Vincent could see patches of dirt on the airstrip, as well as fingers of vines and undergrowth from the jungle trying to reclaim the clearing.
“You going in gear up?” the copilot asked, thinking that they might have a better chance of survival going over a bomb crater if they skidded in on the plane’s belly.
“Gear down,” Bennidetti said, making it a command. “We might be able to land her gear up, but she’d never take off again.”
“Gear down and locked,” the copilot said.
They glided in about ten feet over the reef. A dozen Shark men who were standing on the reef dove underwater as the airplane passed over them as silent and ominous as a manta ray. Bennidetti flared the B-26 to drop the rear gear first and they bounced over a patch of ferns and began the rocket slide down the coral gravel airstrip. Without the engines to reverse thrust, Vincent had only the wheel brakes to stop the bomber. He applied them gingerly at first, then, realizing that the runway was obscured by vines that might be covering a bomb crater, laid into them, causing the wheels to plow furrows into the gravel and filling the still air with a thick white cloud of dust.
“We still burning?” Vincent asked the copilot over the rumble.
The copilot looked out the window. “Can’t see anything but a little black smoke.”
The bomber rolled to a stop and a cheer went up from the crew.
“Everybody out. Now,” Vincent ordered. “We still might have fire.
They stumbled over each other to get out of the plane into the dust cloud. Bennidetti led them away at a run. They were a hundred yards from the plane before anyone looked back.
“She looks okay, Captain. No fire.”
That set off a round of cheering and backslapping and when they turned around again they saw group of native children approaching them from the jungle led by a proud ten-year-old boy carrying a spear.
“Let me handle this,” Vincent told the crew as he dug into his flight suit pocket for a Hershey bar.
“Hey, squirts, how you doing?”
The boy with the spear stood his ground, keeping his eye trained on the downed bomber while the other children lost their nerve and backed away like scolded puppies.
“We’re Americans,” Vincent said. “Friendly. We are bringing you many good things.” He held the chocolate bar out to the spear boy, who didn’t move or take his eyes off of the airplane.
Vincent tried again. “Here, kid. This stuff tastes good. Chocolate.” He smacked his lips and mimed eating the candy bar. “You savvy American, kid?”
“No,” the boy said. “I no speak American. I speak English.”
Vincent laughed. “Well, I’m from New York, kid. We don’t speak much English there. Go tell your chief that Captain Vincent is here with presents for him from a faraway and most magical place.”
“Who she?” the kid asked, pointing to the image of the Sky Priestess. “She your queen?”
“She works for me, kid. That’s the Sky Priestess. She’s bringing presents for your chief.”
“You are chief?”
Vincent knew he had to be careful here. He’d heard of island chiefs refusing to deal with anyone but Roosevelt because he was the only American equal to their status.
“I’m higher than chief,” Vincent said. “I’m Captain Vinnie Fuckin’ Bennidetti, Bad-ass of Brooklyn, High Emperor of the Allied Forces, Pilot of the Magic Sky Priestess, Swinging Dick of the Free Fuckin’ World, and Protector of the Innocent. Now take me to your chief, squirt, before I have the Sky Priestess burn you to fucking ashes.”
“Christ, Cap’n!” the bombardier said.
Vincent shot him a grin over his shoulder.
The kid bowed his head. “Christ, Cap’n. I am Malink, chief of the Shark People.”
The Sky Priestess came out of the smoke and took her place in the middle of the semicircle of Shark People. Women kept their eyes to the ground even as they pushed their children forward, hoping that they would be the next to be chosen. The Sky Priestess threw the tails of her scarf over her shoulder and the music from the PA system stopped abruptly. The Shark People fell to their knees and waited for her words, the words of Vincent. It had been months since anyone had been chosen.
Malink rose and approached the Sky Priestess with a coconut shell cup of the special tuba they had made for her. He was as
stunned by her now as when he had first seen her painted on the side of
Vincent’s plane.
She drained the cup and handed it back to the chief, who bowed over it.
“Still tastes like shit,” she said.
“Tastes like shit!” the Shark People chanted.
Beth Curtis turned her head to suppress a smile and a belch. When she turned back to Malink, her eyes were fury.
“Who speaks for Vincent?”
“The Priestess of the Sky,” Malink answered.
“Who brings the words and cargo from Vincent?”
“The Priestess of the Sky,” Malink repeated.
“And who takes the chosen to Vincent?”
“The Priestess of the Sky,” Malink said again, backing away a step. He’d never seen her so angry.
“And who else, Malink?”
“No one else.”
“Damn straight no one else!” She spat so violently she nearly disengaged the bow from her hair. “You told the Sorcerer that Vincent came to you in a dream. This is not true.”
The Shark People gasped. Despite what the Sky Priestess and the Sorcerer thought, Malink had told none of his people about the dream. But Malink was confused. He had dreamed of Vincent. “Vincent said that the pilot is coming. That he is still alive.”
“Vincent speaks only through me.”
“But—”
“No coffee or sugar for a month,” the Sky Priestess said. She pulled her scarf from her shoulders and the music began again. The Shark People watched as she walked away. There was an explosion across the runway and the Sky Priestess disappeared into the smoke.
24
Valhalla: From the Runyonese
Vincent Bennidetti was sitting at an oversized table dealing five-card draw to five other guys and relating the story of the crash landing of the Sky Priestess in hopes that the tale would distract his opponents from his creative shuffling.
“So the squirt says to me, he says, ‘I’m Malink, chief of the Shark People,’ and he puffs up his little chest like I’m supposed to be impressed and drop down and kiss his ring, except he ain’t wearing any ring; in fact, he ain’t wearing nothing but a loincloth and a little hat made of palm leaves, so I says, ‘Honored and charmed I’m sure, Chief.’ And I gives him a grade A Hershey bar as a peace offering to assure that the kid doesn’t get any ideas about ventilating me with his spear. Although I have a roscoe handy in my flight suit, in Manhattan it is considered very bad luck indeed to shoot a kid unless he deserves it, so I am trying to take the diplomatic route.
“So the squirt chief takes the sweet and slaps a lip over a morsel and his little mug splits in a grin so big that I’m figuring I know now how his tribe gets named Shark People. And before I know it the kid yells something to his pals and they vamoose to the jungle while I watch the squirt’s spear and he keeps a peeper peeled at the Sky Priestess like any minute she’s gonna jump off the plane and do the bump and grind across the airstrip.
“Now we are sure that Sky Priestess is not burning or blowing up, Sparky goes back in and sings Mayday on the radio until I am thinking that even Marconi is sorry he ever invented the machine (another distinguished Italian genius, if I may point out, and it would be impolite for anyone, at this juncture, to mention Mussolini, as I will have to delay the game whilst I pop him in the beezer,
thank you), and finally HQ comes back on and requests more than somewhat sternly that we cease broadcasting our position, as they will send someone as soon as they can unless the Japs find us first, in which case it has been an honor serving with us.
“Call and raise a buck.