Also deployed to bases in Texas were nine of the United Americans B-52 Stratofortresses, the two enormous C-5 gunships known as Bozo and Nozo, and the super-secret Ghost Rider air unit which was made up of five, electronically jam-packed B-1B supersonic, near-Stealth, swing-wing bombers.
It had been a major air movement; counting various support aircraft such as the United Americans’ fleet of KC-135 aerial tankers as well as three dozen C-130 Hercules cargo ships—including 12 from the famous New York Heavy Lift Corporation known better as the New York Hercs—nearly two hundred fixed-wing aircraft had been transferred, virtually overnight, to the Republic of Texas. There, they would be additionally complemented by the Texans’ own five squadrons of F-4X Super Phantoms.
Moving the United Americans various ground units had taken longer. Two armored divisions—equipped mostly with nearly 200 M-l and M-60 tanks—were traveling at that moment on rail cars that would eventually bring them to the port city of Galveston, Republic of Texas. There they would be loaded onto anything that could float—Free Canadian amphibious assault ships mostly. A total of ten ships, converted container-carrying vessels, would be devoted just to carrying the United Americans’ substantial helicopter force. Forty-eight hours before the operation was to commence, these seaborne units would set sail. If everything ran smoothly, they would be waiting somewhere off the coast of Panama when the first bombs fell.
That all this had to be done as secretly as possible was only half the problem for the United American Command Staff. The biggest challenge was that it had to be done in less than a few days.
And it was…
“And now after all this, these guys want to talk about it?” Fitz asked, still astounded that the Canal Nazis had actually offered to negotiate.
“That’s the purpose of the message,” Jones told him again.
The message, which was first intercepted by an United American advance listening post down on the Louisiana coast, proposed that a representative from The Twisted Cross fly to Washington and “start a dialogue” immediately. Jones had received the communiqué just about midnight and now, at 0900 he was discussing it with Fitz, Ben Wa and J.T. Toomey in his Pentagon office.
“This is nuts,” Toomey said. “One day these guys are all into cloak-and-dagger and now they want us to throw them a coming out party. I say we tell them to go take a fucking leap.”
“I agree,” Wa said. “The time for them to talk was before they started planting the underwater nukes. These guys are vicious. They’re murderers.”
“Most likely they caught wind of our deployments,” Fitz added. “Now they’re either scared, stalling for time or a little bit of both…”
“In other words, now’s the time to zap ’em!” Toomey said.
“No,” Jones said firmly. “Now’s the time to listen to what they have to say.”
All three men were taken aback.
“Are you serious, General?” Fitz asked. “Sit down and diddle with Nazis?”
“Not ‘diddle,’” Jones replied. “I said talk to them.”
“But why?” J.T. asked. “You know they’re just trying to screw us over.”
“Maybe,” Jones said. “But I have the lives of nearly sixty thousand people in my hands—you three included—not to mention any civilians down in the Canal Zone who could get killed if we attack. I owe it to all of them to at least listen to what these guys have to say.”
Fitz, Ben and Toomey were speechless.
“I’m sending a reply back to them right now,” Jones said, concluding the brief meeting. “I’m telling them that we accept their offer.”
Chapter 41
MAJOR DANTINI, COMMANDER OF the Central American Tactical Service, took a sip of tequila then went back to strumming his well-worn Martin guitar.
Things had been so slow lately, he had even found time to play the old six-string. They had not attacked the Cross in what seemed like years now, at the request of Hunter and the United American Command. He supposed the fear was that any fighting around the Canal Zone could accidentally set off one or more of the underwater nuclear mines. It was unlikely of course, but Dantini knew now was not the time to take any risks. Not when he and his one hundred chopper troops were about to gain 60,000 allies.
