Walking Wounded

"Success is relative," the defense minister told him bluntly, and Captain Dai felt his heart sink. What had he done wrong? He cleared his throat prior to asking, but quickly realized that asking would be the same as accepting failure. Captain Dai was not ready to accept any such thing.

"The traitor Phong is dead," Dai repeated thickly. "My internationalist duty has been discharged."

"Had that man not escaped, you would not have had to risk the things you did risk."

"I am prepared to offer my life in service to the glorious revolution."

The defense minister waved his hand dismissively as if the life of one such as Captain Dai was something spent without thinking, like the number of dong required to purchase a cigarette.

"The American press are full of stories," the defense minister said. "The MIA issue, the POW issue. The killing of this Phong was broadcast live. The American government is upset. We were approaching an understanding, but now the political pressure on them to withhold diplomatic recognition until this is settled is enormous. Long months of quiet diplomacy have been jeopardized."

"I did what I had to do."

"In full view of television cameras," said the defense minister bitterly. He shook his iron-gray head.

"It was either there or not at all. Phong was guarded like a diplomat. It was only my resourcefulness that enabled me to gain admittance to the audience."

"You sound like the train engineer who left the brakes off and then congratulated himself for his heroism in stopping the runaway locomotive. Do not congratulate yourself while in this office, Comrade Captain. Your best does not impress me."

Captain Dai said nothing. His mouth ached for a cigarette, but he dared not light up while standing at attention.

The silence in the room lengthened. Finally the defense minister said, "We may have to kill the American prisoners."

"I will gladly undertake that task, Comrade Defense Minister."

"I am sure that you would. Your bloodthirsty kind enabled us to defeat the Americans. But you are now a liability. Why do you think you have been stuck in a distant camp post?"

"I considered it my duty," Dai croaked. His face was gray.

"And if I say it is your duty, you will kill the Americans with your bare hands. But that decision has not been made. For you, there is another duty."

"I stand ready."

"An American has broken away from a tour group near Ho Chi Minh City. No doubt it is the fault of the soft people of the South, who will never be purged of their capitalistic ways."

"We in the North are strong."

"We in the North are in charge," snapped the defense minister. "This American attacked a reeducation camp. He escaped with perhaps twenty bui doi."

Captain Dai would have spat on the floor in contempt, but spitting in public was forbidden in the united Vietnam.

"This American was last seen driving to the Kampuchean border. Before he ran amok he is reported to have made provocative statements about American POW's. We believe he may be an American intelligence agent sent here to conduct reconnaissance probes. If so, he is very clumsy in his work. But he is a skillful soldier. We cannot find him. That will be your job."

"I will return to this office and report unqualified success."

"I do not care if I ever see you again, Comrade Captain," the defense minister said with open contempt. "I hope the American shoots you dead at the same moment you obliterate him. Then two thorns in my side will be removed with one stroke."

"I will redeem myself "

"Not in these eyes. Dismissed."

Swallowing the bitterness that promised to creep into his voice, Captain Dai saluted smartly and turned on his heel. He was near tears. He had always considered himself a war hero. Now he knew that he had been just a tool. One mistake and they were ready to throw him away. He was certain that even the defeated Americans treated their war heroes better than he had been.

At first light Remo awoke. He was aware of the heavy smell of wet jungle, that unbelievably fecund smell that excited the nostrils. His eyes came open slowly, the hammering of a heavy rain on metal registering on his dazed brain before the light hit his retina.

Remo saw that he was inside the front part of the destroyed bus. A lashing rain made it impossible to see out the windows. He was lying on a pile of seat cushions, his rifle beside him.

The Vietnamese girl who called herself Lan slept nearby.

Remo looked around. They were alone. Out through the gaping, open end of the bus, he could see rainwater pelting twin shallow grooves obviously made when he'd been dragged into the bus. He looked at his heels. They were dirty, caked with red earth.

The girl. Obviously. She had dragged him here after he collapsed. Why had she done that? Remo picked up his rifle and checked it. The magazine was half-full.

Remo climbed over a tangle of seats and shook the girl awake.

She roused slowly. At the sight of his face, she smiled tentatively and Remo wondered if he'd been wrong about her. A VC agent would have shot him without mercy.

"You are awake," she said simply.

"Yeah." He didn't know what else to say. He looked at her face carefully. Her features were not like those of any Vietnamese he had ever seen. Those green, almond-shaped eyes. And those spots on her cheeks. He'd thought they were some kind of tropical skin disease, but they were freckles. Freckles!

"Lan help you. Lan your friend. You remember now?"

"No. I don't remember you."

Lan's smile faded like a cloud intercepting sunlight. "Oh. Lan sorry. "

"You know, I think you are."

"Am. "

"I don't know too many Vietnamese."

"That okay. I not know any American before you." The rain stopped. It was like a faucet shutting off.

"We can't stay here," Remo said. "You say we're in Cambodia?"

"Called Kampuchea now."

Remo made a face. "Yeah, right. Look, do you know which direction Saigon is?"

Lan stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"Toi Muon di Saigon," Remo said in Vietnamese.

Lan shook her head. "Not called Saigon anymore. Ho Chi Minh City."

"Are we going to have to go through that again?"

"Telling truth," Lan said testily. "Saigon old name. New name Ho Chi Minh City."

Remo sighed. "How far?"

"One night's drive. That way."

"Maybe we can reach the command headquarters in An Loc."

"An Loc dangerous. Much fighting."

"I thought you said the war was over."

"For Vietnamese, war never end. Vietnamese Communists fight Khmer Rouge Communists now."

"There's a switch," Remo said. He slid down out of the shattered bus and swore when his feet touched the muddy ground. He had forgotten that he had no boots. His shoes sank, cold, wet mud moistening the socks at his ankles.

"Damn. I could lose my feet walking around like this. "

"We must go. Very dangerous here too."

"Then we walk. You say your name is Lan?"

"Yes, Lan. And you?"

"What about me?"

"Not know your own name?"

"Of course I do. I thought you said you knew me. I wish you'd get your story straight."

"Do know you," Lan said firmly. "You rescue me from camp. Not know your name."

"Remo. U.S. Marines."

"Ah," Lan said. "Marines number one!"

Remo laughed. "Yeah. We're number one, all right. Come on."

They followed the dirt road until it spilled into a blacktop highway. Remo took off his shoes and socks and carried them. The morning sun would dry them off quickly. For now, he was better off walking barefoot. The heat of the day warmed the road. Rainwater steamed off it like water on a skillet.

They walked for miles, encountering no traffic. Then, out of the north came a familiar sound.

"Helicopter," Remo said.

Lan grabbed his belt and tried to pull him off the road.

"Hey! Cut it out," Remo snapped, breaking free. Lan grabbed his wrists this time and strained against him.

"Out of sight," she begged. "Hide. Helicopter come."

"That's the idea. They'll pick us up."

"No. Not American helicopter. Vietnamese."

"Crap. The Vietnamese don't have helicopters. Sounds like an American Huey."

The rotor noise grew louder. Lan pulled harder. "Look," Remo yelled. "Don't make me get rough. Run if you want. I'm staying in the open."

Remo stripped off his T-shirt and faced the direction of the approaching helicopter clatter. Lan broke for the roadside trees and hunkered down fearfully.

The helicopter lifted into sight up ahead. It was a wide-bodied craft with stub wings heavy with rockets.

It seemed to be following the road carefully, as if searching.

"Great," Remo muttered. "They can't miss me." He started waving his shirt.

"Hey! American on the ground," he shouted. "I need a dustoff "

The helicopter skimmed over Remo as if it hadn't noticed him. Remo jumped around to face it, still waving his shirt and shouting.

"Hey, come back."

The helicopter did just that. It flashed around in a tight circle. And as it turned, Remo saw the yellow star in a red field that told him he was trying to flag down the wrong side.

"Oh, shit," he said. "The Vietnamese have helicopters now."

"I tell you!" Lan called. "Now you hurry."

Remo dived off the road. He took a position between two tall trees, well away from Lan. He brought his rifle up. He waited.

The helicopter hovered ominously above, searching. Remo held his fire. The helicopter began to settle and he knew they'd spotted him.

Then Lan dashed across the highway under the gunship and to the other side of the road. She shouted at the top of her voice.

