The Twisted Cross (8 page)

"But they have to be done, General," Tyler said, speaking for the first time.

"We can fly all the air convoys we want from the West Coast to the East, but they'll never be able to

move enough supplies for us to even consider a realistic reconstruction program. We need an open water route."

"What we need first is intelligence," Hunter said. "What is their strength? In men? In equipment? Do they have SAMs? Do they have aircraft?"

Crunch spoke up. "That's our department," he said, nodding to his partner, Elvis. "You all know one of our Phantoms is now in a recon mode. It's high time we flew down there anyhow. We can take more pictures of that place in one day than anyone has taken in a hundred years."

"That's true," Jones said. "But these guys don't strike me as our usual ass-backwards type of opponent. They sound slick. Organized . . ."

"Committed . . ." Hunter added. "Committed to a cause of some sort. They're heavy into gold, but I also get the feeling that it's just the fuel for some kind of fire. Like a weird political type of thing."

"You mean like left-wingers? Or right-wingers?" Tyler asked.

"I mean like fanatics," Hunter answered. "It's just a hunch. But I saw those guys who shot at Pegg crunch those cyanide capsules. Well, let's face it, that's fanatical behavior."

Everyone around the table nodded almost at once.

Hunter continued. "So, if we go flying around down there, believe me, these cats will catch on very quickly that something is up. And, I'm sure, just like those guys greased themselves, the people in charge will do something drastic."

"Well, damnit, we're back at square one," JT snarled.

"Which is where we should be," Jones said authoritatively. "Our successes in the past haven't come because of any advantages in manpower or equipment.

They've come because we use our heads and think things out. No sense in changing that now . . ."

Everyone took a swig of whatever they were drinking and stole a deep breath.

"Phase one is always gathering intelligence," Jones began again. "And in this case, I agree, that recon overflights would be premature at this point. We've got to get a man in on the ground down there and get the big picture."

"I'm going," Hunter said immediately.

There was no need for discussion, no reason for argument. It was a foregone conclusion; everyone in the room knew that the dangerous job would fall to The Wingman.

The only question Jones had was: "How?"

Hunter shrugged. "If the Hercs can drop me in," he said, making it up as he went along. "I'll snoop around. When I've seen enough, I'll call and someone gets me out."

"Feel like lugging a mini-cam with you?" Crunch asked. "It's a small one -hold it in one hand. Lightweight. Good on batteries."

"That's a good idea," Jones said, making a few notes. "I f think if you could, getting good video would help us on this one . . ."

"Sure, why not?" Hunter said. He planned on traveling light anyway. Carrying a small camera would be no big deal.

Jones closed his notebook, an indication that the meeting was over. "Work up your plan, Hawk," he said. "Get together with your support guys. You and I will talk it over one more time and then I suggest you jump off as soon as possible."

Eighteen hours later, Hunter was strapped into one of the jump seats in the back of a Mew York Here C-130 cargo plane.

"About another hour, Major," one of the crewmen called back to him from the cockpit. "Holler if you need help suiting up."

Hunter stood up and began the long process of getting ready to jump out of a moving airplane. First he fastened on his main and auxiliary parachutes. Then he checked his front and rear knapsacks - they contained everything from water purification tablets to a small, hand-held SAM pistol of his own design. Next came his utility belt and holster, his NightScope goggles, his M-16 and finally, his flight helmet.

"Forty-five minutes . . ." came a call from the cockpit.

Hunter routinely rechecked his map, lining up the topography on the paper with the terrain outside the C-ISO's small window. He was heartened to see that they were right on course, a credit to the '130 pilot. The New York Hercs were a great team -the best in cargo lift he'd ever seen. And they were, to a man, just as committed to the causes of freedom and the reunification of America as Hunter or any of the other United Americans. In other words, they were his kind of people.

