Bamboo Dragon td-108

by Warren Murphy

  "What?"

  "The challenge may be more than you can handle. It was not appropriate of me to send you on a job that needs a Reigning Master's touch."

  "That's it?"

  "Disposing of a dragon calls for special knowledge. We have not addressed it in your lessons up to now. I do not doubt your courage, Remo, but it may not be enough."

  "You can relax," he told Chiun. "We haven't seen a footprint or a dragon turd so far, much less the Big Kahuna."

  " 'Big Kahuna' is no fit name for a dragon."

  "Little Father—"

  "It is settled," said the Master of Sinanju. "I cannot allow you to proceed without the proper supervision."

  "This is all about uranium," said Remo with a smile. "The dragon's just a smoke screen."

  "Are you certain?"

  "Well—"

  "The white man often scoffs at things he has not seen or does not understand."

  "The fact is, no one on the team apparently believes there is a dinosaur, except for Dr. Stockwell and the guide. He says it ate his grandfather."

  "The doctor's grandfather was eaten by a dragon?"

  "No, the guide's."

  "Do not be quick in denigrating native tales," said Chiun. "I grant you, these are not Koreans, and their understanding of the world is therefore minimal at best, but they are not completely ignorant of their surroundings."

  "Superstitious is the word that comes to mind."

  "Even superstition may be based on fact. A legend stretches truth, but it does not begin without some circumstance to prompt its telling in the first place."

  "What I'm thinking," Remo said, "is that the story makes a handy cover. Now, I know they've got a ringer on the team, who works for the Chinese. I got it straight from the guerrilla leader."

  "He was Chinese?" asked Chiun.

  "That's right."

  "And you believed him?"

  "In the circumstances, yes."

  "You tortured him," said Chiun with satisfaction.

  "I persuaded him."

  "The Chinese want uranium?"

  "He wasn't told, but that's what Dr. Smith believes. I can't see Beijing wasting agents on a dinosaur hunt."

  "The Chinese are a mystifying race," Chiun replied. "They want to be Korean in their hearts, but since perfection has eluded them, they scheme like Japanese and try to make up, through intrigue, what nature has denied them."

  "An unbiased view, of course," said Remo.

  "When the truth is biased, should we lie? I had no hand in the creation of mankind, thus I gain nothing from a simple statement of the facts. All Asians envy the Korean people."

  "What about the rest of us?" asked Remo.

  Chiun responded with a gesture of dismissal.

  "Black men envy whites," he said, "and white men are the most pathetic of the lot. They envy one another. It is too absurd," the Master of Sinanju finished, chuckling dryly to himself.

  "Well, this has been a slice," said Remo, "but I really ought to catch up with the others now."

  "And how will you explain your absence?"

  "Oh, they think I'm dead."

  "So your appearance may surprise them."

  "I don't plan on dropping in," said Remo. "I've been following their trail since dawn and watching from a distance."

  "In the hope this 'ringer' may reveal himself?"

  "It's all I've got to go on at the moment."

  "And your dalliance?"

  "Say what?"

  "The woman. What is she expected to reveal, beyond what you have seen already?"

  "You were watching?"

  "It is my responsibility," Chiun said.

  "Well, you can scratch her off your worry list. We lost her in the raid last night."

  "I never worry. Was she shot?"

  "Quicksand."

  "Another clumsy white."

  "You shouldn't talk that way about the dead."

  "Who better to discuss, without a fear of contradiction?" asked Chiun. "I trust that you did not become attached to this one."

  "No," said Remo.

  "It would be a grave mistake."

  "I know that."

  "Very well. You may wish to consider a revision of your plan."

  "Which plan is that?"

  "Your plan of hiding from the others."

  "Why?"

  "Consider the effect a ghost may have upon a guilty conscience."

  "That's a thought."

  "You are perceptive," said Chiun.

  "I'm also out of here. You coming?"

  "In my own time," said the Master of Sinanju. "These frail limbs—"

  Remo grinned. "Just try to keep the noise down, will you? The Big Kahuna may show up and use you for an appetizer."

  "Whelp."

