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Warren Murphy: Dr Quake

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Dr Quake: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Forber isn't a mad scientist, he's a tectonic technician with a touch for terror who goes by the name "Dr. Quake". California's touchy San Andreas Fault is in danger of being professionally provoked. But it's not Dr. Quake's fault, for someone has split with his earthquake machine. If this dastardly deviant doesn't get a million dollars in cold hard cash he is going to shake down Southern California for a whole lot more. Luckily, shakedowns and natural disasters are just what the doctor ordered for Remo Williams, Korean death master Chiun's trained killing machine, because when it comes to finding weapons of mass destruction, it takes one to find one. After our Destroyer sifts through the blackmail and terror it's the pompous perpetrator who won't be left standing.

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"I did not know she said something, man." The voices were the sing-song clipped British of the Caribbean, the remnant of a not altogether good colonialism which was not altogether bad, either. The Caribbean seemed to be divorced from normal morality.

"About today and the venture."

"You didn't say, Rufus, about today. You didn't say the old lady of the hill said something about today."

"What she said doesn't matter."

Remo was sure Rufus now regretted bringing it up. No matter. All their regrets would be settled shortly. The island smelled of the rich plants. You could taste the plant oxygen in the air. Was that the plane? He didn't want to wait all night.

"What did she say about today, Rufus?"

"Not to worry your mind about it, man. It will be a bit of all right."

"Rufus, you tell me now, or I am getting in the truck, my truck, and going back home with my truck. I'll leave you and your goods here on the cliff, a good day's walk back to the city."

"She said all would be well, friend."

"You're lying."

"All right, man. I tell you the truth now and you'll run like a baby girl."

"I am not a coward. Talk."

Nice going, Rufus, thought Remo. He hated it when he had to go after one here and another there. He liked them kept together. Keep 'em together by pride, Rufus baby. Like the Marines.

"Well, friend, the old lady said that should we go on today's venture, we will meet a force from the east, kinda like what they call an Eastern god, against whom no single man can stand. Is what she said, all right."

There was laughter near the truck. Remo felt good.

"Oh, Rufus. You are a bit of a joker, aren't you. Hah, hah."

"I mean it, man. She said we're gonna see something fearsome. A man so fast no man can see him."

The other man laughed also.

"Well, I'm glad to see you're not scared," came Rufus' voice. "I'm glad to see my quid went for nothing for the reading. She came up with the black stone of death over the green stones of life, she did. You can wager that one, man."

The laughter subsided. The sound got louder. The single-engine Beechcraft, on its precarious way from Mexico, would be landing soon. The pilot and its passenger had made a little mistake. They had made the kind of mistake one does not make if one intends to continue to successfully import heroin. They talked.

Oh, the conversation was casual and it was just a tentative offer to sell. But from that tentative offer to sell came the place. Then someone else deduced the time, the little plane was seen taking off and it was all put together into a telephone call, so here was Remo Williams sunning himself, listening to the soothing, sing-song talk of the Islands.

Here was Remo Williams, trained for nearly a decade as no Westerner had ever been trained, to do one thing better that any Westerner ever did before. To kill. With his hands. With his mind. With his body. Trained until he became something else.

Here was a planeload of men thinking the heroin they carried would get them maybe five to ten years if they had a bad lawyer or failed to buy favor from a judge. That is, if they were caught.

Well, there were other organizations, besides the courts, that dealt with crime. Organizations that thought maybe it was better that someone who imports heroin shouldn't. Organizations that thought that it was better that an importer die than a child.

All of which boiled down to upstairs telling Remo they wanted a simple heroin pop. Only with this heroin pop, you didn't pop your skin, you popped a supplier. Remo had been making these random pops for almost a year now. In between the big assignments. Like reading stupid geology books. He had been told that was a big assignment.

Remo watched the Beechcraft enlarge from a dot to a winged vehicle, going low over the Caribbean to decrease chances of detection. Must be a good navigator. No circling, just an approach. Remo looked at the plane to get the where and the feel of the men in it. Just staring at the white plane bobbing in the wind, an idea occurred to him; he felt immediately ashamed but intended to do it anyway.

He moved into the brush near the edge of the small clearing with the silence of a snake but the quickness of a cat. There he coiled. A small grunting toad made its way in front of his nose, then squatted, contemplating its relationship to the earth. The plane bobbed in, touched wheels, then up, then touched wheels again.

And Remo was off, the center of his body moving forward like a line drive to center field, his feet barely touching the sun-dried grass, only skimming it, until his hands reached the tail of the plane and he was running behind the plane, hands on its tail, feet skimming the ground.

The fumes from the engine up front whipped his face. He lowered the tail as he stayed with the bobbing, bouncing plane. Up ahead at the far end of the field, only about forty yards away now, was the truck and the three men. The pilot cut the engine and began applying the brakes. But as Remo pushed down on the tail hard, the nose of the plane bobbed up again, lifting the wheels and making the brakes useless. Then the front of the plane hit again and Remo bobbed it up again, and then just a slight push of the tail to the left, making the plane go right. It was really very easy and he guided the front of the plane into the truck, catching one man with the propeller. The other two were now attempting to aim their guns. From the inside of the cockpit, Remo heard two French voices shrieking. He imagined the pilot was being sworn at.

He would save the contents of the plane for last. Remo skipped behind the right wing of the plane. A young man in white shirt and trousers lay on the ground aiming a carbine at his groin. Remo bounded around the wingtip in a smooth motion, then came down on the man from behind, driving a thumb through the man's eye and into his brain.

Another man in whites dropped his rifle and stared disbelieving. He did this for only a fraction of a second since one cannot disbelieve for very long when one undergoes a frontal lobotomy, performed with the driving shards of one's own skull, propelled by a short, un-seeable, knuckle blow to the head. The propeller had done less damage.

Remo snapped open the cockpit door above him and was in the cockpit in one motion. One man was still yelling in French at the pilot. Both carried light submachine guns strapped to their laps. Their guns stayed strapped to their laps, which was more than their heads did to their necks.

"Welcome, our French friends, bringing joy for needles," Rerno said. The passenger, who was nearer to Remo, had a well-manicured Van Dyke. It was destinguished and gray. Then it was red. The deep perceptive gray eyes became red also. They were where the man used to do his seeing, before Remo loosened his spinal column at the neck.

Remo saw the pilot's eyes widen as he watched the slashing hands butcher his passenger's face.

"It's right behind the seat. You can have all of it. I will fly you anywhere Monsieur. Anywhere."

'You're only saying that because you love me," Remo said and gave the pilot's head a healthy little snap. So much for the plane. Then back outside to where the man lay in pain from the propeller goring.

His hair was graying and Remo could see he was facing death with nobility, a strength that could only make a man think of royalty.

He could barely speak. But he gasped, "You are the one the old lady predicted, are you not?"

Reno shrugged. "Maybe next time, if you pay for advice, you'll take it."

"You are the one."

"And you must be Rufus. I was listening to you."

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