Warren Murphy: Unnatural Selection

Faysal al-Shahir had cleverly picked his American cover name at random from a telephone book. He was now known as John Smith. That was much better than the first name he had cleverly picked at random out of the phone book. His contact in the radical al-Khobar Martyrdom Brigade had read him the riot act when Faysal al-Shahir had requested a false driver's license and credit cards under the name Jiffy Lube.

But that teeny mistake had been months ago. Faysal had learned much about fitting in since then.

He had been forced to shave his beard. His dark hair had been colored with blond highlights. Gone were his midnight-black eyes, disguised with blue contact lenses. His forearms had five-o'clock shadow from daily shaving.

Even Shahir's clothing had been Americanized. His first week in the hated den of vipers that was the devil West, Faysal had been delighted to find a store that sold typical American clothes at a price that would not break his allowance. His first trip there he had bought a garbage bag full of beautiful clothes. Now, months later, decked out in his Salvation Army Thrift Store finery, Faysal al-Shahir was as wholly inconspicuous as the next puke-green leisure-suited, bell-bottomed American flight-school instructor.

Although day had bled away, the rim of the twilight sky was still colored in shades of pinkish gray. It was out of the gloaming that the plane finally appeared.

"They are here," Faysal announced in Arabic. Three other men had been sitting on wooden crates inside the door of the hangar. Like Faysal, they were dressed in decadent Western garb. With fat lapels on ghastly colored polyesters, they looked like a 1970s prom band.

At Faysal's announcement, the men hurried outside.

It took several more minutes for the plane to reach the airport. By the time the Cessna came in for a landing, shades of gray had seeped into enveloping blackness. In darkness, guided only by soft runway lights, the plane touched down with a shriek of rubber. It sped toward them.

Faysal offered a wicked grin. "It begins," he said. He was turning to roll the hangar doors wide when one of his companions spoke.

"What is that?" the man hissed.

Faysal glanced back. The man who had spoken was pointing a wholly inconspicuous, mood-ring-disguised finger down the runway.

The Cessna was rolling toward them, slowing as it came.

When Faysal saw what his associate was pointing at, his eyes grew so wide he nearly popped his blue contacts.

A man had appeared from the dark woods next to the plane. He loped along in the wake of the small aircraft.

Faysal felt his stomach tighten.

"Who is that?" he demanded, wheeling on the others.

"I do not know," his men replied in chorus. Faysal looked from the men to the runway. The stranger was gaining on the Cessna.

"Should we shoot him?" one man asked. Rifles and handguns were already being raised. "No!" Faysal snapped. "We cannot risk hitting the plane. Besides, are you forgetting there are houses beyond the woods? We cannot draw the authorities to us. Not now."

Light from the plane and runway enabled Faysal to glimpse the stranger's face. It was cast in cruel shades. Above high cheekbones, the eyes were blacksmeared sockets. It was more a vengeful skull than a human face.

He ran with a gliding ease that seemed slow, but which propelled him forward ever faster. As Faysal watched, the stranger caught up to the left wing. Hands attached to abnormally thick wrists reached out for the shuddering tip.

"What is he doing?" asked a fearful voice in Arabic.

"It does not matter," Faysal hissed.

Faysal's mind was finding focus. All was not lost. After all, this was just one man. He was certainly not from the American government. The United States came at you as polite agents in suits who worried about search warrants and due process and extending civil liberties to terrorist noncitizens. They fretted over how their behavior would look to Amnesty International, the CBS evening news and the editorial board of the New York Times. Real U.S. government agents were so panicked about doing what all these groups considered to be the right thing that they forgot that the right thing first and foremost was protecting their fellow countrymen from maniacs who would blow up buildings and murder innocent Americans.

No, Faysal knew with growing certainty, this man running toward them up the runway and about to touch the tip of the Cessna's wing-heaven knew what he intended to do once he reached it-was not with the United States government. He was just an average American. And in this holy war, all Americans were targets.

"He is just some harmless fool," Faysal said. "When he gets close enough that there is no risk of hitting the plane, shoot him. Use a silencer. We will dispose of the body in the woods."

Faysal tightened his jaw, which, despite a morning ritual of Nair and painful home-hair-removal strips, was still speckled with the dark stubble of a Riyadh street beggar.

Faysal was certain all would still go exactly according to plan. He was certain of this straight up until the moment the running stranger ripped the wing off the Cessna.

The cluster of Arabs near the hangar blinked, stunned.

It was true. Their eyes had not lied.

The stranger's fingers had seemed to barely brush the surface of the wing. With a shriek of metal, it tore away from the main body, leaving ragged strips on the fuselage.

As the gathered men watched in growing shock, the wing and its suddenly dead engine fell back on the runway. The Cessna, coasting forward with one wing engine, began to spin away from Faysal and the rest.

"What manner of man is this who can tear a plane apart with bare hands?" one of the men near the hangar breathed.

Faysal barely heard. He was listening to a new sound.

Over the crashing of the tumbling wing and the spluttering of the Cessna's one dying engine, Faysal al-Shahir heard a terrible sound that froze his very marrow. It was the sound of a man whistling. Strong and confident, it carried across the small airport.

During his time in America, Faysal had deliberately stayed out of the sun to keep his skin as light as possible. But at this moment, that particular precaution proved unnecessary. As he watched the plane roll out of control and heard the first strains of that sweet, terrifying song, the color drained from the face of Faysal al-Shahir, leaving behind a sheet of ghostly white.

"That is no man," Faysal whispered with certainty, his voice laced with doom.

Faysal al-Shahir knew well of Heaven. For their coming sacrifice on Earth, he and his fellows in the Martyrdom Brigade had been promised an eternity of palaces and plentiful concubines in the next life. And Faysal knew equally of Hell, home of torment for the unworthy. For its wealth and power in this world, America had made a pact with Satan. And before Faysal was the proof.

For many months, throughout the al-Khobar movement there had been rumors of an agent from Satan's realm who had come to Earth. America's unholy bargain with the prince of the underworld had come with a protector, a creature in the shape of a man who struck without warning and slaughtered without mercy. On the soil of Asia and Europe and America had this creature trodden. And death had followed.

While the troops grew fearful, the al-Khobar leadership tried to squelch these tales of the unstoppable devil who wielded an invisible sword in the name of the hated West. Faysal had never believed the stories. Until this night.

When the awful melody started-the whistling song described by witnesses to horrors beyond human comprehension-Faysal knew with certainty that it was all true. And if rumor could be trusted, no force of man could stop this creature. Death was coming for them all.

Helpless in the chilly Arkansas night, Faysal al-Shahir could only stand and listen to the approaching song of America's Hell-summoned demon.