Twisted Cross

by Maloney, Mack;

  One stream of gunfire zipped by to his right.

  “Now that sounds like an M60,” he thought, tuning his ears into the gun’s distinctive “budda-budda” reverberation.

  Two more barrages came from a slightly different direction.

  “Are those Mausers?” he wondered, keying in on the automatic fire’s zinging sound.

  Then, as if on cue, two mortar rounds came crashing down about 50 feet away.

  “Light stuff,” he thought. “Probably fifty-one millimeters…”

  He counted to ten, then he heard another, more deafening crash!

  “Finally, here come the real fireworks…” he thought as he hunkered down further in the ditch. No more than 20 feet above him, Fitz’s Harrier streaked overhead, its two 30-mm Aden cannons blazing. He heard two anti-personnel bombs explode during the jumpjet’s next pass, followed only by some feeble return fire. Three more subsequent passes were devoted to the powerful Aden cannons.

  It was all over in under five minutes. Their plan for Hunter to draw fire had worked beautifully. Crawling up out of the duct, Hunter could see four separate fires burning about a quarter mile from his location. He unleashed another long stream of tracer bullets in the same general direction. But no one shot back this time. Either Fitz had got them all or they had run away.

  It took another ten minutes for Hunter to find a suitable landing spot for Fitz’s Harrier.

  Using his powerful utility lamp, he directed the jump jet down onto a concrete slab that had once served as a silo foundation. The AV-8B just fit on the improvised hardstand and only Fitz’s adeptness at flying the unusual Harrier prevented a mishap.

  “Everything quiet?” the Irishman asked his friend as he climbed down from the jet. “I spotted four separate targets out there and I believe I got at least three of them dead-on…”

  “You done good, Mike,” Hunter said. “Haven’t heard a peep from them.”

  The two pilots set out toward the nearest fire, their M-16’s up and ready. Reaching it they found three bodies and a destroyed mortar set-up.

  Gingerly feeling inside the pockets of one of the stiffs, Hunter came up with a single piece of paper. On it was drawn a small but detailed map of the ranch and the surrounding area. Clearly marked with large black Xs were the four gun positions, all of which were now burning.

  “Looks like they were staking out this place,” Hunter said. “I think we just dropped in on a party that hadn’t really started yet.”

  “What a coincidence,” Fitz said, looking over the remains of the mortar. “That should mean the good doctor will greet us with open arms.”

  They quickly checked two other targets and found six more bodies. Like the first three, they were clad in nondescript drab green fatigues with no identifying patches or badges.

  But it was at the fourth and final location that Hunter found a piece of very disturbing evidence. Four men lay dead at this site, the bodies scattered around a M60 machinegun. But as both pilots could see, the nest itself hadn’t been hit by any of Fitzie’s cannon fire or antipersonnel bombs.

  “This is the one I missed,” Fitz said, observing a large crater about 30 feet away made by one of his antipersonnel bombs. “Yet these guys have all been greased…”

  Hunter played his flashlight beam on each of the bodies. Each one had a pistol in hand and a single shot in the head.

  “Suicides?” Fitz asked incredulously.

  Hunter nodded slowly in agreement. “They iced themselves,” he said grimly noting the dead men had shaved heads. “Just like those two triggermen that plugged old Captain Pegg. They even have the same haircuts…”

  “Do you think, Hawker…” Fitz said, trying to find the correct words. “Do you think these guys are Canal Nazis, too?”

  “Either that or they all got real depressed at the same moment,” Hunter answered.

  Hunter felt a chill run through him. Both he and Fitz had seen war—too often for his tastes. It was hardly the glamorous adventure that the prewar movies and TV and books would have had people believe. People didn’t just fall over and look like they’d gone to sleep after being hit with a bullet or a shell fragment. Bodies—skulls, stomachs, spines—tended to explode when hit by a projectile. And what came out was hardly pretty or glamorous. In reality, it was sickening.

  But long ago Hunter had somehow steeled himself against the horrible sights of war. He loathed killing, as did everyone he knew from the United American Army Command Staff on down. But the survival of his country was of the utmost importance to him, and anyone who dared threaten it with arms and killing of their own had to be taken on. That was war.