  "I'll see you, Little Father."

  "Only if I want you to."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dr. Stock well's dwindling group had gained a quarter of a mile since Remo left them, but he had no trouble catching up. Their progress was sluggish, with Stockwell plodding like a man whose hope was gone, continuing the march on stubbornness alone. Pike Chalmers didn't seem to care how fast they traveled, pausing every thirty yards or so to scan the jungle, listening, his AK-47 leveled from the hip. Their guide had slowed to the professor's slogging pace, and Sibu Sandakan resembled nothing quite so much as an exhausted marathoner suddenly confronted with the prospect of a twenty-seventh mile.

  Remo was still debating Chiun's suggestion when he overtook the party, coming up behind them through the trees. He understood the logic of surprising them and watching for the kind of odd reaction that would point a ringer out, but he had tried that once before without results. Besides, he had no reason to believe the raid had been coordinated with his quarry, much less aimed at him. It seemed to Remo that the rebels had been jumpy. Looking for a way to speed things up, they had exercised poor judgment, acting on their own initiative. In that case, every member of the team would be surprised to see him still alive, but none had any special cause for disappointment at the fact.

  Except, perhaps, for Chalmers.

  He had definitely drawn a bead on Remo in the clearing last night, no excuses based on the excitement or confusion of the moment. He had also killed at least one of the rebels, though, and that appeared to mitigate against him as their contact on the team. More likely, Chalmers simply wanted Remo dead as payback for their brief encounter in K.L.

  But who else on the team would fit the profile of a turncoat? Remo had examined each of them before, and none would be his own first choice for a clandestine operation. Only Chalmers, with his mercenary background, seemed to have the requisite credentials for the job, but his contempt for Asians and a certain lack of finesse made Remo yearn for more-persuasive evidence.

  At least today he knew there was a ringer on the team. He trusted the guerrilla leader that far, even if the man had initially lied about his knowledge of the mission's goal. One member of the party was in league with the Chinese, had sold himself, and eighteen lives had already been lost as a result.

  How many yet to go?

  The question had no relevance for Remo. He wasn't concerned with numbers, unless they prevented him from finishing his job. What Remo needed at the moment was a suspect he could focus on and deal with one-on-one.

  If he rejoined the others now, there would be calls for an explanation of his disappearance. He could always claim that he was knocked unconscious, maybe got disoriented in the dark and only found the group again by pure dumb luck, but would they buy it? And if not, what then?

  He had about decided to maintain his distance, watching from concealment, when Kuching Kangar stopped short and raised a warning hand to halt the others. Remo froze in place, his senses reaching out in search of danger signals.

  He almost missed it, but a subtle movement in the undergrowth before him marked the presence of another human being. Make that several human beings, crouched beside the trail. He hadn't seen or heard them going in, becaus
e they made no sound or movement to betray themselves. As for the human smell, once Remo saw the nearest of them, it appeared the almost-naked men were daubed with mud, like body paint, that covered them from head to foot.

  Pike Chalmers almost cut loose with his AK-47 when the natives showed themselves, but he was concentrating on the new arrivals, and he overlooked Kuching Kangar. Before the Brit could aim and fire, their guide had turned on him and swung the heavy bolo knife he carried, knocking the Kalashnikov from Chalmers's hands.

  Chalmers cursed, reached for his pistol, but the Malay guide was faster, leaping forward with a snarl to press the bolo blade against his adversary's throat.

  "No guns," he warned, and Chalmers spent a moment glowering before he gave it up and raised his hands.

  The tribesmen carried spears, some bows and arrows, with a hand-carved war club here and there. It was not their equipment, though, that held Remo's attention. He was looking at their faces, bodies, frowning as he checked them out.

  Of twenty natives he could see, their guide included, only six were normal in appearance underneath the layers of mud. The rest displayed a wide range of bizarre deformities that made them look like something from a circus sideshow. Three were pygmy sized, but with heads out of proportion to their bodies, clutching six-foot spears in tiny hands. Another held his fighting club in hands like lobster claws. A fifth had short, bowed legs beneath a massive torso, with a dwarfish, pointed head on top. The man beside him only had one eye, but it was planted squarely in the middle of his forehead. Yet another stood on cloven feet, resembling fleshy hooves. Webbed fingers, crooked spines, diminished and distorted limbs—as Remo glanced around the group, he saw it all.

