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  Encounter Group

  ( The Destroyer - 56 )

  Warren Murphy

  Richard Sapir

  Close Encounters

  Is it a space odyssey or a spaced-out hoax? The answer isn't clear, but this much is certain: a stranger from a strange land has come to earth and recruited a squadron of space cadets to launch a campaign against America's nuclear arsenal. The gravity of the situation prompts Harold W. Smith, director of the top-secret government agency CURE, to order Remo and Chiun to blast the scheme out of orbit.

  And it should be just a routine assignment for the world's top assassins. Only Chiun believes the alien is fulfilling an ancient legend of Sinanju, and he takes off to join the space colony. And all at once Remo finds himself not only at odds with his mentor, but single-handedly trying to stave off the war of the worlds!

  Encounter Group

  The Destroyer #56

  by Richard Sapir & Warren Murphy

  Copyright © 1984

  by Richard Sapir & Warren Murphy

  All rights reserved.

  Encounter Group

  A Peanut Press Book

  Published by

  peanutpress.com, Inc.

  www.peanutpress.com

  ISBN: 0-7408-0579-7

  First Peanut Press Edition

  This edition published by

  arrangement with

  Boondock Books

  www.boondockbooks.com

  For Spencer Johnson, a friend for all the minutes

  ?Chapter One

  Amanda Bull did not believe in Unidentified Flying Objects and never gave the subject any thought whatsoever. But on the day she married John Schutz, a high school science teacher from Georgetown, she took the first step toward contact with the alien force that would transform her into an instrument of destiny. She just didn't know it.

  Had someone taken her aside that day and mentioned UFOs, Amanda would have snorted, "Flying saucers? You've got to be kidding. Only morons believe that crap. Besides, I'm getting married. The only saucers I'm worried about are the ones my husband's going to wash."

  And so she wed. But not before taking her father aside to give him a long-overdue piece of her mind. Even though old Edmond Bull had supported Amanda right up to her thirty-third birthday— which had been two weeks before— while she attended an endless string of women's rights conferences, ERA rallies, and protest marches, and he never complained when Amanda refused to take even a part-time job so the old man wouldn't have to work weekends to make ends meet, Amanda Bull accused her father of being selfish, insensitive, a male chauvinist pig, and an oppressor of women.

  After listening openmouthed to almost an hour of strident invective, 68-year-old Edmond Bull, who had single-handedly raised Amanda after his wife had died giving birth to her, stammered, "But— but, Mandy. I've never spoken a harsh word to you in my life. Why are you saying these terrible things to me?"

  "Why? You ask why?" Amanda Bull screeched. "I'll tell you why. In 1977 I asked you for a lousy $210.55 to fly to Kansas City for an abortion rights rally and you refused me— your own damn daughter!"

  "But, dear, I told you we didn't have the money. And you know how I feel about abortion. Your poor mother—"

  "Don't you dare 'poor mother' me, you hypocrite. If you hadn't selfishly gotten her pregnant, my mother would be alive today."

  "But, Mandy—"

  "Forget it. I've been waiting years to tell you off to your face. Now that I have a politically conscious husband, I don't have to put up with your vicious antifeminism anymore. And after today, I don't want to see you ever again."

  And with that, Amanda Bull, armed with the courage of her convictions and knowing that she would never have to rely on her father for support again, stormed into the Church of the Overpowering Moment, and married John Schutz, the only man who ever understood her, and whom she had met at an ERA rally two years before.

  All through the ceremony in the converted grocery store, old Edmond Bull wept uncontrollably, and only Amanda knew the real reason for his tears, but she told herself that her father was merely paying the price for the way he and all his male ancestors had treated women. Actually she sort of liked hearing his sobbing. Screams would have been nice too.

