"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hill," said Bottelli with what appeared to be a perpetual grin.
"Buddy's my right-hand man," said McKenzie. "He's chief camera technician, lab supervisor, map plotter. He can pick things out of a photo you wouldn't guess are there."
"I'm impressed," Burke said. "Where'd you acquire all this genius?"
"The good old U. S. Air Force," Buddy said. "I worked with cameras first. Then I decided to take a look at what the hell that stuff was coming out of those magic boxes. I served a hitch as a photo interpreter."
"They wish they had him back, too," McKenzie said with a grin. "But they won't pay him what I do. Everything ready to go, Buddy?"
"Camera's ready. Set forty-five degrees to port. As long as you don't miss the friggin' island."
"He's kidding, Burke." McKenzie stooped to point at a large blister on the underside of the Cessna's fuselage. "That's a radome. There's a scope in the cockpit. All I have to do is get the island centered on the scope and start firing. The intervalometer on the camera will give us a series of shots to make sure we get what we're going after."
McKenzie took his time inspecting the outside of the maroon-colored, high-winged plane, an action that helped dispel some of Burke's apprehension as he watched. The flame-haired pilot wound up by removing the hatch cover and checking the oil dipstick, then mounted a short stepladder to make certain the gas tanks had been topped off. Completing his inspection, he climbed through the door, motioning Burke to follow. After they had been towed out of the hangar, he fired up the engine and made his pre-flight checks, then called the tower for takeoff instructions. He had already checked the weather around Oyster Island before leaving his office. It was mostly clear, scattered cumulus at four-to-six thousand, surface temperature eighty-six degrees, southwest winds of twenty at five thousand feet.
Burke had no real fear of flying, but small, single-engine aircraft did not engender the same sense of security as a multi-engine commercial jet. He sat somewhat rigidly as they rumbled along the runway, the engine roaring at full power. He felt a slight queasiness in his stomach at the point where vibration from the landing gear suddenly ceased, giving way to a strange stillness sensed despite the engine's thunder, meaning they were no longer part of the gravity-bound terrestrial world. McKenzie gave a grinning thumbs-up signal and started a climbing turn out over the Gulf. Keying the microphone, he advised Flight Service that he was "off at six minutes past the hour" and activated his VFR flight plan to Panama City. Bathed in the afternoon sun, the shimmering water below appeared to be a sea of sparkling diamonds.
During the flight, McKenzie pointed out various landmarks along the way, Biloxi's beachfront resorts, Pascagoula's shipyards, the northward sprawl of Mobile and Pensacola's naval air station. He handed Burke the sectional chart and indicated their path across it. Panama City appeared beneath them around two in the afternoon, and McKenzie radioed Flight Service to close out his flight plan. From there, they steered clear of Tyndall Air Force Base and took a southeasterly heading toward Port St. Joe. After passing over the small town that hugged St. Joseph Bay, he took up a heading almost due south and quickly crossed over the sandy shoreline out into the Gulf.
As the distance to Oyster Island grew steadily shorter, Lori's questions from last night nagged at Burke more insistently. He had begun to sift through all the facts and search for hidden meanings that might have escaped him earlier. Had the Arab on Cyprus really been shot, or was it something stage-managed for Cam's benefit? The man at Ben-Gurion airport, was he for real, or just an actor? Cam's death was tragically undeniable, but he wouldn't feel comfortable about the reasons behind it until he had heard from Pinkleton.
His thoughts were interrupted by McKenzie's dramatically waving finger, pointing ahead to the left.
"There she is," he said, squinting down past the Cessna's long nose. From this distance, the island was only a small oasis of mottled green and light brown. He adjusted the radar and soon pointed to the small image at the top of the scope.
Burke frowned. "That little blip's it?"
"That's your island. We're on a parallel course about three miles to the east. When we're about a mile north, I'll drop the right wing and center the image on the mid-course line."
Burke shook his head. Technology and imagination could accomplish wonders. But that little spread of trees and sand down there? He was disappointed at the prospects. He could see the runway and what appeared to be a cluster of small buildings. A belt of green, varying in width, marked the line of trees that circled most of the island's perimeter. Other than that, nothing but scattered clumps of green dotting the sandy brown expanse. He knew that a view through the lens of his 35mm SLR would reveal little of interest. He couldn't believe that a four-by-five-inch format would make that much difference. And he'd be damned surprised if they came up with anything worthwhile. It would surely take something on the order of Kodak's incredible experiment to consider the mission a success.
Kevin McKenzie didn't seem to be having any qualms, however. "Here we go," he said a few minutes later, as the plane rolled to the right. "Camera running."
He was a demon of concentrated motion, his eyes flashing from the radar scope to the turn and bank indicator, then to the airspeed gauge, one hand manipulating the throttle, the other gripping the wheel. He had dropped their speed back to one hundred and ten knots as they approached the island. That way, increasing power as he slipped into the wind would give no appearance on the ground of any change in speed. At the same time he used the rudder to hold a straight course, fighting the plane's tendency to turn. After counting off sixty seconds, he switched off the camera and leveled the wing.
"What next?" Burke asked.
"We maintain this heading for ten minutes. Then we'll hang a left for about six miles. Make another ninety-degree turn, bringing us back the way we came. When we get back parallel to the island, we'll we shoot a strip from the east side. By then, enough time should have elapsed that they won't notice we're reconnoitering."
Gary Overmyer and Hans Richter bounded down onto the soft sandy soil from the rear compartment of the white-painted truck, still wearing the padded earphones that would double as communications devices and ear protectors. Overmyer looked across at Ingram, who held a pair of powerful binoculars to his eyes, watching a small cloud of smoke rise nearly half a mile away.
"How did we do?" Overmyer asked, jerking off the earphones.
Ingram turned with a smile. "Right on target, best I can tell."
Ted had started the Jeep and swung it around to where the group stood. He glanced up at the sight of a small plane passing far off in the distance. "Let's go take a look."
Ingram, Golanov, who would soon assume another name since "Andrew Goldman" had been compromised, and Overmyer climbed in. They bounced along through the sand, dodging clumps of palmetto, and quickly reached the area of the makeshift reviewing stand, which had been fashioned from lumber and plywood left over from some long-forgotten project. They found it in shambles, splintered two-by-fours tossed about like broken match sticks, jagged bits of charred plywood standing on edge, jammed into the sand by the force of the blast.
"I'd say we earned our merit badge," said Overmyer.
"Don't get overconfident," Golanov said. "Tomorrow we run a full dress rehearsal. Score then and we'll consider you fully qualified."
They walked around the remnants of the mock stand, kicking at bits of blackened lumber. Meanwhile, the rest of Oyster Island's temporary residents were congratulating themselves beside the truck. Old Sarge Morris added a comical touch, standing there in his white cook's hat, grease-smudged apron tied about his overstuffed middle, hands trembling with excitement. Jeffries, as usual, looked like someone headed for the first tee, lacking only the spiked shoes and a driver in his hand. The hulking Richter stood with huge paws on his hips, the earphones draped around his neck, while Naji Abdalla leaned against the side of the truck, arms folded, as if he might have been turning over in his mind some doubts about the expediency of the entire operation.