Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers)

by Chester D. Campbell

  "How about a perimeter security system?"

  "I'm not an expert on that, but it sounds logical. There's something else. I don't know if it's related. Spots along the shoreline, back from the beach, where the water has apparently eroded the sand. You can see a dark line that disappears. Like something buried beneath the sand. In a few spots you can see two strips a few feet apart. It probably wouldn't be noticeable on the ground."

  A detection device of some sort, Burke wondered? He'd have to talk with someone more knowledgeable on the subject.

  Buddy advised that he was about finished with the prints from the photo run on the east side of the island. He left, but a few minutes later he called them back to a room off the lab, where the prints were spread out on a large table. Mostly they confirmed what had been seen on the other photos, but in this case the Jeep and four men were at the site of the smoke, examining debris from what had surely been an explosion. A test of the "device," Burke assumed. The other four stood near the truck. Buddy had made a blow-up of this portion even larger than the rest. He laid it in front of them.

  "The film grain leaves it pretty fuzzy," he said, "but you can determine some things about them. This one back here is evidently the cook. See his hat and apron?"

  "I'll be damned." Burke chuckled. "You can tell one of the others is much larger, too."

  "If he was lying down, I could tell you how tall he is."

  Burke frowned. "You're kidding."

  "Afraid not," McKenzie said. "He can measure a known distance and interpolate to make other measurements."

  "Like the Jeep over here," Buddy said. "I have a book with vehicle measurements. I correlate the measurement on the print with the Jeep's listed width or length, then set up a scale to measure anything you'd like."

  Burke was so fascinated by the photography that he didn't get away from Aerial Photomap until later than planned. He drove back to the car rental office and swapped the Caprice for a van. Then he went on a shopping spree that included a camera store and a marine supply outlet. He also paid a visit to a less fashionable side of town. He knew the right places to look and the right questions to ask. Before leaving New Orleans, he had purchased a snub-nosed Ruger .38 revolver with the serial number carefully removed. As he looked at the pistol, he knew he had really crossed the Rubicon with this one. The gun was probably stolen and had been illegally altered. Was he any better now than the people he was pursuing? He hoped so, though he wasn't absolutely sure. Nothing was done in the abstract, he assured himself. You had to consider motives. And he was quite comfortable with his own motive. He was no longer just pursuing this case to track down Cam's killers. He had to get to the bottom of Jabberwock before D-Day came and God-knows-what happened. The gun would be insurance for the trip to Oyster Island. In case it should be lost or misplaced, he didn't want one that could be traced.

  By the time he reached Apalachicola, it was early evening, nearly time for the call to Lori. He had considered all his options during the drive back, eventually reinforcing the same conclusion he had made earlier. It would take a trip to Oyster Island to make any definitive judgment on Operation Jabberwock. He certainly knew much more now, but he still had no idea what the "device" could be. The odd-looking truck was a puzzling new development.

  "How did the photo opportunity go?" Lori asked when he called.

  "Unbelievable," he said.

  When he told her about the pictures and what Buddy Bottelli had been able to conclude from them, she asked hopefully, "Does that mean you won't need to go out to Oyster Island?"

  "Sorry. I know they have some sort of explosive device, but I don't know what it is. And I don't know how they plan to deploy it, or for what purpose. If I can follow up on those clues to a possible security system, it should help improve the chances of slipping in unobserved."

  "All right," she said, abandoning her attempt to change his mind, her voice taking on a note of determination. "If you're going to insist on traipsing out to that island, I'm coming down there, and I'm bringing reinforcements."

  "You're what?"

  "Chlo and Walt got onto my case last night about how I'd been acting," she said. "They knew I had a major problem, and I finally decided to lay it on the line."

  "You told them about Jabberwock?" he said in disbelief.

  "These are my best friends, Burke. They want to help. That's what I meant by reinforcements. Walt is coming with me and we'll rent a sailboat to get us out to the island. He's as good a sailor as you'll find."

