engines roared to life simultaneously. This even surprised Soho; despite his drugged-out state, he knew that by normal procedure, the Sukki’s jets were started very slowly and always one at a time.
But this lucid thought passed quickly. He took another titanic suck on the hash pipe and washed it down with a long swig of his opium-and-alcohol mixture. He knew there was some kind of ceremony over which he was now supposed to preside, but the details of it were lost long ago. The jet was running; it was obviously meant to take off. But to where? And with who?
He didn’t have the slightest idea.
But the voices inside his left ear began speaking again, and in one ragged heartbeat, it all seemed suddenly very clear to him.
He smiled and beckoned the young girl to his side. She was dressed in a flowing white gown, her hair braided with flower stems and sprinkled with pine-rose petals. She was trembling—and with good reason. Soho reached out and caressed the young girl’s hair. Then he pushed her up against the side of the jet, and to the stunned silence of all, engaged in a quick, exhausting round of intercourse with her.
When he was finished, he drained his coconut cup, and then immediately threw up on himself. The young girl’s parents were crying openly now—they were certain their daughter’s life was about to come to a grisly end.
But they were wrong.
With the Sukki’s engines still screaming, Soho boosted the young girl up into the jet’s cockpit, and then threw two levers. One unlocked the jet’s brakes, the other lowered its canopy. In one swift motion, the jet began rolling down the runway, the startled young girl its only passenger. To the surprise of all, it lifted off and climbed almost straight up, as if it was under some kind of otherworldly power.
Leveling off at about 5000 feet, the Sukki circled the airfield once, came directly over the crowd, and then, with a wag of the wings, disappeared to the west.
As the noise of the jet engines finally faded away, another stunned silence descended on the crowd. All eyes turned back to Soho, who was standing alone on the empty runway, his dressing gown damp with vomit, his undershorts dangling around his knees.
“ Why me? ” he cried out, self-disgusted and mortified. “ Why was it left up to me? ”
With that, he produced a small pistol from his pocket, put it against his temple and pulled the trigger. There was a sharp crack and Soho immediately collapsed, half his forehead blown away.
No one moved to help him; no one dared.
All that could be heard was the sound of the wind, the rustling in the trees, and the chorus of children, still chanting in the distance.
Chapter Seven
Adora Atoll
Marshall Islands
T HERE WAS A TIME when they called the place “Clark Kent.”
It was a small island, barely three square miles in total size, and that included the reefs on its northern and eastern tips. It was 212 nautical miles due west of Bikini, and like that famous island, it was noted for its heavily shark-infested waters, its near-lack of vegetation beyond isolated clumps of palm trees, and its enormous population of goony birds.
And one more thing: its one-time prominence as a top secret American air base.
They called it “Clark Kent” because sometimes aircraft flight-listed to land at other Pacific or Far East bases would take on a secret identity and be diverted to the small, single airstrip island. This was especially true if the aircraft were slated for black op missions or carrying cargo that, for whatever reason, had to remain secret. The base was originally built to conduct secret atomic bomb drop tests in the early 1950s. Later on, in the mid-1960s, it was where the United States kept a substantial number of nuclear weapons, earmarked for use on North Vietnam, should the word ever come down to do so. In the later years, it served as a stopover point for SR-71 Blackbird recon jets that regularly cruised the skies above China, Vietnam, North
But this lucid thought passed quickly. He took another titanic suck on the hash pipe and washed it down with a long swig of his opium-and-alcohol mixture. He knew there was some kind of ceremony over which he was now supposed to preside, but the details of it were lost long ago. The jet was running; it was obviously meant to take off. But to where? And with who?
He didn’t have the slightest idea.
But the voices inside his left ear began speaking again, and in one ragged heartbeat, it all seemed suddenly very clear to him.
He smiled and beckoned the young girl to his side. She was dressed in a flowing white gown, her hair braided with flower stems and sprinkled with pine-rose petals. She was trembling—and with good reason. Soho reached out and caressed the young girl’s hair. Then he pushed her up against the side of the jet, and to the stunned silence of all, engaged in a quick, exhausting round of intercourse with her.
When he was finished, he drained his coconut cup, and then immediately threw up on himself. The young girl’s parents were crying openly now—they were certain their daughter’s life was about to come to a grisly end.
But they were wrong.
With the Sukki’s engines still screaming, Soho boosted the young girl up into the jet’s cockpit, and then threw two levers. One unlocked the jet’s brakes, the other lowered its canopy. In one swift motion, the jet began rolling down the runway, the startled young girl its only passenger. To the surprise of all, it lifted off and climbed almost straight up, as if it was under some kind of otherworldly power.
Leveling off at about 5000 feet, the Sukki circled the airfield once, came directly over the crowd, and then, with a wag of the wings, disappeared to the west.
As the noise of the jet engines finally faded away, another stunned silence descended on the crowd. All eyes turned back to Soho, who was standing alone on the empty runway, his dressing gown damp with vomit, his undershorts dangling around his knees.
“ Why me? ” he cried out, self-disgusted and mortified. “ Why was it left up to me? ”
With that, he produced a small pistol from his pocket, put it against his temple and pulled the trigger. There was a sharp crack and Soho immediately collapsed, half his forehead blown away.
No one moved to help him; no one dared.
All that could be heard was the sound of the wind, the rustling in the trees, and the chorus of children, still chanting in the distance.
Chapter Seven
Adora Atoll
Marshall Islands
T HERE WAS A TIME when they called the place “Clark Kent.”
It was a small island, barely three square miles in total size, and that included the reefs on its northern and eastern tips. It was 212 nautical miles due west of Bikini, and like that famous island, it was noted for its heavily shark-infested waters, its near-lack of vegetation beyond isolated clumps of palm trees, and its enormous population of goony birds.
And one more thing: its one-time prominence as a top secret American air base.
They called it “Clark Kent” because sometimes aircraft flight-listed to land at other Pacific or Far East bases would take on a secret identity and be diverted to the small, single airstrip island. This was especially true if the aircraft were slated for black op missions or carrying cargo that, for whatever reason, had to remain secret. The base was originally built to conduct secret atomic bomb drop tests in the early 1950s. Later on, in the mid-1960s, it was where the United States kept a substantial number of nuclear weapons, earmarked for use on North Vietnam, should the word ever come down to do so. In the later years, it served as a stopover point for SR-71 Blackbird recon jets that regularly cruised the skies above China, Vietnam, North
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