  The expedition was surrounded by a tribe of pissed-off freaks. Professor Stockwell glanced around at the distorted limbs and bodies, fright-mask faces that surrounded him, and felt his last reserves of courage drain away. It was too much: first the guerrillas, then losing Audrey in a quicksand bog, and now this, surrounded by a band of nightmare creatures armed and seemingly intent on mayhem. And Kuching Kangar was clearly part of it—a friend of their assailants, possibly a member of their tribe. There were a few among the native band with normal faces, well-formed bodies, and he guessed their trusted guide was one of those, at liberty to move in the society of men without provoking undue curiosity.

  When Stockwell found his voice, he spoke directly to Kangar. "What is the meaning of this outrage?" he demanded. "Are you mad?"

  The guide faced Stockwell, smiling, while he kept his bolo pressed against the tall Brit's throat. "Some of us," he replied in English notably improved, "are surely mad, but it is no great handicap. As for the meaning of this outrage, you are needed, Doctor."

  "Needed?"

  "For Nagaq."

  Professor Stockwell failed to catch his drift. "Of course," he said. "It's what we've wanted all along. We chose you as the man to help us find Nagaq."

  "That's where you are mistaken, Doctor. I chose you," Kuching Kangar replied. "And you will not be searching for Nagaq. We have arranged for him to visit you."

  "So much the better," Stockwell said, but he was frowning as he spoke. There was an undercurrent to the guide's voice, he belatedly decided, that did not bode well for the surviving members of his party. "I hope we can conclude our business promptly, then," he said.

  "Your business is concluded, Doctor," said the Malay guide. "You have a very different role to play in what must happen next."

  "You bloody wogs won't get away with this," Pike Chalmers snarled.

  "And who will stop us, sir?" Kangar was grinning as he spoke, the sharp blade of his bolo drawing blood from Chalmers as he pressed it close against the tall Brit's flesh.

  "I must inform you," Sibu Sandakan announced, "that I am here to represent the government. It will go badly for you if you harm us."

  Kangar flashed him a mocking grin. "Punishment, you mean?"

  "Of course."

  "Who will punish us? Not you, I think."

  "The government has troops—"

  "And you were told to signal them," the guide told Sandakan, interrupting him. He reached into a pocket of his trousers with his free hand and withdrew a smallish plastic box. "With this device, perhaps?"

  "Where did you get that?" Sandakan demanded.

  "Why, from you, of course." The guide's smile stretched almost from ear to ear. "You won't be needing it."

  That said, he cocked his arm and pitched the small black box into the forest, out of sight.

  Professor Stockwell didn't hear it fall. "You were prepared to summon troops?" he asked, now facing Sibu Sandakan.

  "In the event of an emergency," the deputy replied. "We're in the middle of the wilderness, for heaven's sake. It was a simple safeguard—"

  "Which has failed to save us, after all," said Stockwell, interrupting him. He turned back to their former guide and asked, "What do you want from us?"

  "I've answered that. You have been chosen for Nagaq."

  "And what does that mean, if you don't mind telling me?"

  "In good time, Doctor. We have miles to travel yet, before you meet the object of your heart's desire. It will not be an easy march, but that cannot be helped. We should arrive by nightfall if you do not slow us down too much."

  "I'll do my best," said Stockwell, not without a hint of sarcasm.

  "I'm sure you will," Kangar replied. "But if you lag along the way, my brothers will encourage you."

  The Malay snapped his fingers as he spoke, and two of his compatriots—a grinning cyclops and a dwarf with six toes on each foot—stepped forward, prodding Stockwell with their spears.

  "That won't be necessary," the professor said.

  "In that case," said the little Malay, "shall we go?"

  Pike Chalmers offered no resistance as the mud-smeared natives stripped him of the Weatherby, his Colt and hunting knife. They didn't frisk him like policemen, but it made no difference; he was effectively disarmed.

