Just as Klapk was leaving the airliner, the five Twisted Cross F-4 Phantom escorts flew over in formation, the first pass of their ceremonial flyby. Off in the distance he could see the smoky brown trails of the huge UA C-141 support craft descending for a landing. Somewhere a band started playing and a couple dozen balloons were released. Even a dullard like Klapk could appreciate the gaiety of it all.
A half mile from the reviewing stand, the dozen or so technicians working inside the “Snowball”—that was the airport’s sophisticated South African-made flight traffic control radar station—picked up the 12-aircraft United American escort formation flight on schedule. Their crew chief passed this information on to the airport control tower, and then he told his workers to relax—for them, the hard part of the day was over.
The UA F-20s streaked over the airport, flying in three, four-point diamond formations. The Twisted Cross dignitaries, already seated in the reviewing stand, craned their necks and shielded their eyes in an effort to watch the high-tech Tigersharks flyover.
At this point both the 737 and the just-landed C-141 rolled up to the designated area. More balloons were released, and the band played another rousing martial tune. The Cross welcoming committee, made up of ten senior members of the High Commander’s Command staff, took their places at the end of the ceremonial red carpet and waited as the 737 taxied up to the movable stairway. At the same moment, the linked formation of F-20s and F-4s made the first of its scheduled four flybys.
The door to the 737 opened and a long procession of United American support personnel filed out, most of them carrying their own luggage. Then the first of the UA dignitaries appeared, descended the stairs and shook hands with the Twisted Cross welcoming delegation. The combined Tigershark-Phantom formation flew over once again, the band swung into its second martial tune and a collection of selected civilians, bussed in for the occasion to make noise, broke into a well-rehearsed ovation.
The handshakes over, a tall, burly man who had brought up the rear of the official UA delegation was directed to one of the microphones.
He was introduced as General David Jones.
The man stepped up to the microphone, adjusted it to his tall frame, and began to speak:
“Gentlemen of The Twisted Cross,” he said. “I am not General David Jones. I am Major Shane of the Football City Special Forces and I am here to tell you that you will be shot immediately if you don’t follow all my instructions. First of all, lay down any weapons you have and put your hands on your heads.”
The initial reaction to the statement was a laugh from the gathered Twisted Cross officials. But then, as if in one swift motion, the suit-coated UA personnel lining both sides of the reviewing stand retrieved a wide variety of small but lethal weapons from under their jackets. Simultaneously, the rear ramp of the nearby C-141 opened and a long stream of heavily-armed Football City Special Forces troops began to pour out. At the same instant, four F-20s roared in low over the crowd, their screaming engines adding the right amount of intimidation to the situation.
In ten seconds, forty members of the uppermost command structure of The Twisted Cross realized that they were hopelessly surrounded…
At the same time, about 50 nautical miles west of Panama City, the crew of the Veneto-class heavy cruiser was preparing to sink an unarmed merchant ship that had attempted to gain entry to the Canal.
Deep in the ship’s Combat Information Center, the attention was naturally surrounding the fire control officer, the man who would oversee the sinking of the hapless victim. But sitting a console at the other end of the CIC, one of the radar technicians saw a strange blip appear on his screen. He waited for the scope’s arm to sweep around the field twice more before calling over his superior officer.
“Sir, can you see this?” he asked the officer, pointing to the blip which was getting closer to the ship. The officer nodded and watched the screen for two more sweeps.
“Check its electronic profile,” the officer ordered. He watched as the crewman punched a series of buttons. Then he heard the man swear under his breath.
“Well, what is it?” the officer asked.
The man was suddenly very nervous. “Sir, the computer says…”
“Says what?” the officer asked him in an agitated tone.
The man looked up at him. “It says it’s an Exocet.”
The officer’s face immediately drained of all color.
“Re-check, quickly,” he said to the man, leaning over the screen and watching as the blip drew even closer.
The crewman pushed the same buttons and found the computer came up with the same answer.