  He had to admit, if grudgingly, that Lori could be a big help to him, especially with her CIA experience. And he had missed being with her these past several days. But the expedition to Oyster Island could easily turn into a disaster, and he felt a real reluctance at exposing Lori or Dr. Walter Brackin to that possibility.

  "I guess he'd be a real asset if somebody got hurt," Burke said, "but I'm not looking for that to happen."

  "There's one thing about Walt I didn't tell you," she said. "Before going into practice, he was a doctor with the Army Special Forces. He'll be an asset whatever happens."

  Burke tried one last gambit. "From what I've heard, those guys are just doctors who treat the wounded. That's considerably different than being a Special Forces soldier."

  "What you didn't hear, my love, was that they are not required to go through the rigorous training program. But they have the option to. Walt took it. He knows all the tricks. He suggested that I stay with the boat and he would go ashore with you."

  Burke considered that prospect for a moment. It could double the odds of a successful assault. He still didn't like the idea of further spreading the word of Jabberwock, but he had to admit Lori was a pro at organizing an undertaking, for whatever purpose. He knew he couldn't deny her participation any longer. After all, this was what her father had died for.

  "When will you be coming down?"

  "Sometime tomorrow. Where's the best place for you to meet us?"

  "Panama City is closest, but the airport isn't very big. Your best bet would be Tallahassee. It's just a little more than an hour's drive."

  "Let me get onto a terminal here and see what's available. Hold on." There was a long silence, and then she came back on. "We can fly through Atlanta and get there early in the afternoon. How does that sound?"

  "Fine. It should give us plenty of time to find a boat. Are Hawk's buddies still around? Would they follow you?"

  "I've already set up a little deception for them. After I got home last night, I called Walt and we talked about the sailing party we planned for Friday. Supposedly Chlo is to meet us on Saturday. When we start out in the morning, I'll give Hawk's henchmen the slip, then we'll drive up to Baltimore to catch our flight."

  APALACHICOLA, FLORIDA

  Chapter 36

  After breakfast, Burke tuned the TV in his motel room to the weather channel. He watched as the screen shifted, waiting for it to cycle around to the evening's forecast. The only thing that could deter him from the attempt to reconnoiter Oyster Island would be the storm that Kevin McKenzie had mentioned as likely hitting by the weekend. If it would just hold off until they could get back early Saturday morning.

  When he finally saw the forecast, it brought only mild concern. Increasing clouds and brisk winds out of the west during the evening, with overcast skies and light rain by mid-morning Saturday, changing to heavy rains and possibly severe thunderstorms, confined to the north, Saturday afternoon. Since he planned to get under way before midnight and back by early morning, it didn't sound too bad.

  With that worry behind him, at least for the moment, he put in a call to Toby Callahan in Kansas City.

  Callahan growled. "You again? I thought I was finished with you."

  Burke chuckled. "I don't have a single question about your boss-to-be. I'm only interested in a perimeter security installation. I figured who would know more about it than old Toby Callahan."

  Faced with a non-threatening subject, Callahan reverted to his normal gruff but
friendly manner. "Got some bastard after you, huh? Maybe you could do like Ollie North and get a well-heeled benefactor to put in a fence."

  "No, it's nothing like that. I'm talking big time, industrial security, the stuff you do. Seems I recall there used to be some outfits in Florida that built high-tech equipment."

  "There's one in Fort Lauderdale called—"

  "How about northern Florida?"

  "Northern Florida? Oh, sure. We used a Tallahassee company on a job in Mobile. Damned good outfit. It's called Starr Security Fence Company. Run by a guy named Randy Starr. I told him he should get rid of that 'Fence' in the name, it's misleading. But he said that's what got him started, chain link fences."

  Burke tried to keep his tone light and chatty. "Would you do me another favor, Toby?"

  "What the hell now? You already owe me a big one, boy."

  "True. And I haven't forgotten. Just call Randy Starr and give me a good introduction. You know, lifelong friend, prince of a fellow, best PI in seven states."

  "Horseshit! Best con man in seven states. But if it'll get you off my back, I'll do it. When did you plan to talk to him?"