They were now camped near the deserted town of Bocas del Toro, which was on an island some 150 miles west of the Canal on the western end of the Mosquito Gulf. The terrain here favored them. There were dozens of tall hills surrounding the city and Dantini and his men had claimed two of them as their temporary base. The height advantage worked in two ways: first it would help should the whole 15-chopper force have to move quickly, and second, it gave them a clear view of the Panamanian mainland, both to the south and to the west. Even a fast-moving jet coming out of Panama could be spotted far enough away to give ample warning for everyone to get to shelter.
Still strumming his guitar, Dantini continually scanned the horizon, looking for anything unforeseen. Several minutes passed, but then he did see something approaching from the southwest. He didn’t miss a note on his instrument, however; it was one of the Flying Cranes returning from the only kind of mission they were able to carry out these days.
He watched as the big ship hovered just off to his left, preparing to set down on the large, flat wooden platform set up on top of the hill. The Crane was straddling one of the group’s purpose-designed containers; this particular PDC was the one bristling with various radio antennas, including one for broadcasting on AM and FM frequencies.
The Crane finally landed, kicking up a couple of pounds of dust as it did so. A few moments later, the door on the Radio PDC opened and two men climbed out, their uniforms disheveled, beer cans in hand.
Dantini shook his head in mild disgust at the pair. The two men were probably the only people left in the New Order world who could actually get beer in cans. “I thought there was only supposed to be one in every bunch,” Dantini murmured to himself. “I’ve got to get stuck with trouble times two…”
By this time the two had walked over to him. “Mission accomplished, Major,” one of them, a man called Masoni, told him in a voice so gravelly, you could pave a highway with it.
“Any problems at all?” Dantini asked.
“Negative,” the other man, a sergeant who went by the stage name of Gregg O’Gregg, reported between swigs of beer. “We put out two solid hours right near El Cope, then another ninety minutes just outside Nata. Didn’t see a soul out there.”
Dantini breathed a sigh of relief. Despite their appearance and general demeanor, Masoni and O’Gregg always came through. That was the only reason why Dantini was so tolerant of their less-than-proper military behavior.
The PDC was actually a flying radio station, and together, Masoni and O’Gregg made up the entire CATS psyche-war section. They worked via a dangerous MO. The Flying Crane would carry the PDC—known as Radio CATS—to various isolated parts of Panama and once set up, the two men would start broadcasting clandestinely. Like a mini-Radio Liberty or Radio Marti, Masoni and O’Gregg would play Panamanian national music and any music hits that were popular in Panama before the Big War. Interspersed between the songs, the men would read carefully prepared statements urging the Panamanian natives not to give up, that the Canal and their country would be liberated one day from The Twisted Cross.
The tactic was effective—Dantini and his men were always greeted with open arms by any natives they happened to run into. While it was dangerous to carry a radio in or near the occupied Canal Zone itself, many people who lived out in the Panamanian hinterlands still had their trusty transistor sets and boom boxes. Everyday, they would click them on, hoping to hear an hour or two of the music from the old days.
The tactic also served to drive the Canal Nazis batty. To this day Dantini was convinced that the Nazis believed the radio was actually carried by truck, and not by helicopter. That was why whenever they set up camp, the first PDC to be camouflaged and hidden away was Radio CATS.
; “Okay,” Dantini told Masoni and O’Gregg. “Get something to eat and then check back with me this afternoon. We’ll pick your broadcast posts for tomorrow then,”
They both offered wide-smiling, snap salutes. On cue, they guzzled the rest of their no-name beers and symbolically crushed the beer cans on their foreheads. Then they turned on their heels and marched away, leaving Dantini as always, shaking his head.
“If I thought too much about it I’d go nuts,” he said to himself.
He sat back down and picked up the Martin six-string again. Suddenly, the radio at his feet burst to life. He heard Burke’s excited voice on the other end.
“Major! We’ve got company coming…”
Dantini immediately reached down, picked up the radio and punched the send button. “Who and where?”
“Choppers,” Burke, who was over on the other hilltop, reported. “Two of them coming in from the north. They look like Cobras.”
“Cobras?” Dantini wondered out loud. “Are they blinking?”
