“With some exceptions,” she added.
Slater himself was an object of some interest, he could tell. Everyone in town had seen the Sikorsky by now, and although the mayor herself had backed up his story—“it’s a routine training mission for the Coast Guard,” he had heard her tell three people already—he was sure that there were other rumors circulating, too. It wouldn’t be a small town if there weren’t.
But as long as the rumors didn’t involve the Spanish flu, he was okay with it.
On the way out, he saw a blue van with what looked like a confab going on inside, among the Vane boys and Eddie and Russell. He wondered if he should post a sentry on the chopper that night or risk having its hubcaps stolen. He’d already been stuck in Port Orlov longer than he’d intended, but bad weather in the Midwest had grounded Eva Lantos’s plane, and military red tape had tied up some of the equipment scheduled for arrival on the second chopper. Murphy’s Law in action. Slater knew that every mission encountered problems like these—especially one like this, organized virtually on the fly—but it didn’t make it any easier to take. Patience had never been among his virtues.
When he got back to the community center, where he’d been bunking with Professor Kozak and the two Coast Guard pilots, he went straight to Nika’s office, where he’d set up his own little command post on a corner of her desk and the top of her file cabinet. It was the most secure office on the premises, and she’d been very accommodating, but he still felt a bit guilty about usurping so much of her space. She’d even given him the spare key.
“Don’t lose it,” she said. “The town locksmith is drunk most of the time, and it’s not easy to get another one made.”
With Nika off making official condolence calls, and Kozak exploring the local terrain, he sat down in Nika’s chair—instead of the stool he’d brought in for himself—and got to work, checking logistics, firing off email queries, figuring out how this assignment could be completed in the shortest amount of time and with the minimum amount of public scrutiny. The weather reports weren’t good—a storm was brewing—and he wanted to beat it to St. Peter’s Island, at least in time to get a few of the necessary structures set up. He didn’t much relish the idea of erecting lighting poles in the teeth of gale-force winds.
For a couple of hours, he managed to lose himself in his work, even phoning Sergeant Groves—and plainly waking him up—to go over the latest alterations to the plan.
“So what’s your ETA now?” he asked, and Groves, audibly yawning, said, “We should be able to load everything onto the second Sikorsky—including the good Dr. Lantos—by Thursday morning.”
It was only Tuesday night now, and Slater had to bite his lip in frustration.
“What time do you want to rendezvous on the island?” Groves asked.
“We’re not going to,” Slater said, having given it much thought since his aerial reconnaissance. “The colony’s on top of the plateau, but it’s hemmed in by trees and the remaining wooden structures. The graveyard is in an even trickier spot. There’s no room for two helicopters to off-load at the same time.”
“How’s the beach? We could use that, right?”
Again, Slater had to nix the idea. “The beach can handle no more than a Zodiac. It’s too narrow and sloped, and the only way up to the plateau, a considerable distance, is a staircase cut into the stone. I wouldn’t try to carry a kitten up those steps, much less a centrifuge.”
“So you’ll go first?”
“Yes, and you can follow. We’ll leave a two-hour window for the initial cargo deployment, and start at eleven A.M. on Thursday. It won’t be light enough earlier.”
They were discussing a myriad of other details—the order in which the hazard tents would be erected, the grid of the ground ramps and location of the generator shacks—when Slater picked up the aroma of stew and heard a furtive knock on the door.
“Come in,” he said, holding the phone to his shoulder, and looked up to see Nika holding a Crock-Pot between two pot holders.
“The Yardarm is doing their version of chicken Kiev tonight,” she said. “Trust me, you’re better off with my home cooking.”
Slater was embarrassed to be caught so much in possession of her office and started to rise from her chair.
“Finish your call,” she said, “and meet me in the gym.”