The helicopter suddenly rose in the air and peeled off after her. A chin-mounted Gatling gun opened up. It blasted the rubber trees until they stood like broken milkweeds.

"Dammit!" Remo shouted. He came out of cover and emptied his rifle after the helicopter, firing single shots. The big tail rotor suddenly made a pinging sound and began wobbling wildly on its axis. A lucky shot had clipped it. The rotor stopped dead, and without its stabilizing influence, the helicopter began a slow pirouette in place, like a ridiculous Christmas-tree ornament spinning on a thread.

The helicopter pilot had no other option and he knew it. He let the chopper settle. It sank into the trees steadily until the main rotor encountered the treetops. Then all hell broke loose. Breaking branches flew like shrapnel. Someone screamed.

"Lan!" Remo yelled.

The helicopter suddenly stopped, its main rotor banged into a tangle of metal. The gunship hung in a net of foliage several feet off the ground. Men started jumping out of the open doors.

Remo saw that they carried rifles. He ran toward them. Unless he hit them first, while they were shaken up, the advantage would be theirs.

Dashing across the road, he plunged into the bush. He moved in a low crouch, the AK-47 feeling strange in his hands. He was used to an M-16. The helicopter hung like an enormous rotting fruit among tangled trees. A Vietnamese soldier was clambering out of the gun door, his rifle slung over his shoulder. Remo lifted his own assault rifle and squeezed off a single shot.

The gun clicked. He tried again. Nothing. Remo dropped into the grass and pulled the clip. Empty. The Vietnamese soldier was hanging by both hands from the chopper skid. He dangled momentarily, then dropped to the ground.

Remo dropped his useless weapon and eased forward. The Vietnamese was standing with his back toward him, unlimbering his rifle from his shoulder. Remo made a fist and came up like a ghost rising from a grave. The Vietnamese picked that moment to turn around. He saw Remo's fist and screeched in fright.

It was too late for Remo to pull his punch. It flew past the soldier's shoulder. Remo felt his legs being kicked out from under him. The two men landed in a tangle, Remo on the bottom.

Furiously Remo tried to fend off the soldier's flailing blows, but his hands wouldn't do what he willed them to. Every time he made a fist, it felt wrong. He found himself warding off the blows with quick, openhanded thrusts. What the hell was happening to him?

Remo grabbed the man's wrists. The two of them struggled. Then the soldier collapsed on top of Remo. Remo shoved him off and found Lan standing beside him, the soldier's AK-47 in her hands. It was pointing at him. This is it, he thought. I'm dead. But, wild-eyed, Lan tossed the weapon to him.

Remo caught it and spun on the sounds of approaching soldiers. There were two of them. They yelled like Indians as they charged through the grass. Remo set the fire selector to automatic and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. "Damn!" he said.

"What wrong? Why you not shoot?"

Remo looked at the breech. It was fouled with mud. "Damn!" he said again. He threw the rifle away. "Run, Lan!"

"No!"

He gave her a cruel shove. "Di-di mau!"

Lan stumbled away. Remo cut off in a different direction. The soldiers would be after him first. He got behind a thick-boled tree. He forced his right hand into a fist and listened for the clump of boots.

He saw the sweeping muzzle of a rifle before he saw the soldier himself Remo waited tensely. One step, then two. When the man's flat-nosed profile came in sight, only inches away from Remo's face, he uncorked a roundhouse swing.

Remo never felt his fist connect. Suddenly his face was wet with blood and bits of matter and he stumbled back, wondering if he had been shot or had stepped on a mine.

He wiped his face desperately. His hands were covered with blood. His first thought was: Oh, God, I'm wounded. Then he noticed the soldier.

He was lying on his back, his head turned completely around so that the back of his head was where his face should have been. His fingers and feet twitched in the nerve spasms of near-death.

Remo knelt down and pushed the man off his rifle. He checked the breech. It seemed unobstructed. Then Remo saw the man's face and backed away in horror.

The man's jaw was shoved up under his right ear. The jaw was shapeless, as if the bone had been pulverized. His neck was obviously broken too.

Remo checked himself for similar damage, but other than the blood on his fist and face, he was uninjured. Then he noticed a patch of human skin clinging to one knuckle and wondered how he had skinned his knuckles if he hadn't connected. He peeled off the patch and saw the skin underneath was undamaged. In spite of the danger all around him, he blurted out in English, "Did I do that?" He looked at his fist stupidly and wiped the blood off on his pants.

Crunching sounds told him the other Vietnamese was getting close. Remo ducked behind the tree.

"Let's see if this works a second time," he said under his breath. He made a fist. It felt strange to make a fist. As a kid growing up in Newark, making a fist was second nature. Not now. Weird.

This time Remo didn't wait for the soldier to come into view. He sensed when he was close and jumped into his face. Remo's punch connected before the other man could snap off a shot.

The impact sounded like a beanbag under a sledgehammer blow. Remo felt hard bone turn to grit under his knuckles. The soldier's arms flailed like he was trying to balance atop a high wire. When he went down, he lay still. His face was a smear of red, and Remo, who had seen terrible things in Vietnam, turned away, heaving.

He found Lan crouching by the roadside. "You okay?" he asked.

"Lan okay. And you?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted, breathing hard.

"Soldiers dead?"

"They won't be bothering us," Remo told her. He plucked thick rubber-tree leaves off with his hands. They were still wet from the night rain, and with several of them he got most of the blood off his hands.

When he was done, he turned to Lan. "Thanks," he said.

"For what?"

"For helping."

"You helped me before."

"I don't remember that. I told you."

Lan's eyebrows drew together quizzically. "What do you remember?"

Remo sat down with his back to the alligator-hide bark of a rubber tree and looked up into the too-bright morning sky.

"Vietnam," he said distantly. "I remember Vietnam."

Chapter 14

The Hind gunship deposited Captain Dai Chim Sao at a staging area twelve miles inside the Cambodian border. Dai stepped off the skid before it fully settled on the ground. The rotors kicked up the reddish-brown dust of the dry season. He pinched his eyes shut to keep out the grit.

A short, buck-toothed officer hurried up to greet him.

"Captain Dai?" he asked.

"Who else would I be? What can you tell me about the American?"

"We know he is in this sector," said the officer, leading Dai to a string of waiting T-72 tanks. "One of our patrol helicopters radioed that it had found him. Then all communication ceased. We think the helicopter has been lost."

"How far?"

"Ten kilometers south. Not more than fifteen. Do you wish to lead the convoy?"

"That is my duty," said Captain Dai, climbing into the passenger seat of a Land Rover. He struck the driver on the shoulder as a sign to proceed. "I will not shirk it."

The officer jumped into the back as the Land Rover turned smartly and took the south road.

"You do not waste time," said the officer, waving for the tanks to fall in line behind them.

"I have no time to waste," Captain Dai said grimly. He unholstered a nine-millimeter Sig Sauer pistol and made a show of checking the action.

This is a man trying to prove himself, the officer thought. It would not be a good assignment, even though the American was alone.

The sun wallowed high in the shimmering sky. But even at midday, there was no traffic on the road. Occasionally they came to a crater where a mine had gone off, and around the crater the shattered remains of a truck. One mangled door bore the flag decal of Vietnam.

"Khmer Rouge," Lan explained. "They fight the Vietnamese same way the VC used to fight Americans."

"Turned the tables, huh?" Remo mused. He was still trying to fit the pieces together. There was no question that things had changed. He trusted Lan now, even if he couldn't believe her story. Not entirely. Not yet.

"You say the war is over," Remo said. They stuck to the side of the road, just in case they had to melt into the tree line. Remo had stripped one Vietnamese of his uniform and boots, donning them only after he removed all insignias. It made him feel like a soldier again, even though everything was two sizes too small.

"Yes. War over long time. For America. Not for Vietnam. Always new war for Vietnam. Vietnam fight China after Americans go. Now fight Kampucheans. Tomorrow, who know?"

"How long has it been over?" Remo asked. He searched his mind for a familiar memory. Yesterday was a blank. He could not even remember last month. His memory was clearer the further back he searched it, but recent events were vague. It was like looking down a tunnel. The walls were dark. But there was daylight at the end. What was it they used to say about the light at the end of the tunnel?

