Dark Horse td-89

  Dark Horse

  ( The Destroyer - 89 )

  Warren Murphy

  Richard Sapir

  An ordinary California political campaign turns into a thriller when someone begins killing off the candidates, and it is up to Remo and Chiun to stop him.

  Destroyer 89: Dark Horse

  By Warren Murphy apir

  Chapter 1

  It was called "the Buddy Holly rule."

  It applied to the President of the United States and the Vice-President. It was strictly observed by sports teams. Rock bands adhered to it religiously, as did corporate officers.

  It was inflexible, unbreakable policy wherever it applied. And it applied to every business and political situation. And, on occasion, social situations.

  It should have applied to the Governor of California and his lieutenant governor.

  Technically, it did. They were, under no circumstance, to fly on the same plane, travel in the same vehicle, or even ride the same elevator. That was unshakable policy.

  Unfortunately, unshakable policy applied only to political trips, arranged for by political aides and handlers.

  This was social.

  The governor of California didn't know that his lieutenant governor was going to attend the concert at Los Angeles's Music Center.

  He discovered this amazing coincidence shortly after the flight attendant had shut the 727's big door.

  Almost immediately, someone began pounding on it.

  The governor, seated in first-class, smiled thinly. He knew how the airlines worked. If the door was closed, you missed your flight. There was no second chance, no appeal. The jetway passenger bridge was about to be retracted from the jetliner's aluminum skin. This particular airline was plagued by recurring schedule problems. They were not about to add to them, the governor was sure, simply for a single passenger who couldn't even make check-in.

  The governor settled back to see what the editorial pages of the Sacramento Bee were saying about him today.

  Suddenly, a harried voice could be heard in between spasms of pounding.

  "Let me in! Let me in!"

  This guy just isn't going to give up, the governor thought, wondering how he had managed to get onto the jetway in the first place. The late ones were usually intercepted beforehand.

  The flight attendants began to buzz among themselves. One knocked on the flight deck door, and slipped in.

  She returned after a very brief consultation with the captain and went directly to the exit door, where she undogged the locking latch. She gave the door a shove.

  And in stomped a face the governor of California knew only too well.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked, taking his briefcase off the empty seat beside him.

  The lieutenant governor flopped onto the seat, extracting a white handkerchief from his coat pocket. He ran this across his bedewed forehead, while he caught his breath. His face was flushed.

  "Damn cab ran out of gas!" he huffed. "Can you believe it-a cab running on empty? Only in California."

  The jetway ramp was retracted, while the two highest-ranking officers in the State of California shared a rueful laugh. With a rising whine, the jet slithered out from its berth.

  "You're lucky they relented," the governor said as the 727 turned into its takeoff position, wishing they hadn't. The lieutenant governor was a Democrat.

  "I kept telling them I was the damn lieutenant governor," the lieutenant governor muttered. "Wasn't sure they heard me."

  A pleasant voice over the intercom called on the flight crew to begin a cross-check in preparation for takeoff.

  In a moment, the engine whine rose and the wheels under their feet began to bump and rumble.

  As the jet started to pick up speed, pushing them back into their seats, the governor remarked, "You know, we shouldn't be doing this."

  "Doing what?"

  "Flying together. It's the old Buddy Holly scenario." "Huh?" asked the lieutenant governor, who had been born in New Zealand.

  "You know, the Crickets. Everybody got on the same plane, it crashed, and rock and roll took a mortal blow."

  "Didn't one of them take the bus?" asked the lieutenant governor, as the wheels left the runway.

  "Search me. Back then, I was listening to Guy Mitchell."

  The jet climbed steeply, and their stomachs sank. The sound came of the wheels toiling up into their wells.

  Only after the engine roar had settled down to the familiar whine of horizontal flight did they resume speaking. By that time, the flight attendants were offering martinis and smiles.

  "Well," the governor said ruefully, "if anything happens to us, there's still the secretary of state."

  This thought sobered both men until the drinks were set before them.

  "What's your business in L.A.?" the governor asked, when the first very-dry sip had gone down.

  "I'm attending a concert," the lieutenant governor said. "Nana Mouskouri, or something like that."

  The governor started. "Really? Those are my plans!"

  "How about that?"

  "I didn't know you were a fan of her music."

  "I'm not," returned the lieutenant governor.

  "Then why?"

  The lieutenant governor shrugged. "The tickets were free."

  In the act of swallowing a gulp of dry martini, the governor of California felt his mouth go dry. Something of the fear he felt must have showed up in his eyes, because the lieutenant governor took one look at his paling face and blurted, "What's wrong?"

  Slowly, the governor of California withdrew an envelope from his suit. He displayed a ticket. His next words were little more than a croaking.

  "Came two days ago. Anonymous."

  "Mine contained airline tickets, too," the lieutenant governor said, in a voice drier than his drink.

  "Mine, too."

  The two highest elected officials in California-over California, now-digested this startling coincidence in silence.

  "Someone," the lieutenant governor said thickly, "must really want us at that concert."

  "Or maybe," the governor croaked, "on this flight."

