The Twisted Cross (7 page)

"Jesus, I can see being overweight," Tyler drawled. "But this guy is ridiculous . . ."

They finally made it to the roof, LaFeet exhaustedly dropping to his knees and rolling over involuntarily. As promised, the rotor blades on Cobra One were turning, its engine warming up.

"Come on," Hunter said to Tyler, wiping his brow. "Let's get him into the net

. . ."

Now LaFeet felt real terror strike his heart.

"You're not going to carry me with that thing, are you?" he screamed.

"You guessed it," Hunter said, retrieving the net and beginning to wrap it around the huge man.

"No! I won't let you!" LaFeet screamed. Then he started calling out the names of his bodyguards, adding: "Help! Save me!"

Hunter reached inside his pocket and came up with a squirtgun. Without hesitation, he squeezed one long stream into LaFeet's face. The man went out like a light.

"Chloroform," Hunter said to Tyler as they finally managed to wrap the net around LaFeet's ample frame. Then the pilot added: "What's the lift capacity of your bird?"

Tyler had to think a moment; it was a rare occasion for him to lift anything.

"I'm not sure," he finally had to say.

"Enough to lift lard-ass here?"

Tyler looked at his chopper then back at the prisoner. "Well, I guess we're going to find out," he said.

It had stopped drizzling and the bayou air was heavy with swamp flies when the two Cobra gunships returned to their original meeting place.

Cobra Two set down first, Crockett and Hobbs quickly leaping out of their cockpits to help secure the human bundle swinging from the bottom of Cobra One. Once the fisherman's net was unhitched from the hovering chopper, Tyler landed the lead ship and he and Hunter climbed out.

LaFeet was conscious, having come out of his chloroform nap about halfway through the 30-minute flight. He was shaking with fear while the airmen unwrapped him, certain that he was the target of a rather unorthodox underworld rubout.

Actually, all Hunter wanted was information.

"Okay, we can make this simple or we can make it complicated," Hunter said to the man. "But either way, you're going to tell us what we want to know."

They had secured the fat man to the ground spread eagle, using utility cords and part of the fisherman's net. His face was red and puffy, aftereffects for the chloroform shower Hunter had given him. His bizarre evening gown-like outfit was now further soiled with grease and oil and swamp mud. Yet he was studying the face of each of them, a very odd look in his eye.

"I won't tell you anything," he said suddenly, his voice shaky. "Why should I?"

Hunter shook his head in disgust. "Now he decides to be a hero," he said to the others.

LaFeet suddenly became emboldened. "Heroism has nothing to do with it, Mr.

Hunter," he said in his odd, squeaky voice.

"Damn, he knows who you are . . ." Tyler said.

"I know who all of you are," the fat man said. "It took me a while, but now I'm sure. I finally get to meet Hawk Hunter. And the famous Cobra Brothers.

Your faces gave you away, gentlemen. And your flag-waving, idealistic, law-abiding reputations precede you. And I know there isn't a chance in a million that you would kill me. It's just not your style, as they say."

"I don't believe this," Crockett said. "This big slob is giving us a hard time

. . ."

LaFeet laughed. "Do you really keep forgetting you're such well-known heroes?"

the rotund criminal asked mockingly . "I'm surprised at you. Torture? A burning stake perhaps? Ha! I know the worst you will do is turn me over to the proper authorities, and believe me, 111 buy my way out of that before you can bat an eye."

"Maybe we can starve him," Hobbs offered.

"That would take too long," Crockett replied, swatting away a swamp fly.

"Let's face it: He knows we're' the good guys and that we won't grease him under these circumstances."

Tyler looked at Hunter. "It seems like this poor excuse for a human being has us over a barrel."

Hunter, who had been quiet all during LaFeet's bragging, now stepped forward again. In his hands was the half gallon jug of honey.

"Maybe," he said. "Maybe not ..."

He unscrewed the honey jar lid and stuck his finger inside.

"Good batch," he said, licking off a portion of the sticky sweet stuff. "And I have a feeling that our pal here isn't the only one hungry out in this swamp .

. ."

To make his point, Hunter held up his honey-dipped finger and within seconds it was covered with dozens of the pesky swamp flies.

LaFeet was the first one to make the connection. Suddenly his swagger vanished and was replaced with his old friends, fear and groveling.

