Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers)

by Chester D. Campbell

  Walt had re-checked the weather and found it likely that conditions would be marginal by the time they got back. Nevertheless, he and Lori, at Burke's urging, decided that would be sufficient.

  They docked the boat at Angler's Inn before dark and loaded their supplies, including an inflatable raft of rubber impregnated nylon and a quiet-running electric motor that attached to it. Most such rafts were orange or yellow, to make them more visible to searchers. Burke had found an olive-colored model that would blend nicely with the sea. During his shopping tour, he had bought a set of combat-style camouflage fatigues. Walt Brackin, it turned out, had brought along a similar outfit he had worn in the Special Forces.

  "You going to darken your face commando style?" Brackin asked.

  "I might try burnt cork this time," Burke said. "That damned greasepaint is a bitch to get off."

  "Know what you mean," said Brackin. "One time when I was a kid, I scrubbed half a day and wound up no more white than when I started."

  With a contorted grin, Burke shook his head. He had already decided the doctor would make an excellent teammate.

  They left the inn around eleven-thirty, using Elvira's inboard engine until they were well out into Apalachicola Bay. Overhead, an anemic crescent moon dodged in and out of the clouds that moved in steadily from the west. When Brackin shut off the engine, they unfurled the sails. The boat was rigged with a roller furling headsail and a full-battened, single-line reefing mainsheet. They soon took a tack to windward on a course calculated to bring them around to the west of Cape St. George, location of a historic lighthouse.

  Sailing out into the Gulf some sixty minutes after leaving the dock, they changed course, picking up a heading that would lead toward Oyster Island, which now lay about twenty miles to the south. The brilliant beam of Cape St. George Light helped orient them as Elvira's sharp bow sliced through the foaming waves. The surface was choppy. Even with a spray shield, the quartering seas showered them regularly with a salty mist. They had donned lightweight, breathable, foul-weather outfits that kept them dry without overheating. Actually, it felt quite comfortable, as the wind had a cool nip to it.

  When the luminous-dial watch Burke wore reached two a.m., he huddled inside the cabin with Brackin, leaving Lori at the helm. He unrolled a sixteen-by-twenty print of the island that Buddy Bottelli had made by photographing the spread-out montage. It had been waterproofed with a spray-on coating. Beneath the dim cabin light, they reviewed their plan one final time.

  With the buildings located on the north side, Burke chose to land in an area along the opposite shore, where they had seen the exposed concrete strips that apparently housed wires for an electrical field. It was some eight-tenths of a mile from the living quarters. He reasoned that the entire contingent should be sleeping. The intruder detection system would provide ample reason for a feeling of security. With only eight of them, and roughly five miles of shoreline, the posting of sentries was hardly feasible.

  Burke took another look at the two photographs Lori had surprised him with. Through contacts at one of the Washington newspapers, she had come up with pictures of both Robert Jeffries and Blythe Ingram. As rising stars in their respective industries, they had made the business news columns in recent years. Their public relations staffs had dutifully provided business editors with pertinent photographs. The one of Ingram showed him with the imposing figure of PWI Chairman Donald Newman. Lori passed on two other tidbits about Jeffries. One of her contacts, an attractive female business writer, had interviewed him a few months before. He had taken her to dinner and invited her by his hotel suite for a drink. She declined but reported he definitely fancied himself a ladies' man. To this she added that he was married to the daughter of Franklin Wizner, chairman of Wizcom, the holding company that owned Rush Communications.

  Back in the cockpit, they kept watch until Lori spotted the tree-line of Oyster Island off the starboard bow. It appeared dimly in the thin glow of moonlight filtering through the clouds. They cut the lights and sailed past the leeward side of the island so that any accidental sound would be blown out to sea. About a half-mile from the southeasternmost point, they struck the sails and dropped anchor. Burke checked his watch. They were on schedule to hit the beach at three o'clock.

