Skin Deep td-49

  Skin Deep

  ( The Destroyer - 49 )

  Warren Murphy

  Richard Sapir

  Just as world leaders are flocking to New York to discuss world peace, someone takes off with the U.S. Navy's latest super-weapon - a top secret, atom-armed jet bomber that can escape radar detection. Remo and Chiun launch an investigation, but they're just winging it . . . until unexpected turbulence forces them to an uncharted island off the Florida Keys. Then all at once peril is hovering over their heads, in the form of an ex-Nazi with BLITZKRIEG on his mind. His flights of fancy have the free world taxing toward disaster, with Remo and Chiun going along for the ride. Under constant attack, our heroes are flying by the seat of their pants. And this time it looks as if even the secrets of Sinanju won't help them land on their feet!

  Skin Deep

  The Destroyer #49

  by Richard Sapir & Warren Murphy

  Copyright © 1982

  by Richard Sapir & Warren Murphy

  All rights reserved.

  Skin Deep

  A Peanut Press Book

  Published by

  peanutpress.com, Inc.

  www.peanutpress.com

  ISBN: 0-7408-0572-X

  First Peanut Press Edition

  This edition published by

  arrangement with

  Boondock Books

  www.boondockbooks.com

  For Eiko and Pat

  ?Chapter One

  A storm was coming. Thick smoke-colored clouds gathered to the west, already rumbling with thunder. The sea, normally sparkling and calm in the key waters off the South Florida coast, now whipped frothy and gray against the hull of the U.S.S. Andrew Jackson.

  Lieutenant Richard Caan put on his rain slicker and moved quickly to the landing strip at the stern of the ship. The dull ache that had been pounding at the back of his skull all night was charging at full gallop now. He checked the wind and spat over the side of the railing, but the taste from the night before remained in his mouth.

  "You the pilot, sir?" a young ensign asked as Caan stepped briskly toward the tarpaulin-covered dual-engined jet.

  "Copilot," answered Caan.

  "Good enough." The young man saluted.

  The ensign's crew had already seen to securing and covering the F-24. Her outline stood out sleekly beneath the fluttering tarpaulin: the needle-sharp nose, the huge wasp's wings, the streamlined bulge of the fuel tanks.

  She was the most exotic plane Caan had ever flown, the most efficient fighter-bomber ever constructed. Almost always he felt a flush of pride at seeing the magnificent machine. Only a handful of men in the world knew how to fly her as yet, and Caan was one of them. But he felt no pride now.

  "We've got her battened down pretty secure, sir," the ensign said. "You might want to check her for stability, though."

  "Thank you, ensign," Caan said, his eyes lingering for a moment on the young man. The taste in his mouth was repugnant. It was unfamiliar to him, the taste of defeat, of violence and death and imagined hell.

  It was fear.

  "Yes, sir?" the ensign asked uncertainly, the high wind pinching the young man's farm-fresh features.

  Caan forced himself back to composure. "That'll be all."

  "Yes, sir." The young man saluted and led his small crew away.

  Caan swallowed as he examined the pinnings on the plane.

  There will be terrible destruction.

  His head ached mercilessly. The events of the night before— a thousand years ago, it seemed now, back in the security of the Key West Naval Base— flashed before him with terrifying accuracy.

  Terrible destruction...

  It began with his awakening. With a painful jolt he had been forced out of deep sleep into a sitting position, his two arms hammer-locked behind him. A cold, black-gloved hand clamped like a vise over his mouth.

  "You are one of the pilots scheduled to sail tomorrow on board the Andrew Jackson?" an unseen voice behind him hissed. The voice was heavily accented, guttural. The hands yanked back hard on Caan's arms. He nodded.

  "I have placed a vial on your bed, beside you."

  Caan's frightened gaze wandered to his lap. Next to his legs lay a small dark bottle.

  "Take it with you tomorrow. There will be terrible destruction. You will not be able to stop it. When it happens, place the contents of the vial on your face and head. Do as I say, or you will die." The strong hands forced Caan's neck back sharply. "Wait for the birds. They will be your sign."