  Their eyes were already wide. They had been widening all through the conversation. They could hardly have grown wider, but they did. A child could have run a Magic Marker around the outer edge of the irises and not touched or discolored an eyelash.

  They were both thinking the same thing. They were thinking how unpopular their administration had become in less than two years. How many special-interest groups despised them. How unpopular recent gubernatorial vetoes had been.

  The governor shot up in his seat.

  "Turn this plane around!" he demanded harshly, his voice like something that had been torn off bleeding muscle.

  The flight attendant hurried up the aisle. She presented a concerned face, and a smile that promised reassurance but jittered around its lipsticked edges.

  "Sir, is something the matter?"

  The governor used his finger to point. "This is the lieutenant governor sitting next to me."

  The attendant looked, said, "Yes?"

  "We're not supposed to be flying together!"

  "It's the Buddy Holly rule," the lieutenant governor chimed in dutifully. "And you know what happened to them."

  "Was he an actor?" wondered the flight attendant, who looked all of twenty-two.

  The governor cleared his throat and mustered up his best oratorical voice. "Please inform the captain that the governor of the state sincerely requests that he turn this flight around and put us down at LAX," he said, giving each syllable a tight, steely enunciation.

  "I'm sorry, but that's against the airline's rules."

  "Please do this."

&
nbsp; "Yes, please," the lieutenant governor pleaded, moist-eyed.

  The flight attendant hurried off. She was gone for a while.

  Eventually, a stone-faced man in airline black stepped into the first-class cabin. He wore his years in the cockpit on his regular, seamed face.

  "Are you the captain?" the governor said tightly, trying to keep control of himself.

  "Copilot. The captain sends his regrets."

  In terse words the governor presented his case, ending with, "This can't be a coincidence."

  The copilot gave an aw-shucks laugh and tilted back his uniform cap.

  "Sir . . ."

  "Governor. "

  "Governor, what I think you got there is a pair of tickets from Miss- What did you say the lady's name was?"

  "Mouskouri."

  "It's clear to me that you're both being treated by the little lady herself. I don't see what the fuss is."

  "You don't understand!" the lieutenant governor put in frantically. The copilot's face hardened. "Maybe it's the other way around," he said flatly. "We held up the flight to let you on board, sir. Now, the captain has the discretion to do that. But turning the plane around without an on-board emergency?" He shook his head. "No. I'm sorry."

  They harangued the poor copilot, demanded to see the captain, but the man stood his ground.

  Eventually, with mumbled apologies and a stiff face, the copilot returned to the cockpit.

  The flight attendants refreshed their drinks and made a point of showing off their legs.

  The governor and his lieutenant soon settled down. The drone of the jet engines became routine, putting them off their guards.

  "Maybe it was Miss Mouskouri who sent the tickets," the lieutenant governor said hopefully.

  "It's the only explanation that makes sense," the governor agreed.

  "Still," the lieutenant governor said wistfully, "I wish I had taken the bus. Just in case."

  They shared a laugh that rattled in their throats like old bones. It was an unpleasant sound that squelched further conversation and provided absolutely no reassurance up at twenty thousand feet, in a jet buffeting through clouds and air pockets like a shaky rollercoaster.

  The jet rattled. The overhead luggage compartments jiggled uncertainly. The seats, although bolted to the cabin floor, shook and bounced them on their plush, roomy cushions.

  The governor and lieutenant governor started to grow nervous all over again.

  "Is this plane shaking worse than usual?" the lieutenant governor muttered.

  "I can't tell. I'm shaking too much myself."

  "Why are you shaking?"

  "I'm thinking of how many death threats I've been getting since I vetoed that Gay Rights bill."

  "Well, I didn't veto it. I was for it. But you-you wouldn't listen to me."

  "That's right. If it was the Gay Rights people, they wouldn't be after you." A flush of relief raced up the governor's boyish features.

  At that exact moment, the 727 went into a steep dive and the overhead compartments popped, like topsy-turvy jack-in-the-boxes.

  A yellow oxygen mask slapped the governor of California in the eye. An identical one dangled before the lieutenant governor's suddenly bone-white face. They might have been hangman's nooses from the sick, incredulous way the two politicians stared.

  The captain's drawling voice came over the intercom, saying, "Nothing to be concerned about, folks. We're experiencing a little problem with our pressurization, so we're just gonna descend to ten thousand feet while we check it out. If you start feeling light-headed, that's what the yellow oxygen masks are for."

  "Oh my God! We're going to crash!" the governor said, voice twisting.

  "But he just said-"

  "I don't care what he said!" the governor snapped, pulling the plastic oxygen mask to his face and hyperventilating wildly.

  The lieutenant governor grabbed his mask with one hand and his stomach with the other. As he inhaled deep lungfuls of cold, plasticky oxygen, he prayed to God to keep him from throwing up in the mask and blocking the air line.

  On the flight deck, Captain Del Grossman had his flight chart in his lap, as scraps and wisps of cloud whipped by the windshield.

  The copilot was guarding the throttles. The captain looked up from his chart and peered out the side window.

  Below, under the lower edge of the cloud layer, he saw a city-sprawl that looked like a transistorized circuit board.

  "Looks like Fresno," he muttered.

