Walking Wounded td-74

by Warren Murphy

  Dick Youngblood came up behind them, an AK-47 clutched in his big hands.

  "You got him, huh? Guess you'll want me to polish him off for you?"

  "What do you mean?" Remo asked.

  "I looked for your girlfriend, Remo. I found her." Remo's face went stony. His mouth parted. Nothing came out.

  "She was in his personal interrogation room. Looks like he tortured her before he shot her. I'm sorry, man."

  Remo's lips formed the name Lan. The sound wasn't even a breath. Woodenly he turned to face Captain Dai. Still clutching himself, Dai looked up at Remo with a face that possessed all the agony of twisting, hot metal. His rage radiated like spilt slag.

  Remo reached down and took Captain Dai by his collar. He lifted him off his feet effortlessly. Captain Dai hung with his boots not touching the ground. Remo cocked a fist. His fist hovered before Dai's face, quivering as if all of Remo's energy was being focused into it.

  When Remo let fly, there came a crack like a baseball bat connecting for a home run, and suddenly Captain Dai's head was no longer there. His sheared stalk of a neck pumped like a scarlet fountain.

  Remo dropped the corpse. There was no sign anywhere of the head. Then, out of the, bush, came a series of noises like a coconut falling through heavy foliage. It ended with a soft thunk. Then there was silence.

  Dick Youngblood disappeared around a corner and got audibly sick.

  Chiun examined Remo's fist. There wasn't a mark on it. Not even a drop of blood.

  "Better," he said firmly. "I thought you couldn't kill him."

  "I remembered something."

  "Yes?"

  "The North Vietnamese never signed the Geneva Accords."

  "Is that all?"

  "What else should I remember?"

  "We will find that out later," said Chiun abruptly. "Come. We must leave this place."

  Chiun led them to the bush where the American POW's and the Amerasians were hiding. Youngblood cut off their questions and got them organized.

  "Listen up. The old guy's gonna lead us out of here. Don't give him no shit. Got that?"

  "We cannot walk," Chiun told them. "We must have a vehicle."

  "I'll grab a tank," Remo said. Without another word, he disappeared.

  The tank came lumbering up moments later. Remo's head stuck up from the driver's hatch.

  When Dick Youngblood saw it, he started swearing. "Williams, you idiot!" he yelled. "That's the T-54. The cannon ain't real."

  "Someone ran off with the other one," Remo told him.

  "Well, it's better than nothing," Youngblood grumbled. "Let's hope we don't have to do no fighting." Those who couldn't fit inside the tank clung to the deck. Chiun took a commanding position in the turret hatch.

  He pointed south and called, "Forward!" Then he folded his arms imperiously.

  Remo looked up at him sourly. "Who died and left you in charge, Chiun?"

  "I am merely pointing the way to the waiting submarine," Chiun said defensively. Then, reacting, he added, "Chiun! You called me Chiun!"

  "Of course," Remo said blandly. "That's your name, isn't it?"

  Chiun eyed the back of Remo's head wonderingly. Along the way, they came upon the elephant. The elephant was calmly tramping a circle in the middle of the jungle path. The circle was greenish and soaked in red, like a blanket that had been drenched in cranberry juice. Except that from the edges of the mushy patch human hands and limbs protruded. They did not move. They were attached to a communal blob.

  Chiun whispered and the elephant fell in behind the tank.

  "Do not worry," Chiun said when the prisoners started to scramble for the front of the tank in fear. "He is on our side. I told him I would lead him to a nice place if he helped us."

  "You can talk to elephants?" Remo asked.

  "Mostly I listen. This is a very friendly elephant. I found him dragging a cannon. Peasant fighters were flogging him. I needed transportation because you denied me a ride in your tank, and dragging a cannon is a waste of a good elephant. So I liberated him."

  "What's his name?"

  "I call him Rambo."

  "Don't you mean Dumbo?"

  Chiun eyed Remo warily. "Are you certain your memory has not returned?"

  "Why would it do a strange thing like that?" Remo asked innocently.

  Chapter 21

  The defense minister of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam put down the phone and walked back to the tactical table on which a plastic map of Southeast Asia lay flat.

