Oyster Island and the PWI fleet fell under Ingram’s jurisdiction as president of the Weapons Division of Pan West Industries. A sharp businessman with both an engineering degree and an MBA, he had early on caught the eye of Donald Newman, the elderly chairman of PWI.
"When would you want the three weeks to start?" Peyton asked.
"I'd like to get moving today. Any problem with that?"
"No sir. I'll tell the boys to be getting her ready to float, then I'll draw up the papers." He glanced at the old brass ship's clock on the wall. "Eleven be soon enough?"
Ingram nodded. "I'll be here at eleven sharp."
A wooded strip separated the section of beach from Highway 98, with only a narrow trail through the sun-baked brown sand leading out to the deserted shoreline. A small, hard-packed strip, the beach dropped off sharply beyond the high water mark. Signs warned against swimming in the area, which helped assure it would remain uninhabited.
The convoy that turned onto the access road around noon consisted of a Jeep and an oddly chopped-off white Chevy truck whose original configuration had included a fourteen-foot cargo container. The leader of the convoy, a man in his early thirties, climbed out of the Jeep and strode briskly toward the truck. He felt like a scoutmaster readying his troop for a foray into the wilds of summer camp. He had double-checked all the arrangements, inventoried the equipment and supplies. Everything was ready.
Known to others in the party simply as "Ted," he had answered to many different names during his clandestine career, including "Herr Mauser."
The scoutmaster image would not have been farfetched in earlier times. Ted's initial outlook had been shaped by the pattern of mainstream America's popular image, with respect for motherhood, a taste for apple pie, and reverence for God and country. When Operation Jabberwock came along, he had been so far weaned from his childhood concepts of propriety that worries about the scope of its destruction were swept aside. The "old man," also known as Foxhunter, assured him this was an unavoidable sacrifice to assure the lofty goal of a strong, secure America.
Both the Jeep Ted drove and the odd-looking Chevy had been purchased for cash from a used truck lot in Houston. The owner was listed as Lone Star Network, Inc. of Dallas. After its purchase, the truck had been driven to Birmingham, where a truck body customizer had made several modifications. The cargo compartment was closed off about halfway back, the rest of the roof removed, the open sides tapered downward to the rear, leaving only three-foot-high sides for the last few feet. Door panels for storage compartments lined the sides and rear. A heavy-duty, gasoline-powered generator and a hydraulic system were installed. The hydraulics maneuvered four steel feet that projected downward to raise the truck off the ground and level it. Also, a round hatch was built into the roof of the rear compartment.
Ted stopped at the driver's side of the truck. "Ingram should be here any time now. I'll go down the beach and keep an eye out for him."
The two occupants of the truck made an oddly contrasting pair. The driver was a short, wiry man with a compact frame named Gary Overmyer, a free-lance magazine writer, most recently from Memphis. More important for his current assignment, he had fought in Vietnam with Army Special Forces, receiving a field promotion to captain for his outstanding skills and leadership.
To his right sat a tall, dark-haired man who combined the muscles of a body builder with the lithe movements of a ballet dancer. In three weeks he would become on-site commander of Operation Jabberwock. He appeared calm, easy-going, the essence of urbanity. His passport identified him as Andrew Goldman of London, but his dossier at Langley listed him as Lt. Col. Andrei Petrovich Golanov, formerly of the Second Chief Directorate, Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, the Committee for State Security of the Soviet Union. With the recent demise of the USSR and the KGB's absorption into the Russian Federation, his position had become somewhat precarious.
Shortly after Ted reached the water's edge, the gray hull of the LCM came plodding up the relatively calm waters of St. Joseph Bay. Empty, it rode high in the water. Ingram maneuvered the ancient craft onto the beach with the bumbling assistance of his crewman, Arnold "Sarge" Morris, a white-haired, wizened old ex-Army mess sergeant who had worked the past few years at a so-called "defense survival camp" in South Alabama. He would serve as cook and majordomo on Oyster Island.