  Those were the last words he heard. With a deafening crack, something came down on the back of Caan's head. A splintering pain, and then blackness.

  He came to at three A.M. Staggering groggily to the door of his Quonset hut, he stood in the darkness and listened. The Key West base, disbanded in recent years, was nearly deserted except for a vestigial research team and the sleeping crew of the Andrew Jackson, now snoring peacefully in unaccustomed privacy. The only sounds came from night insects and the drone of the sea.

  Birds?

  Was it a dream? A crazy nightmare brought on by an attack of nerves? The next day would be Caan's first maneuvers on an aircraft carrier. Maybe the prospect of a long sea voyage just went against his grain. He doubled back to his bunk.

  It was there. The vial.

  He switched on the light. The sudden brightness made the pain at the back of his head shoot suddenly. He held the bottle up to the light, squinting.

  Inside the amber-colored glass was clear, viscous liquid. He unscrewed the cap and sniffed. The odor made him sputter and gag. Whatever was in there was the foulest-smelling stuff he'd ever run into. He put the lid back on tightly, placed the bottle on the corner of his desk, and switched off the light. He would take it to the base commander later that morning, before they sailed.

  There will be terrible destruction...

  The bottle glinted in the moonlight. Slowly Caan picked it up and slipped it into the breast pocket of his uniform.

  * * *

  "Wake up, Lieutenant. This is no place to be daydreaming."

  Caan snapped to. He felt rain whipping against his skin. His trousers beneath the slicker were soaked through and freezing. "Yes, sir, Commander." he said.

  "Everything in good order here? Or haven't you bothered to look?" the Commander demanded with the shrill petulance of a spoiled child.

  Arlington Mills Albright, the Commander, was fairly young, but the kind of man who was accustomed to giving orders. Even if he didn't know anything about what he was ordering, Caan thought with a certain grouchiness. Albright was less qualified to fly the F-24 than he was. But he had gone to Annapolis, and was a Commander, and so was the senior pilot on the plane during the Andrew Jackson maneuver.

  "All checked out, sir," Caan said.

  "Good." Albright patted him on the shoulder patronizingly. "You turned out to be of some use to me, after all."

  A huge shaft of lightning streaked eastward. "Yes, sir," Caan muttered.

  Albright headed back for the shelter of the ship's interior. At the port, though, he hesitated and motioned to his copilot. "Come in out of the rain, at least," he said with a condescending smirk.

  Caan obeyed. "Those sailors can take care of the ship. We'd only be in the way anyway. No one needs flyers in a storm, right?"

  "I suppose not, sir."

  "We might as well just sit this out over a game of gin."

  "I don't play gin rummy, sir."

  The Commander looked annoyed. "Well, sit down anyway," he ordered. He caught himself, and worked a tone of rich man's camaraderie into his voice. "We'll have coffee and discuss the price of grain, eh?" He chuckled and patted Caan on the back again.

  Caan sat. Outside, the thunder
rolled. He saw Albright glance quickly out the porthole, his brow furrowed, before returning his gaze to Caan with forced friendliness. The commander busied himself for a few minutes ordering coffee from the cook on duty. When the cups were placed in front of the two men, he rubbed his hands together in a parody of cheerful enthusiasm. "Well, then. Since you're not familiar with gin, how about a rubber of bridge? Nothing like bridge, I say, to bring out a man's powers of reason."

  "I don't play bridge either, sir," Caan said levelly.

  Albright looked dismayed. "Oh. Then—"

  "Sir, did a strange man come to your quarters last night?" he blurted.

  The commander's patrician features set hard. "What made you ask that?"

  "Because one came to me. He asked me if I was a pilot. There are only two of us on board, and you're senior to me." He shrugged.

  There was a long silence. "Utter nonsense," the commander said at last. "Some fool's idea of a prank, no doubt."

  More silence.

  "Don't you think so?" Albright asked, rather nervously, Caan thought.

  "No," he said quietly. "I didn't think it was a prank."

