Krystal Scent (Krystal Vibration Series Book 2)

  Krystal Scent

  Richard F. Corrigan

  KRYSTAL SCENT

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, places, incidents, and dialogue are the product of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real, or if real, are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Richard F. Corrigan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  FIRST EDITION

  Published in Print and Digital formats

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:

  ISBN-13:

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to the glory of God.

  Matthew 19:26 (NIV)

  “Jesus looked at them and said, ‘With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible’.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Krystal Scent, the second book in the Krystal Vibration Series, was completed with the assistance and patience of my spouse, Diana, who not only gave me the freedom to write, whether it was early in the morning, late at night, on the weekend or during vacation, but who always found time to stop in the middle of her career responsibilities to give me feedback; and by the encouragement of my son, Sean, who eagerly reads everything I write and continually shows sincere joy and pride that I am a published novelist and who offered the editorial advice that made Krystal Scent what it is today.

  This new work of fiction is as a result of the interest and coaxing of family and friends with a thank you to Sheryl and Paul Shard who took time away from their Distant Shores, television-adventure program to provide valuable information regarding sailing the Mediterranean Sea.

  A special thank you to Elina Azcurra Lunin who taught me not only how a Piper Apache Geronimo is piloted, but spent time studying my writing to make sure it was authentic, honest, and true.

  Additional thanks go to numerous others who showed interest in my dream and either gave me encouraging words or made my days and evenings enjoyable while I was preparing Krystal Scent for publication.

  The Oxford English Dictionary

  scent/0sɛnt/ noun. Also (earlier) †sent. LME.

  [ORIGIN from the verb.]

  a) The faculty or sense of smell, esp. of a dog or other animal which finds objects or prey by this sense.

  b) fig. The power of detecting or discovering a specified thing or things.

  CHAPTER 1

  Edgewood, Pennsylvania—USA

  Karen Krystal just completed her work at the Labyrinth in the hills of Pennsylvania and barely had a day to consider the prospect of altering her life’s path before she received a call from Carl Etheridge, the head of U.S. Homeland Security. She pursed her lips and answered her cellphone.

  “Have you thought about my offer?” Etheridge asked.

  “I just finished installing the security system you had me redesign,” Karen said, stiffening her back.

  “You don’t sound too pleased that I called.”

  Karen took a deep breath and said, “I really can’t see myself battling terrorists.”

  “Look, Karen, you have a gift. Gifts.”

  “I need a break to think. I want to fly back to Swan Nest if you’re done restoring it.”

  “It’s finished,” Etheridge said, and followed it by saying, “don’t be out of touch too long.”

  Karen pressed the disconnect button on the steering wheel without saying goodbye and turned to look at Sharon who was sitting in the passenger’s seat, running her fingers through her hair.

  Prior to the call, they were having a normal sibling conversation: a mixture of bantering, teasing, and inside jokes that only a child from the same family would understand.

  Karen cleared her throat and said, “We’d better refill your allergy medicine.”

  “I can do it tomorrow,” Sharon said. “What are you going to do about—?”

  “I’m not going to do anything.”

  Sharon twisted toward Karen and said, “You need to get back to doing what you enjoy.”

  Karen hesitated and then said in a soft voice, “It’s not the same without Dad.”

  “You can’t seriously be thinking… You love drawing and designing. And, you’re the best architect in D.C. Screw them and their security systems.”

  Karen looked at Sharon with a scowl and said with a big-sister inflection, “We’re only a few doors down.”

  Sharon shrugged her shoulders and Karen pulled up in front of the pharmacy.

  Sharon wedged her purse beneath her seat, got out of the car, and immediately caught her heel in a slit between the curb and the sidewalk. There was an audible crack.

  “Shit,” Sharon said.

  Karen turned back and said, “What?”

  Sharon bent down and yanked the three-inch piece of her shoe out of the crevasse. “I broke a heel,” she said, shaking the spike in her hand and limping toward Karen.

  “Okay Grandma, let me help you.”

  “Very funny,” Sharon said, her eyes widening after she grabbed hold of Karen’s arm. “Your muscle’s as hard as a rock. Your stomach, too?”

  “Pretty much all over.”

  With Karen’s purse trapped between them, they awkwardly tried to open the door. They grabbed for the handle and swung the entry wide. Sharon tripped. Karen let go of her purse and the door and reached with both hands to steady Sharon before she hit the floor.

  Both girls sprawled onto the tile and burst into laughter.

  A gunshot rang out.

  The glass door burst into pieces.

  Karen pushed Sharon behind the end of the aisle.

  Another shot.

  A man bellowed, “Stay down or you’re dead like the owner.”

  Karen looked between the shelving. Her purse was in plain view of the assailant. There was no way she could retrieve her gun without getting shot. She looked toward the counter. There were two men: one in front of a half wall and the other behind, filling a bag.

  Staying hidden, Sharon asked, “What’s happening?”

  “Shhh,” Karen said. “There’re two of them. Probably after drugs.”