Lowering the bow ramp brought a loud metallic grating racket that sent nearby gulls fleeing for their lives. The vehicles were driven on board, and Ingram reversed the ramp controls. The boat began a slow movement astern until she was well out into the bay. Ingram turned the craft about, taking a northwesterly heading that would lead them through the narrow mouth of the bay and into open water. Soon they began the monotonous eight-knot journey out into the Gulf, where only a few frothy wisps of cumulus dotted the skies. To the good fortune of those on board, a brisk fourteen-knot breeze out of the southwest helped counter the heat of a blistering afternoon sun.
Late in the day, a small oasis of green appeared on the horizon. At first they could see only the flat tree line. The island was covered mostly with stands of pine and clumps of palmetto, its spiny fronds waiting to spear the unwary. As they came closer, they saw the occasional towering crown of a palm tree.
During World War II, the island had served as a gunnery range for fledgling Navy pilots. Declared surplus property after the war, it was purchased by two young developers who had visions of making it an exclusive resort. But no one was interested in providing ferry service that far offshore, and the idea, like the developers' ready cash, soon faded into oblivion. In the late 'fifties, a small military weapons manufacturer bought the island to use as a testing ground for guns and ammunition. Two decades later, the company was swallowed up by Pan West Industries, a ravenous conglomerate with aircraft, heavy weapons and high tech subsidiaries that accounted for a large portion of Defense Department contracts. PWI modernized the facility with a dormitory structure, cooking and dining facilities, a well-equipped machine shop and a paved runway to handle small aircraft. There was even an undersea telephone cable connecting at Port St. Joe with PWI's private lines. All of the buildings were one-story, which effectively hid them behind the trees.
Ted and Andrew Goldman stood beside Ingram, shielding their eyes from the spray that cascaded over the top of the ramp, as he steered toward the beach area where they would unload.
Ingram shouted over the din from the engine compartment. "No one lives on the island, so it's covered by a sophisticated intruder detection system. A company office at Panama City monitors the signals. We don't want drug runners using this as a way station, so we notify the Coast Guard of any activity that's picked up."
"I presume they'll know when we arrive then?" Ted asked.
"Right. I'll check in by phone. They can shut off their monitors, and we'll handle it from here."
Goldman nodded with obvious satisfaction. "Then we should have no worries about unwanted visitors."
Ingram agreed. "It sets off sirens as a warning, turns on lights along the shore at night. If anybody wants to use the beach, we'll have to make sure the system is deactivated."
Ted took in the group on the boat with a slow gaze. He thought about the others still to come. Except for the cook, whose role was minor, they were all talented professionals. They had been chosen for their competence, and though some of them were not aware of the full nature of the mission, each had his own reason to be fully committed once the plan was revealed in toto. He would be in charge of the training, in consultation with Goldman. His personal role included instruction on infiltration and escape, plus details of the actual scene of the operation. Ingram was the weapons expert, and Robert Jeffries, R&D vice president with Rush Communications, would handle electronics. He would arrive tomorrow with the other two team members.
Ted glanced around at Gary Overmyer, who sat atop the truck cab, gazing out at the island as they approached the beach. Overmyer had been picked by the Americans to serve as team leader for the event
ual operation. Joining him would be the two Soviet choices, explosives expert Hans Richter, a former officer of the old Stasi, East Germany's hated State Security Service, and Naji Abdalla, a Palestinian who had once trained with guerrilla bands but now worked solo, confining his activities to one-shot actions where the pay was high. And the pay was high enough here, Ted reflected. Each team member had been given a numbered Swiss bank account with $150,000 in it. At the conclusion of the operation, additional deposits of $350,000 would be made—half a million dollars for each man.
And then there was Goldman...Lt. Col. Golanov. Ted gave a slight shake of his head. What a difference a few years could make. Not too long ago, he had made a trip to Afghanistan to help spirit out a KGB defector. Now he worked side-by-side with a former officer who might well have been one of the first to be notified of the defection. Glasnost made for strange bedfellows. Golanov seemed personable enough, but he had a sharp mind and a deadly reputation. Ted's instructions were to cooperate fully, but maintain a careful watch, reporting anything that might be remotely considered suspicious.
