The Twisted Cross (27 page)

Also coming out of the cave entrance were two Party members who were obviously well-schooled in archaeology. She

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knew this because they were the only ones to go down to the chamber dressed in the right apparel and carrying the right equipment. Now .these two men were approaching her, accompanied by a pair of guards who were carrying two of the gold bowl-like ingots.

"We need your advice," one of the men said, even pausing to tip his hat to her. "These ingots were found at the top of the first two stacks along the far wall. You can see there are inscriptions on both of them. We believe the top ingot in each pile is marked this way. But these are glyphs we cannot possibly hope to read."

She took the first ingot and set it down on the tailgate. Sure enough, there were several lines of glyphs imprinted into the gold. The second ingot had identical writing.

"Can you read them?" the second officer asked.

"I'm not sure," she lied, running her finger over the animal-like figure writing. Actually she could read the Pre-Classic Mayan language almost as easily as she could read English. Still she said: "I will need some time with them . . . alone."

The two officers looked at each other and shrugged. "Study them, please," the man who tipped his hat to her said. Then he nodded to the guards and all four men left.

"And you'll call us when you have something?" the other officer asked as they walked away.

"Of course, I will," she answered with a smile.

Time passed and a ominous dark thunderstorm blew up. The wind whipped through the trees surrounding the grand pyramid, and the rain came down without mercy.

The entrance to the cave seemed to be the shelter of choice for many of those at the camp. So few people if any took notice when Elizabeth left her truck and walked over to the one belonging to Colonel Krupp.

Reading the glyphs had been easy, as she knew it would be. Interpreting them was another matter. But in the course of twenty minutes she was sure she had it figured out. And the truth be known, she had made one of the most earth-shattering discoveries in the realm of Ancient American studies.

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But this was hardly foremost in her mind at the moment. Self-preservation, or more accurately a return to self-realization, was more important.'She was prepared to go to great lengths just to prove to herself that she was a person again. Any lengths. Her thinking was twisted, there was no denying that. But it was nothing new. The spiral had started during her three years of living with her father on the isolated ranch near El Paso. That would knock the flowers off anyone's wall. Being kidnapped by the Nazis, accumulating all those days bound and gagged, a hood around her head, sitting in damp caves, certain that death would be preferable, was all very traumatic. But, in the end, it had only drawn her closer to a madness she already considered an acquaintance.

"I don't want to die here," she kept telling herself. And she wasn't so delusional not to recognize that it was just a matter of time before one of the Twisted Cross high officials realized that she was still around and now very expendable. That's when things would revert back, she whispered to herself. And when it happened, she had little doubt she'd be led out to the woods and, like her father, shot twice in the back of the head.

And it was this that she vowed would not happen . . .

There was no guard at Krupp's truck.

She knocked three times hard on the door. There was no reply. Three more times, she heard stirring inside, but still nothing. A third series of knocks and she heard Krupp's whiny voice call out: "What is it, guard?"

"It's me," she said simply. Calling out her name wasn't necessary; she was the only woman in camp.

The door opened a crack and Krupp peeked out.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, obviously flabbergasted to see her.

"We have to talk . . . now," she whispered. "While there is still time . . ."

She would really never know exactly why Krupp decided to let her in. Under the circumstances, it seemed like a very foolish thing to do.

Yet she stepped inside and took a good, long look at him.

She knew he was almost gone - like her, almost over the brink. She would have to move fast.

"Did you hear that they found some writing on some of the ingots?" she asked him.

Surprised that she would talk to him in a civil tone, he stumbled to find words and couldn't. Finally he just shook his head no.

"Well, it's true," she said. "And you want to know something? I'm the only one here who knows what the writing means."

He was sweating, his eyes were dilated and there was still a hint of the foamy drool running from the sides of his mouth. In all, he looked disgusting. But she couldn't let that deter her.

"The writing actually tells where more gold is hidden," she began. "More than we found today."

"That's impossible," he said in a weakened voice.