The trip down to Central America had been eventless. The Here took off from DC

at sunrise the morning after the planning session. Fighter escort was provided by two Football City F-20 Tigersharks, hot-shit aircraft that were legitimately the best in the world next to Hunter's own F-16XL. The small convoy stopped for refueling in Football City itself, then again in Dallas. In addition, they all took on additional gas during a mid-air refueling session over the Caribbean about an hour ago, courtesy of the Texas Air Force.

So now it was dark and they had just passed over the eastern coastline of what used to be Costa Rica, but was now known simply as Big Banana. Now for the first time he could see Panama. His designated drop zone was just over the edge of the Mosquito Gulf, about 10 miles from the "eastern" Atlantic-side entrance to the Canal. More accurately, it was the northern entrance as the Canal, as Panama itself, actually ran more north to south than east to west.

Further complicating things was that due to Panama's crooked elbow shape, the Pacific entrance was actually more to the east than the Atlantic side.

But geography aside, Hunter planned to set down as close to the shoreline as possible, then hoof it to the Canal.

Time passed. Hunter felt the C-130 start to descend slowly.

"Twenty minutes, Major," the Here crewman called back.

Hunter took a succession of deep breaths and rechecked his two parachute harnesses. He decided to review his plan once again, but found his thoughts drifting back to the night before, when he and most of the United American allies attended a football match at RFK Stadium between a Football City All-Star team and a pro team from San Antonio, Republic of Texas. It was one of the first of many exhibition games that had been scheduled around the continent as another means of solidifying and unifying the United American cause.

The game was a good one -the Texans won in OT, 48-46. Hunter and his friends had had great seats, near the fifty yard line. But still, the pilot's mind hadn't been on the game for all four quarters.

He had sat beside Major Frost and after a few beers, the conversation came around to Dominique.

Hunter told the Canadian the latest on his beautiful girlfriend, how she had somehow hooked on with a group of prominent Canadians and was now on an isolated retreat in the Canadian Rockies. Although Frost wasn't familiar with the particular people Dominique had fallen in with, he was aware of similar

"human encounter" groups that were springing up in Free Canada.

"Some of them are quite innocent," the Canadian had told him. "They are little more than social clubs. But others are quickly attaining cult status. Not quite along the line of America's cults of the sixties and seventies, but not that far away either ..."

"I've never really known Dominique to be a 'joiner,' " Hunter had told Frost.

He remembered the worried look that came over the Canadian at that moment.

"These groups apparently are especially attractive to people just like that,"

he had explained. "People who are isolated. People who are having problems adjusting to this crazy world . . ."

Hunter then posed a question he wished he hadn't. "Just what do these people do on retreat?" he asked.

Again, Frost admitted he knew little about it all, but because Hunter was his friend and he believed in telling it like it is, he told the fighter pilot that some of the groups practiced "open living."

"Fairly open sex, is a better term for it," Frost explained. "All very safe, of course. But it's an encouragement to share everything-apparently including your bed -anytime, with anyone you want . . ."

It was those last three words that had stuck in Hunter's mind. "Anyone you want . . ."

Hunter and Frost had finished the conversation with a handshake and a promise from the Canadian to look into

the particular group Dominique had joined.

"Five minutes, Major Hunter," came the call, effectively breaking into Hunter's daydream.

He took a deep breath and rechecked all his equipment one more time, thankful that he had something else to dwell on. He reached up to his left chest pocket and felt the folds of the small U.S. flag he always kept there. Wrapped inside the Stars and Stripes was a picture of Dominique. He patted the bulge three times; whenever he was about to embark on a dangerous or critical mission, he always took the time to concentrate on what the two items in his pocket meant to him. They represented the two most important loves in his life: his country and his woman. Many times he had vowed to fight -to the death if necessary -

to protect either one, or both.

It was a vow he made once again . . .

"One minute, Major!" came the cry from the crewman. The Here crewman walked back and helped Hunter hook up and move to the jump door, checking his equipment one last time.

"Thirty seconds . . ." called a voice over the nearby intercom.