"War over ten-fifteen years now. Longtime."

Remo whirled. "Fifteen years!"

Lan stopped dead in her tracks. Remo snapped his rifle up defensively.

"I tell truth. Americans go in 1973. Saigon fall 1975."

"Crap!"

"Not crap. True. Lan tell truth!"

"And I suppose I've been asleep in a rice paddy all that time." Remo sneered. "Like freaking Rip Van Winkle."

"Not understand."

"The last thing I can remember is fighting in Vietnam. In 1968. What have I been doing for twenty years?"

Lan shrugged. "How Lan know? It your life."

Remo looked at her without speaking. Her face was troubled and confused. He wanted to believe that she was his friend-he desperately needed one but her story was ridiculous. It was impossible.

"I don't know what I'm going to do with you," he said slowly.

"Do nothing, then. I go." And Lan turned on her heel and walked in the opposite direction. Remo watched her go, half-wistful, and half-afraid that if he turned his back she would back-shoot him. Maybe she was VC after all. Maybe he was being set up for some elaborate brainwashing trick. He wondered if he'd been drugged. He still felt light-headed.

Lan's hair switched like an angry pony's tail as she walked off. She did not look back. Not even as she disappeared around a bend in the road.

Remo stood in the middle of the road, feeling foolish. "Aw, hell," he said, and started after her. He walked at first, then started running. His feet felt like lead in the canvas Vietnamese boots. Funny they would feel like that. American boots were heavier. Canvas boots shouldn't feel like lead weights on his feet. He was a marine. Yet he felt like his whole body was screwed up.

Maybe he had been asleep for years. What else would explain it all?

Automatic-weapons fire chattered not far off. Remo dashed into the bush.

"Dung lai! Dung lai!" a man's voice cracked. He was calling for someone to halt.

"Khoung! Remo!" It was Lan's voice. And then an AK-47 opened up.

Remo hurtled down the road like a linebacker. He plunged into the trees when he got to the bend and came out beside a low-slung tank. A Vietnamese soldier up in the turret hatch was sweeping the road with a pedestal-mounted .50-caliber gun.

Remo picked him off with one shot.

There was another tank behind the first, and a third idling at the rear. A Land Rover sat on a flat tire in the mud. Three soldiers crouched behind it, working their weapons.

Remo saw Lan dart between two trees. The crouching soldiers opened up on her with small arms.

"Hey!" Remo yelled, trying to think of the worst curse in the Vietnamese tongue. "Do may! Do may!" The soldiers turned at the sound of his voice. Remo waved at them, then vaulted onto the first tank and disappeared into the open turret hatch.

Captain Dai Chim Sao heard the American voice accuse him of sleeping with his mother, and a chill swept through him. He spun on his heels, still crouching. "There!" he pointed. "The American."

But before they could open up, he disappeared into the lead tank, past a dead machine-gunner. Muffled shots came from the tank's interior. Then there was silence.

"You and you," Dai said. "Lay down covering fire on that girl. I will get the American's body."

"How do you know he is dead?" the officer asked.

"Because there are three brave Vietnamese soldiers in that tank. They have shot him. Do as I say."

The officer shrugged and started firing at the trees. Captain Dai ran for the shelter of the far tank's tread, worked his way back, and climbed onto the rear deck. Just as quickly, he jumped back onto the road.

The tapered turret was swinging around, its .125-millimeter smoothbore cannon nearly knocking him in the head. What was happening?

When the turret was pointing back at the other tanks, the cannon fired. Once, twice. Captain Dai screamed as the successive concussions pounded his eardrums. He hugged the ground. Shrapnel flew. A steel wheel wobbled past his head and clattered to the ground like a manhole cover.

Captain Dai looked up. The second tank was in ruins. Then he got a blast of exhaust as the tank containing the American started up. Dai scrambled out of the way of a rolling tread as the tank jockeyed around the destroyed machine and bore down on the third T-72.

The hatches on the third tank popped and the crew came out like ants from an anthole. They poured off the tank's plate sides just in time. Captain Dai was certain his painful scream was louder than the cannon roar. The third tank took a direct hit. It was enveloped in flames.

Then the first tank rolled across the flattened front end of the damaged tank and worked back toward the Land Rover. The driver and the officer showed stern stuff. They bounced bullets off the tank before they split in opposite directions. The tank climbed across the Land Rover, mashing it flat. A tire burst under the pressure of those remorseless treads.

The tank kept going. And out of the open driver's hatch, an American voice boomed.

"Lan! Hop aboard. I'm not sure I can stop this thing." Even though Captain Dai knew that the Amerasian girl was about to jump out of the bush, he made no attempt to stop her when she did. He stood there, his pistol hanging loose and impotent at his side, as the girl disappeared into the open turret hatch and clanged it shut.

The T-72 continued on. There was nothing Captain Dai could do but inhale its foul exhaust and fight back the racking sobs of failure.

"See if there's any food in here," Remo said, straining in the driver's bucket to see through the periscope. The seat was mounted low to accommodate someone of Asian stature. Remo felt cramped in the tiny cockpit, which was set in the tank body just in front on the turret.

Lan stuck her head forward. "You believe Lan now?"

"I'm reserving judgment," Remo told her.

Lan shrugged. "Whatever that mean. I will look for food." She stepped around the bodies of the tank crew and opened steel ammunition boxes. They contained ammo clips. There was a crate tucked under a shelf. She lifted the lid.

"No food. But look."

Remo twisted around in his seat. He saw the gleaming stocks of new Kalashnikov assault rifles packed in Cosmoline.

"Food would be better," he grunted. Lan frowned.

Remo turned back to the periscope. Just in time. He had steered the tank toward some trees. He corrected the tank, his feet searching for the brake. He found it, and the tank rumbled to a halt.

"I'd better get rid of these bodies," Remo said. "In this heat they're going to stink. "

"I help."

"You sit." Remo climbed back to the turret and hoisted the bodies out the top hatch. He kicked them off the back of the tank and climbed back in. He left the hatch open to ventilate the tank.

As he got the tank moving again, Remo motioned for Lan to sit behind him. She did so without speaking. "You were pretty brave back there," he told her.

"Not brave. Scared."

"Same difference," Remo said, shooting her a smile. Lan bowed her head, but finally the smile was returned. "We friends?"

"Yes," Lan said. "Friends." She shook his hand and Remo laughed at the gesture, although it touched him.

"A while back you said something about my American friends. What was that about?"

"You say you come to Vietnam to help other Americans. POW's."

"Prisoners? Of the Vietnamese?"

"Yes. "

"Did I say where they were?"

"No. I think you not know."

"Great. I don't know where I am, where I've been, or where I should be going."

"Not my fault."

"I know. I wish my head would clear. I feel like I've got all the answers swimming around in my head, but the thoughts won't stop long enough for me to get a clear look at them."

"I know one thing."

"What's that?"

"We need food."

"Yeah, maybe we can find a friendly village."

"Not here. Not anywhere."

"We'll come up with something," Remo said. But he had no idea what.

They hadn't driven much further when the sunlight streaming through the open hatch was suddenly blocked. Remo looked up first. Then Lan screamed. Remo braked and wriggled back into the tank's main body.

A face was looking down at them. A thin face pocked like a golf course, with thin, cruel black eyes. There was something vaguely familiar about that face, Remo thought, but his eyes were focused on the pointing barrel of the pistol that was aimed at his face.

"Dung lai!" the Vietnamese screamed.

"Sure thing, buddy," Remo said, putting his hands up. "Just don't get excited." To Lan he whispered, "Stay calm. I can handle this jerk."

The Vietnamese screamed at them. "What's he saying?" Remo asked Lan.

"He say get out of tank. Now."

"I'll go first," Remo said. He grabbed a pipelike handhold and climbed up. The Vietnamese-he was a captain, Remo realized-stepped back from the turret, and when Remo lifted his head out into the air, he suddenly felt his stomach go cold.

"No," he croaked. "Not you."

The Vietnamese screamed at him again.

"Yeah, sure, I'm coming," Remo said thickly as he got out of the tank. His legs felt rubbery. He held his hands at shoulder height, but they trembled.

"Captain Spook," Remo said dully. His eyes were sick.

Lan came out next.

The captain motioned for them to step to the rear of the tank.