  Grimly he moved a black counter closer to the open sea. In a ragged line behind the counter, many red counters were strewn.

  "They have a destination in mind," he told his top general, the only other man in the Hanoi operations room. "It is either a village or port. If they sought mere escape, they would have fled deeper into Cambodia, not back into Vietnam."

  "A village or seaport on the Gulf of Thailand, obviously," General Trang said. "I will have the entire coast sealed off."

  The defense minister shook his iron-gray head.

  "No, we will let them reach the gulf. It may be that there are American rescue ships waiting off the coast."

  "We could stop them before that, and wring the truth from their weak lips."

  "These red counters," the defense minister said bitterly, "represent the latest Soviet military equipment. Modern tanks, Hind gunships, and self-propelled howitzers. This black counter is an old T-54 with a cannon that cannot even fire. Why do we move the black counter every hour, but every red counter we move into position stops dead?"

  The general blinked. He wondered if the question was a rhetorical one. He decided to answer anyway.

  "Because they have been destroyed, Comrade Defense Minister."

  "Because they have been destroyer," the defense minister said woodenly. "Exactly. Everything we throw at them bogs down or falls from the sky. How is it possible?"

  "I do not know."

  "One tank. One American tourist. A handful of undernourished U.S. prisoners of war and an unknown number of mongrel bui doi armed with assault rifles and limited ammunition. Yet they win."

  General Trang cleared his throat. "I am told they also have an elephant," he ventured lamely.

  The defense minister raised a skeptical eyebrow. He shook his head silently. "This reminds me of the war."

  "Which war?" the general asked reasonably.

  "The war against the Americans."

  "But we won that war."

  "That is what worries me. We were the thorn in the side of the huge military machine. We expected to lose. And because we knew we would fail anyway, we kept fighting, for we had only the choice of victory or death."

  "I do not follow, comrade."

  "We beat the Americans for one fundamental reason. We cared more about winning than they did. But these," he said, tapping the black counter, "are not fighting for the glory of victory. They are fighting for their lives."

  "But this time we are the huge military machine," General Trang protested.

  "Yes. Exactly. That is what worries me. Summon a gunship to take me to the area. I will personally manage the ground campaign," he ordered. "If it is not too late," he added.

  "But...but this is just a skirmish."

  "So were Waterloo, Dien Bien Phu, and Khe Sanh." said the defense minister, picking up the ringing telephone with a distasteful expression, knowing that it would be more bad news. "The Tet offensive was a hundred skirmishes happening at once. None were decisive. In fact we lost most of those skirmishes. Yet it turned the tide against the Americans. I just hope we are not on the wrong side of this particular skirmish." He felt suddenly very old.

  Remo sent the tank into the bush. Its tracks chewed up elephant grass until it reached a tree line. He braked and pulled himself out of the driver's cockpit.

  "Gather up as much foliage as you can to cover the tank," he ordered.

  "You heard the man," Dick Youngblood barked as he wriggled out of the turret. "Let's move, move, mov
e. We ain't home yet."

  The Amerasians got busy. Of the former prisoners of war, all but the ailing Colletta pitched in.

  "You really kept up the discipline," Remo said admiringly as they broke branches and made a pile for the others to carry to the tank.

  Youngblood cracked a wide grin. "You know it. When the last real officer died, morale was bad. That was when I turned into a real hardass. If I caught a man talking Vietnamese, I'd whip his raggedy ass. For a while it was rough on the men. I was pushing 'em one way and the gooks another."

  "What happened?"

  "Everybody found out I was meaner. The gooks started leanin' on me instead of the men, but I could take it. They'd starve me, but I was such a mother I wouldn't lose weight, just to spit them. They'd stick me in that ol' conex and when they'd come to get me out, I'd smile into their ugly faces and say thanks for the ride."

  Remo grinned. "Same old Youngblood."

  "Feel like Oldblood now, Remo. I've been holding out so long that now I can see freedom in sight, I just don't know if I have the strength to make it through the homestretch."

  "Listen. We'll make it. Chiun will see to that."

