The Twisted Cross (16 page)

Just as he indicated a point north of them with the snout of his M-16, a third burst of gunfire went right over their heads, this one longer and more sustained.

"They must have NightScopes, too," Hunter said, feeling somewhat miffed at himself for dropping in on his second "hot" landing zone in as many weeks. It was a habit he wished he could break.

"Well, they're getting damn close," Fitz said, checking the magazine in his gun. He was reassured to find it full.

"I know," Hunter said, checking his own clip. "But who the hell are they?"

Fitz shook his head and added: "More important, Hawker, do they know who we are?" .

"Only one way to find out," Hunter said, tying his kerchief onto the muzzle of his M-16.

"Be careful," Fitz warned him as he started waving the makeshift flag.

"We're Americans/" Hunter shouted out in the loudest voice possible. "We've got no beef with you! We're from the United American Army and . . ."

His next words were cut off by a long stream of bullets-streaking overhead. He was back down in the ditch in a microsecond.

"I don't think they like us," he said with understatement.

"You certainly gave them a chance," Fitz said, who like Hunter was certain that the people doing the shooting would kill them if given the chance. "Now how the hell do we get out of this one?"

"Okay," Hunter said, improvising a bit. "How about you stay here and I'll circle around them?" »

"Don't joke at a time like this, Hawker!" Fitz growled at him through clenched teeth.

"Okay, then, how about we split up, and hit them from two sides?" he asked.

"Yer going daft . . ." Fitz said anxiously reverting back to his thick brogue.

"Well, that doesn't leave us with many other options," Hunter said. "Except of course, the 'big1 option . . ."

"Yeah, well let's give that one a try, if you don't mind?" Fitz said.

Once again his words were nearly split in two with another barrage of gunfire.

This was immediately followed by three mortar rounds landing in quick succession about 25 feet away.

"These guys are getting on my nerves," Hunter said as he pulled an old silver quarter out of his pocket and gave it a flip.

"Heads!" he called just as he slapped the coin down on the back of his hand.

"Tails it is!" Fitz cried, seeing he had won.

"Jesus Christ, do you ever lose?" Hunter asked Fitz as the Irishman strapped his M-16 back on and prepared to move out of the ditch.

"You know better than to ask that," he told Hunter. "Now how shall we work this?"

Hunter thought for a moment, then said: "Wait for the lightshow, I guess . .

." Once again he checked the clip in his M-16; as always it was filled with tracer rounds. "If they shoot back at you or me, then let 'em have it . . ."

"Okay," Fitz said, taking a deep breath. "Be back in a snap ..."

With that, Fitzgerald scrambled out of the ditch and started making his way back to their airplanes.

Twenty minutes passed. . . .

The last rays of the vivid southwestern sunset were just fading when Fitzie's Harrier appeared high overhead, slowly circling the ranch. Hunter, still scrunched up in the ditch, had been ducking only occasional bursts of gunfire since Fitz had left, and these had been way off the mark. This told him that whoever was firing on him wasn't exactly sure where he was.

But that was about to change . . .

Sensing that Fitz was ready, Hunter dramatically stood up and fired off a long burst of tracers in the general direction of the enemy fire. The early evening darkness was suddenly lit up with ghostly streaks of yellow-red as his phosphorus rounds bounced and ricocheted around the desert scrub brush and rocks.

A split second later Hunter was back in the ditch, hands over his head as the mysterious enemy again opened up on his position.

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 antipersonnel 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 jumpjet 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

'brainwashing1 . . ."

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

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." p

"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 before 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.