Walking Wounded td-74

by Warren Murphy

  "What you mean?"

  "I know this guy. He's dead." Lan said nothing.

  When Remo reached the rear deck of the tank, the captain motioned for them to turn around. Remo did as he was told. Lan stood beside him. She trembled.

  The cocking of the pistol told them they were going to be unceremoniously executed.

  Remo started to react. But Lan was already in motion. She screamed. Not in fear, but in a high, keening rage. The Vietnamese captain, not expecting the sound, was paralyzed with shock.

  Lan fell on him, yanking at his pistol. Remo swept in from the opposite side. He knocked the captain over with a body block. The captain rolled off the tank and scrambled for cover under the tank chassis.

  Lan had his pistol. She was sweeping the sides of the tank with its muzzle. She fired once, hitting nothing. Remo took the gun from her. "Forget it!"

  "I will kill him!" Lan screamed.

  "Not possible. You can't kill him. He's already dead!" Lan looked at Remo doubtfully.

  "Come on," Remo said, shoving her into the turret. He climbed down after her and pulled the hatch shut, heat or no heat. He felt an almost supernatural chill course through his body.

  "Why you afraid?" Lan asked as Remo started the tank moving again. "Why you not stay and kill him?"

  "It's a long story."

  "We have long ride."

  "I already killed that guy."

  "When?"

  Remo considered in silence. Finally he said, "Good question. I don't know. Seems like two, maybe three months ago. Maybe longer."

  "He not dead now."

  "No, he's not. But I killed him during the war. You bien?"

  "No. Not understand."

  "I killed him during the war. In 1967. And he pops up again, not only alive, but not any older. Certainly not fifteen or twenty years older."

  "You not believe Lan again?"

  "I don't know what to believe. I can't think of any sensible explanation."

  "Maybe that man ghost?"

  "He felt solid enough," Remo said, straining at the periscope. It showed unobstructed road ahead.

  "Then maybe you are the ghost," Lan said.

  And again Remo felt that supernatural chill ripple through his bones.

  Chapter 15

  The Master of Sinanju had endured the indignity of the cramped cabin. He ignored the stale, tinny air and the offensive odors of meat that were inescapable in the bowels of the American submarine. The journey was long, arduous, and boring. But it was necessary if he was to be reunited with his son. Chiun was resolved to endure it all. Later he would visit his grievances upon Remo. Let Remo apologize for them.

  But the Master of Sinanju would not endure the indignity of lack of respect.

  "Look, grandpa," said the American sailor. "The water is only two feet deep on this bay. Just step off the raft and wade the rest of the way."

  "I will not," Chiun snapped. "My kimono will be wetted. "

  "Hey, just lift your skirts," the sailor said.

  "And expose my nakedness before the Vietnamese barbarians?"

  "You're not Vietnamese?" a second sailor asked in surprise.

  He was slapped for his impudence. The slap was hard. "Oooww! What'd you do that for?"

  "I will not be insulted by my inferiors."

  "No offense. But when a U. S. submarine carries an Oriental all the way from Tokyo to Vietnam for a night dropoff, we kinda assume we're dropping off a Vietnamese. "

  "Vietnamese are inferior."

  "To what?"

  "To me."

  The sailors exchanged uncomprehending shrugs. "Our orders are not to touch sand," the first sailor said. "We brought you into shallow water. Now all you have to do is wade."

  "No," said Chiun, standing up in the inflated raft. He folded his arms resolutely. He was determined.

  "Hey, sit down. If we're seen, it could mean an international incident. "

  "I will accept an international incident," Chiun said firmly. "I will not wade in dirty Vietnamese water."

  "Looks clean to me."

  "It is dark. How can you tell it is not dirty?"

  "How can you tell that it is?" the first sailor countered.

  "It smells Vietnamese."

  The two sailors looked at one another and shrugged again.

  "How about we sneak in just a tad closer?" the first one asked the other.

  Chiun's face relaxed slightly.

  "But we can't touch sand," they repeated in one voice.

  "Agreed," said the Master of Sinanju. And he stepped to the bow of the raft and tucked his long-nailed fingers into his kimono sleeves. The sea breeze toyed with his facial hair and his clear hazel eyes held a satisfied light.

