The Twisted Cross (18 page)

"Oh, my dear," he said, slobbering a smile. "Don't you realize that all this .

. . this moving and gyrating ... is futile?"

She tried to scream a second time, but her cry was once again muffled by the gag.

He leaned over toward her, his lips just inches from her lovely well-formed breasts. "You defied me today, my sweet," he said in a weird, inebriated sing-songy whine. "It is almost as if you don't understand who you are dealing with here."

He dared reach out at that point, putting his leather glove on her right breast. He suddenly felt as if he had made history, and in a sense, he had: It was the first time in his 42 years that he had touched a woman's naked body.

She squirmed hard again, trying to force his hand from her, but she couldn't.

He pinched her nipple tightly, causing her to arch up and back.

"You . . . you actually enjoyed that, didn't you?" he asked her, completely misreading her action.

He then put his hand between her soft white legs, feeling the smoothness of her thighs even through the leather glove. Again she tried to stop him from touching her by moving about, but again it was no use.

"And that?" he said, taking a swig of brandy, half of which wound up on his chin and neck. "You liked that too, didn't you?"

She violently shook her head from side to side.

"You didn't?" he said, his voice now approaching the timber of an elderly woman. "Well, that's good . . ."

Another gulp from the brandy and his uniform pants were down. He ripped open his jacket to reveal a hairless, almost feminine chest.

"Prepare yourself, my dear," he said, fighting off a violent series of hiccups. "Prepare to feel the sting of some long overdue discipline ..." -~

Just then he reached down for his whip and for the brandy bottle at the same time. The complicated maneuver caused him to lose his balance. He came crashing down on top of her, cracking his head on the metal bed frame as he did so. Suddenly he rolled off her and fell to the floor, completely blacked-out, a nasty gash bleeding on his nose.

She prayed he was dead . . .

Part II

"I suppose there's no way I can talk you out of this?" Jones asked Hunter as they walked down to the edge of the Potomac River.

Hunter didn't answer. He simply shrugged and readjusted the large, overfilled knapsack he was carrying.

"How about if I gave you a direct order not to go?" Jones continued.

The Wingman stopped and looked the general straight in the eyes. "Then I wouldn't go . . ." he said. He took a deep breath then asked: "Are you going to give me such an order?"

Jones stared at him for a moment then shook his head.

"No, I'm not, Major," he said. "But I want you to convince me that you know just what you're getting yourself into."

"I don't know what more I can say, General," Hunter told him as they resumed walking toward a small, riverside pier. "I promised Sandlake that I'd find his daughter. I feel I have to make good on it."

"But look at the monumental task you've taken on," Jones said. "Trying to find one person? In Central America? These days?"

"I know it's crazy," Hunter replied. "But I can't go back on my word. Besides, I've been holed up with Sandlake for the

past five days, going over every possible Mayan or Inca site where they may have taken his daughter. It's really just a question of tracking them down to the right place."

"And then what?"

"And, then I'll try to snatch her back," Hunter said. "Just how will depend on the circumstances."

Jones let out a long, gruff sigh. "We don't have much time, you know," he told the pilot.

"I know that, sir," Hunter replied. "But we do have some time. We have to prepare the strike force, draw up the battle plans, do the logistics . . ."

"All true," Jones said. "But we are moving ahead very quickly to accomplish all that."

As if to underscore his point, he nodded to the long column of United American M-l tanks that was rumbling .down nearby Independence Avenue on their way to Fort Meade in old Maryland. Several of the tank commanders recognized Jones and Hunter and offered friendly waves and salutes.

"The Texans and the Free Canadians are on board," Jones continued. "And we're gathering the airlift capacity and putting everyone through a quickie course in jungle combat training."

"That's all great," Hunter said. "But we also have to take into consideration that Sandlake is still a way from completing his deactivating device."

"He seems to be progressing well," Jones said, watching two United American A-7 Strikefighters pass overhead and turn south. "Christ, we've got more than twenty engineers working with him and his rather lovely assistants."

