“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 Strips 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 Herc 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 super-hero 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…
Chapter 10
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 Swabian Jura 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.
Frankel and Rolfe watched as one of their attack craft sped to shore and tied up at a nearby dock. An officer jumped out of the boat and double-timed it up to the villa. Out of breath and sweating, the officer handed two documents to Rolfe, saluted and ran back to his craft.
“The Koreans claim they are carrying three tons of uncut poppy paste from Burma,” Rolfe said, reading the first document. “They’ve been out two weeks and say they are heading for a processing plant in Cuba.”
Frankel rubbed his eyes and splashed more water on his face. His heavy, bulky uniform was causing him to chafe around the neck and shoulders.
“Is their vessel armed?” he asked, dabbing his brow with a damp cloth.
Rolfe flipped over two pages in the document, which was actually a collection of notes made by his men while interrogating the freighter’s captain just minutes before.
“Yes,” Rolfe answered. “Two 20-millimeter anti-aircraft guns fore and aft. Two Chinese anti-shipping missile launchers amidships.”
“And they are carrying gold?” Frankel asked.
“Our men saw at least three hundred and fifty bags in the captain’s safe, sir,” Rolfe replied.
Frankel pulled on his scruffy beard in thought.
“All right,” he said finally. “Confiscate one of the missile launchers and collect all the gold. Then let them pass. Next…”
Rolfe turned to the other report. “Free-lancers out of the Sunset Islands,” he said. “Claim they are on their way to San Juan to exchange female slaves for a load of cocaine and milk sugar…”
“And there are women on board?” Frankel asked, raising his binoculars to get a closer look at the ocean ferry.
“Our men saw at least a hundred,” Rolfe replied. “Mostly Oriental, but some whites.”
“How old?”
Rolfe flipped another page of the report. “Teenagers, young twenties, our men estimate,” he said.
Frankel shook off a thrill that involuntarily ran through him. It was only recently that he had partaken in the sex-with-teenage-girls fad that seemed to be sweeping the globe.
“It’s a dangerous journey from the Sunsets to San Juan,” he observed, still watching the flat, squat ferry. “What are they carrying for arms?”
Rolfe quick-studied each page of the report. “Our men didn’t find any large weapons,” he concluded. “Just a couple fifty-caliber heavie
s, and a few RPGs.”
Frankel snorted a sinister laugh. “Sailing across the Pacific without deck weapons?” he said. “And heading for San Juan? I must assume these men are fools.”
“They are not carrying any gold either, my colonel,” Rolfe added, he, too, fighting down a jolt of excitement.
Frankel lowered his spyglasses and mopped his brow again. “Then they are fools,” he declared. “Or liars. Such people must be made an example of…”
Rolfe waited a few moments, then asked: “Your orders, Colonel?”
Frankel closed his eyes in thought, then said: “Confiscate the females and check the crew for gold fillings. Then you know what to do from there.”
Rolfe couldn’t suppress giving his superior a salute. “Yes, my colonel,” he cried out, bursting with enthusiasm. His day was made. “And, do you wish to… review the females personally?”
Frankel leaned back in his chair, placing his high leather boots up on the villa’s railing and putting a damp cloth across his forehead. He closed his eyes and wished for just the slightest of breezes.
“Of course, I do,” he said nonchalantly.
Thirty minutes later, the North Korean freighter raised its anchor and sailed toward the entrance to the canal, less one missile launcher and 350 bags of gold. After another half hour, the ocean ferry was also permitted to sail out of the small harbor—but only as far as the deep water.
“Are you in position?” Rolfe asked into the radio microphone, watching as the ferry made for the open sea.
“We are,” came the reply from the second-in-command of the Italian attack cruiser, which was now also turning slowly out of the harbor entrance.
“Then do it,” Rolfe said, his voice almost giddy.
No sooner had he spoken when the cruiser opened up with its two large foredeck guns. Two huge shells came crashing down close by the ferry’s midsection, near-misses but devastating nevertheless.
“Fire again!” Rolfe ordered into the radio.
“Yes, sir,” came the reply.
Three seconds later the big guns opened up again. This time the shells ran true. One smashed right into the fleeing vessel’s wheelhouse, another caught its bow.
“Once again!” Rolfe called out.
For a third time the big guns spoke, delivering two direct hits on the ferry’s midships. The vessel immediately capsized, its decks awash in fire and smoke.
“Good work!” Rolfe called into the radio, his excitement so acute he felt a stream of warm body fluid run down his leg. “If you wish, you may close in on the wreckage and shoot any survivors…”
Chapter 11
“NO WAY IS THIS guy Hawk Hunter…” the soldier in the green camouflage poncho said. “I have it on good authority that Hunter was killed over in Saudi Arabia last year.”
The man he was talking to, a jungle fighter named Dantini, shrugged.
“Hey, I heard the same stories,” Dantini said, working his way through the noontime meal of corn mush and tomatoes. “But why would some guy come floating down on our turf and claim he was Hunter? He’d have to be a complete idiot to think he’d get away with it.”
The man in the poncho, a lieutenant named Burke, threw the remnants of his lunch back into the campfire and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Well, how about those crazy bullshit stories he’s been telling us, Major?” Burke said.
“Like what?” Dantini asked, washing down his meal with a swig from his canteen.
“Like the British actually stopped Lucifer’s fleet at Suez? With just one aircraft carrier?” Burke said in a sarcastic tone.
Dantini stretched out and undid the laces on his jungle boots. “He didn’t say they stopped the fleet with one aircraft carrier,” he told Burke. “He said they fought a delaying action in Suez until help arrived…”
Burke laughed. “Yeah, right,” he said. “And if you believe that one, you must believe that he and his boys kicked ass on The Circle, too.”