OYSTER ISLAND
Chapter 6
Early the next morning, Ted watched as Blythe Ingram supervised unloading of the equipment, taking particular care with one crate labeled in large red letters: Danger High Explosives! Everything went into the machine shop shed except for the household supplies, which Sarge carted off a few at a time to the kitchen/mess hall. A small building adjacent to the dormitory housed a combination office and control center. Ted sat there with Goldman discussing the training schedule when, at around eleven, the radio console blared to life.
"Oyster Island, this is Cherokee Two Niner Kilo. Do you read me? Over."
Ted moved to the microphone. "You're loud and clear, Two Niner Kilo. Go ahead."
"Roger, Oyster. We're approaching from the northwest at about five miles. We have you in sight. Can you give me a wind reading?"
Ted's eyes scanned the array of dials above the radio. Flying was one pursuit he had only indulged in as a passenger. However, some of those flights had involved surreptitious trips into third world countries in small hedge-hoppers or helicopters. In the process, he had picked up a wealth of aircrew lingo, a smattering of communications procedures, and slightly more than a layman's knowledge of weather phenomena. Just enough, as one grizzled proprietary pilot would say, to make him dangerous. He keyed the mike again. "Two Niner Kilo, winds are one-three-five at ten knots. Over."
"Roger, ten knots from the southeast. Damned if they didn't build the runway in the right place. We'll be down in a short. Cherokee Two Niner Kilo out."
Ted turned back to his companion. "I guess that wraps it up. The rest of our crew is arriving."
They got outside just in time to see the small blue plane appearing beyond the trees to the northwest. Robert Jeffries eased the craft smoothly onto the runway, then braked to a stop about three-quarters of the way down. He turned around and taxied back to the parking area beside the machine shop.
Naji Abdalla climbed out first. A slender young man in his early thirties, he had a swarthy look, with dark skin and a classic semitic face. His angular jaw seemed fixed in an expression of singular determination. His dark eyes took in the greeting party with caution.
Ted stepped forward, smiling, and reached out his hand. "Welcome. I'm Ted. You must be Naji."
The Palestinian accepted the handshake but did not return the smile. Ted did not expect one. Having read detailed dossiers on all the players, some compiled with help from the KGB, he knew Abdalla took nothing, and no one, at face value. It had helped assure his survival in the fratricidal madness of the Mideast.
"I am Naji Abdalla," he said. "I am at your service."
He stepped aside to make way for his seat mate, a massive man with hard gray eyes. The second passenger personified the term "gorilla," as applied to big ugly men with brutal tendencies. He had one striking characteristic that separated him from the animal species of the same name—he was completely devoid of hair, right up to the crown of his shiny head, which appeared to bear a large lump. His one-sided smile seemed almost grotesque.
The man might have been a fugitive from some Stephen King horror story, Ted thought as he took the large, outstretched hand. The broad smile attested to his elation at having escaped from his recent past, when his freedom, and most likely his life, had been at peril in his native land, formerly known as the Democratic Republic of Germany. Among the typical assignments he had carried out, according to his file, was rigging a bomb in Hamburg to eliminate a troublesome East German defector.
"Hans Richter," he said in a gruff voice. "A pleasure to meet you, sir."
"Glad to have you aboard, Hans."
Ted turned to greet the pilot, who climbed down from the cockpit. "Smooth landing, Bob. Good to see you again."
Robert Jeffries gave a brief salute and stuck out his hand. "Hi. I trust you got all that stuff I sent down."
Boyishly handsome despite being in his late forties, his hair a thick mop of wavy brown, Jeffries wore a light blue sport shirt with a stylized "RJ" monogram over the pocket. A contrasting navy blue scarf swung around his neck, a la the Red Baron. He had the easy look of born wealth and an air of cocky confidence he had cultivated as an F-4 Phantom pilot in Vietnam. At the peak of his career, he was ready to make the move up to president of Rush Communications, a key element in the Wizcom communications empire ruled over by his autocratic father-in-law, Franklin Wizner.