  John Schutz and Amanda honeymooned in Los Angeles, where a hooker tried to pick up John, prompting the newlyweds to demonstrate on behalf of that city's prostitute population, "who are being cruelly exploited by men offering large amounts of money for their services and then oppressed by the pigs simply for doing their work," as Amanda explained to her new husband. "If men offered fifty dollars an hour for office work, these women wouldn't have to walk the streets."

  John Schutz agreed that it was a worthy cause— although he felt uncomfortable when two hookers in the protest line propositioned him and then stole his wallet when he declined their services. John Schutz was a feminist, too, and he understood when Amanda refused to make love on their wedding night because she was exhausted from demonstrating.

  He understood when Amanda refused to wear her wedding ring because it "represented man's enslavement of womankind" but insisted that John wear his as proof of his commitment to her.

  He understood when Amanda insisted that from now on, she would not use birth control because for centuries men had placed that unfair burden on women— forgetting that the prophylactic predated the Pill by several centuries.

  But he had second thoughts when she announced that, in their marriage, she was to be addressed as Amanda Bull-Schutz.

  "I think it would be better if you didn't, dear," John suggested quietly.

  "Why not? And don't call me dear. It's degrading to my self-image."

  "It's only an expression of affection, Mandy. But, really, don't you think Amanda Bull-Schutz sounds a bit... awkward?"

  Amanda thought for a second. "Hmmmm. I see what you mean..." She paced the hotel room, which gave an excellent view of 23 cubic yards of California smog. She was a tall, willowy blonde with eyes the color of a gray cat's fur, and a clear, unblemished complexion. Her only visible physical flaw was the single dark hair that grew flat along the bridge of her patrician nose, just above the tip. Although the hair annoyed her, she refused suggestions to pluck it or remove it by electrolysis because she wasn't about to do anything of the sort "just to please men and their stupid standards of female beauty." She rubbed the bridge of her nose while she thought.

  "All my married friends combine their married and maiden names," Amanda said.

  "Under the circumstances, I think they'll understand if you drop your maiden name," John said.

  "Don't call it a maiden name. That's disgusting," she said. "It's my unmarried name. And it represents my heritage as a woman. It represents the centuries of women who have borne me."

  "Your maid— unmarried name isn't your mother's name. It's your father's name," John pointed out politely.

  "Are you becoming one of them, too?" she snapped.

  He wasn't sure who they were, but he knew he didn't want to be one of them, so he shrugged. "I won't think less of you if you just use your unmarried name," he said.

  Amanda thought quickly. What would happen if she kept her name Amanda Bull and then met someone she'd gone to college with? They might think that she had not been able to snare a husband and was still single.

  "No! No! It just doesn't work. It had to be hyphenated. It has to be Amanda Bull-Schutz. There's no other way."

  And so she became Amanda Bull-Schutz. It was not so difficult when they were with Amanda's feminist friends, because they seldom smiled and never laughed even among each other. But when they were with John's friends, it was more of a problem. At parties, Amanda always introduced hers
elf in a loud voice, as if her very loudness could drown out criticism. Most people waited until she was out of earshot before snickering, but others laughed in her face— and John's face, too. This only made Amanda angrier. And the angrier she got, the more determined she was to be accepted as Amanda Bull-Schutz. She took to introducing her husband as John Bull-Schutz.

  John found himself losing his friends. Before long, the only friends he had left were Amanda's feminist friends, but after one of them tried unsuccessfully to seduce him, Amanda wouldn't allow her husband to attend any more rallies and blamed him for the incident.

  Three months and sixteen days after they were joined in wedded bliss, Amanda Bull-Schutz returned home to find a note attached with a magnetic smile button to the door of the avocado-green refrigerator:

  Dear Amanda,

  I can't stand it anymore. The house is yours. The bank account is yours. I just want my freedom. My lawyer will contact you.

  I'm sorry.

  Your loving husband, John (no Bull) Schutz

  Amanda was crushed. Then her natural anger rose to the surface. She paced the floor of her model kitchen, which was equipped with year-round air-conditioning, and tore savagely at her long blonde hair.

