Mac finally showed up late that night, in swim trunks, sandals, and carrying a bag full of conch shells. I relieved him on the spot and sent him packing. He'd be off the island on the next flight out.
The next two weeks were furiously busy. A six-pack got us into the good graces of the Customs crew; they, in turn, guided us to an old British expatriate who ran a tiny, island-hopping airline out of the area.
A polite visit, followed by honest-to-God afternoon tea the next day, and we'd solved the storage problems. But transportation would require the blessings of the airline's financial officer, an aging, steely-eyed Prussian whom I met a day later. Fortunately, Friedrich turned out to be more than a little homesick. When I realized this and switched to German for the rest of our meeting, I ended with not only cargo space on his planes at a dollar a pound, but also an offer of at-cost flights up to Fort Lauderdale whenever I wanted.
As soon as Austin and I got back to the hotel, I grabbed the phone and called up to our shipping agent in Miami. A short time later I hung up and gave Austin a smug smile. By lunch the next day, he had his T5 harness. Fuel problems were solved with a few minutes of conversation with a certain fat Jamaican who drove his own fuel truck. Ramp space, however, proved more difficult, eventually resulting in our taking over an old abandoned hangar riddled with termites and slated for the wrecking ball. I drafted the Operations crew for a couple afternoon's worth of fixing and cleaning it up. Finally, we had something that would hold together for the several months that we would need it.
Slowly, haltingly at first, The Machine started to work. Crew and maintenance schedules were coordinated, supplies were bench-stocked, fuel was pre-paid. Fewer and fewer problems cropped up, and I found myself with an ever-increasing amount of time on my hands.
That time weighed heavily on me, and I began to brood again. I started haunting the local bars, drinking just a little more each day. At night I flew.
. . . .Damned little scrap of a desert island; there's simply no room for a proper dragon. I circumnavigated the place on my first night, and other than an old abandoned radar station far out on the point, found little of interest.
With nothing better to do, I took over the old radar site, sharing it with an incredible number of tiny sand lizards that lived out in the surrounding scrub. They seemed to be equally astonished by the dragon suddenly thrust into their midst, and we spent many a night studying each other. After awhile, I began naming them.
Pretty soon, though, another problem started to crop up. Food. It takes a lot to keep a full-grown dragon going, and there was precious little to hunt on that little heap of sand. After awhile, things became so bad that I began to think that I'd be forced to remain in human guise for the rest of the stay.
Fortunately for my sanity, around the end of the third week I discovered that the residents of a small Haitian village on the northwest side of the island were raising pigs, and I quickly began engaging in a little surreptitious night work. The damn things made an ungodly amount of noise, though, and were penned far too close to the settlement for safety, but damn it, I was hungry!
The first one I got away with. The second one, which I bagged two nights later, wasn't much of a problem, either. But number three managed to squirt free of my grasping talons and scoot off into the brush, squealing its bloody head off.
I hit the ground running, pounced, and managed to pin the frantically squirming creature beneath me as my talons tore out its life. Another moment's thrashing, then silence. I slowly stood up, panting and staring down at the mess I'd made. Then a slight noise had my head whipping around to see the terrified face of an old Haitian pig herder peering at me from the brush, the ancient double-barrel in his hands swinging UP. . . .
I flinched my eyes away as the weapon belched flame and a full load of buckshot whanged off my armored neck. I shook off the impact, then ROARED with rage, turning to rend the human. But he had already vanished back into the scrubby undergrowth, quickly losing me in the broken terrain. Frustrated, I lifted my head and tried to catch his scent, but the rising commotion from the nearby settlement told me that I'd already outstayed my welcome. Besides, I left my dinner back there. . . .
Meanwhile, things were continuing to improve on the human side. One of our more enterprising pilots had managed to get the folks over at the local Club Med resort to let us in for dinner every night. It cost twenty bucks a meal, but the sheer volume of food, and the free booze, was more than enough to quell any carping from the ranks.
Finally I decided to go take a look, and quickly realized that my food problems were solved. Not nearly as exciting as pouncing on a steer, but still, it was entertaining to watch the expressions of the surrounding diners as I polished off my sixth helping of steak tartare, washed down with the second bottle of wine. . . . This sorely-needed fuel didn't translate over to my draconic side nearly as well as I hoped, but it at least took a bit of the edge off.
It was on my second or third visit to the resort that I encountered Pasqual. She was running the little receptionist's counter that night, and I found her eyeing me as I paid her for my meal.
She smiled as she realized I'd caught her. "You are one of the military people?"
I hesitated, then smiled back. "Does it show that much?"
She cocked her head in an interesting manner and laughed quietly. "We do not get many fit, tanned young men with short haircuts here, mostly old people, or rich people's children. You have such a wonderful voice! So deep! Do you sing?"
I felt my smile grow wistful. "No, I'm afraid not." Not anymore.
"Oh! We must change that! Perhaps we could talk later? I dine in the room off to the right of the serving line. Perhaps you could join me?"
I finally placed her slight accent. French. In spite of myself, I found my curiosity piqued by the unusually forward female. "I don't see why not. See you a little later?"
"Oh, good!" She handed me my receipt. "Have a good meal."
I almost didn't show up at her table, but after several minutes of her company, I was glad I did. There is precious little that I can tell people about myself. The parts that aren't classified would get me quickly relegated to the nearest sanitarium, or zoo. So I talked about flying, as I always do, and was both surprised and pleased to find an eager audience.
Before I knew it, I realized that we were just about the only ones left in the room. She looked around and laughed. "I think I should return to my job. Could I ask you to come again tomorrow night?"
I looked into her face, and decided I liked her. I gave her my promise, then watched her as she left, studying her long, lean form, which moved with an almost serpentine grace. I came the next night. On the third night, I stayed over.
I awoke the next morning in her quarters, with my face wet and Pasqual looking down at me with concern. With a sinking feeling, I realized I'd been having nightmares again. . . .
Pasqual broke into my thoughts by squeezing my shoulder gently. "Who is she?"
I closed my eyes for a moment, then reopened them and sighed. "Was."
She winced at something she saw in my face, then laid her head on my arm. "Oh. Oh, Michael, I am so very sorry. . . ."
"Yeah." I slowly sat up in bed, rubbing my face with both hands. "So am I." I grimaced at myself and reached for my clothes. "I have to get back to work."
I heard a small sigh from behind me. ". . . .Will I see you tonight?"
I shrugged my shoulders as I dressed, avoiding her eyes. "Maybe. The work's been piling up lately . . . I don't know."
We said nothing more, and I left. I didn't go back; it was too soon. Maybe all eternity would be too soon. . . .