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  Waste Not, Want Not

  ( The Destroyer - 130 )

  Warren Murphy

  Richard Sapir

  Something's rotten in the garbage business -- and CURE is ready to take out the trash . . .

  IF IT LOOKS LIKE TROUBLE AND SMELLS LIKE TROUBLE . . .

  Mayana -- a South American country known only for a mass cult suicide -- is poised to become the salvation of a trash-choked globe. An ingenious new device called the Vaporizer can turn garbage into thin air and trash into cash for the beleaguered nation. And what could be a more beauteous sight for a global environmental summit than barges piled high with the world's smelly refuse parading through Mayana's harbor.

  Actually, Dr. Harold Smith smells trouble, and with the U.S. President headed for the summit, he dispatches Remo and Chiun to the scene, posing as garbage scientists. And not a moment too soon, since torpedoes are sinking garbage scows left and right, leaving a stinking mess and a huge crisis. It's clear that nobody -- including a Japanese industrialist, anex-Soviet premier turned peacenik environmental tree hugger, and the president of Mayana himself -- can be trusted, specially when the Destroyer uncovers a diabolical plot of global domination that promises to totally trash the free world . . .

  Destroyer 130: Waste Not, Want Not

  By Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir

  PROLOGUE

  She had lost faith in God even before the Almighty decided to slaughter his flock.

  As she lay in the mud, she tried to remember when the loss of faith had happened. She supposed it came by degrees. She only remembered waking up in the jungles of South America one morning to the realization that the god she followed was a fraud. By then it was too late.

  In the last few minutes before the bullet cracked her skull and pureed her brain, the thing that really vexed Jennifer Lonig's terrified mind was her own gullibility. He claimed to be God, for criminy's sake. Wasn't God supposed to be nice? Oh, sure, there was the occasional toad downpour or Mrs. Lot salt lick-but that was Old Testament God.

  This was 1978. Smack-dab in the post-Watergate, free-loving, buy-the-world-a-Coke New Testament. All that everlasting-vengeance stuff had gone the way of burning bushes and Ozzie and Harriet. God was nice now. Everybody knew that. But it turned out the god Jennifer had chosen to worship was just a big old meanie.

  "Check the ones at the back."

  The voice came over the scratchy public-address system. The booming voice was calm, even as the world crashed down around his ears. The voice belonged to the man Jennifer now realized was not God.

  Most of the others were already dead. They had lined up like good sheep at the big communal kettles. At their bad shepherd's command, the foolish righteous had dutifully drunk the tainted soft drink. As the first followers clutched bellies and throats, dropping lifeless to the muddy jungle floor, the rest continued to drink the poison.

  They dared not defy God.

  Jennifer had only pretended to drink. She found a nice spot in the mud and lay down, hoping-praying-to be lost in the crowd. Surely they wouldn't notice. There were hundreds of bodies-acres of dead.

  Through barely open eyes she strained to see. Jennifer was face-to-face with a glassy-eyed corpse. What was the woman's name? Tammy something. From Denver?

  Greenish stomach bile dribbled down Tammy-from-Denver's pale cheek.

  "The devil rides in on wind of fire," the man who wasn't God announced. "The flock must perish to save the shepherd."

  Someone was coming to the camp. Government troops. Maybe even American Marines. Their imminent arrival had sparked panic among the camp's leadership. But they were an eternity away yet.

  They'll be here soon, she told herself. Soon.

  Jennifer just needed to hold on until the cavalry arrived. And they couldn't possibly check every corpse. If she could stay still, she might just survive. The loud pop of a gunshot. Very nearby.

  Jennifer almost jumped at the sound. By force of will she kept her body slack.

  The gunshots had been coming sporadically over the past hour. It was clear that Jennifer was not the only one to fall from the faith. Others had refused the poisoned drink. Their eternal reward came at the end of a rifle barrel.

  Another pop. Closer still.

  Jennifer shivered in the humid afternoon sun. Shock numbed her senses. The world took on a hazy, unreal tone.