"Again, that's super," Hunter replied. "But I've gotten to know the guy pretty well. He's really not a well man. He goes in and out. Flashes of brilliance, sure. But there are a lot of dark spots in there, too."

Jones nodded sympathetically. "Getting shot in the head does that to you," he said.

"So does missing part of your family," Hunter replied. "And frankly, that's not something that I myself have thought a lot about -until this past week, that is. Now I

know what they mean when they say that having someone close to you turn up missing is worse than having them die on you ..."

They walked without talking for the next few minutes. Jones had the feeling Hunter was stepping into uncharted psychic territory; a very personal place in his mind.

Two more A-7s streaked over, breaking the silence between them. Finally they had reached their destination, a small dock just this side of the Arlington Memorial Bridge. Jones took one look at the contraption tied up to the pier and said: "Good God, what the hell is that?"

Hunter's mood lightened instantly. "I'm surprised at you / General," he said. "I would have thought you'd recognize one of die best, most underrated airplanes ever built." "But it looks like it's an antique . . ." Jones said.

"It is an antique," Hunter replied. "And I can't think of a better airplane to take on this mission . . ."

It was a Vought OS2U Kingfisher, a World War II-vintage seaplane that Hunter and Fitz found packed away deep in the bowels of the Smithsonian's Washington, DC storage facility. Working with a crew of UA Air Force volunteers, they had it flying in just a few hours. Hunter then spent another half day souping up the single prop engine from 450 horsepower to 650, and adding extra fuel tanks. Another few hours went into installing three special minicomputers of his own design, plus a long range radio set, an infra red spotting device and a few more high-tech weapons systems, all modular construction.

"Why this airplane?" Jones asked, running his hand along the Kingfisher's smooth, all-metal frame. "We certainly have bigger and better aircraft you could use."

"I know that," Hunter replied. "But this baby has a few advantages over anything else we've got.

"First of all, it's a low maintenance bird. The engine is as simple as one in a '65 Chevy. It's durable and it will run well in hot, humid weather. The Navy used these airplanes in the South Pacific for the entire war as observation craft, air-sea rescue, things like that. They catapulted them off battleships and cruisers, or they took off right from bays

and harbors. They took a real beating and kept flying.

"It's got a range of eight hundred miles and with the extra tanks I've added, I'll bet I get twelve hundred miles or more between fill-ups."

"But why a seaplane?" Jones asked. "You're going to the middle of the jungle .

. ."

"Well, that's what I thought at first, too," Hunter replied. "Then I did some studying and some talking with Sandlake.

"It turns out that many of the Mayan sites are actually built fairly close to rivers or lakes. It makes sense because the people who built these places two thousand years ago needed water close by for construction and for drinking.

And later, when the site was finished, they wanted to be near water for agriculture and so on."

"So you figure you can land this thing on any river or lake?" Jones asked.

"That's the topper," Hunter said, admiring the Kingfisher. "This airplane could land on a fair-size stream if it had to. And it's very maneuverable for something of its size and bulk. I think that's an option I'll need . . ."

Hunter could see Jones was slowly falling under the spell of the ungainly elegance of the Kingfisher. It was nearly 34 feet in length with a wing span of 35 feet, 11 inches. And with the float attached -it alone was more than 35

feet long-the OS2U stood 15 high on dry land. The pilot rode in a cockpit very close to the forward-mounted single engine. This pilot's compartment continued on two thirds of the way down the fuselage where it ended in a rear-facing gunner/observer seat. Overall, the airplane was somewhat similar in size and appearance to the more recognizable Grumman TBF-1 Avenger divebomber, one of the stalwarts of the US Naval Air effort against the Japanese. Except this airplane could float . . .

This Kingfisher now carried a very modern, very deadly Vulcan cannon contained in a weapons pod on its left wing; a small air-to-ground missile firing platform balancing the load on its right. Jones noted that Hunter had also somehow managed to hook up two air-to-air missiles to the Kingfisher's wingtips -"mini-Sidewinders" was what the pilot called them.

