To his right sat a tall, dark-haired man who combined the muscles of a body builder with the lithe movements of a ballet dancer. In three weeks he would become on-site commander of Operation Jabberwock. He appeared calm, easy-going, the essence of urbanity. His passport identified him as Andrew Goldman of London, but his dossier at Langley listed him as Lt. Col. Andrei Petrovich Golanov, formerly of the Second Chief Directorate, Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, the Committee for State Security of the Soviet Union. With the recent demise of the USSR and the KGB's absorption into the Russian Federation, his position had become somewhat precarious.
Shortly after Ted reached the water's edge, the gray hull of the LCM came plodding up the relatively calm waters of St. Joseph Bay. Empty, it rode high in the water. Ingram maneuvered the ancient craft onto the beach with the bumbling assistance of his crewman, Arnold "Sarge" Morris, a white-haired, wizened old ex-Army mess sergeant who had worked the past few years at a so-called "defense survival camp" in South Alabama. He would serve as cook and majordomo on Oyster Island.
Lowering the bow ramp brought a loud metallic grating racket that sent nearby gulls fleeing for their lives. The vehicles were driven on board, and Ingram reversed the ramp controls. The boat began a slow movement astern until she was well out into the bay. Ingram turned the craft about, taking a northwesterly heading that would lead them through the narrow mouth of the bay and into open water. Soon they began the monotonous eight-knot journey out into the Gulf, where only a few frothy wisps of cumulus dotted the skies. To the good fortune of those on board, a brisk fourteen-knot breeze out of the southwest helped counter the heat of a blistering afternoon sun.
Late in the day, a small oasis of green appeared on the horizon. At first they could see only the flat tree line. The island was covered mostly with stands of pine and clumps of palmetto, its spiny fronds waiting to spear the unwary. As they came closer, they saw the occasional towering crown of a palm tree.
During World War II, the island had served as a gunnery range for fledgling Navy pilots. Declared surplus property after the war, it was purchased by two young developers who had visions of making it an exclusive resort. But no one was interested in providing ferry service that far offshore, and the idea, like the developers' ready cash, soon faded into oblivion. In the late 'fifties, a small military weapons manufacturer bought the island to use as a testing ground for guns and ammunition. Two decades later, the company was swallowed up by Pan West Industries, a ravenous conglomerate with aircraft, heavy weapons and high tech subsidiaries that accounted for a large portion of Defense Department contracts. PWI modernized the facility with a dormitory structure, cooking and dining facilities, a well-equipped machine shop and a paved runway to handle small aircraft. There was even an undersea telephone cable connecting at Port St. Joe with PWI's private lines. All of the buildings were one-story, which effectively hid them behind the trees.
Ted and Andrew Goldman stood beside Ingram, shielding their eyes from the spray that cascaded over the top of the ramp, as he steered toward the beach area where they would unload.
Ingram shouted over the din from the engine compartment. "No one lives on the island, so it's covered by a sophisticated intruder detection system. A company office at Panama City monitors the signals. We don't want drug runners using this as a way station, so we notify the Coast Guard of any activity that's picked up."
"I presume they'll know when we arrive then?" Ted asked.
"Right. I'll check in by phone. They can shut off their monitors, and we'll handle it from here."
Goldman nodded with obvious satisfaction. "Then we should have no worries about unwanted visitors."
Ingram agreed. "It sets off sirens as a warning, turns on lights along the shore at night. If anybody wants to use the beach, we'll have to make sure the system is deactivated."
Ted took in the group on the boat with a slow gaze. He thought about the others still to come. Except for the cook, whose role was minor, they were all talented professionals. They had been chosen for their competence, and though some of them were not aware of the full nature of the mission, each had his own reason to be fully committed once the plan was revealed in toto. He would be in charge of the training, in consultation with Goldman. His personal role included instruction on infiltration and escape, plus details of the actual scene of the operation. Ingram was the weapons expert, and Robert Jeffries, R&D vice president with Rush Communications, would handle electronics. He would arrive tomorrow with the other two team members.
Ted glanced around at Gary Overmyer, who sat atop the truck cab, gazing out at the island as they approached the beach. Overmyer had been picked by the Americans to serve as team leader for the eventual operation. Joining him would be the two Soviet choices, explosives expert Hans Richter, a former officer of the old Stasi, East Germany's hated State Security Service, and Naji Abdalla, a Palestinian who had once trained with guerrilla bands but now worked solo, confining his activities to one-shot actions where the pay was high. And the pay was high enough here, Ted reflected. Each team member had been given a numbered Swiss bank account with $150,000 in it. At the conclusion of the operation, additional deposits of $350,000 would be made — half a million dollars for each man.
And then there was Goldman… Lt. Col. Golanov. Ted gave a slight shake of his head. What a difference a few years could make. Not too long ago, he had made a trip to Afghanistan to help spirit out a KGB defector. Now he worked side-by-side with a former officer who might well have been one of the first to be notified of the defection. Glasnost made for strange bedfellows. Golanov seemed personable enough, but he had a sharp mind and a deadly reputation. Ted's instructions were to cooperate fully, but maintain a careful watch, reporting anything that might be remotely considered suspicious.
Chapter 6
Early the next morning, Ted watched as Blythe Ingram supervised unloading of the equipment, taking particular care with one crate labeled in large red letters: Danger High Explosives! Everything went into the machine shop shed except for the household supplies, which Sarge carted off a few at a time to the kitchen/mess hall. A small building adjacent to the dormitory housed a combination office and control center. Ted sat there with Goldman discussing the training schedule when, at around eleven, the radio console blared to life.
"Oyster Island, this is Cherokee Two Niner Kilo. Do you read me? Over."
Ted moved to the microphone. "You're loud and clear, Two Niner Kilo. Go ahead."
"Roger, Oyster. We're approaching from the northwest at about five miles. We have you in sight. Can you give me a wind reading?"
Ted's eyes scanned the array of dials above the radio. Flying was one pursuit he had only indulged in as a passenger. However, some of those flights had involved surreptitious trips into third world countries in small hedge-hoppers or helicopters. In the process, he had picked up a wealth of aircrew lingo, a smattering of communications procedures, and slightly more than a layman's knowledge of weather phenomena. Just enough, as one grizzled proprietary pilot would say, to make him dangerous. He keyed the mike again. "Two Niner Kilo, winds are one-three-five at ten knots. Over."
"Roger, ten knots from the southeast. Damned if they didn't build the runway in the right place. We'll be down in a short. Cherokee Two Niner Kilo out."
Ted turned back to his companion. "I guess that wraps it up. The rest of our crew is arriving."
They got outside just in time to see the small blue plane appearing beyond the trees to the northwest. Robert Jeffries eased the craft smoothly onto the runway, then braked to a stop about three-quarters of the way down. He turned around and taxied back to the parking area beside the machine shop.