  "You got a whole new attitude toward ol' Uncle Ho now that we're on the loose."

  "He should be catching up with us any minute," Remo said, looking around. "Listen, do me a favor. Stop calling me Remo."

  "Why? It's your name, ain't it? Or did you forget that too?"

  "I can't explain. And don't use the name in front of the men, either. You and Chiun are the only ones who know who I am. Let's keep it that way."

  "Now, what the hell difference does that make?"

  "A life-or-death difference. Just trust me."

  "Okay, you're the man. Hey, don't this remind you of the time you stole that gook tank and ran it all the way to ... Now, what was the name of that little shithole hamlet?"

  "Phuc Hu."

  "Yeah. That's what we called it, all right. You know, rememberin' you drive that sucker in that day, with our side itching to blow you away thinkin' you was Charlie that was one memory that kept me going all these years. Funny what a man clings to when he's down to zero."

  "I remember Khe Sanh a lot better."

  "Yeah, Khe Sanh. It all changed after that, didn't it? And Tet. You remember Tet?"

  "Yeah," Remo said, searching the road with troubled eyes. "I remember Tet."

  They finished camouflaging the tank. The men began settling down. Remo set two Amerasians on sentry duty because they were fresher.

  "Shit," Youngblood said, sitting down and putting his back against the grass-entangled treads. "Tet. Hey, you remember that cocksucker of a major we had at Khe Sanh? What's-his-name?"

  "You mean Bauer?"

  "Yeah. That was his name. Deke Bauer. Everyone hated him. Meanest sonovabitch I ever met. I used to lie awake in that conex and wonder whatever happened to him. Sometimes I'd make up grisly ways for him to buy it, just to pass the time."

  "He died," Remo said distantly.

  "Our side or theirs?"

  "Neither. He bought it back in the world."

  "The world. Man, I last saw the world when I was twenty. I'm over forty now. Nam sure took a big chunk of this old Leatherneck's life. Wonder if I can hack it back there now."

  Youngblood suddenly looked up at Remo with skeptical eyes. "How'd you know Bauer bought it back in the world? I thought you couldn't remember nothing but Nam."

  Remo didn't answer for the longest time. Then he spoke. "Here comes Chiun. Remember what I said about using my name."

  But Dick Youngblood didn't reply. His eyes were closed and his big bulldog face had settled into sleep. Remo went to greet the Master of Sinanju. Chiun came riding in on the back of his elephant. Chiun tapped the elephant's flank with a short length of bamboo and the elephant stopped and knelt. Chiun dismounted.

  "You did not need to wait," Chiun told him. "Rambo and I would have caught up to you."

  "We need rest," Remo said simply.

  "We need to reach the American submarine," said Chiun. "If it is discovered by the Vietnamese, it may leave without us, and then where would we be?"

  "In Vietnam," Remo said simply. "Where a lot of us have been for a long, long time. Anything else would be a step up. Even dead."

  "You seem more at ease than I have seen you in a while," Chiun pointed out.

  Remo looked away. "Why not? We're almost to the coast. "

  "I mean with me."

  "You got us out. I'm not worried about you anymore."

  "But your face is not entirely free from worry."

  "Don't you think it's time to get rid of the elephant? He's slowing us down."

  "I promised him a nice home when this is over."

  "He won't fit in the submarine."

  "That remains to be seen," Chiun said.

  "Have it your way, Little-" Remo abruptly walked away.

  Chiun bounced after him. "What did you say?"

  "I said have it your way, you little gook," Remo said hotly. "I just don't want my people jeopardized because you insist on having your way about everything. Got that?"

  Chiun stopped in his tracks. "Yes," he said softly. "I have it. I have it perfectly."

  Hours later, a Hind gunship orbited by. It flew higher than the last few, which had all gone down in flames under the concentrated fire of their AK-47's. The tanks had long ago stopped turning up in the road. Not all the machine-gun fire in the world could affect them, but each tank that had gotten in their way had been confronted by the Master of Sinanju. Treads had been popped, cannon bores bent double, and hatches smashed shut. They rolled past each piece of wreckage with impunity.