  Tammy from Denver was smiling. Chin dripping black and green. Dead lips twisting over stained teeth.

  Was she talking?

  "He is not God, he is not God...."

  The voice sounded familiar. But it couldn't be Tammy from Denver. Tammy was dead. See? There's a fly on her eyeball. Living people don't let flies land on their eyes. But if it wasn't Tammy speaking, who was it?

  "He is not God."

  Jennifer tried not to shiver.

  The beatings, the forced labor, the stress and shock and horror. They had all taken their toll.

  The sun was hot. So why was she so cold? And why wouldn't dead Tammy stop talking? Didn't she know? They would find her and kill her all over again if she didn't stop.

  "Shh," Jennifer hissed. Her face was covered in a sheen of sweat.

  A scuffling footstep. Somewhere nearby, a grunt. "He is not God, he is not God...."

  Wait. That voice. It wasn't Tammy. It was Jennifer. Her own lips were moving. She could see them puckering through her own half-opened eyes. And something else.

  A shadow. Blocking Tammy's dead and grinning face. A pair of boots. Very close.

  "I got another one," a man's voice called impatiently.

  "The world will not be spared the wrath of God," called the voice over the PA system almost simultaneously.

  But that wasn't right. The man making the announcement was not God. Jennifer was sure of it. She almost said so yet again, but then she heard a sharp click behind her ear.

  And then there was an explosion so loud and so close it was like the birth of the universe, but within the confines of her own skull.

  The earthly Jennifer Lonig never even felt the bullet pierce her skull or the warm mud accept the twitching body that had been hers in life. The essence of what she was had already taken flight from her human shell.

  She was swept up into the eternal hum of life that was something that had been beyond her understanding on Earth.

  She saw brightness. Shadows of people that she knew in life but had lost. And something else. Something vast and warm and wondrous and everything else the man who had claimed to be God was not.

  And in that moment of pure love and contentment, Jennifer Lonig was given a hint of something terrible. A vision of something that would not come to pass until two decades after her corpse had been flown back to the United States for burial. It was a glimpse of the vengeance that would be visited on those who had murdered her. A god from the East who wore the face of a man would visit the land of death. Where this man walked, the world would split, hurling blood and fire into the blazing sky.

  And the false god of Earth who cowered in his path would tremble with fear.

  Chapter 1

  They wanted garbage. Mountains of it. Piled high and reeking. They wanted much more than they could possibly produce themselves. For the volume of garbage they wanted, they'd had to advertise.

  The call was heard around the world.

  Household or industrial waste, it didn't matter. Coffee grounds and paper plates were the same as asbestos-lined pipes and dioxin drums. All was welcome.

  Industrial sludge was shipped by the barrelful, rolled off boats on pallets by men in protective space-age suits with special breathing masks. It found a temporary home next to buckets of old paint, used-car batteries, rotting
rubber tires and stacks of bundled newspapers oozing toxic ink.

  When Carlos Whitehall toured New Briton Harbor in the small South American country of Mayana and saw the first of the scows festering at the docks, he allowed a tight smile.

  "Beautiful," he said softly.

  Oh, not in the conventional sense, of course.

  The scows were practically overflowing. Men in masks raked the refuse as it smoldered in the hot sun.

  The many seagulls flapping around the junk on the boats brought a sense of vitality, of life, to the trash heaps.

  That's what this was all about-life.

  The country of Mayana was coming to life. Finally claiming its place in the sun. And it would do so by making itself indispensable to the modern world.

  The trash was coming in by the boatload. Mounded in teetering piles, it was coming on slow-moving scows down through the Caribbean to Mayana. The first shipment had reached the port city capital of New Briton the previous evening. It was docked at pier 1.

  As he walked, seagulls scattered and ran. Carlos Whitehall almost seemed pleased that the birds could share in his good fortune, in the good fortune of all Mayana.

  Whitehall strode along the newly constructed docks amid a phalanx of his deputies of commerce. The men pressed white handkerchiefs firmly over their mouths to keep out the smell. Carlos Whitehall-Mayana's finance minister and direct adviser to President Blythe Curry-Hume-seemed to revel in the foul stench.

