Christopher Moore - Island of the Sequined Love Nun

The intercom beeped and she let it. If it hadn’t run on batteries, she would have unplugged it. Instead, she threw it through the french doors, where it beeped the beach for two more minutes, then stopped. The next time she saw it Sebastian was standing in the door holding it like a prosecutor exhibiting a murder weapon to the jury.

“I suppose you think this is funny.”

“Not particularly. Now if it had hit you in the head, that would be funny.”

“We have an order, Beth. A Kidney.”

“Oh, good. I’m in great shape to assist a surgery. Let’s do both kidneys. Give the buyer a bonus. What do you say?” She sloshed her tumbler of vodka.

Sebastian picked up the empty Absolut bottle from the end table. “This isn’t going to work, Beth. You can’t appear as the Sky Priestess like that.” He seemed more afraid than angry.

“You are absolutely correct, ’Bastian. The goddess has taken the night off.”

Sebastian paced back and forth in front of her, rubbing his chin. “We could stall. We could put you on some oxygen and amphetamines and you could be ready in an hour.”

She laughed. “And ruin this buzz? I don’t think so. Tell them to find another source for this one.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think I can do that. Nomura’s been on the phone with them. He told them we could deliver in six hours.”

She hissed. “Nomura’s a fucking grunt. He does what we say. This is our operation.”

“I’m not so sure, Beth. I really don’t want to tell him no. Please take a shower and make some coffee. I’ll be back in a minute with an oxygen cylinder.”

“No, ’Bastian,” she whined. “I don’t want to spend six hours in a plane with that asshole.”

“You won’t have to, Beth. They’ve requested that we send him alone this time.”

She sat up. “Alone? Who’s going to watch him?” Suddenly she felt very sober.

“No one needs to watch him, Beth. He works for them, remember? You were right. We shouldn’t have gotten a pilot from them.”

An hour and forty minutes after he dropped through the hatch, Tuck started the procedure to power up the 747. He’d never actually flown anything this big—or anything nearly this big—but he had done twenty hours in a simulator in Dallas and only crashed twice. All planes fly the same, he told himself and he started the first engine. Once it had spooled up, he had the power to start the other three. He put on the headset and looked out the side window to make sure he had room to turn the plane and taxi it to the runway. As soon as it started moving, the tower began to chatter, trying first to get him to identify himself, then to stop. Roberto, who was hanging from the straps on the flight officer’s seat beside Tuck, barked twice and let loose a high-pitched squeal.

“You’re cookin’ with gas, buddy,” came over the radio. Jake was close enough to see the big jet.

“Where are you, Jake?”

“Out of the way, buddy, but thanks for using my name on the radio. Just thought you ought to know that you’re going to need fifty-one hundred feet of runway to get that thing off the ground at your destination—and that’s with full flaps, so save your fuel now. You’d better tell them what you’re doing unless you’ve got collision insurance on that thing.”

Tuck keyed the mike button on the steering yoke. “Honolulu Tower, this is United Flight One requesting immediate clearance for emergency takeoff on Runway Two.”

“There’s no such thing as an emergency takeoff,” the controller said. Tuck could tell he was close to losing it.

“Well, Tower, I’m taking off on Two, and if you’ve got anything headed that way, I’d say you’ve got an emergency on your hands, wouldn’t you?”

The tower guy was almost screaming now. “Negative on the clearance! Clearance denied, United jet. Return to the terminal. We have no flight plan for a United Flight One.”

“Tower, United Flight One requesting you chill and be a professional about this. Clear to ten thousand. I am starting my takeoff.”

“Negative, negative. Identify yourself…”

“This is Captain Roberto T. Fruitbat signing off, Honolulu Tower.” Tuck clicked off the radio, pushed the throttles up, and watched the jet exhaust pressure gauges. When they got to 80 percent of maximum thrust, he re-leased the ground brakes and one hundred and seventy thousand pounds of aircraft rolled down the runway and swept into the sky.

At ten thousand feet he began his turn toward Alualu.

The fighters joined him a hundred miles north of Guam. Evidently, they had found out that United did not employ a Captain Fruitbat. One of the F-18 fighters came in close and Tuck waved to him. The pilot signaled for Tuck to put on his headset. Why not?

Tuck assumed they would be broadcasting across a number of frequencies. “Yo, good morning, gents,” Tuck said.

“United 747, change your course and land at Guam Airport or we will force you down.”

Tuck looked out the window at the sidewinder air to air missiles hanging menacingly under the wings of the fighter. “And how, exactly, do you propose to do that, gentlemen?”

“Repeat, change your course and land in Guam immediately or we will force you down.”

“That would be fine,” Tuck said. “Go ahead, force me and my hundred and fifteen passengers down.” Tuck let off the mike button and turned to Roberto. “Okay, you go in the back and pretend to be a hundred and fifteen people.”

As Tuck had calculated, the fighters backed off while they waited for instructions. They were not about to shoot down an American passenger jet without very specific orders, whether it was stolen or not. He believed his biggest advantage was that the FAA and United would insist that no one could steal a 747. That sort of thing just didn’t happen. Nice of them to give him an escort, though. He punched some buttons and the nav computer told him he was only half an hour from Alualu. He started his descent.

He checked the position of the fighters and hit the mike button. “This is the UFO calling the F-18s.”

“Go ahead, United.”

“Are you guys both listening?”

“Go ahead.”

Tuck affected a singsong teasing tone: “Neener, neener, neener, you can’t get me.” Then he locked the microphone in the on position and began singing an off-key version of “Fly Me to the Moon.”

Malink, I hope you built those ladders, he thought.

Malink had been awakened early by the Sorcerer’s jet taking off and he was on his way to the beach for his morning bowel movement when Vincent appeared to him.

“Morning, squirt,” the flyer said.

Malink stopped on the path and fought to catch his breath. “Vincent. I build the ladders.”

“You did good, kid. Now get everyone together—and I mean everyone—and tell them to go to the airstrip. Take the ladders. I’m sending a plane for you.”

Malink shook his head. “You send cargo?”

Vincent laughed. “No, kid, I’m taking the Shark People to the cargo. You’ll need the ladders to get on the plane. Don’t be afraid. Just get everyone.”

“The Sky Priestess has three who have been chosen. One has just come back to the village.”

Vincent looked at his feet. “I’m sorry, kid. You’ll have to leave them. Go now. You don’t have very long. I’ll see you again.” And he disappeared.

Beth and Sebastian Curtis were cleaning the operating room and sterilizing

instruments when they first heard the jet.

“That sounds low,” Sebastian said casually.

Then the fighters, running ahead of the 747, passed over the island.

“What in the hell was that?” Beth said. She dropped a pan of instruments and headed for the door.