  The circumstances might not be ideal, but this was a historic moment. No Master of Sinanju had stepped on Vietnamese soil in many centuries. He wondered if there would be a welcoming committee. But then he realized with a droop of his lips that probably there would not be one. These Americans were so obsessed with secrecy, they probably hadn't informed the rulers in Hanoi that a Master of Sinanju was secretly being deposited upon their very shore.

  When the raft was a yard from shore, the sailors dug in their paddles and stopped it dead.

  "Think you can jump the last couple of feet?"

  Chiun turned on them haughtily. "Jump?"

  "Yeah, we can't touch sand. Orders. "

  "How about water?" asked Chiun, stubbing the raft with a toenail. The gray plastic burst. The raft began shipping water.

  "Hey! What happened?" the second sailor demanded as water poured over his lap.

  The Master of Sinanju stepped for shore and landed in a swirl of kimono skirts. He faced the disconcerted sailors, who were so afraid of being seen they sat hip-deep in Vietnamese water, their raft a flat plastic rug under them. He beamed.

  "Do not worry," he told them. "So long as you remain seated thus, you will not touch sand and your superiors will not be displeased."

  "Too late for that now. We gotta drag this thing onshore to patch it up."

  "Inform your captain that I will signal him when I am ready to depart these shores," said Chiun, walking away.

  "When will that be?" the first sailor asked as he got to his feet, dripping.

  "Why, when I am finished, of course."

  Although no Master of Sinanju had trafficked with the Vietnamese in centuries, Chiun was welcomed in the first village he happened upon. The welcome was abject. Chiun had to dismember only two political officers in front of the simple peasants before they fell on their knees and bumped their heads in the dirt in the traditional full bow reserved for emperors and other high dignitaries.

  The village elder, who was nearly Chiun's age, invited the Master of Sinanju to sup with them. And Chiun accepted a bowl of boiled rice laced with fish heads. He smiled in gratitude, but when no one was looking, he plucked the fish heads out and placed them under a stone. Only the Vietnamese would eat the worst part of the fish. Probably swallowed the eyes too.

  When the simple meal was concluded, Chiun explained why he was here.

  "I seek a white man. His name is unimportant, for what matter the names of whites?"

  And the village elder's eyes crinkled in agreement. He, too, had no use for whites, and said so.

  Having come to an understanding, Chiun asked if there was gossip of a white American having returned to Vietnam.

  The village elder pretended to ponder Chiun's request, and made a show of searching his memory. But Chiun could tell by the gleam in his eyes that he had the answer at once. But the night was young and why speed through gossip when, with some thoughtful pauses, socializing could be stretched far, and more rice wine could be consumed?

  Chiun waved the proffered cup of rice wine aside, pretending that he was not thirsty.

  At length the elder, whose name was Ngo, spoke. "There are stories of a white American causing havoc along the Kampuchean border. No one can catch this American. They seek and seek him. But he is not
to be found. No one knows his purpose here. Some say openly that it is a prelude to the return of the American military. "

  "You believe this?"

  "No. The Americans are long gone. Although I would not be displeased at their return. Things are not good under the Communists."

  "European ideas are always backward," said Chiun. And Ngo nodded sagely. It was good when two wise men came together like this, he thought, even though one of them was a mere Korean.

  After more talk, Chiun declined the further hospitality of the village. He left Ngo at the edge of the village, saying, "I hope you will not be troubled by the dismembering of the soldiers of your village."

  "They sneak food and try to take advantage of the women. They will not be missed by us, and tomorrow there will be two more just like them, wearing the same clothes and spouting the same revolutionary nonsense. "

  "Perhaps when the Communists die off, three or four centuries hence," said Chiun, "one of your descendants may call upon one of mine for service. The era of the Ammamese kings ended young and with its true glory unfulfilled. "

  "I will pass your wish along to my grandson, and he to his," promised Ngo.

  And Chiun took his leave of the village, content that he had planted the seeds for future employment in a market long disowned by his recent ancestors. Perhaps, he thought, some good might come of Remo's disobedience after all.

