Survival Course td-82 Read online

  Survival Course

  ( The Destroyer - 82 )

  Warren Murphy

  Richard Sapir

  Mexican Slayride

  The bad news was that the U.S. President was shot down over Mexico. The good news was that he survived. The bad news was he was captured by drug thugs. The good news was he was rescued by his courageous Vice-President.

  But the worst news was that the Vice-President was definitely not as heroic as Robert Redford or Jack Kennedy, as his photo ops would have the world believe. And now only Remo and Chiun could save the President from a free-form fiend who made bloodthirsty Aztec gods seem sweet and even the power of Sinanju helpless...

  Destroyer 82: Survival Course

  By Warren Murphy apir

  Chapter 1

  Not everyone agreed the President of the United States should go to Bogota.

  A Pan American drug summit was scheduled for the next day in Bogota, Colombia. The embattled President of Colombia was the host. Leaders from as far north as Canada had already arrived. All that remained was for the President's arrival, which everybody did agree would be a tremendous show of support in the long war against the Colombian drug cartels.

  The polls were evenly split on the matter. It was a hot topic on radio call-in shows, Sunday-morning TV information programs, and in bars. In Washington, politicians debated the subject with unusual intensity. Only the White House staff was unanimous in its support of the President's brave decision. In public.

  In private, it was a slightly different matter.

  "For the last time, you gotta cancel!" pleaded the President's chief of staff: "Tell them you have the flu."

  "I'm going," the President said firmly in his slightly nasal voice, a voice that mixed New England consonants with a Texas twang. When excited, the President sometimes sounded like an out-of-tune steel bango. He was not excited now. He was firm.

  "I'm going," he repeated firmly.

  "The drug barons are blowing up buildings all over Bogota," the chief of staff pleaded. "This thing is a security nightmare. If we postpone it-just postpone-there's time to work out a change of venue. Relocate the thing to Texas, or even northern Mexico. Say, Nogales. On the U.S. side of the border."

  "How would it look if the President of the United States bowed to the threats of these narco-terrorists?" the President demanded. He was seated at a kidney-shaped desk, trying to finish a thank-you note.

  "A damn sight better than if the presidents of Chile, Peru, Ecuador, Canada, and Mexico all ended up in body bags-provided there are any nonliquid parts left over to bag," the President's press secretary said pointedly.

  The President stood up. Outside the family compound in Kennebunkport, Maine, a Marine helicopter was whining to life, ready to ferry the President to the waiting Air Force One.

  "No," he said, "I'm going to Bogota. Now, you two get on the train or stop playing with the whistle."

  "If we can't talk you out of Bogota, how about we move the conference to another Colombian city?" the chief of staff whined. "Just to throw those narco-thugs off-balance?"

  "Can't," the President said irritably. "You know that. The other delegates are already settled in."

  "Think of your family."

  "I have. And of millions of other families wounded by drugs."

  "Then think of the Vice-President in your job!" the chief of staff blurted.

  The President stiffened. He adjusted his glasses. His voice grew chilly. "He's a good man. He'll grow."

  The chief of staff subsided. "Fine," he grumbled. "Let's hope if they do bomb the conference, they do it before you get there."

  "Let's hope they don't do it at all," the President added pointedly, reaching for his blue poplin windbreaker with the presidential patch.

  At Massachusetts' Hanscom Air Base, where Air Force One was being refueled, the topic of the President's trip to Bogota was on the lips of the ground crew as they pumped Jet-A fuel into the thirsty 707's fuel tanks.

  "He's crazy to go," said a corporal as he kept one eye on the truck's gauge. The fuel truck resembled a common oil truck that delivered fuel oil to residential homes. Except it was shorter and painted a military gray. "Those Colombians, they're cold," the corporal added. He snapped his fingers. "They'd snuff him out just like that."

  "He's committed," said the other, an airman. "He can't back down now. He'd lose face."

  "Better to lose a little face than have your legs and everything between them blown away. Know what I mean?"

