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  Terror Squad

  ( The Destroyer - 10 )

  Warren Murphy

  Richard Sapir

  A wave of global terrorism spreads as a result of one madman's tyrannical powers. Even while the governments of three major world powers are on his trail, CURE, the United States' top secret agency, knows of only one way to solve the problem - The Destroyer. There's little doubt that Master Chiun's protégé Remo Williams is capable of waging any war, but when the mysterious radical assassin is out to kill, everyone runs for cover - except the fearless and most powerful.

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  * Title : #010 : TERROR SQUAD *

  * Series : The Destroyer *

  * Author(s) : Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir *

  * Location : Gillian Archives *

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  CHAPTER ONE

  An airplane is an unsupportable outpost. You cannot reinforce it. You cannot resupply it.

  Mrs. Kathay Miller listened to this description on a flight from New York City to Athens, Greece. The man beside her was fascinating, a gentle person in his late thirties with soft brown eyes and a craggy face honed by wind and sun. He spoke with a slightly guttural accent she could not place, and he was attempting, unsuccessfully, to calm her fears about skyjacking.

  "Airplane travel today is far safer than going from one small village to another during the Middle Ages." he said. "And for the hijacker, it is becoming almost impossible today to successfully achieve the capture of a plane. It is a vulnerable, un-reinforceable outpost in the air. It has to land."

  He smiled. Mrs. Miller hugged her infant son Kevin closer to her breast. She was not reassured.

  "If worse comes to worst, we will all fly around and In perhaps Libya or Cairo and then be returned. Even the most militant governments today are tired of hijackers. So, I do not know how horrible a delay would be for you, but for me it would be delightful. I have you and your adorable child for company. Americans are such good people, really."

  "I hate the idea of hijacking. Even the thought of it makes me... well, mad and frightened."

  "Ah, so we have it, Mrs. Miller. You are not afraid of the hijacking, but the idea of it. Being defenceless."

  "Yes. I guess so. I mean, what right do those people have to endanger my life? I never did anything to anyone."

  "A mad dog, Mrs. Miller, does not dispense justice. Let us be grateful that their fangs are weak."

  "How can you say they're weak?"

  "How can you say they're strong?"

  "Very simply. They kill people. They murdered those athletes in Munich, those diplomats in wherever-it-was. They shoot people from rooftops. They bomb stores. They snipe at innocent people from hotel rooms. I mean, that isn't weak."

  The passenger in the next seat chuckled.

  "That is the sign of weakness. Strength is irrigating a field. Strength is constructing a building. Strength is discovering a cure for a disease. The random lunatic killing of a few people here and there is not strength. The odds against getting hurt by those madmen are astronomical."

  "But it can happen," said Kathy Miller. She felt strangely annoyed by the man's argument. Why did he take terrorism so lightly? Her fear was gone now. It had been replaced by annoyance.

  "Many things can happen," he said. "But that's life. Landslides when you ski. Sharks when you swim. Accidents when you drive. But to live life, you must accept accidents as such, as inherent parts of living. You see, what bothers you is the fact that you are vulnerable to accidents, not that accidents exist. What bothers you is that these terrorists remind you of something you would like to keep hidden in some dark closet Your mortality.

  "The answer to these mad animals is to live. To love. Look, you have a beautiful baby. You are going to meet your husband in Athens. Your very Me and loving is a refutation, and a strong refutation, of every terrorist act every committed. You are taking an airplane today. That shows the terrorists are weak. They could not stop you."

  "There's something wrong with that argument," said Kathy Miller. "I don't know how or why, but there's something wrong."

  A stewardess leaned over the three-seat section and, with a plastic smile, asked if anyone wanted a beverage.

  Mrs. Miller wanted a cola.

  Her neighbouring passenger shook his head.

  "Pure sugar and caffeine," he said. "No good for you or for your baby whom you breastfeed."

  "How do you know he's not on a bottle?"

  "Just the way you hold him, Mrs. Miller. My wife also. I know. That's all."