Dantini reluctantly nodded. “Well, that one is a little hard to swallow,” he said. “But, look at it this way: How would we know either way? We’ve been down in this Goddamn jungle for almost two years straight. For all we know, anything could have happened up there…”
Burke shook his head in frustration. About a dozen other soldiers in the 100-man helicopter assault company had finished their meal and had gathered around to listen in on the discussion.
“Look, Major,” Burke said, leaning forward to make his point. “First, the guy claims he’s the famous Hawk Hunter. Then he tells us that the Russians hauled all these SAMs into the Badlands, but that he and his merry band beat them anyway. Then, he says he and these Brits tow—tow!—a motherfucking aircraft carrier across the Med and used it to beat Lucifer, who only raised the largest Goddamn army on the globe.
“And then, he says he flew back, and he and his gang not only knock off The Circle, and The Family, but they recapture all the territory east of the Mississippi, too?
“I mean, you’ve got to admit sir, that’s really stretching it…”
Dantini was almost too tired to play devil’s advocate. He and the company had been on the move for two days straight and he was beat. He didn’t want to get involved in a prolonged discussion with Burke, who, besides being an exceptional fighter, was also an expert debater.
But they did have a prisoner on their hands and he was claiming to be the famous Hawk Hunter. The man seemed to be a straight shooter and didn’t hesitate a micro-second in telling them about the supposed string of victories he and his allies had pulled off against Lucifer, the Soviets and The Circle. Still, Dantini was skeptical, as would anyone who had been out of touch with North America since right after the original Battle for Football City.
“Okay,” he said to Burke. “Let’s go at it from another angle. Do you know what Hawk Hunter actually looks like?”
Burke had to think for a moment. “Just from photographs,” he said finally. “Newspaper pictures and so on.”
Dantini turned around to the 25 or so troopers who were listening in. “Anyone here ever see Hawk Hunter in the flesh?”
To a man, the troopers shook their heads.
“Well, I don’t know what he looks like either,” Dantini said. “Yet, that guy was almost certain that we’d recognize him. I mean, if he’s lying, he’s damn good at it.”
“But, sir,” Burke said, taking a different tack. “If those creeps down in the Canal Zone wanted to keep tabs on us, say as part of some really way-out plan, do you think it’s beyond their abilities to plant someone here who could claim he was the famous Hawk Hunter? I mean, just in the time we’ve been fighting them, look at the resources they’ve come up with. They’re experts in psych-war—as good as the Russians or even better.”
Dantini removed his jungle hat and took another swig from his canteen. “But turn that argument around,” he countered. “Why would they go through all the trouble of dropping someone in here who just claimed to be Hawk Hunter? They must know that we’d be, at least, suspicious, right? Do you think that they think we’re so dumb as to greet with open arms someone impersonating Hawk Hunter?”
Burke had to shrug. “Well, that’s a good point,” he conceded. He thought a minute, then added: “So what you’re saying, sir, is that the guy locked in that tent over there is actually Hawk Hunter?”
Dantini shook his head slowly and looked over at the sealed-up tent. “I just don’t know…” he said finally.
Chapter 12
ONE THOUSAND MILES TO the north, in the midst of the Mexican Yucatan peninsula, another noon meal was ending.
But far from corn mush and sun-dried tomatoes, the revelers were eating steak and drinking exquisite Bulgarian wine. They sat at a finely set table, complete with linen cloth and napkins, finger bowls, silver utensils and goblets. Three large candelabras adorned the table for 20, although the sharp Yucatan breeze made it impossible for their wicks to stay lit.
This was not a typical setting for the men
working nearby. The elaborate arrangements were set in place to honor a visit from an emissary of the High Commander. Work at the remote Yucatan site—a collection of ancient Mayan ruins called Chichen Itza—had been proceeding ahead of schedule and reaping benefits beyond anyone’s expectations. Thus the visit from one of the High Commander’s men.
“It gets this hot everyday?” the emissary, Adoph Udet, asked, downing a mouthful of steak with a half a glass of wine.
“Yes, my general,” the newly-appointed man in charge of the site work, a colonel named Krupp, responded. “Our heat peaks around mid-afternoon. The nights are pleasantly cool, though I can assure you…”
Udet wiped his mouth and pushed his empty plate away from him. “Well, I’ll take your word for it, Colonel,” he said, barely suppressing a burp. “I must leave well before sundown.”
Krupp wasn’t surprised to hear that; this area of the Yucatan peninsula simply wasn’t safe after sundown. Krupp looked down the length of the table at his staff—captains and majors, young men all. And a glance around the clearing, which sat in the shadow of Chichen Itza’s largest excavated pyramid, reassured him that more than 100 of his best troopers were on guard duty at the moment. What bothered him was that he had to double that number when night fell…
“A fine feed,” Udet said, lighting his pipe, “in a very adventurous setting.”
He turned and checked to see that his own entourage of guards—three squads of black-shirted special forces troops—was still close by. Only that the mysterious High Commander, a man Udet had never actually met, ordered him had he dared to chopper into this remote hell hole to recognize the work of a low-level officer such as Krupp.
But even a callous officer such as Udet had to admit that Krupp had taken over this command under very difficult and mysterious circumstances. One month before, the original commander of this co-called “recovery” mission, a veteran lieutenant general named Heinke, had simply disappeared—vanished at dusk one night while walking his perimeter. His aide-de-camp and several other officers swear that the man was there one moment and gone the next. Intensive searches found nothing. By design Krupp, who was Heinke’s second-in-command, was well schooled in Mayan archaeology. He was named commander of the mission three days later.
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