  Karen spied a soccer ball on the shelf, grabbed it and squeezed it a couple of times.

  “Firm,” she whispered.

  “What are you doing?” Sharon whispered.

  “I have an idea.”

  “Come out in the open so I can see you,” the man said. He moved over and looked down the aisle. “Up this way,” he said, motioning with his gun.

  With the ball in her hands, Karen stood up and began to approach the thief. Sharon followed, limping along.

  Karen thought about her team’s soccer practice scheduled to start in a couple of weeks. The last time she had seen the squad was the night she gave her speech at the high school. They were all there. They wanted to make sure they went out afterward. They hadn’t yet celebrated their championship win over the Royal Cardinals.

  The gunman watched with one eye on Karen and the other on his partner. As Karen approached the end of the aisle, the robber moved back to where he was when the girls entered the pharmacy.

  He turned and said, “What’re you doin’ with the ball?”

  Karen faked a stutter and said, “I… I came in to buy it for my nephew.”

  Sharon leaned forward and whispered, “What nephew?”

  “You ain’t buyin’ nothin’ today, sweetheart. Drop it.”

  Karen immediately l
et go. It bounced, and on the down stroke toward the second contact with the floor, Karen stepped into a murderous strike that would have sent a seasoned goalie into the back of the net.

  The ball slammed into the thief’s face. His head whipped back. He and his gun fell to the floor in two syncopated sounds: a heavy thud and a metallic rattle.

  The man behind the counter turned, grabbed his weapon, and fired. The bullet burst the cough syrup bottles on the shelf.

  Sharon gasped and dropped to the tile.

  Karen dove for the loose pistol and fired twice through the doorway.

  The second man cried out in pain. There was a dull sound as he hit the floor.

  Karen turned to the robber next to her to see if he was conscious.

  Out cold. “He makes a lousy goalie,” Karen said and cautiously stood up. The other thief was groaning and holding his leg. Karen walked through the swinging door and kicked away his gun. Looking at his bleeding thigh she said, “I guess you’re going to get your drugs now.”

  She turned and calmly said, “Sharon, get my purse, grab my phone, and call the police.”

  Sharon stood up and said, “You could have got us killed. I wish you had never taken those Karate and Judo lessons. You think you can disarm anyone.”

  Karen smiled and said, “Soccer training’s what saved us today.”

  Sharon went to dial Karen’s phone but stopped. “You just got a text message from someone.” She walked up and handed the phone to Karen.

  Karen pressed the icon and shook her head.

  “What?” Sharon said.

  “Homeland Security.”

  “You just got off the phone with them.”

  “They want me to call when I get to Swan Nest.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Pakistan

  The sun had at least two more hours to hang in the early summer sky before it would be replaced by a necessary veil of concealing darkness. Southeast of Islamabad, Qari Muttaqi raced parallel to the Soan River along deserted Kahuta Road. He was eager to complete his role in what he hoped would be the most devastating terrorist assault in history.

  Each time the route straightened, Muttaqi pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The vehicle’s speedometer was broken, so he had no idea how fast he was traveling. Not that it mattered. A couple of times he almost lost control as he fought to negotiate the sudden curves that appeared faster than the suggested eighty-kilometer-an-hour speed limit.

  The Chevy’s shock absorbers were worn out and ineffective; the balding tires bounced and skipped over the gravel, fishtailing the rear, challenging Muttaqi’s one good arm. And being unfamiliar with the truck, he continually overcompensated, driving into the oncoming lane and then swerving back too far and drifting off the Tarvia, kicking up the dirt and stones from the shoulder.

  Amir Ahmadullah, sitting in the left-side, passenger’s seat, had excessively tightened his seatbelt around his stomach and held on with both hands as the lurching of the truck threatened to toss him out of the broken-latched door and into the undergrowth.

  Ahmadullah could use one hand to hold the door closed and stop the incessant slamming, but he valued his life—unusual for his beliefs when on a mission. Additionally, his decision to hold his water until they reached their destination was proving to be a bad choice.

  Everything on the dashboard and in the doorless, glove compartment had become dislodged and was now scattered all over the floor. Muttaqi continually kicked the debris away so he could freely utilize the gas and brake pedals.

  The converging road and river were fast approaching. Ahmadullah’s eyes widened.

  When the water drew closest to the highway, Muttaqi swerved the stolen truck off the pavement and slid diagonally down the embankment.

  Ahmadullah’s sudden intake of air could be heard over the snapping of the bushes being plowed down by the vehicle’s bumper and undercarriage. The truck skidded to a stop just before plunging into the rapids. Ahmadullah’s exhale sounded like a leaky tire.

  Muttaqi looked at him and in Urdu said, “Throw him into the river.”

  Ahmadullah got out of the heavy-duty truck, walked to the rear, let down the tailgate and dragged the body of the owner to the water’s edge. The unfortunate man, not having done anything to anyone, having lived an honorable life which included providing for his wife and three children was still holding his slit throat, trying to save his life.

