The Twisted Cross (32 page)

Everything was moving to the brink. He could feel it ...

Brother David saw it first.

"Good Lord and Savior!" he cried out so loud Hunter heard him over the roar of the Kingfisher's engine.

His exclamation caused Hunter and the commodore to immediately scan the terrain below. They saw it at once -it would have been hard to miss.

"Jesus, that is incredible . . ." Hunter said, anger welling up in his voice.

"Those frigging destructive bastards."

It was still about twenty miles away -yet it was not in the least bit difficult to see. This part of the Yucatan was like an endless wave of rolling jungle. But in the middle of this pristine state, there was a rash, ugly scar.

"My God, it looks like they took a scythe to it!" Brother David cried out as Hunter put the Kingfisher into a slight lefthand bank.

It was an apt description. Cut into the jungle was a 12-mile long, quarter-mile wide swath. Like a bad blemish on a pretty face, or a masterpiece painting slashed by some kook, the blasted-out jungle passage looked evil in itself.

Hunter suddenly felt a particularly nasty anger explode in his heart. What kind of mentality would do something like this with simple greed as their only motive. Scarring a piece of the earth that would not grow back for decades?

Was there no conscience left anywhere down here?

And if these people wouldn't hesitate to turn something this beautiful to something this ugly, what would they do to an innocent victim like Elizabeth?

Hunter banked again and saw a thin column of smoke rising from the end of the passageway. Even that was more than he needed to know.

"They're still down there," he said to the others. "Now /can smell them . . ."

"And here's the latest on the negotiations in Washington . . ."

With that opening, the CATS radioman named Masoni began reading the most recent report to come down the secure line between Washington and the Panamanian jungle:

"General David Jones, commander of the United American Army, said earlier today that a 'Mutual Security Pact' is close to being worked out between his forces and those of The Twisted Cross.

"Jones congratulated the negotiating team of The Twisted Cross for their understanding and diligence in attempting to bring about a peaceful solution to the crisis here in Panama.

"He went on to say an official announcement will be made in Washington soon -

and that a formal signing ceremony will take place in Panama City the following day . . ."

Masoni hit his cue button and faded up a Bob Marley record. Once he had switched off his own microphone, he reached for a handful of ice water and splashed it on his face.

"That was a tough one," he said to the Cobra pilots Tyler and Baxter.

"Toughest one yet . . ."

"You did great," Tyler said. "Hardly a pause or anything. Real smooth . . ."

As his partner Gregg O'Gregg cued up another record, Masoni took a break and lit up a cigarette.

"Is it me?" he asked. "Or are things really getting tense in this whole situation?"

Tyler lit a butt of his own and nodded. "It ain't just you," he said. "Everyone's feeling like that, me included."

"Ditto," Baxter said.

Masoni took a deep drag from his cigarette and guzzled a half of cup of cold coffee. "We've been out here in the bush almost every day for a year and a half," he said. "Hiding from the Nazis. Moving around under that Goddamn flying monster, sweating off three, four pounds a night.

"But believe me, that was all child's play, compared to this . . ."

Tyler used a little bit of the ice on his own forehead. "Look at it this way,"

he told Masoni. "It won't go on much longer."

Masoni blew a long stream of smoke from his nose and

"Oh yeah?" he said in his two-pound gravel voice. "Can I quote you on that?"

Back on the CATS island HQ, Major Dantini was interrupted from studying his well-worn map of the Panama Canal by the sound of an approaching helicopter.

He had been around his own choppers so long, he knew the noise wasn't coming from one of his boys. Instead, he recognized the sound as being from one of the Cobras.

He walked out of his tent and down to the beach just as Cobra Two was hovering in over the water for a landing. The pilot, Captain Bobby Crockett, gave him a thumbs-up as the chopper's blades began to stir up a whirlwind of seaspray and sand.

Dantini liked the Cobras - both the helicopters and the guys who flew them.