  "I love cola," she said.

  Three men in business suits brushed quickly behind the stewardess, heading toward the front of the plane. The passenger, whose movements had been so slow and relaxed, looked up suddenly at the three men, watching them like a gazelle alert for a tiger.

  "Do you have the cola now?" he asked the stewardess.

  Kathy Miller blinked in puzzlement. What was going on?

  "Yes. I have it right on this cart," said the stew.

  "Now, please," said the passenger.

  "Two colas then," said the stewardess.

  The passenger, who had been so gentle and considerate since the plane left New York City, rudely snatched a drink before the stewardess could serve Kathy.

  He held it to Jus lips, watching the front of the plane in wide-eyed fear, Kathy could see he held a white oblong pill near the lip of the glass.

  Without taking him eyes off the front of the plane, he said: "I want you to remember one thing, Mrs. Miller. Love is always stronger. Love is strength. Hate is weakness."

  Kathy Miller did not have time for philosophy. Over the plane's loudspeaker came words that curdled her intestines.

  "This is the Revolutionary Liberation Front of Free Palestine. Through our courageous endeavours, we have gloriously captured this vehicle of capitalistic-zionistic oppression. We have liberated this airplane. It is now in our hands. Make no sudden moves and you will not be hurt. Any sudden moves and you will be shot. Everyone put his hands on him head. No sudden moves. Anyone who fails to put his hands on his head will be shot."

  To put her hands on her head would mean dropping the baby, Kathy Miller put her left hand on her head and held the baby with her right. Maybe one hand would be good enough. She shut her eyes and prayed, prayed as she had been taught to pray in Sunday School in Eureka, Kansas. She talked to God, explaining that she had nothing to do with this and that they shouldn't hurt her or the baby. She begged God to let her and her baby live.

  "Dr. Geleth. Dr. Isadore Geleth. In which seat are you?" came the voice over the loudspeaker.

  Kathy could hear people move down the aisle. She felt a wetness at her feet. It must be her cola, that she had dropped. She did not want to open her eyes to see it, though. She would keep her eyes shut and hold Kevin to her chest and it would all pass. She had nothing to do with this whole thing. She was just a passenger. At worst, the plane would fly around a few hours longer and then she would open her eyes and find that they had finally landed at Athens Airport. That's what would happen if she kept her eyes shut. The people who were hijacking the plane would have to land somewhere. They would get off and she and Kevin would fly with everyone else to Athens.

  "Dr. Geleth. We know you are aboard. We will find you, Dr. Geleth. Do not endanger other passengers," said the voice from the loudspeaker.

  Kathy heard the passengers murmur. One woman shouted that she was having a heart attack. A young child cried. A stewardess kept repeating that everyone should be calm. Kathy felt the plane descend. She remembered she had read somewhere that a bullet through the skin of a plane at high altitude could cause an
explosion. Or was it an implosion? No, an explosion. Everything would rush out. Air pressure at high altitudes made a gun battle tantamount to turning the aircraft into a bomb.

  "Dr. Geleth. We will get you. We call upon the passengers to signal if they are sitting next to Dr. Geleth or know where he is. We do not wish to harm you. We are peaceful. We do not wish to harm anyone."

  Kathy felt something hard and metallic next to her head.

  "I can't put my other hand up. I'll drop my baby," she said.

  "Open your eyes." The voice was soft and menacing, the silky smoothness of a snake.

  Kathy did what she had not wished to do until it was all over. She opened her eyes. A pistol was pointed at her forehead, and a nervous, gaunt-faced young man in a business suit leaned over from the aisle holding it

  The passenger who had assured her that hijacking was so improbable was sleeping through this. him eyes were closed, his hands relaxed on him lap. The tip of his tongue stuck out of him lips like a sliver of bubble gum. It was then that Kathy realized that she was still holding her drink, in the hand above her head. The passenger had dropped his and that was probably the wetness she had felt. But she did not dare look down.

  "You know him?" said the gunman, nodding toward the passenger.