  His mistake was that he owned a Chevy 2500HD, long-bed pickup with a crew cab—one of a number of truck makes including numerous and available Nissans that fit the parameters for Muttaqi and Ahmadullah’s mission. But while driving through farmland, back roads they spotted the Chevy sitting in a field—the owner napping in the front seat.

  Ahmadullah looked down upon the poor bastard and then kicked him off the bank. The body slid into the swift current and quickly disappeared. Ahmadullah looked at the trail of blood on the ground.

  The evidence of the murder led from the truck to the riverbank. Ahmadullah looked up at the sky. It was late June. The blood would evaporate quickly in the 90° temperature.

  Ahmadullah walked back and met Muttaqi near some bushes where they retrieved a battery-powered reciprocating saw and some planks. They quickly removed the back of the crew cab and set in the temporary floor so that the truck’s bed was even longer. They jumped to the ground, threw the excess materials and equipment into the water, and closed the tailgate.

  “Good,” Muttaqi said. “We’ll wait here until dark.”

  Ahmadullah finally relieved himself, mixing his urine with the truck-owner’s blood, and then joined Muttaqi in the front seat.

  Both men leaned their heads back and closed their eyes.

  ***

  Qari Muttaqi’s watch alarm sounded and the two members of the Taliban napping in the stolen truck alongside the Soan River opened their eyes and regained their bearings. The sun had been down for three hours, and the guards were changing at the Sehali uranium-enrichment plant sixteen miles away.

  Muttaqi started the vehicle, drove up the embankment, and continued the journey on Kahuta Road. As soon as the glow from the interior lighting of the buildings appeared, Muttaqi turned off the truck’s headlamps. He slowed down so he could see the edge of the road and not veer off and into a ravine or slide into the Ling River.

  At the outer security checkpoint, Muttaqi signaled with his flashlight. The gates parted, they drove in, and immediately turned right.

  As they approached the third overhead door on the left, Muttaqi said, “Fasten the silencer.”

  Ahmadullah screwed the Finland-made SAK suppresser onto the barrel of his Walther p22.

  Stepping out into the dry, night air, posing in a wide stance, and crossing his arms, the guard said, “You’re late.”

  Ahmadullah said nothing but leveled his weapon and fired four times. The sound was like the muffled cracks of a whip. The terrorist sympathizer fell to the ground. Blood quickly soaked his clothes.

  Although barely alive, he chose to lie still and feign death in the hopes of surviving the doublecross.

  Both Muttaqi and Ahmadullah quickly donned protective clothing and asbestos gloves.

  It took only an hour to load the truck with about 550 pounds of silver-colored, enriched uranium cakes. It was enough fissile material to make sixteen, simple-implosion nuclear bombs.

  They pulled the truck out of the building and closed the door. Ahmadullah climbed into his seat, and Muttaqi gunned the engine.

  They drove back through the gate, closed it, and sped off into the Pakistani night.

  The first phase was complete.

  ***

  Muttaqi and Ahmadullah took turns driving; and in seventeen hours they were at the Port of Karachi, Pakistan.

  It took about an hour to load the enriched uranium cakes onto a stolen, heavy-duty motorboat they had previously moored between two yachts. After transferring the payload, Ahmadullah drove the empty truck to a parking lot not too far from the wharf. He set in a bomb t
imed to explode an hour after they departed. The truck would be destroyed. And if they were lucky, maybe a few people would die.

  Ahmadullah walked back to the pier. Once he was aboard, they unhitched, pulled away from the dock, and headed toward Somalia.

  ***

  As soon as they entered Somalian waters, a pirate vessel approached. A sentry dressed in jeans and a tan leather jacket stood in the bow of the buccaneer ship with a pair of two-hundred-round ammunition belts slung over his neck. His AK-47, cradled like a baby in his arms, had a fold-up tripod attached near the muzzle of the barrel. His face was dark and stoic as he watched the uranium-laden transport approach. His image was nothing short of menacing.

  Although most pirates out of Somalia heavily travel the Gulf of Aden in search of ships they can overtake and commandeer, this particular cruiser and crew were funded by al-Shabaab exclusively for this mission of guaranteeing the enriched uranium safe passage into a Somalian harbor.

  The pirates escorted Muttaqi and Ahmadullah to the Port of Mogadishu where they waited for the lines of the rogue speedboat to be secured. The al-Shabaab insurgents stayed alongside, standing guard while Muttaqi and Ahmadullah unloaded the cakes and placed them in a truck to be transported to an undisclosed location.

  Neither Muttaqi nor Ahmadullah knew for what the uranium was to be used. Their responsibility was to steal the cakes and deliver them to a warehouse in Mogadishu. Their mission of providing an ally-terrorist organization with enriched uranium was nearing its end.

  For the first time ever, Muttaqi and Ahmadullah made it possible for terrorists from another organization to exercise myriad options for constructing destructive devices: from nuclear bombs to a series of small, but life-threatening and financially-destructive, dirty bombs.