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.
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.