But there was a limit to everything including the heaping of praise. Udet nodded to one of his aides, who in turn ran back and spoke to the pilots of the three Hind helicopters that were waiting nearby. Seconds later, the whine of the chopper’s electro-static starters began to permeate the air. Krupp had been congratulated enough. The visit was rapidly drawing to a close.
“Our leader is well pleased with you and your men’s work,” Udet said, reciting the words from a small card provided to him by yet another aide. “Your discoveries here were well beyond what was expected of you, especially under your somewhat unusual circumstances. Through your efforts, our cause will be much enriched.”
Krupp bowed his head gracefully. He knew the short speech was prepared well in advance and most of it given to any number of successful commanders out in the field such as he. Still, it never hurt to receive accolades—stale as they may be—from a man so close to the High Commander.
“I thank you and my men thank you,” Krupp said, reciting a short speech of his own. “Even in these less-than-ideal conditions, our efforts and work bring us great pleasure, as we know the High Commander and our people will benefit. As always, you honor us with your presence.”
On cue, the officers seated at the table broke into a brief round of applause.
The meeting over, Udet stood and gave a wooden wave to the officers. As one, Krupp’s staff stood and snapped to attention. One long salute from Udet and then the man turned on his hob-nailed heel and made for his Hind helicopter, his small army of bodyguards surrounding him in a human phalanx.
As he watched the chopper’s blades start to whirl and half of Udet’s special forces troops squeeze into the big Soviet-built chopper, Krupp felt a tug on his elbow. It was one of Udet’s entourage, a man named Strauberg.
“You have the summary list?” he asked sternly.
At that moment, Udet’s helicopter lifted off and headed south back towards Panama. From then on, Krupp knew the formalities of the visit had ended.
“Yes, I do,” he answered.
“And the shipment? It is ready?” Strauberg asked impatiently.
“Again, yes,” Krupp said. “Do you plan to take it with you now?”
Strauberg, a small unpleasant man, screwed up his face until it was rat-like. “Of course!” he hissed. “After all, that was the purpose of our trip here.”
Krupp knew that Strauberg had intentionally launched the verbal jab at him. The little man had “the fever”—military protocol meant nothing to him.
Thirty minutes later, Krupp’s men completed loading a half dozen wooden crates onto one of the two remaining Hinds. Inside the hold of the copter, Strauberg was taking a frenzied inventory.
“Eighteen bars, four chalices, four plates and a necklace measuring two feet in length,” he said, ticking off the items before him and checking them against Krupp’s summary list. “Three hundred and fifty coins and one statuette. It is all here…”
Standing beside the ratty little man of undetermined rank, Krupp breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn’t imagine what would happen to him should any of the pieces be missing.
“That’s nearly a month’s work,” he told Strauberg. “I hope it is handled with care.”
Strauberg’s little face turned red with anger. “Are you suggesting that I would actually mistreat this shipment?” he asked defiantly.
“Not at all,” Krupp said quickly. “I beg your pardon if you misunderstood me…”
Strauberg looked at Krupp with a murderous gleam in his eye. “Is the woman still reluctant in cooperating?” he asked Krupp, changing the subject somewhat.
“Yes, she is,” Krupp answered. “And she is increasingly growing weak from the repeated injections.”
“Just keep her breathing,” Strauberg said. “We have only a few more sites to go. Then, she can be disposed of.”
Now it was Krupp’s eyes that grew narrow with anger. He believed that little more than a piece of cheese and a strong metal spring would be needed to dispose of the disgusting little man before him.
Strauberg folded the summary list and tucked it inside his shirt, then signaled the Hind’s pilot to start his engines. Krupp could tell that Strauberg hadn’t bathed in a long time, a situation excusable if the man were actually out in the field like Krupp and his troops. But Strauberg’s downright smelly demeanor was a disgrace especially because the man was assigned to comfortable and clean lodging back in Panama City.
It was another symptom of the fever, Krupp thought. Strauberg had forsaken a bar of soap for a bar of gold…
Chapter 13
HUNTER CAREFULLY REMOVED THE splinter from the back of his hand and wished his stomach would stop growling.
He was mad at himself for being so foolish, so cocky. The smugness that he treated himself to during his parachute descent was quickly cured when he dropped right into the hands of the helicopter troops. But when his recounting of the recent events in continental North America was met with only blank stares and even a few derisive laughs, he knew it was Fate punishing him for letting his ego inflate so—albeit for a short time.
Now he was sitting on the thick branch of a huge, rickety jungle tree of some kind, picking splinters out of his hands and elbows and keeping an eye on the chopper force’s campground at the same time. Escaping from the sealed-off tent had been easy. Climbing the tall tree nearby had been more difficult. It was dried out and dying and some of its branches tended to disintegrate under his weight as he scampered up. But it gave him a great vantage point of his would-be captors, people he didn’t exactly consider his enemies.
What fascinated him most about the chopper troops was their equipment.