  Burke brought out a pair of binoculars with a special light-gathering feature for night vision and swept the beach. Nothing stirred, other than the swaying pine and palm trees. He noticed large signs at intervals along the beach, but couldn't make out the lettering.

  Brackin inflated the raft while they were still well offshore, knowing it would make a screetching hiss as the compressed gas suddenly forced its way inside the folds of nylon. As Elvira rocked with the cresting waves, he and Burke planted their feet carefully and lifted the raft over the sidedeck and into the water. Brackin slipped nimbly over the side into the raft and attached the motor. Buckling a green webbed belt around his waist, Burke checked the holster that held his .38 Ruger and clipped on a small, waterproof, high-intensity flashlight and a coil of rope tied to a large three-pronged hook.

  "Okay, we're ready to shove off," he said in a low voice. "We should be back by four, Lori. If we're not, you know what to do."

  They had agreed that should the men not return by four-fifteen, she would take the boat farther out, staying just close enough to observe the beach with binoculars. If they had not appeared by six, she was to get on the emergency channel and alert the Coast Guard Station at Panama City, asking their help with an emergency on Oyster Island.

  Lori put an arm around him. "We've made a lot of assumptions up to this point on what you're likely to encounter. From here on, don't assume anything. Go only on what you know."

  Burke frowned peevishly. It was excellent advice, he knew, so why did it rankle him? She was not questioning his ability, only offering a reminder, in hope of keeping him out of trouble. Was he acting like her ex-husband?

  That thought jarred him back to his senses. He nodded, kissed her silently and lowered himself into the raft. Brackin switched on the motor, which made only a low hum, and they headed for the shoreline. Wraith-like in the darkness, they moved through the water at a fairly good speed, considering the condition of the sea. As they came closer to the beach, Burke pointed to the preferred landing spot. It was not far from one of the signs he had seen from the boat. He could read it now: "Warning! Private Property of a U.S. Government Defense Contractor. Trespassers Risk Serious Injury from High Energy Surveillance System!"

  It sounded like the microwave setup Randy Starr had said was tested and discarded. Had the signs been erected at the time the system was first installed on a trial basis, Burke wondered? It was too late to do anything now but look for the focus-beamed microwave antennas that would be required. Starr had described them for him.

  About thirty yards out, Brackin cut the motor. They removed two small oars attached to the inside of the raft and quietly paddled the remaining distance. As the raft scraped bottom, they climbed out into the shallow water and towed it onto the beach, pulling it as far back from the surf as possible. Burke approached the spot where the concrete strips had showed on the photographs. He could barely make out a faint outline. It would have been totally invisible if he hadn't known where to look.

  The strips were located only a few feet from the tree line. He looked up at the lower branches of the nearest tree, gauging the distance. Then he uncoiled the rope attached to his belt and held the base of the hook. It weighed a good three or four pounds. He knew he would likely get only one try. If he missed, the rope would fall across the electrical field. Dry, it wouldn't matter. But wet with salt water, it would likely set off the alarm. He had made several practice throws that afternoon behind the Angler's Inn, missing only once. The three prongs of the hook made it almost a sure thing. Almost. He glanced over at Walt, who grinned and held up two fingers in a V for victory sign. Burke swung his arm back, then forward with an underhand throw. The hook sailed up into the tree, trailing the line behind it like
a striking snake.

  The hook remained in the tree. He gave a slight tug on the rope. It held tight. Then he leaned back, putting his full weight on the line. Still it held, with hardly any give.

  "Here goes nothing," Burke whispered. "Be ready to catch it when I throw it back."

  Reaching as high on the rope as he could, he pushed himself off the sandy beach and swung his feet up to stay clear of the electrical field. He sailed well above it, dropping to the ground some five feet beyond the rear strip of the detection apparatus. Coiling the lower part of the rope, he threw it across to Brackin, who gathered it in like a receiver taking a kick-off.

  After Walt landed beside him, Burke took the rope and tied it to the trunk of the tree, where it would be ready for their return.