  "That creep! I gave that man everything. I catered to him. I trusted him. I shared with him. That miserable creep! There probably isn't enough money to support me for a year in that stupid bank account."

  And there wasn't. Nor in Amanda's personal account either— the one her husband had set up and maintained because Amanda had demanded an account of her own so she could continue to feel independent while her husband worked.

  * * *

  The first thing Amanda did was to run to the Georgetown Women's Crisis Center. When the counselor there found out that Amanda hadn't been beaten or raped by her husband at any time, the counselor wanted to send her home because she was convinced Amanda was lying.

  "All husbands beat their wives," explained the counselor, who had listened to horror tales of abuse of women by men for the seven years she had worked at the Georgetown Women's Crisis Center and as a result had assumed that all men were despicable and beat their wives or girlfriends regularly each Friday night.

  "But John didn't," cried Amanda, who was in tears by now.

  "How long have you two been married?" the counselor demanded firmly, while pretending to take notes.

  "About three months."

  "In that case, I'm sure your husband hadn't gotten around to beating you yet. Some men actually wait a few years before they start. It's some kind of game they play."

  That fit in with Amanda's current attitude toward men, but it didn't help her situation and she said so.

  "Well, I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do for you if you haven't been raped or beaten," the counselor repeated sternly.

  "But I just want someone to talk to!" Amanda cried.

  "Sorry."

  The next thing Amanda did was to go home to her father. She knew she couldn't afford the mortgage payments on the house her husband had left her with, so she went home telling herself that her father would take her back in a minute.

  "Besides, he owes me for what he did to Mom."

  Except that Edmond Bull didn't owe anyone any longer. He had died only a few weeks before.

  He had written her several letters from the hospital as he lay dying, but she had torn them up unopened.

  She went to their family house but found that it had been purchased by strangers a few days before. She went to the family lawyer to claim her inheritance.

  "Your father had a modest number of real estate holdings and some stocks and bonds," the lawyer said.

  "When do I get it?"

  "You don't," the lawyer said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Your father left his money in equal amounts to the American Legion, the Moral Majority, the Citizens Against Abortion, and to the local Police Athletic League," the lawyer said.

  "He left me nothing, the rat bastard?"

  "Well, he left you this." The lawyer handed her an envelope. Inside was a crisp new $1 bill and an itemized accounting of all the money Edmond Bull had spent on his daughter since high school, feeding her, buying her clothes, sending her to school, financing her one-woman revolution. The amount totaled $127,365.12.

  "I'll fight the will," she said.

  "You don't have a chance," the lawyer said.

  "You're just another woman-oppressing flunky, just like my father," she said.

  "Yes, indeed," the lawyer said with a smile.

  Amanda was crushed. In just a few short hours, her life had been turned upside down. Amanda's faith in men— one man, anyway— had been destroyed. And her faith in women was a little shaky, too. After wandering Georgetown's student-filled streets in a confused state, she decided it had something to do with the corrupting influence of nearby Washington. Maybe some kind of conspiracy. What kind wasn't exactly clear, but lately even the women she met were as bad as the worst MCP she'd ever met. There had to be an explanation somewhere.

  Because it never occurred to her that the problem might not be one of men versus women, but of human nature, Amanda decided to head west to seek a better life.

  At the point when Amanda Bull, no longer Bull-Schutz, loaded her most prized possessions into a backpack and set out in search of truth and equality, she still didn't believe in flying saucers, but she unknowingly took her second step toward forces beyond her comprehension.

  "Maybe if I became a lesbian..." Amanda mused as she trudged backward along Interstate Highway 81 with her thumb cocked. It wasn't long before a lady trucker offered to take Amanda as far as Little Rock, Arkansas. She jumped in and began telling her tale of woe. By the time they rolled into Arkansas the next day, Amanda was wondering aloud if gay might not be the way after all. Her enthusiasm got a rude shock and turned to indignation when the lady trucker pulled over and made an aggressive pass at her.