  Chapter 16

  Night fell with the guillotine suddenness of Vietnam.

  Remo had left the main road. He jockeyed the tank over a low hill and onto a cratered road going north. From what Lan had told him, they were working up the Vietnamese-Cambodian border. Remo still had no idea where he was or what he should be doing. They had found a manioc field at midday, and cooked the sweet-potato-like vegetables in a Vietnamese pith helmet, but even a full stomach hadn't cleared Remo's mind.

  The area was alive with patrols. But most of them ignored the tank, thinking it occupied by Vietnamese. Once, they were sniped at by peasants in black pajamas, who had only pistols and bolt-action rifles. They looked like VC, but Lan had explained that they were Cambodian peasants who fought the Vietnamese.

  The whole world had been turned upside down. And Remo didn't know where in it he belonged anymore. Lan was driving the tank. Remo was nerve-tired, and took the time to show her how to operate the clanking machine. He curled up in the back and tried to sleep. Lan's whispered call snapped him awake.

  "What?" Remo mumbled. His head felt drowsy.

  "Strange man in middle of road. What I do?"

  "Soldier?"

  "No. Old man."

  "Go around him."

  "Cannot. Him block whole road."

  "The entire road?" Remo repeated incredulously. "Who is he-old King Kong?"

  "I try to turn. He step in way. I go other way. He always there."

  "I'll scare him off," said Remo, grabbing his AK-47 and climbing up the turret. He popped the hatch and poked his head out.

  The tank clattered to a halt.

  The man couldn't have been much more than five feet tall. He was old, with a shiny head decorated with little puffs of hair over each ear. He wore a gaudy skirted outfit that Remo had never seen on a Vietnamese before. Lan poked her head up beside Remo's.

  "Is he a priest or something?" Remo asked quietly.

  "Not know. Never see one like him."

  "Tell him to get out of the way."

  "Step aside, old man," Lan called in Vietnamese. The old Oriental rattled back words in sharp Vietnamese.

  "What'd he say?" Remo asked.

  "He want to know if we've seen an American." Remo pulled his helmet lower over his head.

  "Ask him why."

  "Why you seek an American?" Lan asked.

  The old man squeaked back and Lan translated. "He say that his business, not ours."

  "Tell him to get out of the way, or be run over," Remo said, disappearing below. He got behind the handlebarlike lateral controls and started the tank up. He inched it forward.

  The old man stepped toward him. Remo shifted the tank right. The old Oriental shifted in tandem. "What's his problem?" Remo muttered.

  Lan called down, "He says he wants a ride. He's tired of walking."

  "Tell him to screw off."

  "Tell him to what?"

  "Never mind," Remo sighed, grabbing up his rifle. "There's only one way to convince him we mean business. "

  Remo popped the driver's hatch and stepped to the front of the tank. The old Oriental stood, arms tucked in voluminous sleeves, directly in front and beneath him.

  Remo pointed the rifle at his stern, wrinkled face. "Get lost," he said.

  The Oriental's face suddenly lost its impassive demeanor.

  "You," he shouted in squeaky, angry English. "Liar! Deceiver! You would do this to your own father? How could you leave me after I gave my word to your emperor?"

  Surprised, Remo lowered his rifle.

  "Who's he talking to, you or me?" he asked Lan.

  "Not know."

  "I think it's you. He says he's your father. "

  "I would not have that . . . that white Vietnamese for an offspring," the old Oriental snapped. "You are quite bad enough. Have you taken leave of your senses? Look at you. That weapon. And a uniform? Really!"

  "I think he talk to you," Lan said. "He look at you."

  "You know me?" Remo asked.

  "Has grief aged me so much that you do not recognize your own father, Remo?"

  "Hey! How do you know my name?"

  "Smith is greatly displeased. He has sent me to punish you for your vileness."

  Remo snapped the AK-47 level.

  "I don't know any Smith. And whatever gook trick you're trying to pull, pal, it won't work. Now get out of the way."

  "You will need more than that clumsy boom stick to protect you from my wrath, insolent one." And the old man lunged at Remo.

  Remo tried to duck out of the way. He didn't want to shoot the crazy old man. But he quickly regretted his hesitation.