  "No. No. We just talked," said Kathy.

  "We know him," said the gunman, and let out a stream of foreign words that sounded as if he were preparing to spit.

  Quickly another gunman came up behind him in support.

  "May I put down my drink?" asked Kathy. The other gunman, a swarthy youth with the inner stillness of a cave, nodded that she might do so.

  Kathy dropped the drink to the carpeted floor of the plane and clutched Kevin with both hands.

  "What is your name, if you please?" asked the swarthy gunman.

  "Miller. Mrs. Katherine Miller. My husband is an engineer for a construction firm. He's on a job in Athens. I'm flying there to meet him."

  "Very good. And what did Dr. Geleth say to you while you flew next to each other?"

  "Oh, just conversation. I don't know him. I mean, we just talked." She kept waiting for the passenger to wake up, to say something, to draw their attention from her onto himself.

  "I see," the gunman said. "And he gave you something?"

  "No, no," said Kathy, shaking her head. "He didn't give me anything."

  The swarthy gunman gave a sharp command in that guttural language. The gun next to Kathy's head disappeared inside a belt. him hands free, the lighter skinned gunman removed the jacket from Dr. Geleth and in the leaden way the body responded, Kathy knew the gentle passenger next to her was dead. The pill he had held near his glass when the three men hi business suits went forward, had obviously been poison.

  With swift expert hands, the lighter gunman stripped and searched Dr. Geleth.

  "Nothing," he said finally.

  "No matter. It was his mind that we wanted. Mrs. Miller, are you sure Dr. Geleth said nothing of importance to you?"

  Kathy shook her head.

  "Let us try. What were the last words he said to you?"

  "He said love was stronger than hate."

  "That is a lie. He told you something," said the swarthy gunman, his lips quivering.

  "We have failed," said the lighter-skinned man. "What could he tell her in a minute? Besides, even if he had given her him life's work, what was important was him. him body for ransom. He knew that dead, he was worth nothing to us in an exchange. We are defeated. We failed."

  Froth formed at the corner of the swarthy man's' mouth.

  "We have not failed. This American helped the Jew. If the Americans didn't help, we would have succeeded. She is responsible."

  "Brother, leader. She is just a housewife."

  "She knows something. She is part of the capitalistic zionistic plot that cheated us of victory,"

  "Dr. Geleth cheated us, not her."

  The swarthy face reddened and the dark eyes heated with anger.

  "You sound like an Israeli agent One more defeatist word and I will shoot you. Take her and the child to the rear. I will question them."

  "Yes, brother leader."

  Kathy tried to get up but something held her down. The lighter-skinned gunman reached over and she thought he was going to touch her private parts, but he merely unbuckled the seat belt.

  He helped Kathy to her feet and she stumbled into the aisle over the legs of Dr. Geleth.

  "I really didn't know him.," she sobbed.

  "It wouldn't have made any difference if you did," said the light gunman. "He was not military. He was just valuable for what he was."

  "What was he?" asked Kathy.

  "Cancer research. We do not want the Israelis to be the first to discover a cure. It would be too good for their propaganda. But we would have been willing to trade back Geleth for some of our members in Israeli jails."

  "Quiet!" came the command from the leader.

  In the rear lounge, the leader took Kevin from Kathy.

  "Search her," he said to his accomplice. There was a stream of the spitting language which Kathy now judged to be Arabic. It came from the lighter gunman. He said it with palm open, as if disputing the sanity of the order. A quick violent sentence from the leader and the other gunman bowed his head.

  "Strip," he said, "I'm going to search you."

  Sobbing, Kathy took off her plaid jacket and white blouse and un-zippered her skirt. She let it fall to her ankles. She averted her eyes from theirs.

  "Strip, he said," barked the leader. "He did not mean leave clothing. Strip is strip."

  Head bowed, Kathy reached behind her back and unhitched her bra. She was too terrified now for shame. She jimmied the panties down from her hips and let them fall along her legs over the skirt at her feet.

  "Search her whole body," said the leader. "With your hands."