  But taking one’s own life was a different story That passed from an act of war to an act of fanaticism. And frankly, it gave him the creeps…

  “It takes a lot to put a gun to one’s own head, Hawker,” Fitz said, mirroring his own feelings.

  Hunter nodded glumly. “Yeah, in a situation like this, it’s called ‘brainwashing’…”

  He turned toward the ranch house and added: “Let’s go see what the doctor has to say about all this.”

  Chapter 25

  THE TWO PILOTS APPROACHED the ranch house from two sides, each one using his NightScope goggles.

  When they met on the porch, both Hunter and Fitz shrugged at the lack of incident in walking up to the house. The place itself was a solid, stone structure with a massive oak door that looked thick enough to be bulletproof. In its day the ranch house must have been a sight to see. Now it was more than a little seedy looking.

  Inside there was still a single light burning.

  “Maybe after all this we’ll find out no one’s at home,” Fitz whispered to Hunter.

  “Well, that would be a kick in the ass,” Hunter said as he silently lifted the latch on the front door of the rundown structure. It was locked.

  “Too simple just to bust it in,” Fitz cautioned.

  Hunter nodded and backed away from the door. “Okay, give him a yell…” he said.

  Fitz put one hand up to his mouth and took a deep breath. “Sandlake!” he hollered. “We’re friends! Don’t shoot!”

  Silence…

  “Hey, Sandlake!” Fitz began again. “You owe us a favor man! We just saved yer ass…”

  Again, nothing.

  “Well, if he’s in there he’s an ungrateful bastard,” Hunter said.

  “Hawker, why don’t you give it a try?” Fitz suggested. “Tell him who yer are.”

  At that point Hunter was willing to try anything.

  “Sandlake!” he called out. “This is Major Hawk Hunter of the United American Army. We’re here to…”

  Suddenly they heard a rustling inside. Then a voice, somewhat weak, somewhat mechanical spoke four words:

  “Hawk Hunter is dead.”

  Hunter shook his head in frustration. “This is getting ridiculous,” he said. He was getting sick and tired of everyone from here to Central America and back thinking he was six feet under.

  “I assure you he is very much alive and well, Doctor!” Fitz called in. “Open the door and find out.”

  “You must think I’m as crazy as the others do…” came the reply. “It will take a lot more to get me to open this door than a promise to see the famous Wingman.”

  Hunter immediately resented the man’s mocking tone.

  “Okay, Sandlake,” he yelled back. “Let me say one word to you: Washbuckets…”

  There was another long silence.

  “How about three more words?” Fitz yelled out. “Project Chesapeake Bay.”

  Just then they heard someone fiddling with the lock on the big door.

  Both Hunter and Fitz had their M-16s up and ready as the huge oak door squeaked open.

  The first thing Hunter saw was another M-16 pointing right at him. The second thing he saw was a tight T-shirt and a lovely pair of breasts.

  “What in heaven…” Fitz started to say.

  Hunter was almost too dumbfounded for words. Standing be
fore them, holding a M-16, was an incredibly beautiful woman.

  “Lower your guns gentlemen, and you can come in,” the woman said.

  Although it might not have been the sensible thing to do, Hunter and Fitz lowered their guns as requested. The woman then lowered hers.

  “Is… is there someone named Dr. Sandlake here?” Hunter asked, not knowing what else to say.

  “Yes…” the woman answered “Of course, there is.”

  She turned and opened the big door wide enough for them to enter. Both Hunter and Fitz’s eyes immediately zoomed in on her perfect derriere.

  “Strange things happen when I’m with you, Hawker,” Fitz said to him in a nervously cracking brogue.

  “I was about to say the same thing to you, Fitz,” Hunter replied.

  They both stepped inside and took a quick look at the surroundings. The interior of the ranch house was even more rundown than the outside. Everywhere furniture lay uncleaned, ripped and falling apart. The walls were covered with a thick coat of dust and not one picture was hanging evenly. The floor was covered with an endless carpet of glass and plaster.