  But that was not the same as being helpless. No, indeed.

  From under lowered eyebrows, Chalmers counted twenty adversaries, with their erstwhile guide, but most of those were what the bloody PC crowd back home called "challenged": stunted limbs and missing digits, crooked spines, misshapen skulls. One bugger seemed to have no lips to speak of, while another's nose was nothing but a perforated pimple in the middle of his face. It was a blessing, Chalmers thought, that they had sense enough to cover up their genitals with loincloths.

  He imagined running wild among them, swinging left and right with massive, angry fists. One stiff poke in the eye would blind the frigging cyclops, and the dwarfs would be no problem; he could boot them down the trail like flabby soccer balls. Six normal-looking men could be a problem, true enough, but if Pike could grab the bolo knife—or better yet, one of the spears…

  On second thought, however, there was something that he didn't like about the bowmen. They were small and stupid looking, Chalmers granted, but they also held their bows as proper archers might, with arrows nocked and ready, pointed in the general direction of their targets. Long, sharp arrows, he couldn't help noting, with the tips discolored, as by some vile potion used to make them twice as deadly in the flesh.

  The more he considered things, the less he liked those six-foot lances, either. That was no way for a man to die, with spears stuck through him till he looked like some damned insect on a bug collector's mounting board. And from Kuching Kangar's expression, he would only be too happy for a chance to use his bolo on a proper Englishman. The bloody wogs were all that way, ungrateful bastards to the bitter end.

  So he would bide his time, thought Chalmers. Find out where the freaks were taking him—and his companions, too, of course—before he tried to break away. He didn't follow all this rot about Nagaq, but what could anyone expect from savages whose normal microintellect was cooked in a genetic soup that obviously left much to be desired?

  He would find out where they were going, keep a close eye on the l
ocal landmarks so that he could make his way back out again. If there was profit to be taken at the end of their forced march, he would do everything within his power to secure the lion's share of it—and failing that, he would by God remember the location of his captors' sanctuary, come back later with a solid team of men who knew what they were doing, men who took life seriously, not a gang of bloody scientists who couldn't tell a pistol from a piss pot when the chips were down.

  The world would never miss a tribe of freaks like this, he reckoned. It would be a public service to the gene pool, wiping this abomination off the map. If anyone found out and thought about complaining, it would be a clear-cut case of self-defense. There would be weapons to support Pike's claim… and maybe the remains of several recent victims, too.

  The more he thought about it, slogging down the trail and sweating like a pig, the more Chalmers came to realize that he should make his break alone, when it was time. He didn't give a damn for Sibu Sandakan, the bloody wog, and Dr. Stockwell was an old man who would slow him down, most likely get him killed if Chalmers tried to pack him out with natives howling on their heels. Looked at another way, the old bone doctor made a perfect sacrifice. His death at savage hands would raise a bloody hue and cry from K.L. to the States, and anything Pike Chalmers did to pay his killers back would likely get a rubber-stamp approval from the powers that be.

  All right, then.

  By the time the first mile was behind them, Chalmers had his mind made up. He would be careful, watch and await his chance.

  A small black plastic box came sailing at him through the trees, and Remo snatched it from the air, examined it and dropped it in his pocket. It was obviously a device for signaling. The brief exchange between their guide and Sibu Sandakan suggested it would summon army troops if Remo pressed the button, but he didn't want a mob of reinforcements rushing in.

  Not yet.

  The ambush had surprised him, an embarrassment that Remo swiftly overcame in his determination to pursue the natives and their hostages, find out where they were going and what bearing it might have on his mission to the jungle.

  The deformities he saw among the natives meant no more to Remo at the moment than they seemed to mean among the tribesmen. He could think of several handy explanations for an isolated tribe where freakish traits had run amok. Inbreeding might explain it, some genetic taint passed down through generations, while new blood became increasingly uncommon. A pollutant in the air or water was another possibility, as with the plague of mercury-infected fish some years ago at Minamata, in Japan. Insecticides and toxic waste were out, considering the territory, but there were minerals and heavy metals found in nature that would have the same effect.