From his perch, Hunter counted nine large helicopters in the clearing, with several more, smaller rotary aircraft in a gulley about a quarter mile beyond. Of the nine big ones near him, five were CH-47 Chinooks, venerable choppers that had been around since the 1950s. Sometimes described as a “flying sausage,” the Chinook employed two large front and rear rotors and in some later models, turbo-jet engines, to lift its long, tube-like frame. The Chinook had many uses: it could carry up to 44 troops and therefore could be employed as an assault aircraft. It could carry more than 10 tons of equipment, due to its powerful engines, and so had a history as a resupply aircraft. And it was a rugged bird, able to take a lot of abuse from weather, wind and salt water spray, so it had been employed for years by the US Marines aboard their amphibious assault ships.
But this was the first time Hunter had ever seen Chinooks outfitted as gunships.
He did a double take when he first noticed the gun muzzles protruding from both sides of the Chinooks. Yet close inspection confirmed that the chopper troops had outrigged both sides of their CH-47s with heavy guns—everything from .50-caliber machine guns to what looked to Hunter to be small howitzers. They had also installed guns in the nose, belly and rear of the Chinooks.
“Mini-Flying Fortresses,” was the term that first came to Hunter’s mind, thinking back to the famous, gun-studded B-17 bombers of World War II.
But if some ingenuity had been used in outfitting the Chinooks, then a touch of mad scientist had been applied to the two CH-54 Skycranes in the chopper team’s possession.
The Skycrane was aptly nicknamed. When unloaded, the bird looked like a large chopper that had somehow lost its mid-section. In reality, the aircraft was simply an engine and tail rotor connected to a cockpit. With this “skeletal form” and its four, wide-out wheel assemblies, the chopper had a definite giant bug-like appearance. The beauty of the Skycrane was that it could lift just about anything—20 tons worth—that fit inside or underneath its “missing space.” Cargo containers, fuel bladders, trucks, jeeps, even other helicopters, the Skycrane could pick them up and set them down better than anything flying in the Free World.
It also came equipped with a “purpose-designed container,” a box about the size of a small railroad car that could fit snugly into the ‘Crane’s lift and carry area. From
his vantage point, Hunter could see that the chopper team had lined up six of these PDCs alongside their landing area. It appeared as if each one had a separate purpose. One was cut through with gun ports, another appeared to be a missile launching platform. Still another looked like it was used for carrying troops, and a fourth was outfitted with various radar, infrared and, so it appeared, AM/FM radio broadcasting antennas. The two remaining PDCs were heavily camouflaged and fairly hidden away, so he couldn’t determine their specifics. But his intuition told him they leaned to the more outrageous duties.
Rounding out the team of nine big choppers were two, French-built Aerospatiale Super Frelon naval helicopters. About the same size and shape as a CH-53 Sea Stallion, the Super Frelons had been used by the French Navy for years as antisubmarine aircraft. In addition to its long range and record of durability, the Super Frelons also carried a nasty sting: many were able to carry and launch the much-dreaded Exocet antishipping missile. And sure enough, Hunter could see two Exocets hanging underneath both of the Frelons in front of him.
It took him a few minutes to process all this information. He couldn’t help thinking just what the Cobra Brothers would have thought about all this chopper madness. Still he had come to a reasonable conclusion: Despite his rude greeting and capture, he had to admit that he liked the chopper troops’ style. They had obviously come upon the mostly cargo-carrying fleet of helicopters and had adapted them nicely for attack duties. This showed Hunter a great amount of initiative, a talent not usually found among the scumbucket armies of the crazy New Order world.
But just how the chopper team used all their firepower was another question entirely. And Hunter’s gut reaction told him that he’d better find out.
Lieutenant Burke led the six-man search team back into camp, hot, sweaty and exhausted.
Burke told his troops to stand down and get something; to eat. It would be dark soon and he was sure Major Dantini would want to dispatch yet another search party to look for the escaped prisoner.
Burke unstrapped his pack and rifle and went to Dantini’s command tent, where he found the officer poring over maps of the Canal Zone as usual.
“Any sign of him?” Dantini asked his junior officer. The dejected look on Burke’s face already provided the answer.
“Nothing,” Burke confirmed. “It’s like the guy just disappeared…”
Dantini shook his head and took a sip from the glass of tequila in front of him.
“Jesus, the guy somehow gets out of a sealed-up tent in record time, then melts into the jungle like he was The Phantom or someone,” he said, feeling the welcome sting of the hard liquor going down his throat. “Maybe he was Hawk Hunter…”
Burke sat down on the tent’s cot and rubbed his tired eyes. “I’ll organize a night patrol,” he said wearily. “We’ll sweep the ridges up north again, then double back along the beach.”
“That won’t be necessary,” a third voice said suddenly.
Burke looked up to see a man standing behind Dantini, pointing a gun in the general direction of the major’s head.
It was the escaped prisoner.
“How… how the hell did you get in here?” Burke blurted out. It was as if the man had simply materialized out of thin air.
“Trick of the trade,” Hunter said, lowering the gun slightly, causing Dantini to breathe a sigh of relief.
For an instant, Burke wished he had carried his own gun into the tent with him. But in his next thought, he doubted whether he would have actually used it on the prisoner.
“What do you want?” Dantini asked, still not daring to turn around.