  The two cups of coffee grew cold, untouched, in front of them.

  "You did throw that stinking stuff away, didn't you?" the commander asked with a smile.

  Caan shook his head. "Did you?"

  "Of course," Albright said indignantly. His voice growing louder, he added, "If you think that I'm going to let some punk threaten Arlington Mills Albright for one minute—"

  "I didn't think anything, sir." His headache was throbbing again. He rubbed his temples with his fingertips.

  "It stands to reason you'd keep yours," Albright said, rising jerkily. "Probably tied around your neck along with a rabbit's foot for good measure. Your people have always been superstitious."

  Caan looked up, his face expressionless. "Does that go with being pushy, stingy, dirty, and unfit for membership in your country club? Sir?"

  "You insubordinate little Jew," Albright said with contempt, and walked out.

  Caan sighed. He put his wet slicker back on and headed out into the rain.

  * * *

  "Jesus Christ, will you look at that!" Someone near Caan was pointing toward the western sky.

  "Gotta be a twister," someone else confirmed.

  "Nah, twister's got a tail on it. Or sompin'. They ain't no tail on that thing."

  "But it's moving."

  It's moving this way, Caan thought.

  "Wait a second. Let's have a look-see through these glasses," one of the men said, raising a pair of binoculars. He lowered them again, slowly.

  "Well?"

  "Damnedest thing."

  "What's that?"

  "It's birds."

  Caan turned around sharply. Wait for the birds. They will be your sign. "What?"

  "It's birds, sir," the seaman said, suddenly aware of Caan's presence. Caan moved toward the rail to get a better look, hanging on against the rolling of the ship.

  "Gimme them glasses," one of the sailors said, snatching away the binoculars. "Can't hardly see with this rain and all."

  "Goddamn birds, I tell you."

  "What kind of birds?" an observer asked.

  "I dunno. Seagulls, it looks like."

  "They're the size of buzzards," the man looking through the binoculars said incredulously.

  Caan placed his hand over his breast pocket. The vial lay over his thundering heart. There will be terrible destruction. "Clear the decks," he said, turning back toward the seamen.

  "Sir, it's only some birds—"

  "Clear the decks, I said!"

  The sailors backed away from him. "Yes, sir," the senior one said hesitantly. Caan saw him striding toward one of the ship's officers. The officer, a lieutenant commander, cast an angry glance at Caan, barked something at the seamen, and stormed over toward the copilot.

  "What is the idea of telling my men to clear the decks in the middle of a storm?" he raged.

  "It's the birds, sir," Caan began to explain.

  "Haven't you ever seen birds before? You're a pilot, for God's sake, you must have run across them once or twice."

  "It's not like that, sir—"

  "Look here, Lieutenant. We've got weather on our hands that's getting worse by the minute. My men can't clear the decks just because of a few birds. Is that clear?"

  "You've got to believe me!" Caan shouted. "These aren't ordinary birds."

  The other officer's lips tightened. "I think you'd better stick to flying planes, son."

  "But—"

  "That'll be all." The lieutenant commander walked away.

  No one needed binoculars to see the birds now. They were giants, with six-foot wing spans and powerful bodies gliding above claws that jutted downward like gnarled trees as they reached the great ship.

  "They're coming— they're coming here," someone shouted, too late.

  "Oh, my God," Caan groaned. They were already attacking.

  Through the violent rain, he saw a young man, dressed in a slicker like his own, stumble backward onto the deck. His hands flailed spastically as powerful talons swooped down, scooping out his throat with one deadly swat. Another screamed, high and keening with his last breath, as one of the creatures descended on him, picking out his eyes with its bloodstained beak.

  Caan wanted to turn away, but some dreadful fascination held him. All around him was carnage and chaos and... terrible destruction, he thought, the voice inside him giddy with hysteria as he watched the birds, obscene in their size and sickly whiteness, pounce with a near-lust on their human victims.

  Someone was running toward him, his head low, his big frame lunging desperately ahead. It was Albright. His eyes were pleading, his hands grasping at the rain pouring in front of him. "Caan!" he called. "The vial..."

