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.