“It’s definitely an Exocet profile, sir,” he said, his voice trembling. “Impact in less than 40 seconds…”
“Jesus Christ!” the officer yelled out, leaping to hit the ship’s attack alert button. Suddenly two dozen klaxons were blaring throughout the ship.
Those gathered around the fire control officer instantly turned around, stunned by the sudden chorus of warning sirens.
“What is it?” they called out in unison. “What’s happening?”
The officer ran by them and out to the superstructure’s railing, calling behind him: “Exocet coming in!”
Most of the officers also ran to the railing and looked out to the horizon, not wanting to believe what the defensive systems officer was telling them.
“There it is!” the officer cried out, pointing off to the northeast.
As one, they all spotted the telltale flare of light, flying just barely above the wavetops off in the distance.
In seconds it was upon them.
“Maybe it will miss!” someone cried out.
It didn’t…
The sea-skimming missile slammed into the cruiser directly behind the CIC. Its warhead ignited on impact, and a tremendous explosion followed, instantly killing all inside the CIC as well as those officers standing on deck.
The ship, completely unprepared for such a strike, was rocked with a series of explosions as the flames quickly found its magazine and fuel supply. It started to go down in less than five minutes.
The crewmen on the nearby merchant ship were suddenly ecstatic. Many of the cruiser’s sailors, upon abandoning ship, attempted to swim over to the steamer. But those who did found no lifeboats waiting for them, no ladders dropped over the side. Instead the merchant ship’s captain immediately ordered his engines up to full speed and departed the area as quickly as possible.
The steamer was gone by the time the French-built Aerospatiale Super Frelon helicopter belonging to the Central American Tactical Service overflew the area and watched the cruiser, the victim of its perfectly-aimed Exocet missile, roll over and sink with the loss of all hands.
Chapter 68
AT THE OPPOSITE END of the Canal, Major “Catfish” Johnson, the commanding officer of the famous 7th Calvary, looked out of the C-130’s window, crossed his fingers and breathed a sigh of relief.
All along the narrowing sides of Gatun Lake, the waterway which led from the Atlantic side to the canal, he saw at least a dozen separate fires burning. Thank God, he whispered to himself. He knew the fire represented Nazi AA and SAM sites that had been hit by the Chinook gunships of the CATS just minutes before.
“Okay, everyone up!” he called out. “The chopper jocks have done their job. Now let’s do ours!”
As one, the 100 troopers inside the New York Herc C-130 stood up and hooked on their jump rings. A crewman opened a side door and within a minute a red light started flashing.
Johnson stood at the door, waiting. Trailing behind his lead aircraft were five more Hercs. Below he saw two more burning AA sites but also about a dozen Nazi surface craft speeding in the narrows of the lake.
One quick prayer later, the green light came on and the jump bell rang. Johnson braced himself and yelled: “Let’s go boys!” With that, he dove out the door, instantly feeling the reassuring tug of his parachute opening.
“Red Zone, here we come
…” he said.
For the Twisted Cross soldiers and officers based at San Valles it promised to be an easy day.
Only a minimum security force was on duty at the sprawling base which was located two miles from the main Atlantic-side Canal locks. Today was a time of celebration for the Nazi troops. They had been on 24-hour alert every day for the past three weeks and the troops were worn down as a result. So what better time to stand down than the day the Mutual Security Pact was to be signed with the United Americans? Besides, their top officers were at the signing ceremony, and the base, left to junior command, had taken on a relaxed atmosphere almost as soon as their commanders’ choppers had departed for Panama City.
So very few people actually heard the high-pitched whine of the enormous C-5 gunship approaching.
One who did was a sergeant named Wyzenheimer. Caught drunk the night before by his squad lieutenant, he had been assigned a 14-hour shift, manning the base’s fairly isolated north side tower.
Wyzenheimer was certain that he was hearing things when the strange whining noise first invaded his hangover and hurting eardrums. But when he turned his tired eyes to the northeast, he was stunned to see this huge airplane, roaring toward him no more than 500 feet off the ground.
