Free The Twisted Cross by Mack Maloney Page B

Here crewman walked back and helped Hunter hook up and move to the jump door, checking his equipment one last time.
    "Thirty seconds . . ." called a voice over the nearby intercom.
    "All set, sir?" the crewman asked him.
    Hunter nodded. "Ready as I'll ever be," he said.
    The intercom crackled again: "Ten . . . nine . . . eight ..."
    "Good luck, sir," the crewman told him.
    They shook hands, Hunter tapped his pocket once more for luck, and on the count of "three . . . two . . . one!" he stepped out of the C-130's door and into the deep black sky.
    The air was hot and dry, but Hunter found the breeze at 6500 feet somewhat refreshing. His descent was intentionally leisurely - the more time with which he could scope out any and all possible landing sites. He retrieved his map and using a penlight, checked it once again. It told him that a small clearing about a half mile from a cove looked to be an ideal landing spot. Flipping down his NightScope glasses, he spotted the small field without too much trouble. He instantly calculated his altitude and descent speed against the speed of the wind then pulled and tugged on his chute lines a half dozen times, getting himself into the proper alignment to spiral down to his designated bull's-eye.
    Planning, planning and more planning . . .
    That's what made operations like this one work, Hunter thought as he slowly drifted down past 5000 feet. Cover all the bases, check and recheck your initial information, determine your alternatives, compute the risks and then, go to it ...
    As Jones had said, that's what had made the United Americans so successful in the past. No sense in changing it now.
    As he passed 2500 feet, Hunter couldn't help but feel a rush of pride run through him. There was no sense in denying that his input and actions were responsible for a good part of the success of the American democratic forces.
    He knew when things got rough, people just naturally looked to him for the solutions. And why not? Just as the big fat slob LaFeet had said, Hunter was famous -a well-known personality in the post-World War III landscape. His face was as recognizable overseas as in America and the stories of his exploits -
    most of them true, a few of them exaggerated - were recounted all over the world. He was as close to being a comic book superhero as humanly possible
    -and he knew that in times of crisis, people seek heroes.
    And now here he was, dropping in on a pitch black jungle forest to scope out yet another enemy that threatened the stability of the still-fragile American continental unity. He already knew the script: he would land safely, walk to the Canal, get some valuable video pictures, return to Washington and plan the operation which would punch out the clowns who were running things in the Canal Zone these days. Then the critical water route would be open, the East Coast would get its much needed supplies and the long-awaited American Reconstruction could begin.
    He hit the ground running several minutes later, circling down onto the clearing with natural aerial aplomb. He took a too-quick scan around and started to gather up his chute.
    Just another day at the office, he thought.
    That's when he looked up and saw no less than a dozen M-16 barrels staring him right in the face . . .

Chapter 10
    Colonel Hanz Frankel took a handful of cool water and splashed it into his face.
    It was hot. Damn hot. Already 87 degrees and the sun had only been up for two hours.
    "God, how I hate this weather," Frankel said to his aide-de-camp. "Give me the coolness of the Swabianjura any day."
    His aide, a captain named Rolfe, nodded as he too dipped his hands into the bucket of ice water the two men were sharing. They were sitting on the porch of a rundown villa, looking out on the tiny harbor which made up one side of the small island called Las Perlas. To their backs, four miles away, was the Pacific entrance to the Panama Canal. In front of them, anchored about a half mile offshore, were two