  "Yes, Mahmoud," said the lighter gunman.

  "Do not use names," said the leader, Mahmoud.

  Her eyes shut, Kathy felt the hands brush her shoulder and armpits and backside. The hands were brisk.

  "All the parts," said Mahmoud.

  Kathy felt the hands linger over her breasts, and although she did not want it to happen, her breasts responded. The hands moved away down her sides, and then at first harshly, then softly, then not harshly enough, a hand invaded her body. And her body betrayed her. While her mind said "no," her body said "yes."

  She kept her eyes closed when she was taken and in her mind told her husband that she was sorry. She felt triumphant that she was not able to move with her ravisher. She remained stiff on the lounge sofa and then the intrusion was gone, followed almost immediately by another intrusion. Another hijacker was taking her. This time it hurt. And by the third, she was in great pain.

  When they were through with her, they dumped her into the bathroom and locked it. She could feel the plane hit turbulence and kept telling herself that the unsupportable outpost would have to land somewhere. It was cold in the plane's bathroom and she tried to cover herself with hand towels. She felt broken and worthless and used, yet she knew she had done nothing wrong. She couldn't help herself.

  She knocked on the door. Nothing. She knocked again. Nothing.

  "Please, my baby. My baby. At least give me back my baby."

  Nothing. So she banged harder and then banged continuously.

  "Quiet," came the harsh command.

  "My baby. My baby," she whimpered.

  "Quiet."

  She could hear crying outside, a baby's crying. It was Kevin.

  "My baby," she yelled. "Damn you bastards. Give me back my baby, you damned bastards. Animal bastards. Give me back my baby."

  Suddenly the crying ceased. The door unlocked and a white object came hurtling at her head. Instinctively, she ducked it and then was immediately sorry. It hit the lavatory wall and rebounded down toward the toilet. Kathy desperately grabbed Kevin's chest and plucked him from the water. As soon as she saw him head wobble to the side, she k
new she was too late. She had been too late when the door had opened. A large reddish welt rose from the neck and Kevin's pink head dangled crazily over his chest. They had broken his neck before they threw him in.

  When the unsupportable outpost finally did land, Mrs. Kathy Miller was still hugging the body of her baby. But now Kevin was cold and her breasts were hurting, with the force of the now-unneeded milk.

  The hijackers were greeted by an Arab honour guard and praised for their heroism, and their role in writing "another glorious chapter in Arab courage, honour and daring, part of a thousand years of similar achievement by the courageous Arab peoples. This wondrous act, oh heroes of the Arab liberation struggle, typifies the very spirit of the Arab peoples in their unquenchable yearning for glory and honour and justice."

  When all the passengers finally reached Athens, Arab spokesmen and their supporters were already giving out stories about the death of the Miller baby. Some said the mother, in a fit of hysteria caused by the pilot, killed her own child. Others said while they would not say whether or not they approved the killing of the baby, they understood the reasons "why men were driven to do things like this." They spoke softly to the newsmen in the same spitting accents of the hijackers.

  Many living rooms around the world watched the explanations, and watched the haggard, drawn faces of the passengers finally departing from the plane in Athens.

  In one room, the lapping of waves outside could be heard. There was no shock on the faces of the three men watching the television set. All were in their late forties and wore suits and ties. All three held the rank of colonel, but in three different services-American, Russian and Chinese.

  They watched the Miller woman, her emotions smothered by shock's blanket, softly describe the rape, then the death of her baby.

  "Chickenshit," said the American. "Real chickenshit. Rape and baby killing."

  "That's what worries me," said the Chinese colonel.

  "The rape of a woman? And the death of a baby?" asked the Russian colonel. He was incredulous. He knew Colonel Huang had witnessed countless atrocities by the Japanese and by war lords; and while all three men found the killing of non-combatants distasteful, it was not a shocking tragedy to end the world. It wasn't even a military situation to be given any constructive thought. It was as if a dog had been run over on a highway. Too bad, but you didn't rearrange the highways of the world because of it.