"You wouldn't ..." he whined.

Hunter just nodded and poured out a heaping, dripping portion of the honey on to the jar lid. He stepped closer and stood directly over the big man.

"Tell us about your little cruise to Colombia," Hunter snarled at him.

"No . . ." LaFeet said. "No way ... I can't . . . They'll kill me if I tell you how I got the . . . the stuff . . ."

"We don't give a damn about your nose candy," Hunter shot back. "How did you get through the Canal?"

LaFeet was momentarily taken back by Hunter's question. But he quickly began shaking his head.

"They'll kill me if I tell you that, too," he said.

Hunter didn't want to beat around the bush any longer. It was hot and sticky and very uncomfortable out in the swamp, and the honey on his hand and in the jar lid had attracted a swarm of the pain-in-the-ass "miggee" flies.

So he took the honey lid and poured out a long stream of the sticky goo over LaFeet's head. The big man had rather long hair and the honey quickly matted it down.

"Jesus Christ! No!" he yelled. But it was too late. Within seconds, his face was a mass of honey and swarming flies.

"How did you get through the Canal?" Hunter asked again, even more harshly.

"I can't tell you . . ." LaFeet screamed. "They'll hunt me down. They hunt everyone down . . ."

Hunter applied some more honey to the man's face and shoulders. Another few thousand flies immediately showed up.

"Who's running the Canal these days?" Hunter pressed. "How come that cruise liner got through?"

"God, man, this is inhuman!" LaFeet screamed as he involuntarily sucked the bug-drenched honey into his nose and mouth. The man's face was now actually hard to see with so many swamp flies and other assorted insects flying around his head.

"So is murder and selling underage girls . . ." Hunter said as he dumped another load of honey down the front of LaFeet's mu-mu. He and the other three airmen then walked a few yards away and sat down to wait, playing their utility flashlights on the tortured 550-pound man.

"Look! Ants!" Hobbs called put, being the first to spot the dual stream of red insects now crawling up LaFeet's legs and torso to catch the lower drippings of honey.

"Talk, big boy!" Hunter yelled out, swatting a few ants away from himself.

"No! I can't!" LaFeet screeched, spitting out globs of honey and insect-laced saliva.

"You will . . ." Hunter countered.

Ten minutes passed and it appeared as if every representative of the insect kingdom was now either crawling on or orbiting around LaFeet's massive frame.

The man continued to yell and squeal like a pig. He repeatedly tried to break free of his restraints, but to no avail. Another ten minutes went by, Hunter and the others calmly drinking more coffee as armies of flying and crawling things flocked to the honey-drenched big man. .

Still, it wasn't until two large, nasty-looking swamp snakes showed up, the fat man finally broke down . . .

"Jesus Christ! All right! /'// talk!" he screamed. "Just get rid of those fucking snakes! I hate snakes!"

Hobbs accommodated his request, picking off both snakes with two well-placed shots from his Colt .45 automatic sidearm.

Hunter got to his feet, brushed himself off and walked over to the bound man.

The honey jar was still open and ready.

"How did that cruise liner pass through the Canal?" he asked LaFeet. "I hear the guys running things down there shoot first and ask questions later . . ."

"Not if you pay 'em, stupid!" LaFeet screamed.

"Pay?" Hunter said. "You mean you can deal with them?"

"Not just anyone, flyboy," LaFeet answered, his mouth still sputtering bugs and honey. "Arrangements are made ahead of time. They're businessmen. If they want to deal

with you, you pay them a toll. If they don't want to deal with you, or if you just bust in there half-assed, you're grease."

"How many of them are there?" Tyler asked, coming up to stand beside Hunter.

"How the fuck would I know?" LaFeet shot back. "I didn't take a head count for Christ's sake!"

Just because LaFeet decided to talk didn't mean the insects had given up getting dibs on the honey. If anything, more bugs were swarming around him. He looked so uncomfortable it gave Hunter a slight case of the willies.

"Who are these guys down in the Canal?" Hunter asked him. "They're not your blow buddies from The Circle . . ."

"No way," LaFeet answered. "These days The Circle couldn't run a swimming pool, never mind the fucking Panama Canal."

"So, who are they?" Hunter asked him again. "Locals? Mexicans? Mid-Aks?"

