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Warren Murphy: Survival Course

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Warren Murphy Survival Course

Survival Course: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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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...

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"Word is, you Maoist throwbacks are in league with the Colombian cartels," Remo suggested.

"We spit on all narco-trafficantes!" he said, suiting the words to deed.

Remo complimented Cesar on his power to expectorate and went on, "That's not what I hear around the of campfire."

"The narco-trafficantes made this valley the lawless place that it is," the comandante admitted grudgingly. "Perfect for us. And the campesinos-those who grow the coca leaf-their interests must be protected."

"I'll take that as an admission of guilt," Remo said. "Next question. Pay close attention. This is the big one."

"si?"

"The Colombians want the President killed before the summit. Some say you boys took the assignment."

"We do not need the Colombians' filthy drug money to bring down the American President. He is our enemy too."

"Do I detect another si?" Remo asked archly.

"Si. I mean, no. We were offered this thing. We turned it down."

Remo's fingers took the man's throat again.

"Not what I heard."

Cesar's eyes widened. "Very well," he said. "We were prepared to do what they wished. But the Colombians changed their minds. They hired others. I do not know who."

"You can do better than that," Remo prompted.

"'I truly do not know who," Cesar protested. "It is not my concern. I am a revolutionary, not a gossip."

"Great epitaph," said Remo Williams, who believed the man, and, having what he wanted, drove the heel of his hand into the Senderista comandante's face. The face was instantly transformed into a flat membrane in which faint hollows were the memory of the organs of sight, smell, and taste. There was no blood. It was all collecting behind the gravellike curtain of the facial bones, many of which had been pushed back into the brain with fatal consequences. Cesar the Senderista fell forward, his featureless face striking the floor with a gravelly beanbag sound.

On his way out, Remo picked up the can of Inca Cola and threw it back into the house with the rest of the trash. He smiled, even though it was a long, long walk back to Uchiza. He had done his part to keep the Peruvian rain forest free of litter. It was a good feeling.

Hours later, looking dusty but unwilted in the early-morning heat, Remo stepped out of the jungle to the sprawling town of Uchiza. It was a flat goldrush-atmosphere boomtown, thanks to the local coca growers. The so-called main drag was lined with boxy stucco hovels. There were a lot of house trailers too. Despite its flat primitiveness, it boasted a small airport.

Remo walked past the stalls where kerchiefed Peruvians sold black-market sunglasses and videotapes celebrating the exploits of high-roller drug kingpins-culture heroes to these simple destitute people by virtue of the fact that they brought money into the local economy. Patrolling Peruvian Army soldiers watched him with sullen interest.

Uchiza's only hotel looked like it had been abandoned, but the satellite dish atop it was shiny and new. Remo walked straight for it. Then, suddenly remembering something, he stopped and accosted one of the stall vendors.

"Trash bags, senor?" he asked. "Say, this big?" He spread his hands to indicate the length of an average Peruvian guerrilla.

The vendor happily produced a yellow box of trash bags. When Remo offered him American dollars instead of Peruvian currency, he dug out six more.

"One box is plenty," Remo said, making the exchange. "There were only two of them. Gracias."

He entered the hotel room minutes later without knocking or using the key. There had been no key. It was that kind of hotel.

Inside, Remo almost tripped over a body. It was one of the Shining Path guerrillas who had been sent back to verify his identity as an American spy.

The guerrilla lay on his back, his arms splayed, his teeth showing in a grimace or possibly a fixed smile. Remo decided to give the corpse the benefit of the doubt and smiled back.

"Nice to see you again too," he said pleasantly, breaking open the yellow box and withdrawing a green plastic trash bag. He snapped the mouth open and, kneeling, drew it over the corpse's head and on down to the dusty booted feet.

He noticed with a frown that the feet didn't quite fit.

"Wrong size," he muttered. So he sheered off both feet at the ankles with the side of one hand, tossed them in, and closed the bag with a twister seal.

Standing up, Remo looked for the second corpse, which he knew would be there.

"Must be in the next room," he said, and headed for the room from which the sound of stagy British voices was coming.

There, a TV set flickered. A small wispy figure in a purple-and-yellow silk kimono sat on the floor regarding the screen, paying no heed to Remo's entrance or the body under the table set with bottles or complimentary Electro agua purificada.

"How's it going, Little Father?" Remo asked pleasantly.

" I am not cleaning them up," Chiun, reigning Master of Sinanju, said querulously. ,

"Don't sweat it. They're mine. I sent them here."

"I know. They rudely entered just as Derek was breaking the harsh news of his secret past to Lady Asterly. "

"You know," Remo said in a cheerful voice, stopping to cram the second corpse into a fresh bag, " I never thought I'd see the day when you returned to watching soaps."

"These are not mere American soaps, which wallow in filth and sexual perversion," Chiun said. He lifted one desiccated finger to the ceiling. It was tipped by an impossibly long nail. "These are the finest of British dramas. Would that your backward land still produced such richness as this."

"Satellite feed from America coming in clear?"

"It serves." Chiun's eyes never left the screen. The back of his head was shiny with age. Two white clouds of hair floated over his ears.

"Good. Because Smith must be paying a fortune in satellite time to feed you today's crop of British soaps. "

" I am worth it."

"Do tell."

"Without me, Harold Smith would not now be poised on the brink of greatness."

Remo looked up from his work. "What greatness is that?"

"Stepping forward as the true ruler of America."

"Got news for you. Smith only runs CURE. He has no designs on the Oval Office."

"Then I fear for the future of your country, now that the President of Vice is about to assume the Eagle Throne."

"What are you talking about?"

"The President of Vice," Chiun repeated. "The one everyone is ashamed of, whom they keep from view like an idiot child. He now rules your country."

"Where did you get that?"

"From Smith. He called an hour ago to inform me that your President had perished at the hands of villains."

"What!"

Chapter 3

Abu Al-Kalbin watched as the navigation lights of Air Force One plummeted in the darkness of the Mexican night.

"We have done it!" he croaked, holding his kaffiyeh close to his mouth to keep out the putrid smell of the puddle slowly collecting between his squatting legs.

"It is trying to stabilize!" Jalid cried, pointing.

Air Force One dipped, then rose as if fighting to stay in the air. They could not see the damaged engine nacelle, but they spied a sputtering flare that told them of the damage their Stinger had inflicted.

"No," Abu Al-Kalbin said hollowly. "It is falling. It is doomed." The enormity of what he had done was sinking in. He felt like an ant that had brought down a tiger.

Air Force One went in. Its engines continued straining until it pancaked to the ground and the sparks spurted from its squealing underbelly. They cut off as if suddenly depowered.

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