"No sign of any junk," he reported.
"Probably on the other side," Shane said. "I see unfriendlies, though. Natives."
"Let me see," Shane said, taking the glasses. He spied a number of natives at the shore. They wore few clothes. Their hair was black and their skin the color of cashews. They were busy dragging a sea turtle from the water.
"The girl looked like that!" Shane said. "The skin color is exactly right."
"Okay, we take them. Gus, line her up on that reef and then gun her. Everyone else, grab a piece and get ready to start shooting."
Shane Billiken found an M-16 pushed into his hands.
"I don't know how to shoot one of these," he protested. "You don't have to. That sucker spits out rounds faster than you can piss. Just wave it like a hose. It'll do the job."
The boat turned and dug in its stern. The bow lifted and salt spray washed Shane Billiken's face as the reef drew near. He hung on, trying to keep the rifle in his shuddering arm.
"Okay, burn them down!" Dirk Edwards hollered.
On the beach, the sound of the incoming boat made the natives freeze. Their black eyes-they reminded Shane Billiken of those of hapless seals before they were clubbed to death-stared out at them.
Dirk Edwards fired first. His weapon began popping. The others joined in. Coral shards flew off the reef. A native went down. Another, running madly, fell after a bullet stream sawed an arm off.
Shane Billiken forgot there was a weapon in his hands. He stared out over the bow. He had never seen people die before. It was mesmerizing. The gun sounds were puny. Just a sporadic popping. Firecracker sounds. The people on the reef didn't scream or yell. They ran and then they stumbled. There wasn't even that much visible blood. It was like watching television.
When it was over, the engines were throttled down and they drifted in toward shore.
Two men jumped onto the reef and took hold of thrown lines. The schooner was made secure, the anchor dropped. Most of the natives were dead. Shane Billiken saw as he clambered onto the reef. One moaned, and Dirk Edwards beckoned him to the body.
"Finish him off," Edwards said.
"I don't know if I can," Shane muttered.
"It's easy."
"Isn't this your job? I hired you, after all."
"Look, we gotta head inland before the sounds get everyone on this rock organized. We're gonna need every man. So you're either part of the problem, sucker, or you're part of the solution."
And to a man, the mercenaries pointed their weapons at Shane Billiken.
Reluctantly Shane pointed his rifle at the native's twitching head, closed his eyes, and squeezed the trigger. The weapon gave a short snarl.
"Is it over?" he asked limply.
"Yeah," Dirk Edwards said politely. "You can look if you want."
Shane did. At the sight of the blood-streaked brains oozing out of the man's shattered face, he broke and ran for the waters. He got down on his stomach until he had emptied it into the beautiful blue water.
The mercenary team laughed uproariously.
"You'll get used to it. Now, come on. Let's find that village. "
For three hours they penetrated the lush rain forest. They climbed a thickly overgrown hill. The terrain was rough. Shane's Adidas running shoes began to fall apart.
Finally they reached the crest of the hill. Below lay a mist-filled valley. Beyond the mists a tall shape loomed blue and indistinct.
"Let's make camp here," Dirk said. "The fog ought to burn off by noon. Maybe we can spot the village. Save us some humping."
They settled down to wait. As the morning progressed, the mists began to thin. A hill came into view. And another. And between them a tall landmark that was definitely not a hill.
"Shit!" said Dirk Edwards. "What the fuck is that?"
"It's the temple," Shane shouted. He was ignored.
"Looks like a building," said Gus.
"I know it's a fucking building. What I want to know is, what kind of building. Who's got the binoculars?" Someone passed them to him. Dirk stood up and trained the lenses on the rapidly clearing object.
"I thought we were supposed to be looking for a primitive island," he said bitingly. "This thing is huge."
"We are," Shane Billiken said uncertainly. "I mean, it was supposed to be. Maybe it's some kind of mirage."
"Yeah? Well, this mirage says the 'Oahu Hilton' on it."
"What does that mean?" Shane wanted to know.
"It means, you flaky fuck, that we're in Hawaii and if we don't get out of here before those bodies are found, our asses are grass."
At that, everybody started running down the mountain at full tilt. In between puffing breaths, there was a discussion about whether to shoot Shane Billiken for getting them into this mess.
Shane Billiken was immensely relieved when the vote was decided, five to two in favor of not shooting him because one more shooting would only bring more trouble.
"Outstanding," said Dirk Edwards. "We'll wait till we're at sea."
Chapter 32
Dolla-Dree, Low Moo of Moo, ran to her father's palace. Her bare feet skipped over the stones in her path. She felt light. Tonight she would enjoy the privilege that had not been accorded a Low Moo in hundreds of moons. The gift of a white man.
The oral tales of Moo were full of stories of the white men who once came to this remnant of Old Moo. None had come for so long that many believed the whites of the world had died out.
Dolla-Dree learned differently when she landed on the land of white men. But she had been on a mission. She could take no white man while she was a prisoner of the cruel magician who wore smoked glass over his eyes, yet was not blind.
Now she was home. Now she would ask her father. Remo would be hers. Forever.
"Father! Father!" cried Dolla-Dree as she approached the palace.
The High Moo, Tu-Min-Ka, emerged from the palace, his face questioning.