  The birds shrieked like banshees. Almost absently, Caan lifted the dark bottle from his pocket and stared. Was it a joke, the magic contents of the vial? Another bad dream? Beyond the vial, he saw the lumbering Albright with his hungry, twisted face and outstretched fingers.

  "Give it to me!" he screamed pitifully. "Give it to me, Caan. I beg you."

  And beyond him, the frantic men, blind, maimed, dying in oceans of their own blood while the monster gulls killed slowly, wantonly.

  "Caan!"

  The copilot stood, shocked into utter stillness, the amber bottle resting on his open palm, as the birds closed in on the commander. A flutter of white wings, one long, ghostly scream, and then Albright lay in a twisted heap of limbs and sinews, his blood mixing with the rain and washing the deck in bright splatters.

  "Oh, my God," Caan said again.

  And then they were coming for him. A squadron of shiny black eyes and red-tipped vultures' beaks, the wings beating a slow tattoo of death.

  "Do something, Caan," he muttered aloud to himself as the birds drew inexorably nearer. A jagged prong of lightning illuminated the sky for an instant. In the light, he noticed his own fingers shaking with comic exaggeration as he fumbled for the cap of the vial.

  Even with the high winds, he could smell the foul liquid in the bottle as he poured it onto his scalp and face. He felt a manic giggle rise from deep inside him. What if it was a joke, after all— if when he was found, dead and stinking of whatever vile concoction was in the bottle, the clean-up crews tossed coins to see who would get stuck with bagging his body? He giggled wildly until he broke, weeping, watching the birds swoop down for his inglorious final moment.

  They passed him.

  Behind him he heard the death screams of others, but the beating wings above him did not fold and drop and come for him. Angels' wings, he thought, seeing the flapping white feathers pass overhead.

  The Angel of Death had passed him by.

  He was not a religious man, not a Jew in any sense other than that he had been raised, nominally, as a Jew during his earliest years. His parents were not even practicing Jews any longer. Still, he knew of Passover, and it must have been th
e same then, thousands of years ago, when his ancestors eluded the cold kiss of the Angel with its dread white wings.

  He fell to his knees, found a post to hang onto against the worsening wind, and prayed.

  In time— how much time?... a moment?... an hour?— the din of gulls subsided, their flapping receded into the distance, and Caan shivered with the cold rain and wind against the back of his neck. Then he raised his head tentatively and gasped.

  Around him, in a square, stood four men. They were dressed in diving gear, their faces blackened with grease. Past them, all was silence except for the howl of the wind and the unending machine-gun fire of the pelting rain. Bodies lay everywhere, sprawled indecently, their faces open with surprise and sudden, painful death. The figure of commander Albright still lay where he had fallen, the rigid fingers still searching uselessly, his frenzied quest forever failed. Nothing lived on the Andrew Jackson now except for Lieutenant Richard Caan, undistinguished Navy copilot, indifferent Jew spared from death by the sheerest whim of fate, and four strange men reeking with the stench of the fluid from the amber-colored vial.

  One of the four spoke. His eyes, encircled by black grease, were the palest blue, their shape narrow and serpentine. Caan recognized the voice as belonging to his visitor of the night before.

  "Get in the plane," he said.

  ?Chapter Two

  His name was Remo, and he was swimming underwater at twenty knots, slackening off his top speed to keep pace with a school of dolphins that had temporarily adopted him.

  Curious about their new playmate, they nosed him gently and chattered in a supersonic chorus as he dipped and rolled with them, dived deep and shot up for air.

  It was getting dark. His excercise period was over, but he was enjoying himself with the clownish bottle noses, and besides, nothing was waiting for him back in Key West except for Chiun, who would be watching television anyway.

  Reluctantly, he left the dolphins and headed back in the general direction of land. That was the basic trouble with being an assassin, he thought, as he came up for air near the beginning of Seven Mile Bridge, the only overland route into Key West. He was stuck with fish. There weren't many people for a professional killer to relate to.