“Three reds, two whites,” Burke called back. “Is that today’s sequence?”
Dantini hastily retrieved a piece of folded paper from his boot. He unwrapped it and quickly read the scrawled list of what were called “approach sequences.” These were messages sent by using the navigation lights of an aircraft, thereby eliminating the use of intercept-prone long-range radio messages.
“Three reds, two whites,” Dantini confirmed, checking the sheet he and Hunter had drawn up before the pilot headed back up north. “Yep, that’s the password.”
He carefully laid his guitar aside and ran down the hill to the beach. Burke arrived at the same time, and together they watched as the two Cobras roared in over the wave-tops.
“These have got to be the guys Hunter was talking about,” Dantini said as the two gunships set down on the beach about 150 feet away.
Through the swirl of sand and seaspray, Dantini saw one man emerge from the first helicopter. He and Burke met him halfway.
“Major Dantini?” the man from the Cobra asked. “I’m Captain Jesse Tyler, United American Army.”
“Are you one half of the famous Cobra Brothers?” Dantini asked shaking hands with the man.
“Yes, I am,” the man answered through his thick Texan accent. “Hunter told you about us?”
Dantini and Burke both nodded. “Did he ever,” Burke said. “Had us up all night once, telling about how crazy you guys were.”
Tyler laughed. “Well, he can spin a tale as well as the rest of us,” he said. “Better, even…”
By this time the three other members of the Cobra team had joined them. “This is Captain Bobby Crockett, and Lieutenants John Hobbs and Marty Baxter,” Tyler said over another orgy of handshakes.
“So I suppose I don’t have to guess what the purpose of your visit is,” Dantini said. “I assume the United Americans are ready to attack. When is H-Hour?”
Tyler took off his helmet and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Major,” he said, “let’s all go someplace quiet where we can talk…”
Chapter 42
THE FIGHTING BROTHERS’ LONG-RANGE patrol was back at the mission before noon.
They had left one hour before sunup, walking back to reconnoiter the place were the Skinheads had attacked the mission truck. Thirty minutes after the patrol’s return, Brother David met Hunter at the small lake’s shoreline. They talked as the pilot went through a list of routine preflight maintenance checks on the Kingfisher.
“My Brothers confirm that it was a full squad of Skinheads that we tangled with yesterday,” David told him.
“Is that unusual?”
“Yes, it is,” the monk said. “We know of Skinhead advisors traveling with gangs like Dos Chicos. But this is the first time we’ve encountered a force made up entirely of Skinheads.”
Hunter opened the plane’s engine cowling maintenance door and peered in at its power plant. “What does that tell us?” he asked. “So many of them in the area at once…”
“I’m afraid it means they have suddenly attached a new importance to us,” David said.
“Maybe they know I’m here,” Hunter said quietly.
“I’m sorry, but I think I have to agree with you,” the monk replied. “It’s really the only explanation. They were content just to arm the Chicos before. Now, this…”
Hunter saw that everything inside the engine checked out, so he closed the small door and wiped his hand with a rag.
“Well, I won’t be here much longer,” he said. “But how will they know that?”
Brother David shrugged. “They won’t,” he said. “And there’s a more frightening aspect to this. Our patrol found a Hind helicopter out near where the ‘Heads set upon us. It was destroyed, burned.”
“Really?” Hunter asked. “By who?”
“By the Skinheads themselves, I would guess,” David answered. “It can only mean one thing…”
Hunter didn’t have to have it spelled put for him; he knew what the burnt out chopper meant. “They were on a suicide mission,” he said. “They burned their own means of transport before setting out to get us.”
The Top Monk nodded. “Yes,” he said. “We have definitely caught their attention. These pagans don’t just send their hari-kiri squads after anyone…”
Hunter thought about it for a moment, then said: “Okay, I feel responsible for this. I think you’d better consider evacuating your people.”
“I agree, Major,” David said. “But where can we possibly go where it is safe? And where it’s big enough to accommodate us all?”