Just as the souped-up Cobra gunships were much more than the average chopper-for-hire machine, the Cobra Brothers were much more than just run-of-the-mill chopper jocks. They were involved-committed to the cause of the United Americans. As such, they had no compunction about flying at night or in bad weather or both. And Dantini, being somewhat of an expert himself on the machines, knew that most choppers were fair weather birds.

The Cobras had -flown every night since coming to the CATS island, this in addition to ferrying messages to the radio

station PDC. Dantini knew it was better not to ask too many questions, but he did know that the gunshipg were making a regular rendezvous with a ship of some sort about a hundred miles east of Panama. One night Cobra One would go out, the next night Cobra Two would make the trip. Each time they would come back with some kind of booty to share - a few bottles of booze, a carton of cigarettes. But each time, the pilots looked more worried than the time before. And Dantini had been in the military long enough to know what that meant, which was another reason he didn't ask questions.

This time would be different, though . . .

The Cobra's rotors finally stopped spinning, giving a rest to the mini-sandstorm. Crockett climbed out, soon followed by Hobbs, the weapons officer.

"Hey, boys," Dantini said by way of greeting. "What's shaking today?"

"A lot," Crockett told him point blank.

"More radio messages for my guys to read?" Dantini said off-handedly, assuming that was what the Cobras were talking about.

"Yes, we have another message," Crockett said. "But it's small potatoes."

Dantini had already turned to lead them as usual to the mess tent for a cup of coffee. But now he turned back, sensing in their tone that something big really was in the offing.

"Okay, guys," Dantini said. "What's up?"

"Pack a bag, Major," Crockett said. "And pick a temporary commander for your boys. General Jones has requested your presence up north immediately."

The High Commander had just finished his morning aerobic workout and was pondering a report on the previous day's revenues and activities.

It read:

1.) Four ships were challenged on the Pacific side of the Canal, two let through for a combined 300 bags of gold. Two sunk after failing to meet requirements.

2.) Twenty bags of gold were panned from the Canal over the past week.

3.) Another delivery of Argentina's monthly "security payment" arrived via the usual route,
i.e.
Twisted Cross naval forces boarded the unsuspected courier's ship off Chile, taking the payment, sinking the ship, liquidating the crew.

On the red side of the ledger:

1.) The King of Brasilia is behind on his payments for the second straight month.

2.) No reaction from the Cubans about their increase in payment plan.

3.) Unexpected expenditures for the day exceeded the limit of 20 bags of gold, due to increase in food costs for prisoners/ gold panners.

The High Commander scribbled three notes at the bottom of the report: "Plan air strike on Brasilia's fuel depots," "Do same for Cuban electric plants,"

"Trim food costs for prisoners and panners by most expedient means."

That done, he indulged himself in a laugh. Since the major gold find up in the Yucatan, the tolls and the panning operations suddenly seemed very nickel-and-dime.

He called for his aide-de-camp, whp quickly appeared and took the marked-up report away for action. No sooner was he out the door when his top officer in charge of communications bounded into the office.

"A hundred pardons, my Commander," he said with a slight bow. "But Colonel Frankel had just reached us via shortwave radio."

The High Commander looked up at once. "Does that mean we can talk to him?" he asked.

"Yes, sir!" the communications officer beamed. "He's talking through a scrambler, so it may be faint but at least it's a secure line. We have him piped in over your squawk box, sir."

"Well, that's super!" the High Commander beamed back. "Let's talk to the man, then."

The communications officer quickly walked over to the High Commander's desk and flipped his phone speaker box on.

"Can he hear me now?" the High Commander asked.

"He should be able to, sir," the communications officer answered. "Hello, Frankel, are you there?"

A burst of static leapt from the small speaker. But then Frankel's voice came on.

"Yes, sir ... Hello, sir . . ."

"Frankel, old man, this is the High Commander, how's it going up there?"

"Wonderfully," Frankel answered. "I really think they've come around to see our point of view. And it's really not that much of a surprise. The whole eastern half of the country is absolutely devastated."

"Glad to hear that," the High Commander said. "We've been monitoring the guerilla radio station down here for the past few days. They've been putting out very optimistic reports. They're doing our job for us, pacifying all the locals."