  They stood still for a minute, eyes searching for anything that moved, or any object that might indicate a secondary security system.

  Finally, Burke pulled the Ruger from its holster and turned to Brackin. "I'm heading up along the tree line."

  Brackin nodded. "I'll cover your rear." He was holding a 9mm Walther automatic of his own.

  Burke moved quietly but quickly beneath the trees, slowing only when he came too close to a palmetto thicket and speared his leg. He felt a sudden chill crawl along the back of his neck as he considered the possibility of a pair of unseen eyes lurking in the darkness beyond, perhaps zeroing in on him through the sights of a powerful rifle.

  What was he doing here, risking his neck in such a crazy venture? Was it really what he had claimed, an effort to thwart some undetermined plot against the interests of the United States by the killers of his longtime friend, Cameron Quinn? Or did it go much deeper? Had he misjudged himself in talking to Cam that day back at his house in the Smokies? There was a curious attraction to this business, a kind of daredevil thrill, like the irrational lure that makes otherwise sane people strap themselves into the seat of a two-hundred-mile-per-hour race car. He recalled the reluctance he had shown in accepting Cam's plea for help. Had it really been a fear that he might get hooked again, addicted to this chase to peel away the layers of deception, to unravel the puzzle and grasp the elusive truth? He wasn't sure.

  He looked back once to see if he could make out Brackin, but the moon was only a faint glow now. He could detect nothing in the darkness beneath the trees. It took him about twenty minutes to reach the buildings. The truck was parked by the machine shop. A sodium lamp mounted on a pole in front of the office cast a muted yellow glow across the left side of the truck. The other side, which faced the shop, was shrouded in shadow.

  Approaching the right side of the truck toward the front, Burke saw the "Chevy Van" nameplate on the hood. He was about to try the cab door when he spotted another beyond it, on the side of the cargo section. He pulled carefully on the latch. It was unlocked. Opening the door slowly, to make certain there would be no alerting screech, he removed the flashlight from his belt and looked inside. Seeing it was clear, he stretched to climb up into what appeared to be a six-by-seven-foot compartment.

  The first thing he noticed was a strong, almost overpowering odor. It had that clean, pristine scent of a new car. Then, shining the light around, he saw a spray can labeled "NuCar." It could be used, the label said, to "make your vehicle smell as though fresh off the lot." Such heavy spraying should only be necessary if it were needed to mask another odor, he thought. But what odor?

  He turned the flashlight toward the rear, opposite the passageway to the cab. What he saw was a bank of electronic equipment, floor to ceiling, mounted flush with the wall, several different types of units covered with dials and switches and pushbuttons. About two feet above the floor, a shelf protruded out to form a work area or desktop. Two metal desk chairs on rollers sat in front of it. As he looked closer, he noticed the row of equipment just above the shelf included four small screens, eight-inch TV monitors. On the desktop in front of them were more pushbuttons and two levers. Leaning his face near the screens, he saw plastic tape lettering above them indicating "Camera 1," "Camera 2," "Camera 3" and "Camera 4." It suddenly dawned on him that he was standing in a miniature, portable TV control room. Undoubtedly something used in remote telecasting. He had seen the large semitrailer rigs used by the networks for sports events or major meetings, but never one this small.

  As he shined the light to the right of the screens, he came to a computer keyboard connected in tandem to what appeared to be two separate disk drives. Moving up, he found a computer monitor and, above that, a videotape player.

  Swinging the light on around the small, compact space, he saw sets of headphones hanging from hooks, and, flush with the wall behind the driver, a bench-type seat mounted above a vent that must have been for air conditioning. A telephone was mounted on the wall beside the outside door, next to another headset plugged into a jack. Flashing the light into the cab, he found nothing unusual, unless it was the compass mounted in the center of the dash. He shined the light toward it again. It was a gleaming brass, rather expensive looking model.