"No, it's true," she said. "I know where there is more. Much more. And I want you to take me there."

She stunned him -it was all over his face. What was going on here? his eyes said. Didn't she hate him? Hate him enough to kill him?

"Take you there?" he asked. "Why would I want to do that? What benefit would it be for me?"

It was the question she had been waiting for.

She reached up and slowly began unbuttoning her shirt.

"What . . . what are you doing?" he asked, choking on his words.

She didn't answer him. She just watched his eyes go wide with her action. And when the floppy uniform was open, she slowly pulled it back to reveal her lovely, well-formed breasts.

"This is what you've wanted all along, Colonel," she told him. "So now take it

..."

The Kingfisher had just ridden out a violent thunderstorm when Hunter noticed the two blips on his radar screen.

"Damn/"he whispered. "I have a feeling this ain't going to be good."

The commodore crawled up beside him and also saw the radar blips.

"They come our way?" he asked.

Hunter did a couple of quick adjustments to the radar set, but he really didn't have to. His brain was buzzing in afterburner. The aircraft were coming their way -and fast. He could feel it in his bones. And his sixth sense was telling him that they weren't friendly.

"Strap in, Brother David," Hunter said, arming all the airplane's weapons.

"We're in for a fight."

"Commodore!" the monk cried out. "Come back and help me load this gun."

Hunter switched on his ECM package and started emitting right away. But he knew it was too late to fool the oncoming jets.

"Christ," he murmured as he looked out on the southwestern horizon. "There they are."

Three seconds after he said it, two unmistakable shapes appeared over the horizon. The turned-up wings, the reverse-V tail section, the dirty brown exhaust. "And they're Goddamn Phantoms."

He put the Kingfisher into a dive -not a steep one, more slow and "routine."

Within 30 seconds he was cruising just 50

feet above the jungle's treetops.

But this didn't discourage the Phantoms -nor had he thought it would.

Both F-4s spotted him at the beginning of his descent and now they peeled off and streaked down toward him.

"Brother David? You got a handle on that gun back there?" Hunter yelled back.

"I have!" came the reply.

"He has," the commodore added.

"Okay, here's the plan," Hunter told thorn. "They're going to come down for a look-see before they decide to blast us. Let's just play innocent until I give the word."

Sure enough, within ten seconds the two Phantoms had slowed and pulled up about a quarter mile in back of the World War II-vintage floatplane.

Hunter continued to fly straight ahead, pretending not to notice. "Get ready,"

he called back to David and the commodore. "Play dumb . . ."

The two F-4s moved up a little closer. "Are they Skinheads?" Hunter called back to the monk.

"No," came the answer. "These airplanes bear the emblem of The Twisted Cross.

The Skinheads fly unmarked aircraft."

That was a valuable piece of information, Hunter thought, lowering his altitude even further. By this time both of the fighter-bombers were right up on them.

"Steady, boys," Hunter cautioned. "When I give you the word, Brother, open up on the nose of the nearest airplane."

"On the nose?" came the question.

"That's right," Hunter answered. "Make it quick and don't let up until you have to, okay?"

"Yes," came the stoic reply.

For Hunter's part he was just hoping that he could give Brother David the word to fire before the Phantom pilots noticed that his flying antique was carrying a Vulcan cannon, a few racks of air-to-surface missiles, a 50-caliber machine gun sticking out its back, two mini-Sidewinders on its wingtips and a bristle of radio, infrared and advanced-seek radar antennas poking out at various points on the wings and fuselage.

Although he was flying low, he had the Kingfisher's throttle opened all the way. Still the Phantoms were now almost even with him. Soon they would realize that the strange black object sticking out the top of the fuselage's midsection was really a deadly 50-caliber machine gun. But even when Brother David opened up on them, they would still have to back off or peel away completely in order to get a shot back at the old airplane. And that would take time. Hunter planned to use every second of it to his advantage.

"Get ready, Brother ..." he called out. "Steady . . . steady . . . Now!"