Hunter flashed a smile. “I have just the place in mind,” he said.
It only took about ten hours in all to move The Brothers, their families, their girlfriends, their weapons and their equipment to the abandoned pyramid hotel at Cancun.
Hunter rode shotgun in the sky as the long convoy of trucks wound its way the sixty miles to the resort city. By midnight, the Fighting Brothers had christened their new abbey. The beauty of the place—in addition to its lavish space and easily defended location—was that to its rear was an entire fleet of luxury yachts, most in running condition. So should the Brothers come under attack from a superior force, they always had the option of taking to the boats and escaping.
All these precautions made Hunter feel better about the safety of the monks and their people, and by the end of the long day, he was bushed. He spent the night with Janine and Lori again, making love to both then letting them massage his tired muscles to sleep.
The next morning dawned bright and hot. Hunter wolfed down a quick breakfast, then was down on the docks, getting his airplane ready for flight again. He was heading for Chichen Itza, most likely the next set of ruins on the Canal Nazis’ plunder list.
He was just about to load on his dufflebag of gear when he saw Brother David walking down the long dock toward him. Oddly, he was carrying a full knapsack and his rifle.
“I was just coming up to say adios to you, Brother David,” Hunter told him.
“No need for that, Brother Hunter,” David replied. With that the big man threw his knapsack into the pilot’s compartment of the Kingfisher. “We still have a long road to travel together…”
“You’re not actually thinking of coming with me,” Hunter said.
“I am,” was the stoic reply.
“But, your people,” Hunter said. “They need you.”
“But, Brother Hunter, you need me more,” the monk replied, matter-of-factly. “I can’t expect you to face these fascist infidels alone, not after you saved us the other day. It was an act I must replay.”
Hunter shook his head. “I told you that repayment wasn’t necessary, Brother,” he said. “Besides—”
“Besides nothing,” the monk told him, lowering his M-16 into the airplane. “Paul is capable of watching the flock for awhile. As for myself, I am a trained soldier. I can hold my own. I will not be a burden to you.”
Hunter was about to co
unterpoint the man’s statement when he saw the commodore strolling down the docks toward them. He too was carrying a full knapsack and a weapon.
“Now what the hell is going on?” Hunter asked.
“I am going too,” the commodore declared.
“This is getting out of hand…” Hunter said.
“No,” the feisty little Italian said. “I am a trained soldier. I can hold my own. I will not be a burden to you.”
The litany sounded very familiar—too familiar. David and the commodore had obviously rehearsed the little scene several times. Hunter at once realized that he was victim of a conspiracy of friends.
There was no sense arguing with them—two more stubborn people did not exist.
“Okay,” the pilot said. “It’s going to be crowded, but I appreciate the help…”
The commodore slapped him twice on the back. “We knew you’d feel that way, Hawk, old friend.”
“Let us be off,” Brother David said. “The Lord’s wind will guide us.”
Brother David took his place in the Kingfisher’s rear-facing gunner’s seat, while the commodore strapped himself in the hammock just behind Hunter pilot’s seat. The take-off went smooth as silk. Hunter slowly put the Kingfisher into a climb out over the ocean. Then he turned inland, flying directly over the pyramid to see the entire congregation gathered on the roof and waving goodbye.
Chapter 43
“NEGOTIATIONS!” DANTINI SAID ANGRILY.
“That’s the word,” Cobra Captain Tyler told him for what seemed like the hundredth time. “We heard it on the way here, and we got it so quickly only because we have scramblers on board. But they thought it was important that you guys know.”
They were sitting in Dantini’s command tent high on the island hill. Coffee had been the drink of preference—up until Tyler broke the news to Dantini and Burke. Now the tequila had been going around non-stop for hours.
“But what in the world is there to talk about with them?” Dantini asked again. “They’re Nazis and they’ve got nuclear bombs floating around in the Canal, for Christ’s sake. What’s to discuss?”
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