  Added to all this were numerous bullet holes everywhere.

  Hunter turned his attention back to the woman. She was blond, very pretty and probably in her mid-twenties. Her figure was picture perfect, the result, Hunter could tell, of much care and exercise.

  “We are here to talk to the doctor,” he said. “I assume that was he talking to us through the door?”

  The woman nodded, an action that served to jiggle her breasts ever so slightly.

  “Yes, that was him,” she said. “Through his security intercom.”

  “Are you his daughter?” Hunter asked, thinking another piece of the puzzle was about to fall into place.

  But the woman suddenly looked down, a pained expression coming across her. “No…” she said, sadly.

  Hunter and Fitz looked at each other. It was obvious Hunter had touched a sensitive nerve.

  “Just follow me,” the woman said. “And be careful of the broken glass.”

  With that she expertly walked through the rubble on the floor and toward a lighted doorway that obviously led to a cellar.

  They followed her down a long set of stairs which led to another huge door, this one made of reinforced steel. With no small effort, the blond beauty yanked the door back just far enough for them to squeeze in.

  As opposed to the dingy setting upstairs, the chamber on the other side of the doorway was well lit. The bunker-like room was filled with hundreds of electronic devices, none of which Hunter could identify at first glance. Everywhere there were lights flashing, buzzers buzzing, computer screens displaying row after row of numbers and letters, computer printers working non-stop, spitting out reams of data. Working feverishly over it all were three more beautiful women, attractively dressed in tight jeans and T-shirts, M-16s slung over their shoulders.

  “So this is the famous Hawk Hunter, you say?” a voice from the far end of the chamber asked.

  Hunter and Fitz turned to see a middle aged man hunched over a work bench that was overflowing with electronic parts, wires and tools. He was wearing large tortoise shell glasses and a typically stained lab coat.

  Hunter stepped forward. “I’m Hawk Hunter,” he said matter-of-factly. “In the flesh…”

  “I recognize you from the newspapers,” the man replied. “Glad to see you’re not dead.”

  “Me, too,” Hunter said. “You’re Dr. Sandlake?”

  The man was in his late 40s, still somewhat handsome with a healthy shock of graying hair. It appeared as if he shared his female companion’s penchant for fitness; Hunter thought the guy might have been a bodybuilder at some point.

  “I’m Sandlake,” he answered. “Sorry for the rather rude greeting before…” he motioned to a intercom-type microphone near his work bench. “Got to be careful in this neighborhood these days.”

  “So we found out,” Fitz said. “Did you realize there were more than a dozen men out there—heavily armed, too?”

  “Of course, we did,” Sandlake said. “They’ve been out there for a week now. Or maybe it’s only been a couple days. I’m not too sure. But, in any case, did you chase them away?”

  “You might say that,” Hunter replied. “They were enemies of yours, right?”

  “Absolutely!” Sandlake said, thrusting a one finger in the air like a revved-up college professor. “They were trying to starve us out of here, the bastards.”

  “Starve you out?” Fitz asked. “They had enough fire power to level this place—or at least the top part of the house. Maybe even this bunker, too.”

  “Ah, yes,” Sandlake said. “But you see, that would have meant killing us—or more specifically, killing me. And I’m afraid to say those chaps wanted me quite alive.”

  The man stopped for a quick breath of air, then went on: “I think they were jealous,” he said. “You may have noticed, my assistants are quite pulchritudinous.”

  “If that means ‘foxy,’ you’re right,” Fitz said.

  Both Sandlake and Fitz laughed at the joke, but Hunter could feel the gratuitous conversation was heading out into the ozone somewhere. And the strangest thing was that while he was talking, Sandlake continued to tinker with some do-dad on his work bench. The man seemed to be working the absent-minded professor routine a little too much. It was as if the two pilots had just dropped in for nothing more than a friendly chat and now were no more than a distraction.