"Lai dai! Lai dai, maulen!" he screamed. His face was a mask of pocked fury.

"Cai gi?" Remo asked. And received a slap in the face for his question. He had no idea what the man was screaming.

"He wants us to walk to back," Lan told him. "I think he plan kill us."

"Why not?" asked Remo, stepping toward the back. "He's dead. Why shouldn't we be too?"

"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.

"You are cruel. I was wrong about you. You are not my son. My son would not leave me alone in the jungle to be eaten by tigers."

"I'm glad we have that settled," Remo said, clanging the hatch shut. He had gotten the last word. Somehow. that made him feel good. But when he painfully inserted himself in the driver's seat and started the tank, he felt a vague, elusive sadness-as if he were leaving something behind. Something important.

The Master of Sinanju watched the tank containing his pupil chug off into the night. He knew that Remo was not driving off in a huff. This was for real. He hadn't defended himself from Chiun's spiteful but harmless blow. His hands reeked of burned gunpowder and he was consorting with a Vietnamese.

Smith had been correct. Remo had backflashed. He had backflashed so far he no longer remembered the Master of Sinanju.

And worse, he no longer remembered Sinanju.

The Master of Sinanju sniffed the air. There were other ways to journey through Cambodia. Many other ways. He set off into the jungle to find one of them. The Master of Sinanju knew where Remo was going even if Remo himself did not. When Remo reached his destination, the Master of Sinanju would be waiting for him there.

Chapter 17

Captain Dai Chim Sao did not admit defeat. He would not admit defeat. He could not admit defeat. Returning to the base camp on foot, he informed the second in command, Captain Tin, that he had located the renegade American.

"My forces have him surrounded," Dai said rapidly. "It is just a matter of time now." He did not tell about the destroyed tanks. Or the soldiers who deserted under fire. Or how he had lain in the middle of the road for more than an hour, curled in a fetal position, after the tank had rolled over him. None of it.

"It will be dark soon," said Tin. "Do you need more men?"

"I need all of your men. Assemble them at once," Captain Dai ordered him stiffly.

"But if you have the American surrounded, then-"

"He could escape our cordon under cover of darkness," Dai snapped. "I will not take that chance."

"But if we deploy our entire force, who will defend this camp?"

"You will," said Captain Dai. "You will."

Captain Tin gulped and saluted. "Yes, Comrade Captain. "

The Hind gunships lifted off first. Captain Dai was in the lead helicopter. The tanks followed with frustrating slowness. Captain Dai had a plan. He would lead the helicopters to the ruined tanks and express his surprise.

He would curse and rage and blame his men for having let the American turn the tide against them. His men could not contradict his story. Those who had not discredited themselves by desertion were dead. Then he would switch to the ground vehicles and lead the attack.

No one would know or believe that Captain Dai had led his unit into ignominious defeat. Especially after he snatched success from the dragon's jaws.

The jungle shivered under the rotors of the lowflying gunships. The whole night seemed to shiver. The sun took a long time to fall under the horizon. the night would come like a curtain closing on the final act of a play. Or on someone's life.

It would not close on his own, Captain Dai Chim Sao promised himself. On his sham career, perhaps, but not on his life.

Remo sat with his back to a tree. A leech dropped onto his hand and he quickly plucked it free before it could sink its teeth into him.

The moon was rising like a crystal globe. Remo watched its reflection in the still water of a rice paddy. Even in reflection, the moon looked too perfect, almost as if it had been sculptured of frosted glass. Remo stared at its icy surface, trying to see through it. He could not, of course. It only seemed transparent to the eye.

Lan slept nearby. They had pulled the tank into a thicket of bamboo. Wood smoke wafted from a nearby village. No one had come to bother them. Remo guessed they had wandered across the border into Vietnam. It was quieter. There were no sounds of distant conflict. It was like the Vietnam he always imagined would exist after the war.

According to Lan, it was. Remo looked at her face, composed in sleep. It was a trusting face. It was hard to believe such a face would concoct such a series of fabrications as she had tried to convince him were true. But the other possibility was less plausible. The war was long over. America had withdrawn in defeat. Just that part alone was too much. And what was Remo doing in Vietnam twenty years after his last conscious memory of it?

On an impulse, Remo picked up his rifle, and walking low, worked his way toward the rice paddy. Its waters looked cool and inviting. But undrinkable without Halzatone tablets or boiling. He had no Halzatone, and lighting a fire was dangerous.

It was a perfect night for seeing. Not that Remo needed the moonlight. He had done so much night fighting during the war that he had taken to sleeping by day and avoiding artificial light. It built up his night vision until he could see like a cat.

That ability hadn't left him. It made Remo wonder. Where had he been all these years? Why couldn't he remember? As a kid he'd read stories about Japanese soldiers who were found hiding in the jungles of remote Pacific islands, unaware that World War II had ended long ago.

Was Remo like that? Had he been lost in the jungle, left behind? And what about his memory? He knew who he was, so he guessed that he wasn't suffering from amnesia.

The rice paddy was a perfect mirror. Remo crawled onto an earthen dike and looked down. His face was in shadow, his eyes hidden in hollows so that his face resembled a skull with flesh.

Leaning on his rifle, Remo got down on hands and knees for a closer look. He got a shock.

His face looked different, his eyes more deeply set than he remembered, the skin drawn tightly over high cheekbones. He didn't look nineteen anymore. But he didn't look twenty years older, either.

He was older-but not a lot older. It was his face, yes. But there were subtle differences. What did it mean?

When he got back to the tank, Remo sat down beside Lan. He stared at her innocent face as if something in her childlike features would reveal the truth. Finally he shook her awake.

Lan rubbed her green eyes sleepily.

"My time to watch?" she asked, pushing herself up.

"Later," Remo said.

Lan saw the stern look in his face. "What?"

"I have to know the truth."

"What truth?"

"The truth about the war," Remo snapped, shaking her shoulders. Lan recoiled from his touch.

"You hurt me." She kneaded her shoulders where Remo's hard fingers had dug into the soft flesh.

"Sorry," Remo said in a quieter voice. "I just can't make sense of it."

Lan looked away. "Not my fault."

"The war is over?"

"Yes. "

"You're sure of that?"

"Yes." Her eyes were sullen.

"I looked at myself in the rice paddy. I look older."

"Of course."

"But not that much older. Not twenty years older." Lan said nothing.

"I can't have been wandering the jungle for twenty years without growing older or being captured."

"You show up at reeducation camp. Not know where you come from. You rescue Lan. Rescue Lan's friends too. Friends very grateful. You leave us, but Lan not want to leave you. Lan like you. Lan sneak back on bus. You drive away. Then bus hit mine. You wake up. Lan wake up. Rest you know. Lan stand guard now?"

"Later," Remo said. "Listen, I think I believe you. But there are things I can't explain. Except one way."

Lan tossed her long hair back. "Yes?"

"When the bus hit the mine, it was pretty torn up."

"Yes. Cut in two."

"Don't you think it's strange that we both survived? The thing was riddled with steel pellets."

Lan shrugged. "You in front. Lan hiding in back. Bus hit mine, break in middle. Not strange. Lucky."

"What if we only think we're alive?"

Lan looked at Remo uncomprehendingly. "What if we're dead?" Remo said flatly.

"No!" Lan cried, scrambling to her feet. Her face shook with anger. "Lan not dead. No! You dead, maybe. Not Lan!" She backed away from Remo in fear.

"Look," Remo said, getting to his feet. "I don't want to believe it either. But it fits. It even explains Captain Spook. We're the walking wounded, dead but still fighting on."

"No, not fit."

"You said it first, remember? Maybe I'm a ghost. I can't remember anything but the war. I must have been killed driving that bus."

"No. Lan not killed in war. Lan born during war, grow up after. Mother teacher, taken away when Lan young. Lan live on street. Later, Lan taken to reeducation camp. Lan not die in war. Lan not die ever!"

Lan broke down sobbing. She fell to her knees and buried her face in the cool grass.

"Lan not die ever!" she repeated brokenly.

Remo knelt beside her. He brushed her long black hair away from her face.

"Maybe you're right," he said quietly. "I just can't figure it out."

"Remo think too much. Should be like Lan. Not think. Feel. Feel with heart."