LaFeet even managed a sinister laugh at that one. "Yeah, right, Mid-Aks," he said. "I don't know who the hell they are ... But they sure ain't Mid-Aks . .

."

"I think he's bullshitting us," Crockett said.

"I do, too," Hunter said, adding with feigned nonchalance: "Lieutenant Hobbs, could you please go round up a snake?"

Hobbs, a country boy who knew his way around a swamp, immediately jumped to his feet and started looking in the underbrush.

"Jesus! No!" LaFeet hollered. "I hate fucking snakes!"

"Then you better start making some sense," Hunter told him.

"What's the toll?" Tyler asked the man. "Guns? A slice of your drug haul?

Girls?"

LaFeet made a great effort to shake his head. "No, no . . . These guys really don't give a damn about that kind of stuff. All they want is one thing: gold."

Hunter was not totally surprised to hear that. Another piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place.

The fighter pilot pressed in on LaFeet, standing over him, his boot on the man's ample neck. "I'll ask you for the last time: Who's in charge down there?"

"I don't fucking know!" the fat man yelled, his eyelids now partially clogged with a glob consisting of more bugs than honey. "The officers are foreigners . . ."

"Foreigners?" Hunter said. "You mean Russians?" "No, not Russians," LaFeet said, letting out a long, slow,

exhausted breath. He was caving in. "I'm not sure, but I think they might be Germans . . ."

Hunter was back in DC less than two days later.

Before he left New Orleans, he arranged to have LaFeet turned over to the military governor. Then he paid a visit to the hospital to see Captain Pegg.

Hunter was heartened to learn from the man's doctors that, although the old buck was still in rough shape, he was getting better.

Now, Hunter was in Jones' temporary Washington headquarters, which was located in the now mostly-deserted Pentagon building.

"Damn, this is all we need," Jones said disgustedly as he listened to Hunter's report on the situation in the Canal and who was running things down there.

Tyler, Crockett and Hobbs were also in attendance, as was the usual group of the United Americans' top echelon: former Thunderbird pilots, J. T. "Socket"

Toomey, the hipster of the bunch; Ben Wa, the Oriental fighter ace and Mike Fitzgerald, the fighter pilot/soldier turned millionaire-entrepreneur. Also there was Captain "Crunch" O'Malley and Captain Elvis O_ of the Ace Wrecking Company; Major Frost of the Free Canadian Air Force; Major Douglas Shane of the elite Football City Special Forces and Colonel Ken Stagg of the New York Hercules Heavy Air Lift Corporation - "New York Hercs" for short. Each man had played a crucial part in the liberation of the eastern half of the country from the Soviet-backed Circle forces, and especially during the climactic battle for Washington, DC.

Still as Hunter looked around the room at his friends and allies, he couldn't help but feel a certain presence was missing: Captain John

"Bull" Dozer, the valiant leader of the famous US Marine "7th Cavalry," was no longer with them. The man had died bravely during a major battle between the United Americans and The Circle at the Washington Monument. In his stead was Dozer's longtime second-in-command, Captain Lamont Johnson. Known as "Catfish"

to his friends, Johnson was a mean-looking six-foot-seven black man who once played defensive end for the San Diego Chargers of the old NFL.

"So what are our options?" Jones asked, throwing out the question for discussion. "I mean, the good news is that the Canal is in working order. The bad news is there's a bunch of hobnails running it."

"I don't think we have more than one or two choices," Ben Wa said. "We certainly can't do business with these Canal guys, not with the information we have on them now."

"Stomp 'em," J.T. kicked in, adjusting his ever-present sunglasses. "Lay an air strike on the bastards . . ."

"We've got to know a lot more about them before we do that," Jones said, slightly scolding the somewhat impulsive fighter pilot.

"Sure do," Frost said. "An air strike might knock out their operations for a while, but that doesn't mean they're going to turn tail and run and never come back."

"Also an air strike might damage the locks or the Canal itself," Stagg added.

"Then we'd be kicking our own ass."

"It seems to me that any airstrike would have to be followed up by some kind of ground operation," Catfish said. "I mean, not only do we have to grease these guys, we also got to get control of the Canal."

"And learn how to work it," Frost said.

"Okay," Jones said, tapping his pen on the meeting table. "We're already talking about a major operation here. Air strikes, a ground invasion, then occupying and operating the Canal ourselves. Those are all tall orders . . ."