  "There are eighteen scows so far, Minister," the young man nearest Whitehall said. George Jiminez was deputy finance minister and assistant director of the top secret Vaporizer Project. He puffed hard behind his handkerchief.

  "When will the other bays be ready?" Whitehall asked. He was a tall man with a deep, healthy tan.

  Despite the surroundings, there wasn't a single spot or smudge on his light cotton suit.

  "They tell me now it won't be until next Tuesday."

  Whitehall stopped dead. The rest of his entourage stumbled to a stop.

  "That's ridiculous," the finance minister snapped, eyes flashing with his trademark unpredictable anger. Behind him, a scow loaded with rusted drums of human waste from a Mexican processing plant was baking in the hot South American sun. The smell failed to bother Whitehall.

  "They've taken too much time already," he said, aiming an unwavering finger at Jiminez. "Tell them the president has authorized me to use whatever means necessary to have this up and running by Friday. I am not putting up with any more delays. After the conference Mayana's treasury will have more than enough to hire outside contractors."

  "The people might not like that," George pointed out from under his sweaty hankie.

  "The people won't care," Whitehall said. "This is going to make everyone in Mayana rich." He waved to the docked scows. "Now, Sears has a few trucks up there, but they'll need two more loads for the last tests." He pointed at the Mexican scow and the one beside it. "That one and that one."

  "Maybe we shouldn't charge for these," Jiminez suggested. "A sample for new clients."

  "Are either of them from the United States?"

  "No," Jiminez replied. "If you'd prefer it, there are at least two from New York out in the Caribbean."

  Whitehall shook his head firmly. "The United States can afford to pay. This one is from Mexico?" George Jiminez nodded. "Okay, let them both have it on us." Through the swarming seagulls he read the markings on the next scow. "Russian. There's some irony, I suppose," he muttered under his breath. "They've got an environmental movement now. With the mess they've got they'll need our services."

  A half-dozen cell phones appeared from suit jackets. Arrangements were made to off-load the two scows.

  Minister Carlos Whitehall spun on his heel. The tall man in the spotless beige suit began marching up the dock.

  George Jiminez jogged to keep up. The wind was shifting out to sea. He came out from behind his handkerchief, testing the air. It was a little better.

  "I've spoken with the president's office," Jiminez said, tucking his hankie back in his pocket. "Everything's set. "

  "Of course it is," Whitehall snapped unhappily. "Our first-term executive president had to be dragged on board this project by me. He contributed nothing, George. Nothing. He only got elected at a propitious time."

  They were at the parking area beyond the docks. Whitehall's driver ran around his limousine to open the back door for the finance minister.

  George Jiminez knew this was a touchy subject. There was animosity between the finance minister and the executive president's office. Still, they would all be able to bury their differences soon. Today Mayana would take the first step to becoming the richest country in South America.

  As Minister Whitehall climbed into the car, Jiminez glanced back over his shoulder.

  A few of the men were coming out to the parking lot, clicking shut cell phones. They got into government cars.

  The harbor teemed with seagulls. They filled sky and land. In the far distance, another scow piled high with teetering garbage was making its lazy way in from the sea.

  The wind shifted suddenly. The fresh stench nearly caused George Jiminez to vomit his breakfast. He fumbled in his pocket for his handkerchief.

  "See Mayana and lose your lunch," he coughed as he climbed into the back seat of the air-conditioned limo.

  As the finance minister's limousine sped up into the Mayana hills, George Jiminez wondered briefly how that slogan would look on a T-shirt, perhaps spelled out with rotting banana peels. He made a mental note to bring it up at the afternoon public-relations meeting.

  THE VAPORIZER WAS a square pit the size of two Olympic-size swimming pools. The interior was lined with a frictionless black substance that seemed to absorb light. A black hole, plucked from the depths of space and pressed into the virgin Mayanan hills.