"Yeah? What do you feel?"

Lan gathered her legs under her. She sat up. Her eyes were red around the edges.

"Lan feel sad. Feel ache. Lan think it love."

"Me?"

"Since Lan child, Lan's mother told her about American father. His name Bob. Bob come back someday, Lan's mother say. Come back and take us to America. But Bob not come. No American come. Then Lan's mother say Bob dead. Lan not believe. Bad things happen to Lan. Then you come. Lan like you because you American. Now Lan like you because you Remo."

"I like you too. But you're just a kid." Remo's face froze. "Funny. "

"Lan not funny."

"No, I didn't mean it like that. The last I remember, I was nineteen. You look about that. But somehow I think of you as a kid. Like somewhere in my head I know I'm older."

"Not understand."

"Me neither. And what was that old Oriental's problem? He knew my name. He said he was my father. I never knew my father, but there's no way my father was Vietnamese-or whatever he was."

"He very strong," Lan said.

"Yeah, but so am I." He looked at his fist. "I killed two guys with single punches. I don't ever remember being that strong."

"Lan tired of thinking."

Remo grinned suddenly. "Me too."

Lan smiled shyly. She touched his arm tentatively. "Remo like Lan?" she asked softly.

"Yeah, sure I do."

"Love Lan now?"

"What?"

"Love. Love Lan now?"

"I don't know. I'm just getting to know you. I do like you, though. "

"Love Lan later, then. Make boom-boom now?"

"Oh," said Remo, suddenly understanding.

"Okay?"

Lan peeled off her shirt. Her skin was pale in the moonlight, her breasts small but firm. She put her arms around Remo's neck and pushed him to the ground gently. Her little mouth took his hungrily.

When they broke apart, Remo whispered, "That was pretty good." He took her by her tawny waist.

"Maybe if Remo make boom-boom, Remo understand he is alive, not dead, not ghost. Maybe we both feel alive."

"It's worth trying," Remo said, pushing her down into the cool grass.

In his perch in a nearby tree, the Master of Sinanju made a disgusted sound. He turned around and faced the east, where the sun would soon rise. Without knowledge of who he was, Remo had reverted to his most base nature.

When the sounds coming to his fragile ears told him that Remo was actually enjoying himself, and therefore not employing correct Sinanju love techniques, Clriun knew for certain that Remo had lost his knowledge of Sinanju. He was actually performing sex as a pleasure, not a duty. Chiun clapped his hands over his ears to block out the animal moans of backsliding.

Chapter 18

Remo woke first. He woke instantly, some instinct pulling him from sleep. He raised himself up on one arm, listening.

Lan clung to him. He reached over and threw her shirt across her naked shoulders. Her mouth moved as if she were speaking to him. Remo bent an ear. Her words were vague mumbles, not English. Not even Vietnamese. But subvocal mutterings.

Remo decided that Lan wasn't making the sounds that woke him.

Then they came out of the north. First one. Then two more.

Helicopter gunships. They flashed overhead so fast there was almost no warning of their approach.

Remo shook Lan briskly. "Lan! Wake up."

"Remo?"

"Choppers. They probably spotted the tank. We gotta di-di out of here."

Lan quickly scooped up her clothes and followed Remo into the tank. They dressed frantically. Remo got the tank going. He sent it grumbling up onto the road.

The choppers came around on another searching pass. On the third pass, one cut loose with a rocket. It struck fifty yards up the road. Dirt and rocks mushroomed. Dust billowed into the periscope. When it cleared. Remo saw a gaping crater.

"Those are antitank rockets," he yelled as he sent the tank skittering around. "One direct hit and it's all over."

Lan grabbed up an AK-47 and popped the main hatch. She opened up into the sky. Her firing was wild and indiscriminate.

"Don't waste ammo," Remo yelled after her. He had the tank turned around. He hit the gas. Of course, it was hopeless. No way they could outrun three fast gunships.

"I keep them away," Lan called down between bursts.

"For how long? They're faster and more maneuverable."

"Have to try," Lan shouted down. Then she emptied another precious clip.

"Damn!" Remo said.

Then the gunships ripped across his line of sight again. One of them peeled off from the group and cut loose with another rocket. The whoosh sound made Remo's blood go cold.

Remo jumped up and pulled Lan down by the seat of her pants. They fell together in a tumble. Remo felt a bare breast under one hand. Lan hadn't had time to button her shirt. He pressed her to the floor, using his own body as a shield. No time to close the hatch. It wouldn't matter under a direct hit.

There was no direct hit. The concussion sound came from the front. Dust and grit rained down the turret hatch.

Remo got up. He scrawled forward into the cockpit. There he saw another crater ahead.

Lan joined him. "They miss again," she said.

"I think it was deliberate," Remo said. "They want to stop us here. Probably means reinforcements on the way. "

"We dead?"

"Maybe not. They might want us alive."

"Better off dead," Lan said, buttoning her shirt.

"Look, you stay with the tank."

Lan's eyes widened. "You leave Lan?"

"They're probably sending more tanks. I took over one. I can take over others."

"Okay," Lan said. "Hurry back. Do not get killed."

"It's not in my plans," Remo said. And he kissed her. Remo waited until the gunships dropped behind the trees before he slipped out the hatch. He jumped into the roadside bamboo. The sun was sending mists rising off the rice paddies. It was warming up. He found a sturdy tree and got into the high branches. He had a full clip in his rifle and three more in his pockets. He waited.

As Remo had guessed, the convoy came out of the north, as had the helicopters. There were three tanks, led by a Land Rover. Remo recognized the pockmarked face of the NVA officer he knew as Captain Spook in the back of the Land Rover.

Remo raised his rifle and got the man in his sights. But no, that would spoil the element of surprise. He lowered the rifle.

"You got more lives than a cat, pal. But today they run out. That's a promise."

Remo shouldered his rifle and crawled out on a limb as far as he could. He hung over the road. The tanks ran with their turrets open, soldiers manning swiveling .50-caliber machine guns. Remo waited until the first two tanks had passed. He dropped from his perch just as the third tank rolled under him.

Remo landed behind the turret. He landed clumsily. The boots. They felt wrong. He clung to a bulkhead to keep from falling off. When he regained his balance, he inched up toward the turret.

The machine-gunner never heard Remo's approach. Remo smashed him in the back of the head with a single blow. The soldier slumped over his weapon.

Remo lifted him out of the hatch bodily, surprised at his own strength. He threw the man overboard and took his place.

Carefully, hoping the crew below wouldn't notice the substitution, Remo unlimbered his rifle. He set the selector to single shot. He waited.

Ahead, the Land Rover came to the first crater. It whirled around it. The first tank hadn't enough room. It clanked into the pit, treads digging into the broken asphalt for traction. The noise would cover the sound of single shots. Remo dropped into the tank and put his muzzle to the back of the driver's head.

The driver said nothing. He raised his hands.

The officer manning the cannon hadn't noticed Remo. Covering the driver, Remo slipped up behind the weapons officer and slammed his face into the cannon breech with the butt of his rifle. Then he turned his attention back to the driver.

The driver's face was a mask of sweat.

"I don't want to kill you, pal," Remo told him, "although I'm not sure why I shouldn't."

"Khoung! Khoung!" the driver protested.

Remo knocked him over the head. He yanked him out of the bucket and got behind the lateral controls. Remo peered through the periscope. He had a clean shot at the tank up ahead. But even if he got it, the lead tank was in a position to return fire. The helicopters were still a factor too.

Remo decided to wait. The first tank clanked out of the road crater as the second flopped into it. Remo sent the tank inching ahead cautiously. He wasn't sure of his next move.

The helicopters decided him. One by one, they settled onto the road on the other side of Lan's tank, blocking it.

"Okay," Remo said. "Time to rock-and-roll."

Remo dug around in back. He found a crate of hand grenades and started stuffing them into his pockets. He came out through the driver's hatch and slipped to the ground.

Remo still wore the ill-fitting Vietnamese khaki and one of their avocado pith helmets. He walked casually up behind the other tanks, slouching to make himself appear shorter. He pulled the pin on a grenade and just as casually tossed it into the lap of the second tank's turret gunner.

The gunner screeched in fright and jumped off the turret. That was a big mistake. He should have tossed the grenade and jumped into the safety of the tank. Remo shot him. The grenade went off inside the tank.