Despite his post-inebriated condition, Wyzenheimer knew the airplane did not belong to the air inventory of The Twisted. Cross. By the time he had reached for the tower telephone, the massive airplane was right above him, so close he could clearly see the United American markings on its wings and tail. He also saw a name written in fancy script lettering right below the airplane’s cockpit windows.
It read: Nozo.
Though Wyzenheimer had no way of knowing it, the huge C-5 named Nozo (official designation: C-5B-23E/R No. 1), housed no less than 21 GE GAU8/A 30mm Avenger cannons, each capable of 4500 rounds per minute. The computer-controlled guns were lined up on the port side of the huge airplane, each muzzle housed in a three-by-three recessed porthole. The guns were loaded with shells made of depleted uranium—a projectile that spontaneously ignited upon hitting its target.
The Nazi sentry couldn’t reach anyone on the phone. So all he could do was watch helplessly as the C-5 roared over the base, climbed and circled back. It dipped a little to the left and then, all 21 portholes automatically opened on the side of the airship. An instant later, he saw a tremendous wave of fire flash out of its left side. Inside of two seconds, the interior of the base was enveloped in a horrible yellow smoke.
The C-5 continued its murderous fire for 20 more seconds, then it climbed and flew away, like some huge prehistoric bird suddenly bored with what it was doing. Verging on a state of shock, Wyzenheimer watched in horror as the yellow smoke slowly lifted and blew away. When it did, he realized that there was nothing left of the base but half the mess hall and one of its three water tanks. In place of the three dozen elongated barracks buildings and the rows of tanks and troop transports there was now a huge, smoking, skeleton-filled crater.
It would be several more hours before Wyzenheimer would realize that of the 2000 men assigned to the base, he was the only survivor…
Even larger than the decimated base at San Valles, was the combined Twisted Cross Army & Naval Attack station located at Las Avitos on the mouth of the Pacific side of the Canal.
This facility, which housed 4300 regular army troops as well as three squadrons of naval attack craft, possessed the Canal Nazis’ most sophisticated anti-aircraft fire control system. Rings of small Roland SAMs surrounded rings of Bofors 40-mm L/70 radar-guided anti-aircraft guns, which in turn protected a concentrated group of large SA-5 Soviet-built SAMs. Added to this were no less than three dozen smaller early warning radar sets scattered at various points up to ten miles from the base. These in turn were protected by small and mobile Matra R.440 Crotale SAM launchers.
So it was with complete and total surprise that shortly after nine that morning, the center of the Las Avitos base—including its all-important Combined Command Center—was obliterated by five, 7000-pound HE bombs.
Surviving Nazi radar operators who saw or heard the explosions stared at their radar screens in disbelief. Obviously the base was under air attack, yet their radar fields were all “clean”—meaning no enemy aircraft had been detected in the area.
For a while only two Canal Nazis knew exactly what had happened. Assigned to an observation post a full 60 miles away to the north, they spotted five white shapes passing high overhead minutes after hearing that the base at Las Avitos had been attacked.
The observers, well schooled in aircraft identification, knew right away the airplanes were United American B-1B swing-wing bombers. It would take them longer to figure out just how the B-1s had so successfully eluded the spider’s web of Nazi radar stations around Las Avitos.
Chapter 69
ALTHOUGH BY THIS TIME warning calls were flashing up and down the occupied Canal Zone, the highest officials in the Nazis’ command structure weren’t aware of the surprise attack situation.
Instead they were being rounded up from the airport reviewing stand and herded onto the 737 airliner.
Without a shot being fired, Major Shane’s Football City Special Forces Rangers had captured all but the very top echelon of The Twisted Cross military command. Instantly surrounded by the suitcoat-and-tie clad commandos, the Nazi officials had little choice but to surrender and follow orders, which were to get on the 737 or get shot.