  "Keep your hands off me!" Amanda yelled. "Who do you think you are, anyway?"

  "Hey, now. What was all that crap you've been feeding me since Memphis?"

  "That was different! I'm not ready yet," Amanda said, and bolted from the truck. She ran off into the red oak forest, which was clotted with darkness. She was too shocked by her recent experience to fear anything that might be waiting in those woods. And so she picked her way, her flashlight chasing rabbits and owls and the shadows of rabbits and owls.

  The moon, a silvery moon like a faraway dime, came up before Amanda realized she was hopelessly lost.

  "Damn all men!" she said. "I think I'm only making things worse the deeper I go."

  But, having no other choice, she continued on.

  Her flashlight expired not long after that. Then she saw the light. It was a hazy, mellow kind of light a distance off in the trees. Low to the ground, it made the red oaks look like dark ghosts before a witch's cauldron.

  Figuring the light to be a house, Amanda crept forward. But before she even got to the circle of light, a figure came out of nowhere and shone a light in her face.

  "Halt!" a voice challenged. "Friend or Foes?"

  "Uh... Friend— friend!" Amanda said. "And there's only one of me."

  "Hah! Wrong answer. You should have said FOES."

  "But I don't even know you," Amanda protested.

  "That's okay." The light flipped up to reveal a bearded, jovial face, like a wood gnome with an acned past. "I'm Orville Sale, with FOES."

  "Foes?"

  "Yep. It stands for Flying Object Evaluation Center."

  "Center doesn't start with an S," Amanda said.

  "Well, we came up with the initials first and then had problems finding words that fit. Someone suggested Center because the C sounds like an S, so we used it but kept the initials as FOES. Anyway, that's us in the clearing yonder. We're scanning."

  "Scanning what?" Amanda wanted to know.

  "The skies, of course," Orville Sale said. "We do this every Thursday night."

  "I
don't get it," said Amanda, who didn't get it.

  "Well, c'mon. I'll show you." Orville said, leading Amanda toward the clearing. "What's your name?"

  "Amanda Bull-Sc— uh... Amanda Bull."

  "Hey, all you folks! Meet Amanda."

  There were about a dozen people of varying ages in the clearing. Although it was one o'clock in the morning, there were blankets and open picnic baskets on the ground, as well as a bundle of portable searchlights aimed into the sky. Most of the group had binoculars, and others were taking turns looking into the eyepiece of an eighteen-inch Newtonian telescope, which would have provided an exceptional view of the skies if it weren't for all the ground illumination. They stopped their activity long enough to wave or shout in greeting when they saw Amanda and Orville approach. Then a minor argument developed over who was next at the telescope.

  "We're hoping for a Close Encounter of the First Kind tonight," Orville told Amanda with a broad, toothy smile.

  "Close encounter? You mean like in that movie?"

  "That's right. A Close Encounter of the First Kind is a visual sighting, a Close Encounter of the Second Kind means a landing, and a Close Encounter of the Third Kind— which is the best of them— is actual contact with alien beings from another world."

  "We're talking about flying saucers, right?"

  "Well," Orville said in his aw-shucks voice, "we don't call 'em that. We like to refer to them as Unidentified Flying Objects— UFOs for short." He pronounced UFOs as "U-foes."

  "There's been a heap of sightings in this area the last few days. That's why we're here."

  "I don't believe in that crap," said Amanda, who had a distinct knack for relating to new friends.

  "Look! I see one," a female voice called out suddenly.

  Through the open patch of night sky directly overhead, a cluster of red and white lights could be seen moving against the stars.

  "I don't hear any sound," one person whispered. "It must be a spaceship flying by magnetic power."

  "I never saw anything like it before," someone in a jogging suit added, while the others scrambled to adjust the big telescope. Before they got organized enough to see that the lights belonged to a 747 flying to Nashville, the object had passed from sight.