The sound was muffled, but the smoke boiled out of every aperture like floating serpents.

Next, Remo jumped to the crater and tossed several grenades. He lay flat on the crater's lip. The concussions came like a string of exploding firecrackers, but much louder.

There were shouts from the lead and remaining tank. Remo clambered into the crater, rushed past the fiery mess that was the second T-72, and lifted his head above the crater wall. The turret was slowly turning around. The machine-gunner was sweeping his perforated gun muzzle back and forth, his eyes staring stupidly under his pith helmet.

Remo took his head off with a short, concentrated burst and followed the bullets out of the crater. He was on the tank in an instant, pulling pins and popping grenades past the slumping, headless corpse.

The grenades went off. Brief flashes of fire spat from the ports. Remo was already into the roadside trees. He was taking fire from the Land Rover. The helicopters were powering up again.

"Lan!" Remo called. "Don't let them take off!"

Lan came up out of the turret and opened up. She had a rifle cradled under each arm. She braced herself against the hatch well and set the muzzles on the rim to steady them. She fired them alternately. Her body shook with the bone-rattling recoil.

Not designed for ground fighting, the gunships never had a chance. Their main rotors spun lazily, but the machines didn't lift off. The pilots were either wounded or running for their lives.

Meanwhile, Remo got behind some trees, working toward the Land Rover crew. He was back on single firing. He picked off the driver. Another soldier was flat on the ground, firing from under the chassis. Remo ducked behind sheltering trees, pulled a grenade pin, and rolled it along the road. It hit the left-front tire and rebounded onto the road.

The soldier under the vehicle saw the grenade lying mere inches in front of his face. He had no shelter, no time to wriggle out from under the vehicle so he did the only thing left to him.

He struggled to reach the grenade with his hand. No doubt he hoped to lob it back at Remo. But there wasn't time. His shaking fingers touched the grenade, upsetting it. It popped out of reach. Then it exploded.

A piece of shrapnel embedded itself in a tree not far from Remo. It hit with a meaty thunk. Remo sat with his hands clamping his helmet down tightly.

When Remo looked out again, the Land Rover was burning. Something like a charred ham smoked under it.

But there was no sign of Captain Spook.

Remo looked frantically. There was no third body near the vehicle. Captain Spook had been in the Land Rover. Maybe he was in the trees on the other side of the road. But Remo saw nothing move.

"Lan! You see anyone else?"

Up in the turret, Lan swung around. Her face was a smear of dirt and sweat.

"No!" she shouted back.

"There's one running loose. Keep your eyes peeled."

"Keep what?"

"Just watch! We're not out of this yet."

Remo waited, crouching. Silence returned to the road. Insects resumed their multitudinous sounds. Nothing moved other than flame and the nervous twitching of the dead and dying.

Finally Remo decided to make for the tank. He retreated into the bush, worked forward, and flashed across the road.

Seeing him coming, Lan laid down covering fire. She shot at nothing and everything. She disappeared into the tank only after-Remo dived into the driver's hatch.

Remo was breathing hard when he got behind the laterals.

"Button it up!" he panted. "We gotta get out of here. Fast!"

"Why?" Lan asked as she dogged her hatch shut. "You kill them all."

"Not him," said Remo. "Not Captain Spook. He vanished again."

"Who?"

"The NVA officer I killed. Back in the war. I saw him again. He's out there."

Remo sent the tank rumbling forward. It tipped as it slid down into the far, unobstructed crater.

"I think we can push those choppers aside and make a break for it," he observed.

"They will send more."

"Don't get discouraged," Remo said. "We've been doing pretty good so far." His breathing was more regular now. He wiped dirt off his forehead.

"Then why you look so scared?" Lan asked, jamming fresh clips into two rifles.

"I'm not afraid of anything."

"Not true. You fear Captain Spook. I see it on your face."

Remo said nothing. The crater filled his periscope.

He bounced in his seat, his shoulders striking the cramped cockpit walls. Lan hung to handholds. The tank ran level, then started to climb nose-first, its treads clawing out of the depression.

When the tank lumbered onto the road, Remo let out his breath.

"I thought we weren't going to make it for a minute," he said.

Then he added, "Oh, crap!"

"What?" Lan asked, leaning forward.

"Look."

Lan looked past Remo's shoulder. Through the narrow slit of the port she saw a man in a ragged Vietnamese officer's uniform standing in the center of the road. He carried a Kalashnikov rifle upended like a pole. A white rag fluttered from the muzzle.

Remo stopped the tank.

"He want to surrender," Lan said quietly.

"I don't trust him."

"Then run him over."

Remo considered. "Do no good," he said at last. "He's already dead. Grab your gun."

Remo pushed open his hatch. He pointed his weapon at Captain Spook's pock-marked face. Lan covered him with the turret gun.

Captain Dai Chim Sao shouted at him in Vietnamese. "What's he saying?" Remo asked Lan.

"He say you destroy his unit."

"Tell him I noticed."

"He want to know what you want."

"I want to kill him for sure. No, don't say that."

"What I say to him?"

"Tell him," Remo said slowly, "tell him I want him to surrender. "

Lan shouted Remo's answer in Vietnamese. Captain Dai yelled back.

"He say he already surrender," Lan explained.

"Not just him. Everybody. I want Vietnam to surrender. Unconditionally."

Lan told him. Captain Dai's mean face broke in shock. His answer was brittle.

"He say he only a captain. Cannot surrender whole government."

"Then tell him to kiss his butt good-bye," Remo hissed, lifting his rifle to shoulder-firing position. Captain Dai dropped his rifle and shouted frantically. "He say he can give you better than surrender," Lan said quickly.

"There's nothing better," Remo growled.

"He say he know where American POW's are held. He will take you. You take Americans away and leave Vietnam alone."

"That sounds like surrender to me," Remo said, lowering his rifle. "Tell him it's a deal."

Chapter 19

Captain Dai Chim Sao knew he was finished. He had lost two entire tank groups to a lone American and a halfbreed girl. Before his last soldier fell, Dai knew he would be disgraced. Death was not even a concern anymore.

And because he feared death less than disgrace, Captain Dai formulated a plan. He slipped away from the Land Rover as the last tank exploded in flames. He worked his way through the trees to the ruined helicopters and found a working radio.

He radioed his position and warned the surrounding base camps of his planned route.

"We are not to be intercepted," he had said. "That is an order. Obey me. " And tying an oil rag to his rifle, he'd stepped into the path of the oncoming tank, knowing that at worst it would only crush him under its implacable treads.

But now Captain Dai was squatting under the muzzle of the smoothbore cannon, the bui doi girl holding him under the menace of the turret gun.

For hours, the tank rattled along the north road. It stopped only once to replenish its gas tank with fuel from the on-board supply.

The red sun beat down on Captain Dai's unprotected head. But his mean face was twisted in a wicked smile no one could see.

The American didn't know it, but he was riding into a trap.

Hours later, the tank was grumbling along a grass-choked jungle path. The path had obviously been knocked out of the jungle by many passing vehicles.

In the driver's bucket, Remo called up to Lan. "Ask him how long till we reach the prison camp." Lan spat out the question. She interpreted the captain's surly reply.

"He say soon, soon," Lan reported.

"He's said that before," Remo complained.

Lan said nothing. The path was narrowing. Remo had to expend most of his energy working the laterals to keep the treads from climbing the occasional too-close tree. It was work.

It was still light when Remo jockeyed the tank around a tight turn. The suddenness with which the jungle opened up around them took their breath away.

"Remo!" Lan called suddenly.

"Yeah, I see it," Remo said, craning to see through the periscope. "It's gotta be the camp."

"No," Lan said dully. "Not camp."

"Sure it is," Remo insisted.

"Yes, camp. But look to side."

Someone was shouting orders in brittle Vietnamese. "Shut him up," Remo said, stopping the tank.

"Cannot," Lan said. "Not captain. Come up, Remo." Remo climbed up to join Lan at the turret hatch. He looked around. Then he saw the other tank. It had been laying for them at the edge of the camp clearing. Like the finger of doom, its gleaming cannon was pointing directly at them.

Remo grabbed the turret gun. He pointed it at the back of Captain Dai's head.