  "I'll give you a thirty-minute head start. How's that?"

  Toby exhaled noisily. "You know, you're really a prince of a fellow, Hill."

  When Burke called Starr Security Fence Company, Randy Starr was waiting for him. He spoke with a classic Southern accent, unhurried, smooth as whipping cream.

  "Callahan said you'd be calling shortly. What can I do for you?"

  Burke was ready with a plausible story. "I've got a client who wants my advice on a perimeter security setup for a small island," he said. "I'd like to chat with you about what's available. Could I take you to lunch?"

  "As my sainted father, who practically lived off traveling salesmen, would say, 'Never turn down a live one.' What time will you be here?"

  "How about noon?"

  "Be looking for you."

  Starr Security Fence's pea-green block building was located behind a tall chain link fence that bore a sign suggesting "This fence could be your security blanket." When the rented van broke the beam of an electric eye at the entrance to the parking lot, a speaker nearby announced, "You are entering a secured area. Please check in at the front desk." It was impressive.

  The “About” page of the company website told how Randy Starr had parlayed a technical school electronics associate degree and a lively imagination into a thriving industrial security business. He had started out in his father's hardware store, which in the frightening turmoil of the sixties became a hardware and fencing operation. He gradually moved it toward a specialty in burglar alarms and other systems to detect trespassers. With his father's death, he had dropped the "Hardware" from the name, shortening it to Starr Security Fence. But it was characteristic of his sense of history that he declined to completely break with the past by lopping off "Fence" from the name.

  Burke found him lounging comfortably in a plush upholstered chair behind his sturdy oak desk. While strangers from the North might have mistaken his slow, easy-going manner for indolence, Burke quickly saw an incisive mind that had learned the true meaning of "work smarter, not harder." The people under him appeared mostly young, bright and hustling. He leaned back in the chair, fingers locked behind his thinning brown hair, and smiled.

  "The first thing you need to do, before talking about a security system, is to analyze the threat. What's your client afraid of?" Starr put it pure and simple.

  "Intruders of any kind," Burke said. "He's rich, eccentric, doesn't want visitors he hasn't cleared in advance. I was thinking in terms of a perimeter system that could be powered off batteries charged by solar collectors. He's loaded with sunshine."

  Starr nodded. "And money. If he's got the dough, go high tech. You can use infra red, microwave, ultrasonic, all sorts of motion detectors. Course, if he's got dogs, any sort of animals running around, you could have problems from false alarms."

  "I heard about some kind of installation, something that involved two strips buried in the ground a few feet apart."

  "Wires, you mean? Yes, sir. You're getting real fancy there. You could set up an electrical field using two insulated conductors buried just below the surface. When somebody sets foot in it, the capacitance would change. Then sensors would tell a microprocessor, and that would trigger floodlights, alarms, or signal a warning at a security station." He grinned. "That's the theory anyway. I've never seen it done, but I heard about a setup like that at a convention. Seems a big conglomerate that owns an island off Apalachicola uses it. They buried the lines in concrete just below the sand, partly to counter the effects of the sea water."

  "How far apart would the lines be?"

  "You'd want it wide enough somebody wouldn't step across. Maybe five feet."

  "Couldn't you jump across it?" Burke asked.

  "Sure, if you knew it was there, and if you jumped high enough. That's why you don't advertise it. You hide it, like that one off Apalachicola, beneath the sand."

  "How high would the protection go?"

  "Would depend on the strength of the field. Something like this I'd say a couple of feet. You could also avoid the animal problem by programming the microprocessor with a signature of, say a dog. Then it would recognize something the size of a dog and not sound the alarm."

  Burke checked his watch and pushed up from his chair. "Say, I promised to take you to lunch. I don't know the area, so I'll let you pick your poison."

  Starr grinned. "Know just the place."