  "If we back down to these scum, they'll only get braver," the airman retorted, frowning in perplexity at the round grille he suddenly noticed under the fuel intake. He could have sworn it hadn't been there a moment ago. "We'll lose Colombia, then Peru, and the rest of South America. How long before Mexico is run by drug lords? Then what do we do? Build a fucking wall like the East Germans?"

  "We execute the pushers in this country, that's what. Dry up demand, and those bastards are out of business. "

  "You know," the airman said in a funny little voice, "I could have sworn that grille wasn't there a minute ago."

  The corporal looked up. He noticed the chrome-ringed mesh grille. It looked like a tiny speaker.

  "What do you suppose it is?"

  "Probably some electronic sensor or something. This bird is loaded with the latest electronic warfare equipment. What I'm wondering is, how come she's drinking so much fuel? We've been here quite a while. "

  "That's what I was thinking too." The corporal tapped the gauge. The pointer stayed where it was.

  "If I didn't know better," he muttered. "I'd say we just pumped in more fuel than this bird's capacity."

  "Well, you know that ain't so."

  "Yeah, you're right. I guess we were jawing when we should have been paying attention. Ah, there it goes. "

  A little cough-syrup-red fuel sloshed back from the intake and the corporal hurriedly threw a lever, cutting off the flow. He pulled the nozzle from the intake and capped it.

  "I still think the President is a fool for going," he added, dragging the hose back to the truck. "Prestige is important, but survival's what counts."

  "That's what this is all about, America's survival."

  Together they retracted the hose in silence, and then drove away.

  After they were gone, the chrome-ringed grille retreated from sight and the white metal skin healed over as if from a wound.

  In the cockpit, Captain Nelson Flagg was running through the preflight cockpit check with his copilot. The damper switch was stuck.

  "Hit it again," the copilot said.

  The captain did. A telltale amber light came on.

  "This thing hasn't been right since eighty-eight," he growled. "I can't wait until the replacement comes in."

  "They should have retired this bird years ago. It guzzles gas like a Cadillac, the controls are finicky, and she burns oil like a Sherman tank."

  "Just a few more months. If they ever get the wiring fixed in the new bird."

  "Yeah. And if we survive this trip. I don't know about you, but I belong to the club that says the President is a fool to go."

  "I'll be sure to pass your vote along to the chief executive if he pokes his head into the cockpit. You got the booster pumps?"

  "Center off, main on," said the copilot, unaware of the chrome-ringed microphone disk that appeared on the floor beside his shoe like a metallic eye opening. It had appeared, as if on cue, when the copilot uttered the word "survive."

  Then the clatter announcing the arrival of Marine One and the President caused them to forget their argument and focus on the remainder of their flightline check.

  Hours later, over the sparkling blue of the Gulf of M
exico, Fort Worth air-traffic control handed over Air Force One tracking to Mexican air-traffic control in Monterrey.

  "Here's where it gets hairy," Captain Flagg warned his copilot. "Just remember. These Mexicans traffic controllers may sound like they understand English, but half the time they don't catch what you're saying. Ask 'em if we can put her down on an oil platform in the Gulf and they'll happily roger the request. Or as they say, 'royer' it.

  The copilot laughed. "It can't be that bad."

  "They also like UFO reports. Report an in-flight problem and they ask you to confirm it as a UFO sighting. And that's just Mexico. It'll get worse the further south we go. Listen."

  Captain Flagg hit his throat mike and began speaking.

  "Monterrey air-traffic control, this is Air Force One. Over."

  "Air Force One, we welcome you into our airspace. Say your heading."

  "Gracias. We're proceeding on a southerly course to Mexico City."

  "Royer."

  The captain flashed his young copilot a lopsided grin.

  "Royer," he muttered.

  As the Gulf fell behind and Air Force One came in over the Mexican coast, the copilot looked down. Barren ranges of mountains rolled under the starboard wing, looking for all the world like a herd of dusty brontosauruses had collapsed and petrified there a million years ago.

  "Brrr. I'd hate to have to ditch down there," he muttered.

  "Royer," Captain Flagg said, laughing.