"Tell them to back off or I'll blow his head open," Remo shouted.

Frightened, Lan relayed Remo's threat.

The tank commander stared back stonily. Remo watched him out of the tail of his eye, afraid to tear his gaze from the back of Captain Dai's head. Dai turned. His face was alight. He bared his shovellike teeth in a sneering grin.

"Don't be so smug," Remo said. "I killed you once. I'll be happy to do it again."

Lan relayed Remo's words. Captain Dai's face lost its catlike grin. A variety of expressions crossed his features. "What are they doing?" Remo whispered.

"Waiting," Lan said. Her face was drawn.

"For what?"

Then they knew. Out from behind the tank, a line of men marched with heads bowed and shoulders drooping. They wore gray cotton. They were Americans. Behind them marched others, who were not all American. Lan recognized them as her fellow Amerasians. Her throat tightened painfully at the realization that they hadn't made it to Thailand. To Remo, they meant nothing.

The stone-faced tank commander pointed to the line of captives. They were under the menace of several soldiers' rifles. The officer shouted angrily, gesticulating at Remo and again at the prisoners.

"Don't tell me," Remo told Lan. "We surrender or they get chopped down."

Lan nodded silently, fighting back tears.

Remo's fingers tightened on the machine-gun trip. He wanted very much to pull it. Captain Dai saw the look in Remo's eyes. His smile completely fled. Sweat broke out all over his unlovely face.

Finally Remo said, "You're not worth it," and backed away from the machine gun, its muzzle dropping impotently. Remo raised his hands.

"No choice, kid," he said thickly.

No longer fighting her tears, Lan threw her AK-47 into the dirt. She raised her hands.

"Good-bye, Remo," she whispered thickly.

"We're not dead yet."

The soldiers surrounded the tank and motioned Remo and Lan down from the turret. They forced them to kneel, their crude hands feeling their clothes for hidden weapons. Remo's helmet was cast aside. Others helped Captain Dai off the tank. He had difficulty walking. His knees wobbled.

Unsteadily he walked up to Remo and slapped his face twice, first in one direction and then with the back of his hand on the return sweep.

"Hai cai nay ra!" Dai screamed at the tank officer. Lan was dragged away to a thatched hut. The prisoners were marched after her.

Then they escorted Remo across the camp, taking him to the far side, where a bulky steel container about the size of a garbage- dumpster stood in the dirt not far from-if the overpowering stench meant anything-an open latrine trench.

Remo was forced to kneel again, and the sudden night of Vietnam fell upon them. The refrigeratorlike door at one end of the long container was thrown open and Remo was kicked and jabbed into its dark interior.

The door clanged shut and the locking lever was thrown.

Remo found himself in a stifling cube of heat. The air was heavy with stale human smells. A little light filtered in through bullet holes in the sides.

Remo put an eye to one of the holes and tried to see outside. A low voice pulled him away from the hole. "They don't usually put two men inside at once," it grumbled. "But I do appreciate the company."

"Who's there?" Remo asked.

"Who do you think, fool? Youngblood. You been brainwashed or something?"

"Youngblood?" Remo asked. "Dick?"

"Hey!" Youngblood suddenly shouted: "I don't recognize your voice. Who the hell are you?"

"It's me, Remo."

"Yeah? Remo who?"

"Williams. How many other Remos do you know?"

"Williams ... Remo Williams...... The voice was low, as if tasting the name. I usta know a marine by that name."

"Dick. It's me."

"Prove it."

"Tell me how."

"Lemme see your face. Get over by the vent holes back here, where there's light."

Remo scrooched over. His eyes were becoming used to the lack of light. He made out a dim, hulking form with bright, suspicious eyes.

The eyes came closer. They were familiar. But not the surrounding face. It was thicker, the skin coarse and lined.

"Shee-it!" Youngblood said. "It is you, you sonovabitch!"

"You look old," Remo said slowly.

"The hell you say," Youngblood scoffed. "After twenty years, what did you expect, Nat King Fucking Cole?"

"Then it is true."

"What?"

"The war. It's over."

"You ain't heard?"

"I haven't been able to believe it," Remo admitted.

"Say! What the hell are you doin' here?"

"I don't know. I don't remember. I woke up and here I was."

"I enlisted, myself," Youngblood growled. "Thought you were drafted."

"They tell me it's been twenty years, but all I can remember is the war."

"They found you in the jungle, did they?"

"No, I captured a tank. I drove it here. They ambushed me. Another tank."

"An old T-54?"

"Yeah."

"Hah! You dumb shit. You got snookered. That thing's got a wooden cannon. It can't shoot riceballs."

"Well, you don't have to be so happy about it," Remo complained.

"Sorry, man. I been here so long I'll take my entertainment any flavor at all."

"Who else is here?"

"There's only seven of us now. There used to be more than thirty. I'm senior officer now. That's why they got me in this here conex. You'll love it. Like an oven during the day and an icebox at night. What happened was, a prisoner escaped. A Vietnamese named Phong. They got me in here as punishment. Hey, is that how you come to be here? Did Phong send you?"

"I told you, I can't remember what I'm doing here. In my head, it's still 1968."

Youngblood grunted a laugh. "Yeah, my watch kinda stopped too. You know, Remo, you look different. "

"So? "

"I mean it. You look different. But not much older than I remember. Geez, wherever you been, man, you ain't aged a lick."

"I think I'm dead," Remo said hollowly.

"What?"

"I think I died in the bush. I'm a ghost."

"Hey now, man. Don't you be pulling any spook stuff on me. That shit don't go with me."

"Spook," Remo said. "That's the other thing. Remember Captain Spook? He's here. We killed him and he's still alive. What does that tell you?"

Dick Youngblood's low voice rose in gales of laughter. The conex shook with the enthusiasm of his howls. "Remo, you are one confused fuck," he chortled. "But I know how you must be feeling. I felt my own ass pucker the first time he turned up in my face."

"Huh?"

"That ain't Captain Spook. That's Spook Junior. His son. Calls himself Captain Dai. They do seem to be painted with the same ugly stick, don't they?"

"Son?" Remo said in a dazed voice. Then, "Shh. I hear someone coming."

In the darkness, Dick Youngblood put an ear to the metal wall.

"I don't hear shit."

"Footsteps. Very quiet."

"You're hearing ghosts. Probably your relatives."

"Then I'm seeing them too," Remo said. "Look." Youngblood let Remo guide him to a bullet hole.

"A gook," Youngblood said. "Old, too. Never seen him before."

"That's Uncle Ho."

"Ho Chi Minh is dead too, but if that's him, I take back everything I said."

"Uncle Ho is what I call him. I met him out in the bush. "

"Just like that. Who is he?"

"I don't know his name. But he claims he's my father. "

"Yeah, now that you mention it," Youngblood said dryly, "I can see the family resemblance."

The Master of Sinanju waited until the camp settled down for the night. He had patiently awaited the coming of his pupil to the Vietnamese prisoner camp. As always, Remo was late.

It had been simpler to allow Remo to be captured than to interfere. In Remo's present state, Chiun did not wish to risk losing him to wild gunfire. When he believed Remo had been in the big metal box long enough, Chiun approached silent and unseen by the few guards picketed about.

"Remo," he whispered.

"What do you want, Ho?" Remo asked in a surly tone.

"Simply to speak with you, my son," Chiun said sweetly. "Are you comfortable?"

"Of course not. I'm a freaking prisoner."

"Oh," said the Master of Sinanju, as if just noticing that fact. "Why do you not escape?"

"How?"

"These convenient holes," Chiun told him, inserting a long-nailed finger into one of the bullet holes. "They are just right. They make wonderful handholds with which to tear off a nice section of wall."

"Watch it!" Remo barked. "You nearly poked my eye out. "

"Your fault for peeking. You do not need to see me to understand my words."

"You're right, Remo," another voice said. "He is a crazy old gook."

"Who is that?" demanded Chiun. "Who speaks?"

"A friend of mine," Remo told him. "What of it?"

"The one named Youngblood?"

"Yeah. How'd you know that?"

Youngblood snorted like a bull. "Because he's a gook," he said. "You've been set up, Remo."

"It is too bad," said Chiun sadly.

"What is?" Remo wanted to know.