  "Looks like he ain't sticking around," Youngblood told Remo.

  Remo watched the gunship disappear beyond some hills. "He couldn't have missed spotting the elephant," he replied. "We'd better get on the move again." They pushed south along the completely deserted road. Not even the occasional conical-hatted farmer could be seen.

  Dick Youngblood shoved his head into the driver's pit.

  "They know we're on this road," he whispered. "No doubt about it."

  "What do you think?"

  "There's two ways this could go. One, they've given up and are lettin' us go. The other is that they're massing somewhere ahead for an ambush."

  "The Vietnamese don't know about giving up."

  "Well, there you go," Youngblood said quietly. "Been real nice knowing you, Remo."

  "I've come a long way for you," Remo said. "I'm getting you home."

  "Well, I've been talkin' to your gook friend and he's sayin' there may not be room on the sub for all of us. He keeps lookin' at me when he says that. Why's he doing that?"

  "He's not a gook, and don't worry about Chiun. I can handle him."

  "Yeah, while you're handling him, who's going to be handling whatever the Vietnamese are getting ready to throw at us?"

  Remo grinned. "I thought I'd leave that little detail to you."

  Youngblood slapped Remo on the back boisterously. "Always said you were a generous man. Glad to see that much ain't changed."

  They rolled on through the night, pausing only to allow Chiun and his elephant to catch up. The sound of the tank's noisy motor beat down on Remo's concentration. He ran with the hatches open because the oil stink was getting to his sensitive nostrils.

  Every few hours a helicopter gunship prowled above. But they were unmolested. It was very ominous.

  The tangy scent of seawater crept into the air just as dawn was breaking. Remo began to worry. They were nearing their destination, if Chiun's directions were on the mark, but there had been no sign of the Master of Sinanju in many hours.

  Remo sent the tank around a long bend in the road that ran through the middle of a rubber-tree plantation. A figure stepped out onto the road and cocked a thumb like a hitchhiker.

  "Chiun!"

  "Who else?" asked the Master of Sinanju, leaping onto the moving tank. The Amerasians squatting on the superstructure
moved aside to make room for him. "Where's the elephant?" Remo wondered.

  "We took a shortcut and I saw danger so I sent him ahead."

  "Bait, eh?"

  "Remo! Your memory may not know me, but I would think your judgment would tell you that this sweet face would never harm a worthy animal."

  "Okay," Remo said. "What are we getting into?"

  "Many soldiers, many tanks. And the helicopter things."

  "How many?"

  "Many, many."

  "That's a lot."

  "They are on the beach we seek. I do not know about the submarine. I could not see it."

  "Let me know when we're getting close," Remo said grimly.

  "You have a plan, perhaps?"

  "I have an objective. I'm going to reach it, plan or no plan."

  The Master of Sinanju sniffed disdainfully.

  "Rambo talk again. It will take years to purge you of it, and I am already an old man. Fie!"

  "No," Remo said. "Semper Fi."

  Dick Youngblood's voice sang out from the tank's innards. "Do or die!"

  Chapter 22

  The defense minister ordered the Hind gunship pilot to make a final pass over the slow-moving T-54 tank. It looked like such an ineffectual object, with tiny figures clinging to its superstructure.

  Obviously, he thought, it was not the machine, but the men inside. He ordered the pilot to return to the staging area.

  It would have been a beautiful stretch of white beach but it swarmed with soldiers in fatigues and a ranked mass of T-72 tanks and a few of the older T-64's. They were lined up at the shore, tread-to-tread, their smoothbore cannon all pointing in the same direction. Inland. Toward the shore end of the road.

  In one way, the assembled might of the Vietnamese Army was beautiful in the defense minister's eyes as he stepped from the settling gunship and marched under the watchful eyes of the tank commanders, his holstered sidearm slapping his thigh.

  General Trang snapped a salute in greeting.

  "They are less than a kilometer away," the defense minister told him.

  "They have no chance, as you can see."

  "They have cut a scar down half the countryside already. Do not underestimate them-especially when they are close to their objective."

  "And what objective is that? I see no rescue craft."