marketable to boot.
May 5, 1979, Saturday Declare War On Monkey Dred
On the fifth day, San Dominican prime minister Joseph Walthey held an emotional press conference to announce that the terrible machete murders could now definitely be attributed to Colonel Dred and his very small group of dissidents.
Standing before news microphones with his wife, with the U.S. ambassador and his wife, Joseph Walthey revealed that at seven o'clock that morning a battalion of San Dominican and U.S. troops had entered the jungles of West Hills. A confrontation with Colonel Dred was expected before the end of the day.
In the meantime both Robert F. Kennedy Airport in Coastown and Kiley Airport in Port Gerry had been transformed into angry beehives of abnormal activity. A spokesmanfor the airlines said that even at the accelerated flight departure rate, it would take at least anotherfour days to accommodate all of the people who wanted to leave San Dominica, the Virgin Islands, Jamaica, and Haiti.
Small curiosity. While thousands were departing from the islands, a few hundred rabid ambulance chasers arrived to witness the machete terrors.
During the firstfour days, more than 250 people came to San Dominica to witness the bizarre scene. Simply to be there. to watch death in action. Maybe even to get a photograph or a sound track.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
'I have no moral reactions anymore,' Damian said. 'Sometimes, though, I feel a kind of icy, grand compassion.' The
Rose Diary
May 5, 1979; West Hills, San Dominica
Saturday Morning. The Fifth Day of the Season.
Peter was beginning to get his second wonn'seye view of those sneaky, dirty little wars that had come of age-or at least back into vogue-during the 1960s.
For a terrifying few minutes he had a pretty clear vision of man's inhumanity to man. Of the bizarre contrivances some men will use to gain an advantage. The horror of being alone and unknowing in the middle of terrorism and guerrilla warfare. Of being an absolute nobody in the greater scheme of things. A zero on the world's Richter scale. A gook.
A thick, dark liquid was dripping dead center on his chest. Motor oil, he realized after a few fuzzyeyed seconds.
A train was coming!
A train was getting close to his hiding place in the West Hills' jungle. Colonel Dred's turf.
A train? Peter considered. Hiding place? He was going buggy. He rolled over sideways and peeked through reeds of tall grass; tried to clear his sore throat of pollen and dew. Two lizards walked by at his eye level, one following the other. they seemed to be well acquainted. to be good friends, maybe lovers.... The two lizards stopped and played in the grass like small dinosaurs. Quite gregarious little monsters. Red bubbles throbbed under their greenand-blue chins.
Macdonald slowly rolled out, away from the BMW. He sat in the grass and picked grass and stones out of his arm and watched the sun as it peeked through trees dripping heavy moss. The sky was flaming over the leaf cover. Hot, hot, today.
Hiding out, he considered once again, trying the feeling out like a new sports coat. On the run.
After another minute massaging hopeless thoughts, Peter got up and started to make a fire. Gathered leaves and a few sticks, twigs, grass reeds, anything dry. He went over to the motorcycle and pulled out the German's dandy cross-country kit.... In a few minutes he'd make instant Nescafd coffee. Powdered eggs. Some kind of dried, salty beef.
Crouched over the small fire, the young man gulped down the equivalent of four eggs, the worst coffee he could imagine, mystery meat, and a chocolate bar that came all the way from West Germany chustfor such an occashun. While he finished the quick meal, Peter thought about Jane. He considered going into Coastown to get her. Decided against it. She was better off as far away from him as possible. Probably as far away as possible from the San Dominican police, too. For the moment Jane was fine where she was. Which was more than he could say for himself.
After he finished breakfast, he went back to the BMW's shiny black leather saddlebags. He took out a West Point T-shirt and unwrapped the Colt.44.
It seemed strange, unreal, as he held the old gun. He turned the chamber and saw all eight shells. He examined the gun further, remembered the army shooting ranges at West Point that were hidden in massive gray- stone buildings on a hill above the football field, Michie Stadium. He remembered a seedy shooting range inside a steaming, tin-roofed building in the Cholon section of Saigon.
Peter slowly raised the long-barreled Colt. Aimed at a mottled banana tree leaf. Aimed at a tiny chattering yellow bird. Aimed at a small green coconut. Finally at a small black snake slithering up a gom- mier tree.
The tree was a good thirty-five paces away. Thirty-five yards. What pistol enthusiasts regard as trick or shoWhoat shooting.
Looking like an old-fashioned duelist, aiming ever so carefully, Peter squeezed the trigger gently.
The distant head of the black snake exploded as if it were rotten inside. The rest of the snake dropped from the gommier like a loose vine.
In a way, the neat shot pleased and surprised him. He really hadn't expected the showpiece revolver to be so well balanced. As for the shooter-well, he knew all about the other shooter.
'Hoo boy!' Peter said out loud to the deangerous West Hills. 'Now what, hotshot?'
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