  The U.S.-made Stinger missile destined to bring down Air Force One was built in General Dynamics' Pomona Division and shipped via the CIA to Pakistan and then across the Khyber Pass by pack mule to the Afghan Mujahideen. It lay for an entire winter in a cold cave controlled by the Hezb-i-Islami faction, along with three others, until it was finally brought into service.

  A Soviet MIG Flogger was sweeping the desert floor and a rebel commander ordered it shot down. A goatherd-turned-freedom-fighter named Kaitmast brought the Stinger to his shoulder, uncapped it, exposed its optics, and braced himself for the blowback.

  The Stinger sat on his ragged shoulder like a length of inert pipe.

  Hastily Kaitmast thrust it aside and brought another to his shoulder. That one ignited, sending a rocket racing for the Flogger's glowing yellow tailpipe. The Stinger was designed to home in on the craft's superhot tailpipe. This one instead went crazy, zigzagging all over the sky like spastic skywriting.

  The MIG vectored away. The Stinger gave a last sputtering gasp and dropped straight down, denting the top of a mountain.

  Kaitmast cursed and drew back a boot to kick the dud Stinger in frustration. His rebel commander stopped him with a word.

  "No," he spat. "We can sell it."

  Back to Pakistan went the Stinger, where it was bartered to representatives from Iran for AK-47 ammunition. The Iranians, in turn, passed it along to Shiite fighters in Lebanon, where, after a complicated series of events, it fell into the hands of Bishara Hamas, a.k.a. Abu Al-Kalbin. In English, "Father of Dogs."

  Among Palestinian terrorists, Abu Al-Kalbin was not a major player. Unlike some terrorists who pretended to be committed to Islamic revolution-and not merely murder and money-Abu AI-Kalbin was for sale to the highest bidder. It was that simple.

  But when your nom de guerre is Father of Dogs, bids are usually low, even if you do have possession of an operational Stinger missile.

  So when the Cali drug cartel of Colombia contracted with Abu Al-Kalbin for his services, Bishara Hamas indulged in no rug-merchant bazaar bargaining.

  "Whatever is it, we-my Krez militia and I-will accomplish it," he confidently told his potential employer over a bottle of Omar Khayyam in his Beirut apartment.

  The man who called himself "El Padrino" was dark of complexion, with the shiny black eyes of an Arab. But he spoke with a Spanish intonation as he carefully explained what he desired.

  It was nothing less than the extinguishing of the President of the United States.

  "Done," said Abu Al-Kalbin, who hated America because all his friends did.

  And so it was that the Father of Dogs found himself, with both members of his ragtag Krez militia, crouched in the chilly top of a bare Mexican mountain in the desolate Sierra Madre Oriental range, beneath the air lane where their employer had assured them Air Force One would travel.

  The hours dragged by as his men shivered and examined their precious Stinger-now nearly five years old-as if it were their firstborn.

  "Put that down, you donkeys!" Abu Al-Kalbin snapped. "It is our only one. If you damage it, we will forfeit our payment. Worse, the prize we have sought for years will never be ours."

  The men hastily lowered the Stinger to a blanket, careful not to jar it.

  Abu Al-Kalbin brought his night-vision glasses back to his eyes. He had been told to look for an ordinary 707 flanked by F-14 Phantoms flying escort.

  He frowned, thinking once again how the escort complicated matters. What if he knocked down one of the Phantoms? No, the heat-seeking missile would seek the closest heat source, the multiengined 707, not the fighters flying high cover.

  The night wore on. He wrapped his kaffiyeh more closely around his mouth. He had worn it for disguise purposes-not that he expected to be spotted in this desolation of mountains-but the high thin air was chilling. His stomach rumbled hungrily, and he thought of the tostada he had bought from the street vendor back in Mexico City, only hours before.

  He hoped he would eat again soon. Decent food. There were Arabic restaurants in Mexico City. He contemplated a feast in the best of them before the night was over. Lamb. Or stuffed pigeon. Perhaps sorrit issit for dessert. And a bottle of Laziza beer.

  Then all thought of his next meal departed Abu Al-Kalbin's thoughts. They careened back to the tostada as, suddenly, urgently, he felt his bowels gurgle in warning.