  "Can't be Fresno," the copilot said. "It's not possible that we could have wandered this far off-course."

  "That's why I said, 'looks like.' " The captain took another look at the flight chart. "According to our heading," he said, "we should be on Low-Altitude Airway Number 47."

  "Right," the copilot said, as a hanging hump of cloud swallowed all forward visibility.

  "But if we're following that route," the captain added, "we should be seeing the San Joaquin River beneath us."

  "Huh," the copilot grunted. They were barreling through a world of gloomy stratocumulus now. "Wanna go lower?"

  "No," said the captain. "I want you to check your flight chart."

  The flight chart came out of its compartment, and the captain took the throttles.

  The copilot checked his chart, frowned, and compared it with that of his senior officer.

  "Everything I see tells me we're on-course," he said, with almost no conviction in his voice.

  "And everything I see," said the captain, "tells me we're off-course."

  "Charts don't lie, you know."

  "And I trust the evidence of my eyes."

  They were silent while the jet nosed through seemingly impenetrable cloud. The pressurization problem, which had forced them down to this perilously low altitude, was forgotten.

  "I'm going to try to get under this damn weather," the captain grumbled.

  He reached for the throttles. And his hand froze.

  "Jesus H. Christ!"

  There was no time to react. No time for anything. They both understood that with complete and utter clarity. They had each logged over twenty-six thousand hours in the air and knew the limitations of their aircraft.

  Visibility was less than an eighth of a mile. The 727 was slamming along at about three hundred and seventy miles per hour.

  By the time the stone face of Mount Whitney broke the low-hanging clouds and filled the windshield like an implacable idol, there wasn't even enough time to become afraid.

  The cockpit crew were snuffed out with an appalling finality that could only have been equaled if they had taken seats in a high-speed trash compactor.

  First-class got it from both directions. The foot-thick wall of tangled steel and human detritus that the cockpit and nose had become rammed back, while the rest of the airframe, still under power, drove it toward the collapsing forward bulkhead.

  The governor and his lieutenant had a heartbeat's notice. That was all. Then they were both inextricably intertwined, in a roaring metallic entanglement that was almost instantly awash in the poisonous stink of Jet-A fuel. The plane careened and broke up as it made its absolutely final descent.

  Down the side of the mountain that shouldn't have been there.

  Chapter 2

  His name was Remo, and he had a dilemma.

  Should he do the hit before, or after, the target was baptized?

  It was, Remo had to admit, a first.

  Remo had done hits many times. Too many to count. Big shots. Small fish. This particular fish was big. And ugly. There would be no mistaking him amid the small army of Federal marshals, FBI agents, press, and invited observers that, according to Upstairs, were due at any moment.

  It couldn't be too soon for Remo Williams.

  He was crouched in a thicket on a spongy isle in the heart of the Florida Everglades. It was hot. The air steamed. Love bugs danced in the heat. Remo showed barely a trace of sweat on his cruel face and bare arms. Still, that did not mean he was comfortable-only
that he was the master of his own body.

  For twenty years he had not felt cold, or heat, or pain or any ordinary discomfort that he was not able to will his body to ignore. For twenty years he had breathed not merely with his lungs, but through his entire body: nose, mouth, unclogged pores. For two decades he had been Sinanju. A Master of Sinanju. The latest Master of Sinanju in an unbroken line that stretched back to the dawn of recorded history. A line that had begun in a ramshackle fishing village on the West Korea Bay where men hired themselves out as assassins and bodyguards in order to feed the village, and now continued in Remo Williams, the first white Master of Sinanju, who served the newest empire on earth, the United States of America, as its secret assassin.

  On a nearby hump, a heron flew up.

  Remo had heard it unfold its wing preparatory to flight. The sudden upflinging of colorful feathers did not take him by surprise-although it startled an alligator into slithering into the water.

  Why would anyone pick the Florida Everglades to be baptized in? Remo wondered, not exactly for the first time.

  It was probably the least of the questions hanging in the humid Florida air.

  Remo had been assigned the job of eliminating General Emmanuel Alejandro Nogeira, the deposed dictator of the Central American nation of Bananama. Snuffing out General Nogeira was something the Medellin drug cartel, assorted political enemies, and even the U.S. Rangers had attempted over the years.

  Ever since he had risen up from rent-a-colonel in the Bananamian version of the CIA, to the day he was seized by U.S. forces as they liberated the country he had bankrupted through greed and corruption, Emmanuel Nogeira had proven immune to assassination.

  The former general and self-proclaimed Maximum Chief had grinningly attributed his longevity to Voodoo-specifically to the red underwear he wore to ward off the Evil Eye. He ascribed his continual survival to a wide array of charms, friendly spirits, and ritual sacrifices-usually involving beheaded chickens. In actual fact, he had simply found the perfect-if somewhat inconvenient-sanctuary from his numerous enemies.

  A United States federal prison.

  The U.S. government had proclaimed a great victory on the day they captured General Nogeira. American servicemen had lost their lives in the effort to bring him to justice. He had been spirited into the U.S. and charged with violating American law through a pattern of drug-smuggling activities. The evidence against him was overwhelming.