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 the 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.
He stepped back and bent over, hands resting on his knees, to check the license plate. It was from Texas. He made note of the number.
There was the faintest hint of sound, like the rustle of clothing, just as he felt something cold and metallic press against the back of his neck.
"Don't move a muscle!" The voice was low, commanding, with a hardness matching the object jammed into Burke's neck. "In case you're wondering, this forty-five-caliber Sig Sauer would take the top right off your head. All I got to do is pull the trigger a tiny bit more, mister. Don't tempt me."
Burke froze, his heart thumping rapidly. The cold gun barrel pulled away from his neck as he heard the man take a step backward. He could whirl and try to kick the gun, if he were bent on suicide.
"Now raise your arms slowly. That's right. As high as you can get 'em. Stand up straight."
He was close enough to see Burke's combat fatigues.
"Damn! I got me a P.O.W. Okay, soldier, move to your left. Keep those arms high. Out into the light."
Burke's mind was racing. How had he let himself get trapped like this? He was sure everyone would be asleep at three-thirty in the morning. Don't assume anything, Lori had warned. How right she was.
He knew he'd have a better chance facing his opponent. "Let's talk this over, friend," he said, trying to keep his voice calm. And he began a slow turn to the right.
The blast from the automatic pounded his ears at the same time the sand kicked up next to his right foot. He froze again. What would Brackin do, he wondered? He should be waiting in the shadows not too far away.
"Don't try any more tricks, soldier," the man said. "Next time it'll be in the middle of your back. Start walking forward, slowly."
Before he had taken two steps, Burke heard the sound of voices and running feet coming from the area of the living quarters. Then he saw them, a gaggle of men dressed only in their underwear, the first two with guns drawn.
"Everything's under control," his captor said with a shout. "We got ourselves a P.O.W."
The lead figure stared at Burke’s fatigues. "Where the hell did he come from?"
"I don't know," the first gunman said. "I happened to see a light flash in the truck while I was taking a walk. I snuck around the shop and heard him close the door. Then I jumped his butt there in back of the truck."
They were now standing near the truck's cab. "Did you check to see if anybody else was in there?" a man with a slight British accent asked.
"I haven't had time. You guys were so damned sure those intrusion detectors would warn us. How do you explain him?"
"I'm positive the system was operating," said a short, husky man obviously shaken by what was happening.
Burke listened to them argue as he glanced from face to face. He recognized the last one to speak as Blythe Ingram. The tall, dark-haired man with the bulging muscles and the English accent, was he Emerson Dinwiddie, the bogus salesman in Hong Kong? He saw Robert Jeffries looking like a man contemplating a pending disaster. He wore a chain around his neck with some kind of gold pendant attached to it. The big guy with the funny face was undoubtedly the large figure in the photo. A dark-skinned, slender figure stood off to the side, detached from the others. Burke thought he had a Middle Eastern look about him. The heavyset old white-haired guy standing unsteadily in the midst of the group had to be the cook.