  "I suddenly do not feel well," Abu Al-Kalbin said slowly.

  "What is wrong?" asked Jalid.

  Abu Al-Kalbin did not answer. He was looking about the barren mountaintop for a bush or shrub to go behind. But there was no vegetation to shelter his modesty.

  "I have the turistas," he moaned. "I must do my business here. Both of you-turn your backs!"

  And as he began to drop his pants, a distant drone cut the night. Abu Al-Kalbin blinked.

  "It comes!" a voice shrieked. It was Walid.

  "Not now!" Abu Al-Kalbin cried, his eyes sick as they lifted to the star-blasted Mexican night. "You cannot come now!"

  But it was coming now. Just as the smelly contents of his bowels were abruptly erupting onto the ground.

  "You must do this yourselves," Abu AI-Kalbin moaned. "I am helpless." He moaned like a wounded cow, seeing his chance for immortal glory running from him like the hot contents of his digestive tract.

  His men fell onto the Stinger. They fought for the honor of being the one to bring the hated American President down in ignominious flames.

  "One of you! Just one!" Abu Al-Kalbin shouted.

  Walid wrestled the Stinger from his fellow, Jalid. He hefted the clumsy black tube to his shoulder, removed the cap which came off too easily, he thought and sighted.

  "I have it!" he shouted, spotting Air Force One in the optical sight. It was a winged shadow studded with lights.

  "Do not hesitate! Launch!" Abu Al-Kalbin shouted, his face miserable with shame.

  Walid triggered the Stinger. The protective tube kicked, expelling its contents. The first stage carried it away. The second stage ignited, sending it screaming into the night like a Roman candle.

  At his electronic nest aboard Air Force One, Electronics Warfare Officer Captain Lester Dent spotted the heat source far below. Then the radarscope picked up an incoming object.

  "Something coming at us," he shouted to the flight crew. "This sucker is traveling!"

  "Disengaging autothrottle," Captain Flagg said, taking the plane off autopilot. He took immediate evasive action, hitting the right rudder. The big four-engine jet heeled sharply.

  "D
eploying phosphorous bombs!" Dent called out. From pockets in the aircraft's skin, phosphorous bombs were ejected. They ignited, providing convenient targets for any heat-seeking device.

  Unfortunately, the five-year-old Stinger, improperly stored and manhandled for much of its life, was not homing in on anything in particular. It zigzagged for one sputtering phosphorous bomb, careened past it, and vectored back in the direction of Air Force One.

  "Monterrey ATC," Captain Flagg called urgently. "I have a problem."

  "Roger. Are you declaring emergency?"

  "Affirmative, Monterrey. Advise we are at thirty-two thousand feet and taking evasive maneuvers to evade unknown approaching object."

  "Are you reporting UFO?"

  "No, dammit. I don't know what this thing is!"

  "UFO. Royer, Air Force One," Monterrey said laconically.

  "Dammit," Captain Flagg muttered, feeling the flying wheel go stiff in his hands. "Oh, my God!" he said.

  "What?" gasped the copilot.

  "The wheel. It's not responding."

  "Hydraulics are fine," the copilot said, looking at his array of warning lights. They were amber, not red.

  "It won't move."

  "I'll try mine."

  Before the copilot could take over, his flying wheel moved of its own accord.

  "You got it?" the captain asked.

  "No."

  "What?"

  "I'm not touching it," the copilot snapped. "See for yourself."

  Captain Nelson Flagg looked over to the copilot's wheel. It was moving to port, putting the aircraft into a slideslip.

  "What the hell is happening here? She's flying herself."

  "Let's try to bring her back together."

  The captain and the copilot put their shoulders into it, trying to hold their wheels steady. The wheels moved as if unseen hands had control of them.

  "No go!" the copilot said in defeat.

  "This damn ship!" Flagg grated.

  Then he forgot all about his cursing as a sputtering incandescent object shot up past their windscreen and, turning sharply, came right at them.

  The elevators abruptly moved of their own accord, throwing Air Force One into a steep dive. The approaching rocket disappeared from view.