Sarapul had been permanently banished from the village of the Shark People ever since one of the chief’s grandchildren had mysteriously disap-peared and was later found in the jungle with Sarapul, who was building a child-sized earthen oven (an oom) and gathering various fragrant fire woods. Oh, the men tolerated him at the nightly drinking circle, and he was allowed to share in the village’s take of shark meat, and the members of his clan saw to it that

he got part of the wonderful cargo passed out by the Sorcerer and the Sky Priestess, but he was forbidden to enter the village when women and chil-dren were present. He lived alone in his little hut on the far side of the island and was regarded by the Shark People as little more than a monster to frighten children into behaving: “You stay inside the reef or old Sarapul will catch you and eat you.” Actually, scaring children was the only real joy Sarapul had left in life.

As he emerged from the jungle, the old cannibal saw the torches where the Shark People waited in a semicircle around a raised platform. He stopped in a grove of betel nut palms, sat on the ground, and watched. He heard a click from the PA speakers mounted on the gate across the runway and the Shark People stopped drumming. Two of the Japanese guards ap-peared out of the compound and Sarapul felt the hair rise on his neck as they rolled back the gate and fifty years of residual hatred rose in his throat like acid. The Japanese had killed his wife and children, and if there was any single reason to return to the old ways of the warrior, it was to take revenge on the guards.

Music blared out of the PA speakers: Glenn Miller’s “String of Pearls.” The Shark People turned toward the gate and dropped to their knees. Pillars of red smoke rose from either side of the gate and wafted across the runway like sulfurous serpents. The distant whine of airplane propellers replaced the big band sound from the PA and grew into a roar that ended with a flash and explosion that sent a mushroom cloud of smoke a hundred feet into the night sky.

And half-naked, the Sky Priestess walked out of the smoke into the moonlight.

Chief Malink turned to his friend Favo and said, “Excellent boom.”

“Very excellent boom,” Favo said.

“There it is,” the copilot said.

The B-26 was sputtering on her last few drops of fuel. Vincent nosed her over and started his descent. “There’s a strip cut right across the center of the island. Let’s hope we didn’t bomb the shit out of it when the Japs had it.”

His last few words seemed unusually loud as the engine cut out.

“No go-around, boys. We’re going down. Rig for a rough one and be ready for extreme dampness if we come in short.”

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.”