  Suddenly remembering the round opening in the roof, he turned the light upwards. A ceiling baffle made of some kind of foam plastic shaped roughly like the inside of an egg carton covered the entire area. There was no sign of the hole that had showed in the photos. The walls were covered with sound absorbing material, the floor carpeted. While standing there, he felt something hard beneath the carpet, perhaps a metal fitting of some sort. Moving his foot around, he located two more similar points. Checking again, he determined that they formed a triangle right in the center. There was no way to look further, however, as the carpet was one piece, anchored at the sides with a screwed-down strip of molding.

  He checked his watch. He had been there for more than ten minutes. It was time to move on over to the office building where, he hoped, he might find some clue as to the purpose of Jabberwock.

  Before leaving the truck, he took a tiny automatic Minox camera from his pocket. It contained 3200 speed film, fast enough to shoot with a flashlight. Turning the lens to widen its beam, he pointed the light at the equipment bank, raised the camera and snapped several quick shots. He continued to swing the light around the compartment, shooting as he turned.

  Chapter 37

  The sound that woke Gary Overmyer could have come from anywhere. A tall palm tree loaded with coconuts stood near the window beside his bed. It might have been a coconut plunking to the ground, or some of the pile of dead palm leaves blowing against the side of the building. Whatever it had been, he was thankful, for the dream had just begun, his view zooming in like a TV camera on the gleaming white obelisk that stood amidst the crowded section of Moscow. Thank God something had awakened him before time had allowed it to metamorphose, as dreams had a way of doing, into that abhorrent concrete apartment building.

  He rolled out of bed, pulled on the pants to his fatigues, the familiar outfit he’d be unable to wear during the rest of the operation, and reached for the gun belt. The pistol was like an American Express card. He never went anywhere without it. His bare feet padded soundlessly through the hallway and out the door at the rear of the building. He hadn't bothered to look at a clock or put on his Rolex. He didn't give a shit what time it was anyway. He wasn't interested in sleep anymore. Not with that damnable dream lurking in his subconscious.

  He knew the storm was on its way. He could smell it in the air. The sky was dark with clouds and the wind rushing through the trees rivaled the sound of the surf. He hoped the storm would hold off until they reached Port St. Joe. He could sit in the truck, of course, but that damned boat was rough enough on a clear day. Walking slowly, he dug his toes into the sand, relishing the cool breath of the wind against his bare chest. For a brief moment, he was a kid again, roaming heedlessly about a South Carolina beach in the summer darkness, dreading his mother's inevitable shout that would mean bedtime.

  After walking for maybe ten minutes, he decided to go back the other way, toward the area where he had found that old firing range. He passed t
he living quarters and the office building on the beach side, then started to cut across beneath the light pole toward the front of the shop when something stopped him cold.

  He stared ahead intently. He saw it again. A brief flash of light inside the truck cab. It hadn't come from the overhead light, he was certain. More like the beam of a flashlight. Who the hell would be in there this time of night with a flashlight? Bob Jeffries was proud enough of that truck that he might decide to check on something in the middle of the night, but he would turn on the lights. Somebody was in there who had no business being in there. Was it Abdalla? Richter?

  He slipped quietly around the shop. Crossing toward the side where the truck sat, he moved slowly, in a crouch. The corner of the building was shadowed by the vehicle. With the caution of a trained guerrilla, he stretched out flat on the ground to provide the minimum silhouette, should one be visible. He had not drawn his weapon, since he expected to see one of his fellow team members. But he had unsnapped the holster. He heard the soft click of the truck door closing.

  Burke eased to the ground and pushed the door shut. He had put the Ruger in his pocket while still inside, planning to re-attach the flashlight to his belt and retrieve his gun after checking the rear end of the truck. He moved quickly to the back and looked into the open bed. There was enough light to see the mechanism clearly, but he still wasn't sure of its purpose. It appeared to be some kind of swivel device designed to raise, lower and turn something. But there was nothing attached to it.