“I want to get down to the facts,” Hunter answered quickly. “I don’t believe we’re enemies. So, I suggest we just call a two-minute truce here and talk. Okay?”
Dantini thought it over and eyed Burke. They both nodded in agreement. With that, Hunter walked out from behind Dantini and stood between them.
“What will it take for me to convince you guys that I am who I say I am?” he asked them, a slight hint of exasperation in his voice. “I mean, I really am Major Hawk Hunter, formerly of the US Air Force; formerly of the Thunderbirds. More recently I’ve flown for the Pacific American Air Corps and now the United American Air Force…”
Dantini managed to take another gulp of his tequila: “Okay, let’s say you are Hawk Hunter,” he said. “What are you doing here, dropping in on a bunch of chopper dinks like us?”
“I had no idea you guys were down here?” Hunter said in all honesty, again feeling the pang of his own misjudgment in selecting a landing zone. “I was dropping in to do some recon on the people who are now running the Canal.”
Dantini’s left eyebrow immediately went up in a sign of interest.
“You’re here to spy on The Cross?” he asked.
“Cross?” Hunter asked. “Is that the name of the gang occupying the canal?”
Dantini grew suspicious once again. “Yeah, ‘The Twisted Cross,’ to be exact,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “It would seem that someone like Hawk Hunter would know that…”
Hunter had to agree. “You got me there,” he said, managing a grin. “But believe me, just like you guys ain’t exactly up on what’s going on in North America, we’re in the dark as to what the hell is going on down here. It isn’t as if you can just pick up a newspaper these days.”
“And they sent you down here to find out?” Burke asked skeptically. “Seems like a lousy job for a big shot like yourself…”
Hunter grew a bit angry at the man. “Well, now I see you guys are out of touch,” he said. “In my organization—the United American Army—there are no ‘big shots.’ Everyone pitches in. Everyone has input, whether he’s a rifleman or a general or the guy who cleans the pots. Sure, there are officers and there are enlisted men. But rank isn’t an excuse to turn down a mission.
“I was chosen for this recon because I’m pretty good at sneaking in and out. Simple as that…”
Dantini laughed. “Well, judging by the way you dropped in on us, I think you should do a little more work on the ‘sneaking in’ part.”
“Okay,” Hunter said smartly. “And someday, I’ll tell you how I got into your tent…”
The comment zapped both men. It still appeared to both of them that Hunter used other-worldly means to appear in the tent.
“Besides,” he continued, “I’d like to think that my dropping in on you was actually a good omen. A meaningful coincidence…”
“How so?” Dantini asked.
Hunter shrugged. “I think we can work together,” he answered. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out you guys are going up against this Twisted Cross gang. Well, so am I. And, if the info I bring back with me warrants it, and I’m sure it will, the entire resources of the United American Army will be up against them too.”
“Now this is sounding serious,” Dantini said.
“It is serious,” Hunter replied. He then took the next five minutes telling the two men about his encounter with Captain Pegg, the assassination attempt on the old man and their interrogation of Jean LaFeet, the world’s biggest slime-ball.
“You guys are obviously North Americans,” Hunter concluded. “You’ve got to appreciate the fact that the Canal has to be in friendly hands for us to keep the continent together, and keep the frigging Sovs and their shithead allies out…”
Dantini rubbed his three-day growth of beard.
“Well, our goals aren’t as lofty,” he said. “I mean, we’re just hired help down here.”
“Hired by whom?” Hunter asked.
“A bunch of local landowners and business men, both here in Panama and in Big Banana,” Dantini said, pouring out another glass of tequila for himself. “Let me start at the beginning. Most of us are ex-US military—some of us are Army, some Marines. We were doing duty in the Canal Zone when the Big War broke out. Like a lot people, we were stranded for a while, then, when the New Order went down, we just didn’t feel right, returning to America.
“Then about two years ago, the Cross started showing up around the Canal Zone. They hired some Colombian gangs, outfitted them as military units and kicked ass on the various local armies that were based along the Canal…”
“So The Twisted Cross didn’t do much of the fighting themselves?” Hunter asked.
“That’s right,” Burke answered him. “They had the Colombians do their dirty work for them. But, get this: as soon as the Canal was in their hands, they turned around and massacred their hired hands. Killed about twenty five hundred Colombian mercs, just like that…”
“These guys play rough,” Hunter said in classic understatement.
“So did the Colombians, up to that point anyway,” Dantini said. “But after they greased those mercs, no one, anywhere in the area, wanted to fuck around with The Cross.”
Hunter nodded. He had heard it all before. “They were sending a message,” he said.
Both Dantini and Burke agreed. “And it was received down here, loud and clear,” Dantini said.
Hunter took a few moments to let it all sink in. The stories of brutality of The Cross by Pegg and now by the chopper team matched up.
“But you guys have gone up against The Cross, right?” Hunter asked.
“Yeah, that’s what the locals hired us to do,” Dantini confirmed. “But we’re just in the beginning stages of something that will take a few years at least. Frankly, we’re just harassing them now. Hit and run stuff. We hit them, then we move. They look for us and we hide from them. When the smoke clears, we establish a new base and hit them again.”
Twisted Cross Page 8
