Herman opened a notebook and studied the equipment inventory carefully. Everything was in hand. The signature of his quartermaster assured him that everything would be waiting at the staging area. He had to be certain he didn't miss anything-one missing object, no matter how small, and the consequences could be catastrophic. This operation would be his masterpiece, even though he would never get the recognition for it. When ops went right, someone else always got the credit.
“How do you feel?” Herman asked Ralph.
“Sir?”
“In your gut. How do you feel?”
“Fine.”
“Are you nervous? Any unease? Premonitions?”
“Nothing at all.”
“And the others? Focused? Eager? Chomping at the bit?”
“Sure.”
Herman closed the notebook and stood up. He felt like a hunter at wood's edge, ready to release his dogs.
11
Rook Island, North Carolina
“This is Winter Massey,” Greg told the other five members of the WITSEC team. “Starting with Cross, I want each of you to introduce yourselves.”
“I'm Bill Cross. Welcome aboard.” Cross had an auburn crew cut and gunmetal-gray eyes. He was about Winter's size, in his midtwenties.
“Dave Beck.” Beck had obviously been awakened for the meeting. He was in his early thirties, no taller than five-six, and in need of a shave. The ball cap he wore splayed his mousy hair out over the tops of his ears. “We're all looking forward to working with you, Massey.”
“I'm Ed Dixon.”
“We all call him Bear,” Greg said.
“Ed,” Winter said, extending his hand.
Dixon shrugged shyly as he shook Winter's hand. “Bear's cool. Been my name since I was in diapers.”
“Bear” was a nickname that fit the man perfectly. Dixon was six-four and weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds. His deep-set eyes seemed too small for his head, and his voice was pitched so low it vibrated.
“Bob Forsythe,” Greg said.
“Robert,” Forsythe corrected.
Forsythe was in his late thirties, and his features were acute. He wore his slick, jet-black hair combed straight back against his skull like a gangster in an old B movie. Winter's instant impression was of a thrifty man who didn't waste expressions or words. His eyes were as alert as a falcon's. He looked at Winter as though he were sizing him up as competition.
“I saw you shoot a few years back,” Winter told him.
Forsythe formed what might have been a grin if his lips hadn't been so tight. “How'd I do?”
“You came in second on account of that sudden gust of wind.”
“I took first the next year-ninety-eight,” he replied, too quickly.
“I know,” Winter said. “Then you quit competing.”
“What's the point in repeating yourself?” Forsythe said.
“We've all seen you shoot!” Bear blurted out. Then he blushed. “Sorry. It's just that you're a phenom. Like Forsythe. Naturally the rest of us wish-we just get by.”
“Get by?” Greg said incredulously. “Bear here can hold a Jeep off the ground while you change the tire and not even break a sweat.”
Winter nodded. He knew that for the past seven years every recruit entering Glynco had viewed the court security tapes of Winter's Tampa shootout. The tapes, taken as a record for the Justice Department of the trial of a drug lord, were included in the training as an example of a deputy putting himself between a threat and innocent people. That was the official excuse for showing the tapes, but it was strictly a prurient exercise of “Watch the marshal get shot at and somehow not die. Now watch him even the score. Man, that was some shooting, but don't try and trick-shoot like that, rookie, or you'll be dead.” He had been invited to speak to the first class that viewed the tapes, but he had declined in such a way that the invitation had never been offered again. Winter had never seen the tapes and didn't want to.
“And you know Angela Martinez. Okay, sailors, back in the barrel,” Greg told them. “I need to show Winter and Martinez around the island.”
Winter and Martinez accompanied Greg on a tour of the island. Starting in front of the safe house, Greg pointed at the water tower forty yards to the south. “That doubles as a shooting platform for Forsythe. It gives him a good view of our side of this island.” He pointed to the north side of the house. “The tennis courts and pool are closed for the season.”
“Hard to believe they pay us for this,” Martinez said.
“This isn't a vacation,” Greg reminded her sharply. “The Devlins are never to leave the house unescorted. Anything feels wrong, use whatever force you need to get on top of things. Neutralize the situation, ask questions later. We are authorized to use any lethal force we deem necessary, which is why this crew is made up of the people it is. Shifts are listed on the board in the security room.”
“Cherry Point is supplying heavy protection. They've moved in some combat-equipped attack helicopters and even have some SEALs bivouacked just down the coast. We sound an alarm and cavalry arrives in minutes. I'll show you the other side the island.”
After taking the path behind the house that led through the trees to the west side of the island, the marshals stood overlooking the naval facility. “Radar station is manned by six sailors,” Greg informed them. “They're under orders to stay on this side of the tree line while we're here. Cover story is that there's an admiral vacationing with his wife. As far as anybody knows we're Navy security.
“That big building is the barracks and the one just behind it is an equipment shed. The radio room is the building with the dish tower on top of it. The ramp beside it leads down to the pier. Store boat normally delivers supplies on Thursdays and ferries sailors as necessary. The cigarette racer and the sport-fishing boat are for the brass.”
“How long we here for?” Martinez asked.
“Devlin is set to testify before a congressional committee on organized crime early next week. I doubt we'll be returning here after that. With this guy, if the Justice Department gets nervous, we could be asked to make a move onto a military base without warning.”
“How do you get orders?”
Greg smiled and reached into his pocket. “This is a Palm organizer bought by some civil servant's wife-it can communicate wirelessly through an account in her name. I send encrypted e-mails, our people reply. It's about as immediate as a phone call and absolutely secure. There's not a working phone on our side of the island.”
Martinez said, “Great food, sun, surf, hazardous-duty pay, and an army over my shoulder. They'll have to drag me out of here kicking and screaming.”
Greg chuckled. “Please don't throw me in de briar patch!”
Back at the safe house, the trio of marshals found Dave Beck sitting at a console watching the monitors hooked to cameras covering the entire western side of the island.
The security room was carpeted, windowless, and large enough for two chairs and a couch. Three of the monitors showed views of the house's exterior doors and porch, the beach, pool, and tennis courts. Three other monitors showed interior views: the hallway outside the security room, and other halls and rooms in the house. The view on each screen changed every five seconds.
“This is a restricted zone we're in. The sailors report any craft in the sky or on the water,” Greg said. He pointed to the panel. “Whenever an outside door is opened, that light flashes. You can zoom and pan the cameras. After dinner, Beck will show you how everything here works.”
“In an emergency, hit this red button and we get help.”
“Once it's triggered, they come to investigate,” Greg said. “A helicopter gunship arrives first, followed by a Blackhawk packed with our SEAL friends. Time to introduce you to our Mr. Devlin,” he added. “If he's receiving.”