Jones peeked inside and saw that Hunter had arranged his minicomputers along one side of the pilot's compartment, his advanced weapons firing systems along the other. The tunnel between the pilot's seat and that of the observer/

gunner was now adorned with a simple hammock and some boxes of food. A .50

caliber machine gun was attached to the gunner's post.

"Original equipment," Hunter told him pointing to the big fifty. "Believe it or not they used to shoot down Zeroes with those things ..."

Jones took a step back and took in the whole package. It was a beautiful-looking airplane, much in the same manner as a Tucker had been a beautiful-looking automobile.

"What can I say?" Jones asked. "It looks like you've covered as many bases as possible."

"Well, I've tried . . ." Hunter replied, giving the airplane an affectionate pat on the rear. "But, then again, you never know . . ."

Jones checked his watch. "The staff is meeting in two hours," he said. "I understand you wrote out a list of recommendations for prestrike activities?"

Hunter nodded, throwing his gear inside the airplane. "They're just suggestions, but I think they can only help us in the long run," he said. "We should establish a strong link between us and those chopper guys in Panama-the CATS. They're good at what they do, they know the terrain and they've been a thorn in the side of The Twisted Cross before we even knew what the hell was going on down there."

"Sounds like a good idea," Jones said, making a notation in his ever-present notebook. "What else?"

"Local involvement," Hunter said. "There are a lot of native Panamanians and Indians in that area who have been virtually enslaved by The Twisted Cross. If we could somehow get them informed, they'd be a tremendous help when the time comes to move."

"Again, another good idea," the general agreed. "Perhaps the CATS can help in that regard also . . ."

"The only other thing is the deactivator itself," Hunter said, giving the Kingfisher one last look over. "JT and Ben are working closely with Sandlake, as is Fitz. If I understand the good doctor correctly, his device works on a high frequency radio burst system. Blasting the mines with short, quick bursts of radio waves screws up the timing devices."

"Sounds complicated," Jones said. "But once the device is completed, how the hell do we get it down to the Canal and working?"

"That's the sixty-four thousand dollar question, General," Hunter replied.

"We're hoping Sandlake can rig something that can be installed onto the F-16.

And then it would be a matter of me overflying the Canal and just blanketing it with the deactivators radio bursts . . ."

Jones suddenly looked very worried. "That sounds extremely dangerous," he said. "Especially with the firepower they've assembled along the Canal."

Hunter shrugged. "That's my last recommendation," he said. "The only way I can think of pulling it off is for me to go in on the first wave of the attack, and while everyone and his brother is covering my ass, I just zip through and disarm all the warheads . . ."

"My God," Jones said. "Do you think you can actually do that?"

Once again, Hunter could only shrug. "Do we have any other choice?" he asked.

Completing his last visual inspection of the OS2U, Hunter knew it was time to shove off.

Jones shook his hand. "Good luck, Hawk," he said. "Don't forget to give us a yell if you need help . . ."

Hunter firmly grasped the man's hand. Jones was his superior officer, but he also considered him one of his closest friends.

"You'll hear me loud and clear," he said. "And believe me, General, I'll be back before you know it . . ."

With that he jumped into the Kingfisher and started its old but reliable engine. With the help of Jones and two dock hands, he cast off from the pier and floated out to the center of the river. Then, in one great burst of power, he gunned

the floatplane's engines and took off in a great spray of smoky exhaust and water. He slowly gained altitude and circled back over the dock.

Then, with a wag of his wings, he turned south and soon disappeared over the horizon.

Colonel Frankel swatted a swamp fly with his cap and watched as the large cruise liner sailed by.

It was the Big Easy Princess, once again transiting through the canal on its way to the west coast of Colombia. He envied the days when he had something to do with its passage. The luxury vessel usually carried more than its share of high-rolling gamblers and drug lords and these people weren't above giving top officers of The Twisted Cross something "extra" for allowing them to pass through the canal.

For Frankel's part, he missed the occasional bottle of fine Scotch he'd usually received from one of the Big Easy's charter members, a fat slob of a man named Jean LaFeet. But Frankel had heard from a Party spy that LaFeet was in jail in New Orleans, awaiting trial, and so he would not get his bottle of hooch this trip.