"We're secure, sir," he confirmed.
"How is the operation going?" Newman asked in a deep, sonorous voice, articulated with the precision of a network newscaster.
"I'm not so sure we should have stretched the training out over a three-week period," Ingram said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I suppose it was necessary to give Bob Jeffries time to rebuild the truck. But we've pretty well covered most of what they need to know. There won't be a test firing until next week."
"Do I detect some measure of concern? Perhaps a restlessness on the part of the team members?"
"Very perceptive, sir. It isn't too bad yet, but it could become a problem. Overmyer is probably the worst. He's very impatient, always on the move, prowling like a cat. The German is a little less active, but judging by his looks, he disapproves of most everything and everybody. It's probably just his outlandish appearance. You half expect him to start growling like some prehistoric creature and swinging his claws."
"What about Abdalla?"
"Very aloof. Seldom speaks except to ask a question. You can tell he absorbs every word of what's said, though. You get the feeling that all three of them are lethal instruments."
There was a slight chuckle at the other end. "That is precisely why they were chosen. As for the decision to schedule three weeks on the island, several other factors were considered besides the actual time needed to train them, and the time Jeffries required to install his equipment. One was to isolate them from the rest of the world long enough to assure their total immersion in the operation. Another was to separate their disappearance sufficiently from the target date that it would likely ring no alarms. And there was also a hope by one of the planners that it might throw them together long enough to create some personal rapport, make them more of a real team, perhaps achieve a degree of synergism."
"A hundred and twenty percent effort?"
"Precisely. How does it look to you? Are they learning?"
Teaching them to aim and fire the "device," as it had been referred to on the telephone, was Ingram's task. A former Marine, he had served in Vietnam during the early days of the war. After his discharge, he took his engineering degree and sought a place where he could pursue his interest in firearms and ballistics. With a firsthand knowledge of combat and the needs of troops in the field, he helped develop improved weapons in the small arms and light artillery categories. Then he moved up the ladder, broadening his interests into aircraft firepower, missiles and, ultimately, the cutting edge of weapons technology, anti-satellite, anti-missile systems, the Strategic Defense Initiative, better known as "Star Wars." At that stage, he became head of the Weapons Division of Pan West Industries, hand-picked by Donald Newman.
"Yes, sir," Ingram replied. "There are actually two phases to what we're doing. Jeffries is practically building a TV studio in the truck. They have to have a working knowledge of everything in case some inquisitive official should come along. He'll get into the communications end of it when the installation is complete. My part is relatively simple, though it must be handled with precision, as you know. I'd say they're coming along fine for novices at most of the technology. Ted insists each one know how to do every task, in case something should happen to one of them."
"Ted's a very thorough young man. It sounds as though everything is going according to plan. I trust you've had no problem with unauthorized visitors?"
"Haven't seen a soul. We keep the intrusion system going virtually all the time. The Coast Guard called one day to see if we needed anything." He gave a dry laugh. "If they only knew. Jeffries flew out late yesterday with Goldman. They're due back Monday morning."
The deep voice hardened. "Where was Goldman going?"
"I don't know, sir. They were flying into New Orleans. He said he had to send a report to his boss."
Newman's voice crackled with the sharpness and chill of an icicle. "I don't like the idea of that man running around loose. He's dangerous. I wish we could have somebody following him, but that might jeopardize the operation." He paused a moment as if mobilizing his final thoughts. "I want you to give everyone a stern warning. They must do or say nothing after they leave there that could possibly tie this operation back to Oyster Island. That is vital. You understand it is to protect your own neck as well as mine?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. You're doing a good job, Blythe. I knew I could count on you. Keep me posted."
Ingram smiled as he hung up the phone. He had spent enough time with his employer to know what lay behind his thoughts. He admired Donald Newman as a man of vast imagination and discernment. At seventy-five, Newman was in excellent health and in firm control. An old school patrician with a vision of America as the unchallenged leader of a fractious world, he would be content to share the reins of power with a few colleagues of like mind. Anyone or anything he deemed as a threat to that vision merited nothing save his wrath. That wrath, like the Almighty's judgment, knew no bounds.
The Newman family fortune had been accumulated from oil and land investments. Donald, head of the family holding company and the sole male heir, could have succeeded as easily as a financial guru. Well ahead of the pack, he saw the handwriting on the wall and made his move away from oil before the Arabs changed the face of the petroleum industry.
The war in Vietnam produced big profits for a large defense contractor on whose board he served. Newman shifted the family's wealth into the company's stock at the dawn of the seventies and soon wrested control. From there, it was the classic story of a dynamic empire builder, merging more and more companies until he had amassed the nation's top defense-related conglomerate, Pan West Industries. In the past couple of years, he had witnessed the insidious metastasis of a new malignancy that threatened the vitality of America's position of preeminence, one that also posed dire consequences for his own industry. He viewed Jabberwock as an inevitable outgrowth. His main contribution, besides cash, had been Ingram’s talent and dedication.
Chapter 15
At about nine-fifteen that morning, Burke strolled into Clipper Cruise & Travel, bag in hand, ready to swing into the flow of his new assignment but lacking any real concern for where it might lead. He had made numerous routine trips abroad during his Bureau days. He saw no reason to think this one would be any different. Brenda Beasley ushered him into the Captain's Cabin, where he found Lori pouring over a stack of papers on her desk, looking every inch the busy executive. As a concession to Saturday, however, she wore a pink blouse and white slacks rather than a more formal dress or suit.
She greeted him with a warm smile. He was about to try reading something into it but quickly admonished himself to quit dreaming.
"Good morning! I hope you suffered no ill effects from the salmon?"
He chuckled. "Only in the calorie department. That dinner was great, Lori. It was a real treat to eat somebody else's cooking." Years of bachelorhood had forced him to achieve a measure of competence in the kitchen, but on the culinary Richter Scale, his efforts would hardly have caused a ripple.
"Don't talk about calories. Only the dessert was excessive, and you didn't overdo it." She picked up a folder from her desk and held it out. "Here are your tickets and hotel reservation. You leave right at noon, so you'll need to head for National pretty soon. Are you packed?"