  It was time to cut to the quick…

  “Like we said, we’re here to talk to you about Project Chesapeake Bay,” Hunter said firmly. “Specifically, underwater nuclear mines…”

  Sandlake gave out a somewhat nutty laugh. “Well, that is funny,” he said. “Because that’s exactly what those guys outside wanted to talk to me about also…”

  “You can be sure we are here for a different motive,” Hunter said. Then, for the next ten minutes, he patiently explained to the man the situation in Panama and what the United American Army Command Staff felt had to be done about it.

  “We have to launch a massive attack on The Twisted Cross,” Hunter told Sandlake. “But before we do that, we have to find some way to disarm those nuclear mines.”

  “We understand you’re the expert behind their creation, is that right?” Fitz asked.

  “Yes, quite right,” Sandlake said, for the first time turning away from his tinkering. Suddenly he became very serious. “And I am quite aware of the nuclear mine system in the Canal. In fact, gentlemen, I not only created the monster—I’m the one who gave it all to the Twisted Cross.”

  Hunter almost asked the man to repeat himself.

  “You did?” Fitz cried out. “In Heaven’s name man, why?”

  Sandlake took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. In the course of three seconds it appeared as if he was a completely different person. Gone was the jovial/bothersome professorial schtick. It was replaced with the worn-down look of a very troubled individual.

  “Come with me, gentlemen,” he said, rising from his seat at the end of the work bench. “It’s a long, sad story…”

  Two hours and one bottle of Scotch later, both Hunter and Fitz were shaking their heads in amazement.

  Sandlake had led them into a smaller room off his fortified bunker. Mixing coffee with the bitter Scotch, the man talked and they listened.

  After the Big War, Sandlake, who had been stranded in the Rockies on a Christmas ski weekend, tried to get transportation back to his office in Washington, thinking that would be the professional and patriotic thing to do. But with the chaos and anarchy that ensued across the country following the Soviet’s sneak attack on America’s ICBM silos, he finally realized that there wasn’t much for him to return to in the nation’s former capital. He decided that getting here—his daughter’s house near El Paso—was his next best bet.

  Traveling by any means he could, including horseback, the doctor made the sometimes torturous 500-mile plus journ
ey in two months. He arrived to find his daughter relatively safe, though grief-stricken that her oil executive husband of just three months had been killed in Saudi Arabia during the first day of the war.

  Together, Sandlake, who was a widower, and his daughter struggled to eke out an existence in the isolated ranchhouse. El Paso was nearly deserted and tales of looters and drug-crazed bandits roaming the empty streets were enough to keep civilized people away from the city. Instead, the father and daughter grew their own food and raised some cattle for beef. A small but effective bartering agreement with some nearby survivors filled in the gaps, the Sandlakes usually trading either steaks or one of the doctor’s many gadgets in return for clothing and firewood.

  Sandlake said it was as close to a comfortable existence as one could expect in post-war, New Order America. Several years went by. News about the outside world was scarce. He and his daughter had heard rumors of great battles being fought up in the center of the continent, and on one occasion, they hid from a band of Circle Army deserters, who ransacked their storage bin. After that, Sandlake built the underground bunker and spent much of his free time manufacturing his electronic do-whats—security devices, mostly—for barter.

  This relatively peaceful life came to a crashing halt very early one morning when his home was invaded by no less than one hundred armed men, brought in by a dozen Soviet-made assault helicopters. They were called The Party, and at first, claimed to be arms dealers. However, after a short talk with the leader of the group, a man named Frankel, Sandlake realized that the invaders knew many of the details about Project Chesapeake Bay and the underwater nuclear mines. What they wanted was the location of the actual hardware, which, they made quite clear to him, they wanted to use to solidify their takeover of the Panama Canal.

  Sandlake refused to tell them. Two days of beatings and torture followed. It was during this time that the Party members learned that his daughter was actually a doctor too—she held a degree in a particularly strict discipline of archaeology.

  Once the intruders learned this, they radioed their headquarters (which Sandlake believed was in Mexico City at the time) and soon some even higher officials of The Party arrived at the ranch. They then turned their torture tactics on his daughter, demanding she tell them everything she knew about ancient Mayan sites in Central America as well as Inca sites in South America. She resisted at first—so much so that a helicopter was dispatched to collect some sodium pentathol—better known as truth serum.