Standing among the vehicle wreckage on the winding road that led out of Santa Isabel, O’Halloran wiped smashed banana slime off his cheek. As he watched the now empty stake truck lumber away into the hills, he had a sudden realization, a sudden hope.
Perhaps there was a way he could get Pedrito after all—even in the wake of this disaster.
He stabbed a hand into his pocket and came up with a walkie-talkie, a compact new design that could also receive Top 40 radio stations.
“Cain-i***t-Alpha One to Cain-i***t-Alpha 465. Come in!” Instead, he heard only a peppy old tune from the Osmond Brothers revival tour. Snarling, he twisted the frequency knob and repeated his call until he received a response.
“Call the Colodoran Air Force and order out jets,” he demanded. “Yes, jets! Their best jets