Instantly the noise of the big fifty going off inside the compartment nearly deafened them all. His ears ringing, Hunter immediately yanked back on the control stick and put the Kingfisher into a rivet-popping climb. All the while, Brother David was pouring fire into the lead Phantom. Before its pilot could pull away, the big fifty's bullets had luckily found the F-4's nosecone

- the home for the airplane's radar and the brains of its weapons control system.

The wounded F-4 finally pulled up and away, for a second streaking right by the also-climbing Kingfisher. As Hunter hoped, the second F-4 started to climb also, slower than his companion so as to get a clean shot at the seaplane.

That's when Hunter knew he had to play his ace card.

"Hang on Brothers!" he cried out, then he reached over and cut his engine.

All three of them suddenly felt weightless-as if they were floating in the air. The F-4 unintentionally zipped right by them, his quick attempt to lower his flaps only playing right into Hunter's hands. Just as the Kingfisher's propeller came to a dead halt, Hunter fired off both his mini-Sidewinders and pushed his Vulcan cannon trigger.

The combined cannon-and-missile barrage hit the F-4 point-blank on its mid-flanks. Even to Hunter's surprise, the jet fighter split right in half.

Then its engine blew up, which ignited its underwing fuel tank. He wrestled with the Kingfisher's dead stick in an effort to avoid colliding with the skyful of debris. He made it -but just barely. Three quick pulls of his throttle choke followed, then he slammed the airplane's engine starter button. With a sputter and a cough, the Kingfisher's engine came to life. He had turned the plane completely over by this time and, gaining his power back, leveled out about 35 feet from the top of the jungle canopy.

There was still the question of the other Phantom, but Hunter knew it was no problem at all. The airplane came around on them, streaked by like an angry buzzard, yet fired no weapons at them. It couldn't. Brother David's quick but timely barrage had effectively emasculated the enemy F-4's firing systems.

Even its cannon could not be fired. The Phantom buzzed them twice more, Hunter giving in to the temptation of flipping the finger to the pilots on the last pass.

"Fuck you guys," he yelled as the Phantom's pilot, unable to do anything but fly, booted his throttle and disappeared off to the south.

"Still with me, boys?" he called back to his companions. When he received no immediate reply, he turned back and saw both men were staring at him, mouths agape. The pair looked as if they had just endured an hourVlong roller coaster ride.

He had to laugh. "That will teach you to volunteer," he said.

"But I insist on continuing this mission!" Colonel Krurjp was saying, his voice loud but jittery. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"There will be if you continue that tone of voice!" Major General Udet told Krupp. "You are addressing a superior officer, Krupp. Don't forget that!"

Udet, the same high Party officer who congratulated Krupp with a linen and silver luncheon in the shadow of the Chichen Itza pyramid, now stood before him in the recovery mission's command truck, gritting his teeth. He had flown in at first word of the huge gold find and had just returned from seeing it himself. But what he had assumed would be a triumphant visit had turned sour just as soon as he visited Krupp in his command truck and got his first good look at the officer.

The man looked as if he had aged 25 years in a matter of weeks. The officer that Udet had commended at Chichen Itza had been a tall, if weak looking man of 42 years. The man before him now was hunched over, with bleary eyes and dark circles under them. Udet, a veteran of the Big War, had seen men with advanced battle fatigue, and still they had looked better than Krupp did right now.

"Colonel, there is no reason to continue the mission," Udet said. "The amount of gold found in that chamber exceeds anyone's wildest expectations. It will take all of our efforts just to retrieve it all."

"General, you don't understand," Krupp pleaded with the officer. "There is more gold to be found. At the other

rums . . .

Udet was beginning to detest the man. "Look, Colonel," he said. "You've done a fine job here. Your work has been very successful. Why ruin it? You deserve the time off. To ... recuperate. Get some rest down in Panama City or on one of the islands, and then, if the High Command recommends it, you can resume the recovery mission at that time."

"No!" Krupp screamed at the general. "No, we must push on now. To other sites.