  They ate at a small restaurant located in a large old house. Burke realized it was the first meal he had really slowed down to savor in days. He ate like a condemned prisoner at his last supper while Starr talked on about narrow, focused microwave beams, lasers, ultrasonic waves and other sophisticated devices. He said the company that owned the island in the Gulf had experimented with microwave motion detectors. After a short time, however, they had abandoned the idea because of problems with heavy fog breaking the beams and triggering the sirens. It would have been very costly anyway, he added, because of the distance involved, requiring hundreds of separate transmitters, all subject to breakdown.

  Burke listened intently, knowing he had found what he came after. All he needed now was to call Kevin McKenzie, ask him to have Buddy go to the print where the buried lines had been exposed and measure the distance between the two. If it were no more than five feet, he would find a way to get over it.

  He arrived at the airport just in time for Lori's flight. He spotted them coming out of the gate area.

  "Pleased to meet you, Burke," said Walt Brackin with an enthusiastic handshake. He had a deep voice that had won him solo bass parts while singing in an undergraduate college chorus. "The way Lori talked, I had you figured for a cape and a blue shirt with a big 'S' on it." He was about Lori's age, taller than Burke, hard-muscled and handsome, with a pencil-thin mustache.

  "Nice to meet you, Walt. Lori said you were a neurologist. Must mean you got some nerve."

  Brackin grimaced and turned to Lori. "Tell him no puns, please."

  "Okay, you two," she said like a mother separating two boys. "You've met. Let's go claim our bags and get on the road."

  When they boarded the van, Brackin quickly surveyed the equipment in back of him. "You're really prepared for this expedition, aren't you?"

  "Almost," Burke said. "I need to make one more call to my photo interpreter. Then we'll be ready to breach their security."

  He told them about his conversation with Randy Starr.

  "Good work," Lori said. "I feel better already. I promised Chlo to keep this guy out of trouble."

  "I understand you're a former Green Beret," Burke said. "That's a tough outfit."

  "You better believe," said Brackin. "I wasn't assigned to a team, of course, so I didn't keep up the everyday training that the combat types went through. But I learned things at Fort Bragg I'd never pick up anywhere else."

  "It's unfortunate some ex-Ber
ets go bad on the outside and taint their reputation," Burke said.

  "Know what you mean. Dr. Jeffrey MacDonald sure didn't help us medical types with that family killing spree at Bragg. Don't waste any tears on that outfit, though. They can handle it."

  He didn't say it, but he might have added not to waste any sympathy on Walter Luther Brackin, either. He had been raised in a tough black section of Philadelphia. His middle name had been taken from Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and true to King's dream, he had freed himself from the bonds of the ghetto. His struggle against the drugs and violence had culminated in admission to medical school, with a commitment to military service upon graduation. The Army Special Forces training was as tough as he could have imagined, but life in inner city Philadelphia had been a good prep school. After the Army, he had pursued with equal vigor specialization in neurology and his former med school girl friend, Chloe Essary. He had succeeded equally well on both counts.

  Oyster Island was awash with frenzied activity that afternoon. The new identities given the team members received a final polishing. Altered appearances were scrutinized, cover stories challenged, billfold contents double-checked. Nothing would be left to chance. Jeffries supervised placement of the truck's electronic components and interior padding, which had been removed during the test firings. Everything was energized and tested. Overmyer disassembled the weapon and concealed its parts in ingenious ways. The "birds" would be smuggled into Canada separately, hidden beneath the seat of an innocent passenger car.

  Sarge Morris packed up everything except what they would need for breakfast, while Ted and Golanov inspected the grounds to make certain nothing would be left behind to advertise who had been there or what they had been doing. Ingram checked out the LCM and pronounced it ready to sail. They planned to get underway early to avoid the approaching storm.

  The thirty-foot sailboat Lori and Walt chose bore the name Elvira. She could make thirteen knots, depending upon wind and sea conditions, according to the man at the marina where they rented it. They were skeptical. The cruisers they had sailed before were much slower. They soon discovered what lay behind the extra speed, and the drawbacks that went with it. The designer had skippered racing boats and gave it a hull more attuned to speed than comfort. With the narrower beam, it tended to roll enough that foul weather gear was advisable to assure staying dry, particularly with a west wind approaching fifteen knots.