Only one man, the lowly functionary named Klapk, gave the Rangers any trouble. Perhaps because he was the one and only Twisted Cross official to board the 737 when it first came in, he felt the most duped that the United Americans had pulled off such a daring stunt.
“I refuse to go!” he screamed into the muzzle of one of the Rangers’ M-16s. “This goes against all context of the Mutual Security Pact!”
“There ain’t no Mutual Security Pact, pal,” the Ranger told him gruffly. “Did you really think we’d make a deal with you Nazis?”
Klapk was astonished. “But… but you’ve gone back on your word,” he said. “Your government made a promise to respect our sovereignty… This is absolutely reprehensible behavior…”
The Ranger hit Klapk with the butt of his rifle. “So is gassing six million people to death!” he hissed at him.
Although no shots had yet been fired at the airport, Shane and his officers knew the “peaceful” situation wouldn’t last. The combined F-20/F-4 squadron—the Phantoms being flown by UA pilots—had been providing cover for the kidnap operation. Several pilots reported that security troops were already surrounding the airport and, worse yet, that a large enemy force was moving toward the airport from the interior of Panama City.
Shane’s troops actually had two jobs to do. One was to neutralize the Nazi Command Staff, a mission which would be accomplished as soon as the 737 took off. The second assignment was much tougher; hold the Panama City Airport until reenforcements came.
Shane quickly walked up and down the 737’s aisle, making sure each of the high level Twisted Cross officers was securely tied and gagged. Also loaded onto the airplane were the dozen or so honor guard soldiers, who now looked slightly ridiculous in their starched white uniforms. In the front row of the airplane were the two original 737 pilots, men who played along with the whole charade out of fear for their lives. They were wired—each had had explosives strapped to his chest. One wrong move and the UA men responsible had promised to flip a switch and blow the pilots to Kingdom Come.
Satisfied that the prisoners were secure, Shane spoke briefly with the UA pilots now at the controls of the 737. Then he gave them the okay to depart and suggested they do so quickly.
Already, the first mortar rounds from the alerted airport security forces were crashing down on the runway…
Chapter 70
FOR THE FIRST TIME in his life, Hunter was biting his fingernails.
“This is driving me crazy!” he said, not for the first time that day.
“Jesus, Hawk, will you sett
le down?” J.T. told him. “Have a belt if you’re so jumpy.”
They were sitting in a makeshift Ready Room at an airport called Terechecchi in the country of Big Banana, formerly Costa Rica. Just outside the building was the F-16XL, Sandlake’s deactivator pod attached under its right wing. The airport and all its facilities were being rented by United Americans, initially for three days, but with an option to stay a whole month. The rundown but functioning airport would serve as the UA’s advance base for the sneak attack on Panama.
Jones had been the first one to utter those words to Hunter. Although diplomats might prefer the term “preemptive,” the UA attack on The Twisted Cross was a sneak attack—pure and simple. It was born of false promises and deception and more than a few intensive interrogations of the Nazi envoy, Colonel Frankel, in which nearly a gallon of sodium pentathol was used. (Frankel, like the kidnapped Nazi delegation, was on his way to a specially-built prison located near Kimball Mountain in Alaska.)
So it was a war fused by dirty tricks, all of them laid at the feet of the United Americans. Yet Jones felt no compunction at all in launching the attack. In fact, he had been its main architect—a fact that made it even more devious as the Nazis knew full well of Jones’s straight-as-an-arrow reputation.
“No government—friend or foe—will ever trust me again,” Jones had told Hunter earlier that day. “But it’s a small price to pay to prevent the Nazis getting a choke-hold in this hemisphere. A nuclear chokehold to boot.”
Hunter couldn’t have agreed with him more.
But now the Wingman was more antsy than at any time he could remember. In front of him and J.T. was an ice cold pot of coffee, a basket of half eaten biscuits and a worn-out VCR. They had been awake for six hours, five and a half of them spent continuously reviewing two videotapes.
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