  Spaced down along the walls of the device, thousands of black-coated nozzles aimed across the vast pit. The tips of the nozzles glowed dull orange.

  A black patio rimmed the pit, surrounded around by an eight-foot-high wall. Both deck and wall were coated in the same material as the Vaporizer. Carlos Whitehall noted the drabness of the device as he and his entourage entered the Vaporizer deck through a silent sliding door.

  "I still think they could have done something better with the color," the finance minister complained. As usual, he tried to see to the bottom of the pit. As usual, the severe black made it impossible for his eyes to find focus.

  "Dr. Sears says the black is necessary," George Jiminez replied. "Whatever's in the nonreflective coating wouldn't work with another color."

  Whitehall snorted derisively. "Dr. Sears is hardly the expert I'd quote on any of this," he grumbled. A group of men waited at the far corner of the deck. Leading the way, Whitehall marched over to them.

  His feet made not a scuff nor a sound. Before entering through the sliding door, Whitehall and the rest had pulled special clear boots over their shoes. The booties were required as a precaution to keep visitors from losing their footing on the slippery surface of the deck.

  Even wearing the special shoes, Whitehall felt uneasy stepping along the deck. He had been present for some of the more recent tests. Although a chainlink fence had been set up around the very edge of the pit to prevent anyone from falling in, it didn't help him forget the very near danger. Whenever he ventured out on the deck, he felt as if he were climbing down into a massive garbage disposal unit to retrieve a wayward spoon that had fallen down the drain.

  The waiting men gave only quick glances as Whitehall and his entourage approached. While irritating, their lack of deference wasn't a surprise. There was already a preening rooster in the henhouse.

  Executive President Blythe Curry-Hume stood at the center of the crowd of men at the edge of the pit. If his close proximity to the Vaporizer caused him any concern, it didn't show. His blandly handsome face was drawn into something that might have been a smile or a grimace of pain.

  The president of Mayana seem
ed to have only one facial expression. For the hundredth time since election day, Carlos Whitehall strained to see a hint of the alleged magnetism that had propelled this political neophyte to his nation's top elected office. As always in Whitehall's critical eye, Executive President Curry-Hume came up lacking.

  "I'm glad you could finally make it," the president said thinly as Whitehall stopped before him.

  "Yes, Mr. President," Whitehall said tightly. "You do understand that we are not scheduled to begin until two." He made a show of checking his watch. It was barely past ten.

  "The world waits. If we are ready, why not go ahead? We are ready, aren't we?"

  Whitehall's lips tightened. "I'll need a few minutes to line everything up," he replied, biting off each word.

  The two groups went into huddles. Whitehall's men got back on their phones, barking orders down to the docks. At one point an exasperated Carlos Whitehall glanced over at the president.

  Executive President Curry-Hume stood with hands planted on his hips as he stared into the Vaporizer pit. His sharp eyes had taken on a dreamlike quality. This was one of the things that had appealed to Mayana's female voters: the president's soulful eyes.

  One of the executive president's security men stepped up to whisper something to Curry-Hume. The security agents were always around. About a dozen of them had been brought into government with the current president, supplanting the normal presidential security force. The silent men had a habit of making everyone around them feel uncomfortable.

  Frowning, Finance Minister Whitehall turned away.

  "We're ready," George Jiminez was saying. "The first two trucks are here."

  Nodding sharply, Carlos Whitehall went to inform the president. The call went down the line as men snapped into action. The gates were opened. Reporters who had been waiting impatiently outside swarmed onto the deck, all outfitted in slip-resistant boots.

  Finance Minister Whitehall had seen some press when he arrived half an hour earlier. There were many more now.

  Many were already there to cover the Globe Summit, the world environmental meeting which was being hosted by Mayana and was scheduled to begin later in the week. But they had no idea why they had been called out here to the hills above New Briton. Some wondered if it had something to do with the Mayana government's call for trash from around the world. Many suspected the call for trash was a PR trap set up by environmental groups to be sprung on the world leaders who would be flying in for the conference.