Ammunition, however, can be purchased like candy in Virginia. Echoes of carpetbaggers and Reconstruction and the Federal city right on its northern border kept Virginia’s gun laws libertarian. Thomas Jefferson, native Virginian, had said, “The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.” A few million Virginians stood quietly ready to prove him right if the Feds ever tried to take their liberty and the guns they protected it with.
Daniel picked up a few things he wanted to try out, a few things he thought would be useful. They all did. Then they drove on, well stocked.
-11-
The sun was coming up the next morning over Onancock as they deployed around the apartment complex where the Integrated National Strategies people lived. It turned out that they all had units at a place called Seaside Acres, built in the last ten years, cookie-cutter. Made it easier to recon. Made it easier for their security people to keep an eye on their own guys too.
Zeke, Spooky and Daniel sat in the Land Rover, parked down the street from the apartment complex’s single gate. Zeke munched cheerfully on his fourth ham-and-egg croissant. The XH had taken hold.
They’d already watched one little nerdy-looking guy get into a black Suburban driven by a big Hispanic minder. The Suburban was parked just inside the gate, by the leasing office. It was easily visible from the angle the guys had chosen.
“That’s Arthur Davidson, virologist. The heavy is Miguel Carrasco, former Texas Ranger.”
It was hard to say for sure, but Carrasco didn’t seem to be all that alert. Just another day on the job for him.
He got out of the vehicle again as another guy walked up. Caucasian, thin, grey and balding, thick glasses. His pants were too short and he had on a stained white shirt, and dirty leather shoes like fry cooks wear on greasy floors. “Roger Auprey. Epidemiologist. Nominated for a Nobel prize once, but apparently he has to be reminded to shower and change his clothes. Mad scientist.” One more of the watchers followed behind him.
“The guy behind him must be Rogett.” Karl Rogett, Master Gunnery Sergeant, USMC retired, Daniel remembered from his file. Looked tough as nails, like you might expect. These two hard cases seemed more focused on controlling their charges than protecting them. I guess they expect me to run and hide, not gather up my own personal A-team – well, Zeke’s - and come after them, Daniel thought.
Daniel really wanted this thing to go smooth, no casualties. He wasn’t sure the other guys were on the same page, despite his insistence.
Skull, Larry and Vinny had gone in the Cherokee, over Larry’s strenuous objections. A flashy Escalade just wasn’t any good for surveillance, so they’d parked it back at the chain motel where they were staying. They should be down at the biggest marina nearby, renting a nice big pleasure boat that would accommodate everyone. If they were lucky, INS’s corporate vessel would be at the same marina. If not, it would be easy to keep an eye out for them from the water between there and Watt’s Island. The harder thing would be not to be noticed themselves.
The Suburban pulled out of the gate and Zeke, Daniel and Spooky shadowed them from well back. They drove like locals, not too fast and not too slow, and pretty soon the Suburban pull into the marina where Zeke’s guys should be. Sometimes things do go smooth. For a while.
Zeke called the other vehicle on his walkie. “They’re here; look alive.”
They turned left where the Suburban had turned right, to go down to where their boat waited. They parked, schlepped their cases with various supplies and ordnance onto the boat, and loaded up.
Vinny stayed on shore to do some surveillance of everyone’s vehicles and residences. He had hinted he might try for something more than that; maybe sneakiness ran in the Nguyen family. Maybe Vinny was a younger version of Spooky in the techno-urban jungle.
Skull piloted the boat like a pro, taking them out about a mile then slowing down. They loafed along like lubbers out for a pleasure cruise. It was chilly but sunny and they bundled up and broke out the coffee thermoses, doughnuts and binoculars.
Pretty soon a nice thirty-six-footer came out of the marina and angled off to the north fast, toward Watt’s Island, which could barely be seen about seven miles off. They crossed to windward of Zeke and the others doing twenty knots, going northwest, and by this time Skull had them on a parallel course at ten or so. They didn’t want to look too eager.
They watched the other boat all the way in to Watt’s Island, a tiny patch of scrubby pines and rocks with the all-steel buildings showing quite clearly. The highest tree on the island didn’t stand more than twenty feet tall. The complex was on the southeast corner, and everything looked just like it had on the satellite imagery. They could see the white Jeep parked at the pier, with someone standing next to it, smoking.
They tooled along, not too near, not too far, and observed as the cruiser pulled up to the dock next to the boathouse. Three people got out onto the pier, then into the Jeep, which drove the hundred yards or so to the tiny empty parking lot. The boat pulled away and headed back for Onancock.
By this time the team was looking at the south side, and then the back of the complex as they rounded the island. There were no windows in the big building, but there were two in the small one facing south. They could see the helo pad, which was empty except for a short pole and a wind sock standing stiffly in the north-by-northwest breeze.
“All right, that’s enough. We don’t want to get made. Head for Tangier Island,” Zeke ordered.
Skull turned the wheel and ran the throttles up to comfortable cruising speed. Less than half an hour later they came into Mailboat Harbor and docked at the marina at the north end of the island. Slightly less conspicuous than usual in a New York Yankees cap, he paid the docking fee and got the boat topped off with fuel. He could still frighten children with a look.
They wandered around the tiny island, splitting up to act like they were interested in the little shops, museums and restaurants along Main Ridge Road. The whole piece of land they stood on was barely a square mile, the southwest-most of three sub-islands that were all that remained of historic Tangier Island. It used to be much bigger, just like Watts Island, but rising ocean levels and erosion were slowly washing it away. In a couple of hundred years it would probably be completely gone.
They met up for an early lunch at a seafood place overlooking the water, within sight of a dozen fishing boats trying to eke out a living in the Chesapeake and the coastal Atlantic nearby. It was hard to hide, because the tourist season hadn’t started yet, and it was mostly locals. At the same time, that made it easier for them to spot anyone out of the ordinary, and none of the team reported seeing anyone that looked like they were watching. That was good news.
They headed back as soon as they were done, just a bunch of guys on an outing. Watts island looked the same on the way back, though they went around to the north of it this time. It was about noon, and not a creature stirred except for the sea birds.
They met back at the motel, and went inside Vinny and Tran’s room. Larry had been complaining because of the crowding in the Land Rover, so he was first out of the vehicle. He was a big guy.
On the other hand, Zeke was getting smaller. He didn’t seem as hungry as Daniel had been, but he was still eating more than normal and he kept grabbing the roll of his gut and shaking it, with a big pleased look on his face. “My pants are getting looser. Hot dog, this stuff is a weight-loss miracle too. It must boost the metabolism like crazy. I feel awesome!”
Daniel looked at him soberly. “Every high has its low, and every benefit has a cost. We just don’t know what this is yet.”