"Well, they are very good at that sort of thing, sir," Frankel said. "They believe in letting everyone - from citizens to their lowest soldiers - know what's going on at any given moment. They are very open about things like that."

"Well, don't you get spoiled, Frankel," the High Commander said with a laugh.

"By the way, as this is a secure line, let me ask you something. Does this agreement you've worked out call for withdrawal of their forces from Texas?"

"Yes, it does, sir," was the reply. "The timetable now is for us to announce the terms of the agreement at a joint appearance tomorrow. At that point, they will start dispersing their air wings out of Texas. Their ground troops will also move as soon as they can muster up enough rail and road transportation.

"At that point, we will fly back down there to Panama for the formal signing ceremony. I will discuss the particulars of that with your staff, sir."

The High Commander's face was flushed with excitement.

"You've done an excellent job, Colonel," he told his officer. "And right after we sign that agreement down here, you can expect to attend another ceremony.

One that will celebrate your elevation to major general of the Party."

There was a slight hesitation from the other end. Then they heard Frankel's voice say: "Sir, that is much more than I could ever expect. I am just glad that I was able to serve you and our

Cause."

Frankel signed off from the High Commander, and his call was rerouted to an office down the hall where he would give the High Commander's staff the lowdown on the signing ceremony preparations.

Meanwhile, the leader of The Twisted Cross could hardly contain himself.

"Do you have any idea what this means?" the High Commander asked the communications officer.

The officer had little choice but to shake his head no.

"It means there'll be no war with the United Americans," the High Commander said, slapping his knee with perky glee.

"No war . . . That is wonderful news, sir," the officer said.

"Darn it is," the High Commander replied. "This means we'll be able to annex Big Banana within a half year. Knock off those other small-timers in two, three months. Hell, we can be on the Mexican border this time next year!"

He reached into his desk drawer and came up with two cigars. "I don't usually do this, but will you join me?" he asked. Then he handed a cigar to the somewhat bewildered officer, and lit the other one for himself.

"Got these in Bermuda," he told the officer, blowing out a long stream of blue smoke. "Next to Cuba, they have the best cigars around."

Some things require planning. For hours, days, weeks, even years. Details.

Timetables. Contingency plans. Follow-up. Conclusion. Fuck it up and it's back to the drawing board.

Other things are just better done without planning. There is no time. No known details. No second chances. Nothing to follow-up on. Fuck it up and you're dead.

Deciding what to do when -plan it or improvise it -is usually a totally personal decision. Make the right choice, you're a genius. If not, well, that's what gravestones are made for ...

By nature fighter pilots like to plan things out. It comes from being so protective of their fuel supplies. How far can I go and can I get back with this amount of fuel. That's all most of them care about -and rightly so. All the whiz-bang missiles, cannons, radars, HUDs, computers, and 45,000 pound thrust engines don't go anywhere if there ain't no gas in the tank. So the flight revolves around your fuel load; see how much you can carry and plan from there.

Hunter knew the value of good planning-but improvisation has its place too. On the football field, in a piece of jazz or when you come upon 300 Nazi scum who are vandalizing Man's collective past and are littering heavily in the process.

So you can plan an air strike right down to the last bomb. But sometimes, when you're mad and you have to kick some ass, it's better just to make it up as you go along.

Sorry, General Jones, that's just the way it is . . .

"Are you sure about this, Brother Hunter?"

"No, Brother David, I'm not," Hunter answered truthfully. "But my instinct is that we'd better move fast here. I've the feeling that these guys aren't going to be sticking around here much longer."

Brother David performed a lightning quick sign of the cross. "Only by the power of prayer ..." he recited.

They were hiding in the woods no more than 50 feet from the perimeter of the Uxmaluna site. The Kingfisher, with the commodore on guard, was hiding under the branches of a large cedar tree next to a small, narrow lake, just a mile from their position. As always, the Mayans built their magnificent cities close to a source of water. Fourteen hundred years later, Hunter was using them as his landing strips.