  The rifle was snapped from his hands and sent flying. Remo put up his fists. A steel-hard finger stabbed him in the stomach and he doubled over and rolled off the tank.

  The pain was worse than anything he had ever felt. Remo was certain the old gook had slipped a knife into his gut. It hurt like hell.

  The Master of Sinanju watched his pupil writhe on the ground. Remo did not curse him or complain as he usually did. In truth, he looked in fear of his life. Chiun frowned.

  Then Remo, trying to crawl away, encountered his rifle. He snapped it around and pointed it at Chiun. And in Remo's eyes there was hatred mixed with fear. He fired.

  Chiun sidestepped the first bullet. "Remo!"

  "Die!" Remo said, firing again. This time he was on automatic and the Master of Sinanju had to leap up and over him. He landed behind Remo.

  Remo was looking around frantically.

  "Lan!" Remo cried desperately. "Where'd he go?"

  "Behind you," the girl cried, pointing.

  Remo spun around. He opened up again, and then the Master of Sinanju realized what it must be. Of course. It was Remo's turn. Very well, he thought to himself, two may play games.

  The Master of Sinanju moved like an eel, flashing to the right of the bullet track and then cutting across it so swiftly that he passed between two bullets. It was too easy. The rifle was filled with tracer bullets, making the bullet stream look like green fireflies spitting toward him.

  The rifle ran empty. "Shit!" Remo swore.

  "Are you quite through?" Chiun demanded, walking up to Remo. Remo fought to get to his feet. He clutched his stomach with one hand and tried to swipe at Chiun with the other. He grabbed the rifle by the stock. The blow was weak, the form ridiculous. Chiun snatched the rifle.

  "Now it is my turn," he told Remo. He called up to Lan. You, girl. I will need more bullets. Throw them to me."

  "Are you crazy, you old buzzard?" Remo demanded. "She's with me."

  "Buzzard!"
Chiun's cheeks puffed out in rage. "How dare you speak to your father so?"

  "Father! You are crazy. I never saw you before." Chiun stopped. His beard trembled. His clear hazel eyes narrowed.

  "You deny me?"

  "Call it what you want."

  "Never before has a pupil denied his Master."

  "His what?"

  It was then Chiun understood. It was instantly clear to him.

  "I am Chiun, Master of Sinanju," he said formally.

  "Never heard of you or it."

  "And who is this girl?" Chiun asked.

  "A friend of mine."

  "Your taste in females is as desolate as ever."

  "Up yours."

  "I will ignore that," Chiun told him evenly.

  "Ignore what you want, Uncle Ho. Just get out of the way. I have places to go."

  "How can you go to those places if you do not know where they are?"

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Because if you knew where you were going, you would be there by now."

  "What do you know about where I'm going?"

  "I know because I know where you have been." Remo climbed back into the tank. Lan came to help him when she saw he was having trouble moving. He was breathing raggedly.

  "Do you not want your boom stick, O warrior?" Chiun asked him.

  "Keep it, Ho. I have more just like it."

  The Master of Sinanju took the rifle by muzzle and stock and brought his hands together. The rifle splintered its entire length. Even the metal splintered.

  Remo turned at the shrill, tormented sound. His eyes widened at the sight of the old Oriental wiping his hands clean. The ruins of the Kalashnikov settled at his feet, barely recognizable.

  "How'd you do that?"

  "With ease," said Chiun, beaming. "It is called Sinanju."

  "Is it like karate?" Remo asked.

  "It is far superior. With Sinanju, I could reduce your tank machine to powder."

  "No shit," Remo said skeptically.

  "Indeed," Chiun replied haughtily. "I could teach you, perhaps?"

  "Don't need it," Remo said, letting Lan help him into the driver's bucket. "I've got a right hook that can fell a tree." Why did he keep talking to the crazy old man?

  "I could use a ride, for I am old and my feet tired."

  "I'm sure there'll be a bus later on," Remo said. He reached up to pull the hatch closed after him. Something made him hesitate. He looked at the old Oriental who looked like Ho Chi Minh in drag. He didn't look familiar. But something kept him talking, something instinctive and familiar.