«I didn’t do it, Major. It was Four West!… Own up, you son of a bitch!»
«Well, Four West?» said Vulcan. «Did you steal my strawberries?»
Silence.
«Come in, Four West!» continued the major. «Is your lack of response an admission of guilt? Answer me, you prick. Did you steal my strawberries?»
Silence.
«Four West, Four West! Reply!»
Silence.
«His radio’s out,» concluded Vulcan. «Goddamned fairy Pentagon purchasing agents! These fucking ‘talkies’ cost the high brass fourteen thousand apiece when you can buy the same goddamned things at Radio Shack for twenty-seven bucks!… Four West, can you read me?» Silence. «Okay, Three North, how close are you?»
Silence.
«Three North, come in!» A long silence. «Goddamn it, Three North, respond!» Nothing. «Son of a bitch, did any of you clowns check your batteries?» Again there was nothing. «Two East! Give me your report now.»
Silence.
«What the fuck is going on?» fairly shouted Major Vulcan, momentarily forgetting the need for quiet communication. «Will one of you bastards answer me?»
Silence, broken several seconds later by a friendly voice. «Nice to meet chu,» said Desi the First, walking out of the shadows and into the moonlight above the black-hooded intruder. «You are a prisoner of war, amigo sir, and you will be treated fairly.»
«What?» The major slapped his hand down for his weapon, but his movement was far too slow. The heel of D-One’s boot crashed into Vulcan’s forehead, right in the center of the tattooed volcano.
«I didn’t wan’ to do dat, Mr. Prisoner, but chu could’a hurt me an’ dat h’ain’t nice.»
Jennifer Redwing awoke with a start—something had happened; she could feel it, hear it! Of course, she could hear it, she considered. There were muted moans and throated cries from somewhere outside. Wounded dogs? Trapped animals? She lurched out of bed and ran to the window, totally disbelieving what she saw.
Sam Devereaux heard distant noises and pulled the second pillow over his damaged head. For roughly the five hundredth time he swore he would never have a drink after leaving O’Toole’s Bar and Grill. However, the noises continued unabated, and after opening his less-than-white-clear eyes, he understood that they had nothing to do with his physical condition. Unsteadily, he got out of bed and went to the window. Holy shit!
Aaron Pinkus was dreaming of Shirley, albeit an angry Shirley, whose head was coiled in eleven thousand pink curlers, all shrieking at him, each curler possessing its own mouth, incessantly opening and closing with the rapidity of machine gun fire. Was he back on Omaha Beach?… No, he was in his favorite bedroom at the old ski lodge. What was the racket? Slowly he rose from the comfortable bed and limped, as old legs do, to the window. God of Abraham, what have You done?
Eleanor Devereaux’s sleep was maddeningly interrupted by the ruckus, and she instinctively reached for her bedside telephone to instruct Cora to have the neighbors arrested, or whatever one did for such outrageous behavior in Weston, Massachusetts. Unfortunately, there was no telephone. In high dudgeon she swung her feet from under the sheet, planted them on the floor, rose to her full height, and walked to the window. Good heavens, how absolutely unique!
MacKenzie Hawkins flashed open his eyes, still mangling the cigar he had had in his mouth since the early hours of the morning. What the hell was it? Nam? Korea? Pigs squealing on some peasant’s farm protected by Search and Destroy? Jesus! Where were his aides-de-camp? Why hadn’t they alerted him to the enemy’s assault?… No, he realized, as he felt the soft innards of the pillow surrounding his head—there were no pillows in combat bivouacs! So where was he?… Hannibal’s legions, he was in Commander Pinkus’s ski lodge! He sprang out of the comfortable civilian bed, hating himself for its lack of military rigidity, and ran in his skivvies to the window. Genghis Khan forgive me, but even you wouldn’t think of that, Big Fella!
Like pedestrians intent on witnessing the horrible results of a major accident, the temporary residents of the former ski lodge descended from various staircases into the Alpine lobby. They were greeted by Desis One and Two, who flanked a long coffee table on which there were four MAC-10 machine pistols, twenty magazine clips, sixteen grenades, four miniaturized radios, two flamethrowers, four infrared binoculars, and a dismantled egg-shaped bomb that could blow up at least a quarter of the state of New Hampshire—the lesser southeastern part.
«We din’ want to wake chu all up,» said Desi the First, «but the heneral said we should protect the rights of prisoners of war… We tried to do dat, but I t’ink they were very bad characters. Dese guns ’n t’ings will explain what I mean… Now, great Heneral, can Sergeant Desi-Two and me get some sleep?»
«Goddamn, boys, you’re lieutenants! But what the hell is out there?»
«Please, señores y señoras, see for yourselves,» said Desi the Second, opening the front door. «We did not t’ink it was too bad for de Genevil intentions, when we saw all dose guns ’n’ everyt’ing.»
Outside, on the repaired ski lift, halfway up the intermediate slope and at least fifteen feet in the air, were four jiggling bodies hanging upside down, their mouths taped, their feet wrapped in ropes.
«We bring dem back every hour and give dem water,» said Desi the First, smiling. «Dat way we treat our prisoners of war real good.»
18
«What?» shrieked the Secretary of State, his bellow causing his security pool stenographer to lurch out of her chair, propelling her shorthand pad directly into the head of her employer, who absently caught it in his left hand, which was in the process of pounding his skull to stop his maniacally pivoting left eye. «They did what?… How? I won’t have it!» The Secretary began slamming the shorthand pad alternately against his temple and the edge of the desk until its pages flew hither and yon off their spiral.
«Please!» pleaded the stenographer, racing around and picking up the flying papers. «These are top-secret notes, sir!»
«Well, there’s no secret about your tops, is there?» cried the wide-eyed, swinging-eyed leader of State crazily. «We live in a walnut world, miss! You’ve got coconuts, but we’re all walnuts!»
Suddenly, the stenographer, standing rigid and staring down at her employer, said calmly but with great strength, «Stop it, Warren. Calm down.»
«Warren? Who’s Warren? I’m Mr. Secretary—always Mr. Secretary!»
«You are Warren Pease, and please cover the telephone, or I’ll tell my sister and she’ll tell Arnold Subagaloo that you’ve gone squirrelly.»
«Oh, God—Arnold!» Warren Pease, Secretary of State, instantly covered the mouthpiece. «I forgot, Teresa, honestly, I just forgot for a moment!»
«I’m Regina Trueheart, my younger sister’s Teresa, Subagaloo’s assistant.»