he was saving for a decent college education for her.

At least he had the cottage. It was a crude little wooden structure painted white with a tin roof on which heavy drops of rain now landed with a loud, metallic echo. The whole place took up no more than four hundred square feet. His bedroom, with an adjoining bathroom, led into a small open-plan kitchen and living area. Dark wooden kitchen cabinets lined one of the walls, shabby and scratched with some of the handles missing from the cupboard doors. A large gas cooker with rust streaks down one side stood by itself against another wall.

The lounge area boasted a small couch, which Delano slept on when Tamesha stayed over, and a bookcase half-filled with scruffy paperbacks and a handful of dog-eared technical manuals he had acquired over the years. The only other item of furniture in the room was a brown formica sideboard unit on which sat a lamp with a sun-bleached shade and an ancient-looking TV. There was no electricity connected to the property and Delano relied on a small generator for power. Although the cottage was linked to the public water supply, like many private residences in Antigua, Delano’s principal source of water came from three large tanks. The rainwater collected and stored in the tanks provided him with a sufficient amount for most domestic uses like washing, showering and flushing the toilet. The heavy rainfall overnight would have raised the water level in the tanks considerably, which was always a good thing.

But Delano didn’t care how primitive his cottage was, because a step through the mesh screen door from the living area led to a hidden secret. Outside, a wooden deck area overlooked one acre of land which sloped gently down to a generous stretch of beach frontage. The deck area afforded magnificent views of the entire bay, taking in the glittering turquoise sea fringed by soft white sand and luscious palms and foliage. On the opposite side of the bay stood an exclusive, five-star beach resort, while a handful of imposing super yachts were moored in the crystal clear waters below, now bathed in raindrops and glinting in the dawn light. Delano never grew tired of the sweeping panorama and spent many evenings on his deck, beer in hand, contemplating life and imagining his beach bar dream.

As he filled the water container of the coffee machine, he surveyed the bay through his kitchen window. The horseshoe shape of the shoreline had provided a calmer haven for the super yachts from the raging storm overnight, although the usually glassy water of the bay was peppered with large drops of rain and the