"All set, sir?" the crewman asked him.

Hunter nodded. "Ready as I'll ever be," he said.

The intercom crackled again: "Ten . . . nine . . . eight ..."

"Good luck, sir," the crewman told him.

They shook hands, Hunter tapped his pocket once more for luck, and on the count of "three . . . two . . . one!" he stepped out of the C-130's door and into the deep black sky.

The air was hot and dry, but Hunter found the breeze at 6500 feet somewhat refreshing. His descent was intentionally leisurely - the more time with which he could scope out any and all possible landing sites. He retrieved his map and using a penlight, checked it once again. It told him that a small clearing about a half mile from a cove looked to be an ideal landing spot. Flipping down his NightScope glasses, he spotted the small field without too much trouble. He instantly calculated his altitude and descent speed against the speed of the wind then pulled and tugged on his chute lines a half dozen times, getting himself into the proper alignment to spiral down to his designated bull's-eye.

Planning, planning and more planning . . .

That's what made operations like this one work, Hunter thought as he slowly drifted down past 5000 feet. Cover all the bases, check and recheck your initial information, determine your alternatives, compute the risks and then, go to it ...

As Jones had said, that's what had made the United Americans so successful in the past. No sense in changing it now.

As he passed 2500 feet, Hunter couldn't help but feel a rush of pride run through him. There was no sense in denying that his input and actions were responsible for a good part of the success of the American democratic forces.

He knew when things got rough, people just naturally looked to him for the solutions. And why not? Just as the big fat slob LaFeet had said, Hunter was famous -a well-known personality in the post-World War III landscape. His face was as recognizable overseas as in America and the stories of his exploits -

most of them true, a few of them exaggerated - were recounted all over the world. He was as close to being a comic book superhero as humanly possible

-and he knew that in times of crisis, people seek heroes.

And now here he was, dropping in on a pitch black jungle forest to scope out yet another enemy that threatened the stability of the still-fragile American continental unity. He already knew the script: he would land safely, walk to the Canal, get some valuable video pictures, return to Washington and plan the operation which would punch out the clowns who were running things in the Canal Zone these days. Then the critical water route would be open, the East Coast would get its much needed supplies and the long-awaited American Reconstruction could begin.

He hit the ground running several minutes later, circling down onto the clearing with natural aerial aplomb. He took a too-quick scan around and started to gather up his chute.

Just another day at the office, he thought.

That's when he looked up and saw no less than a dozen M-16 barrels staring him right in the face . . .

Colonel Hanz Frankel took a handful of cool water and splashed it into his face.

It was hot. Damn hot. Already 87 degrees and the sun had only been up for two hours.

"God, how I hate this weather," Frankel said to his aide-de-camp. "Give me the coolness of the Swabianjura any day."

His aide, a captain named Rolfe, nodded as he too dipped his hands into the bucket of ice water the two men were sharing. They were sitting on the porch of a rundown villa, looking out on the tiny harbor which made up one side of the small island called Las Perlas. To their backs, four miles away, was the Pacific entrance to the Panama Canal. In front of them, anchored about a half mile offshore, were two ships: a small freighter flying North Korean colors and an ocean ferry sailing from what used to be Timor, now known as the Sunset Islands. As many as a dozen smaller attack craft were buzzing around the two ships. All the while, a large, Italian-built attack cruiser of the Veneto-class was slowly moving back and forth near the entrance to the harbor, keeping a suspicious eye on both vessels.

It was only recently that Frankel's commanders had decided for him to set up shop on the island, having outgrown their old "trap them in the Canal"

strategy. Now it was up to Frankel and his small army of soldiers and sailors to act as sentinels for the Canal entrance. He was the High Command's gatekeeper, so to speak, - the one who decided what ships could pass and what ships could not. And no matter what his decision, he was backed up by the large battle cruiser prowling the sea lanes close to the island, as well as the thousands of troops occupying the Canal itself.