Jeffries looked across at the former Marine he had known through association in business and political circles. "Looks like a helluva place to spend a vacation, Blythe,” he said, grinning. “What kind of an island are you running here? I didn't see any sign of a bar. No girlie shows."
Ingram shook his head. "From the looks of all those boxes and crates packed in that truck, you're not going to have much time for bars and girlie shows."
Jeffries shrugged. "Wouldn't you know. Just my luck."
Ted made introductions all around, then flashed a smile that indicated satisfaction with the payoff of all the months of painstaking planning and preparation.
"Gentlemen, the Jabberwock is ready to whiffle and burble."
CYPRUS
Chapter 7
Cameron Quinn parked the dust-shrouded rental car beside a clump of pine trees just off the narrow road. That was giving the dusty graveled trail that angled near the small rock-bound cove a little more formality than it deserved. This deserted section of beach on the Turkish sector coast would not have been his choice of a meeting spot. The pebbled shoreline lay conspicuously open. Only occasional modest-sized trees some thirty yards back from the breaking waves offered any sort of cover. Even worse, a hill rose behind it, with several rocky outcroppings that would provide ideal concealment for anyone wanting to observe or, for that matter, ambush the rendezvous.
He had been given no choice, however. Everything had been settled before his arrival. The caller to the Nicosia embassy, directed to its CIA station, had specified that he would talk only to "Pachinko." The chief of station, an old-timer, knew that Pachinko, the Man with Steel Balls, was a nickname Cameron Quinn had picked up years ago as one of the main contacts with the Mossad under legendary counterintelligence chief Jim Angleton.
Quinn glanced back at the road. He had come exactly one mile past the ruins of a small Orthodox church, found the stand of pine beside a small cove. This was the spot all right. He glanced at his watch. He was right on time. The sun was settling behind the mountains that rimmed the seacoast, leaving the beachfront disarmingly bathed in the soft afterglow of twilight. He'd have preferred to scout out the area earlier, but that wasn't possible. He had landed in Nicosia barely three hours ago.
Quinn wore a lightweight navy blue jacket, the right-hand pocket sagging slightly with the weight of a small semiautomatic. The fact that his pants matched the jacket was no indication of sartorial taste but a desire to become as inconspicuous as possible in the semi-darkness. A man of medium height
and thinning gray hair, he reflected that he had spent a considerable portion of his life cultivating a look he chose to call "commonplace bored." The fact that he was substantially overweight did not render him notably uncommon. Anyway, he preferred to think of his size in more genteel terms, like portly.
He had a round Irish face and a nose that was either overly sensitive to the sun or reacting to uncounted years of regular patronage at the pubs. His sensitive nostrils twitched at the salty odor of the sea breeze, then turned up in a gesture of disapproval. He didn't like the setup. It had more holes in it than a fish net. Besides the obvious shortcomings of the site, he had no backup. On that, the anonymous contact had been clear. Come alone.
His instincts screamed at him to abort. He had overruled them, though, seeing it as the best possibility to learn the meaning of Jabberwock. And Jabberwock, whatever it was, had become crucial to his future.
He saw a shadowy figure move out into the open near the trees about fifty yards along the curving beach. There was a brief hand wave. Checking the area above the shore and finding no sign of activity, he walked toward the figure. Was he being overly cautious, he wondered? Since his OSS days in World War II, he had made countless agent contacts under worse conditions.
Had it been nearly forty years? His body assured him that it had as he quickened his pace along the uneven surface of the beach. His breathing became a bit more labored. Too many years of too many gourmet delicacies and too many Scotch on-the-rocks had added too many pounds for his five-foot-eight frame. But years of dedication, training, and experience quickly overcame his physical deficiencies, heightening his senses to the sharpness of a boxer entering the ring.
The man walking toward him was tall and thin, black-haired, dark-skinned, with a square-jawed, hawkish face. He looked like the reincarnation of some exotic bird of prey. Quinn half expected to find talons instead of fingers protruding from the black tunic he wore over baggy gray trousers.
Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers) Page 3