"That you have found your long-lost Army friend. It is very sad."

"Look, Ho. Why don't you take a hike?" Remo suggested. "We've got a lot of catching up to do."

"How can you speak such hard words to one who has meant so much to you?"

"Easy. I'm dead. Dead people can do whatever they want. "

"Ah, then you remember that you are dead. That is good."

"It is?"

"Hey, I don't want no part of this conversation," Youngblood said hotly. "This is bullshit."

Chiun ignored him. "What else do you remember, Remo?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" squeaked Chiun. So Remo did not remember after all. And until he did, Chiun could do nothing with him.

"That's what I said. Now screw off."

"But you do remember that you are dead. You have been dead now for many years."

"Then it's true," Remo said hollowly. "How did you know?"

"Why, because . . ." Chiun began. A thought occurred to the Master of Sinanju. A fable of Remo's upbringing he had once shared with him. "It is because I am your guardian angel. Yes, your illustrious guardian angel. I am here to escort you to where you belong."

"You? My guardian angel is Vietnamese?"

"No, Korean."

"North or South?"

"North, of course."

"My guardian angel is a Communist?"

"No, dense one. Your guardian angel is Sinanju."

"I think there's been some mistake. I'm Catholic."

"Emperor Smith is worried about you."

"Who's Emperor Smith?"

"Why, he is the ruler of America, of course. He sent me to bring you back."

"Did you hear that, Dick? America's turned into a monarchy. Probably because we lost the war, I'll bet. Hey, why would this emperor send someone to bring back a dead man?"

"He's messing with your head, Remo," Youngblood said. "Send him away."

"I am telling the truth," Chiun said haughtily.

"Prove it," Remo snapped.

"How?"

"Get us out of here."

"Why did you not ask before? Wait here."

"For what?"

"I am going to create a distraction to assist your escape."

"Did you hear that, Dick?" Remo said sarcastically. "Uncle Ho is going to create a distraction. If you have anything to pack, now's the time to start."

"I ain't listening to either of you. You're both flipped out. "

"Do not worry," promised the Master of Sinanju. "This will not take long. The elephant of surprise is on our side."

After the Master of Sinanju had vanished, Dick Youngblood had a question.

"Did he say 'elephant'?"

"I think he meant 'element.' Like 'element of surprise.' " Remo was looking through the bullet holes eagerly.

"What're you looking at?" Youngblood asked. "I want to see what he's going to do."

"Do? He's going to go to the camp commander and they're going to drink rice wine and laugh at us until the monsoon season comes. What do you think he's going to do?"

"I don't know," Remo said slowly. "I saw him turn an AK-47 to powder with his bare hands."

Dick Youngblood sat staring at the dimly lit profile of Remo Williams, his bulldog face cocked quizzically. "You know what I think?" he said at last.

"What?"

"I think I'm asleep and you're my nightmare for tonight. I'm going to catch some shut-eye-even though we both know I'm already asleep. I just hope you and that crazy old gook are gone when I wake up."

Chapter 20

The first sound wasn't long in coming. A thatched hut crashed. Remo was unable to see what was happening, but the noise was unmistakable. Bamboo splintered. Dry roof grass crackled as if on fire.

There was yelling, panic, and Vietnamese voices raised in shrill confusion. And in the midst of it all, a bellowing animal sound.

Dick Youngblood jumped to Remo's side. "What's happening. What's going on?"

"I don't know," Remo said. He moved from vent hole to vent hole, trying to see.

Knifelike fingernails suddenly appeared in a cluster of bullet holes near Remo's face. He recoiled.

"Uncle Ho again!" he cried.

The fingernails slashed down. The sound of steel being sheared hurt their eardrums. Youngblood scurried to the furthest corner of the conex.

"I don't believe what I'm seeing," he said.

One section of the conex wall hung in strips. The strips were swiftly peeled back, opening up a man-size hole.

A wrinkled parchment face poked into the conex interior.

"What are you waiting for?" Chiun inquired. "Come." Remo didn't hesitate.

"You coming?" he asked Youngblood.

"I know I'm dreaming."

"You can wake up later."

"Or you can die now," Chiun said sharply. "Come."

Youngblood crawled out of the conex, saying, "I read somewhere back in the world that if you die in a dream you're dead when you wake up, so I figure I got nothing to lose."

"This way," said Remo.

The camp was in a panic. Surprisingly, there was no shooting.

"What did you do, Ho?" Remo asked.

"The name is Chiun. I am Master of Sinanju."

"And I'm the King of Siam," Youngblood said.

"You are going to make what I must do easier," Chiun warned.

He led them into the bush. Remo threw himself to the ground. He scrambled back to see through the reeds.

"What's that you said, gook?" Youngblood asked.

"Nothing," Chiun told him. He turned to Remo. "What are you waiting for? We must be gone from this place."

"Lan's still in there."

"My men too," Youngblood added. "I ain't leavin' 'em, either. "

"Agreed," said Remo.

"Not agreed," said Chiun. "I rescued you. Therefore you must do as I say."

"I don't remember agreeing to that. You, Dick?"

"Nah, the old gook is crazy anyway. See that barracks hut? Think we can get to it?"

"Maybe. All the commotion seems to be on the other side. Sounds like a tank run amok."

"Tanks don't sound like that thing. You're hearing an animal. "

"It is," Chiun said. "What is?" Remo asked. Suddenly a spotlight was turned on. It showed a rearing gray monster. A Vietnamese soldier was scooped up by a snake of flesh and smashed against a wall. A hulking mass descended on a thatched hut. It fell like a house of cards.

"Holy shit!" Youngblood breathed. "That's a fucking elephant. "

"Not an elephant," Chiun said with satisfaction. "It is the elephant."

"What elephant is that?" Youngblood asked, wide-eyed.

"The elephant of surprise you Americans always speak of. "

"What'd I tell you?" Remo said.

"I don't want to hear it. Listen, we gotta get us some weapons. What do you say?"

"I'm game."

"Yes," Chiun said sternly. "You are both dead ducks if you blunder ahead. Wait here, I will find your friends."

"Who put you in charge?" Remo asked, turning around.

There was no reply. Remo nudged Youngblood with an elbow.

"What?"

"Look behind you," Remo suggested.

Youngblood looked. There was no sign of the old Oriental. He groaned.

"Not that spook shit again. I hate this."

"Look," Remo said.

"No way. I ain't looking at nothing. I'm dreaming." But Dick Youngblood looked anyway. The old Oriental was inside the camp, calmly walking toward the main cluster of buildings. He paused and cupped his hands over his thin lips. A weird cry was emitted.

The elephant trumpeted a reply and lurched away from the camp. It crashed into the bush, its long trunk slapping from side to side. It moved with unbelievable speed.

A pack of Vietnamese soldiers followed it with sticks.

"Why don't they just shoot it?" Remo wondered aloud.

"You kiddin', man? We're in Cambodia. An elephant is like a horse to these slopes. He's a pack animal and a tow truck rolled into one, and if he starts eating too much, you can always shoot him and eat off him for a month."

"They're not going to catch him anytime soon," Remo pointed out. "Let's go."

"I'm with you. Semper Fi, do or die."

They charged out of the bush and sought the lee of the long barracks building. The camp was starting to quiet down.

"I'll go first," Youngblood said, peering around the corner.

"If you see a Vietnamese girl with green eyes and freckles, she's friendly," Remo said, pushing him off. Youngblood's legs churned. For the first time, Remo had a good look at him in bright light. He was heavy. A big man whose muscles had been softened by time and confinement. He looked old. Remo looked at his own smooth hands, wondering how they could belong to someone who was Youngblood's age.

No time to think about that now, Remo thought. He got ready to run.

A safety clicked off directly behind him and Remo felt the flesh over his spine writhe like a snake.

"Chu hoti!" the voice of Captain Dai Said. It was high-pitched, nervous.

Recognizing an order to surrender, Remo turned slowly, his hands lifting.

"Looks like it's you and me again," Remo said resignedly. Whatever happened, he was going to buy Dick Youngblood enough time to do what he had to.

Captain Dai Chim Sao knew how to make a man talk. A woman would be easy. He had had the bui doi girl, Lan, taken to his office. Her hands were tied behind her back and a bamboo pole inserted under her crooked arms, where it would stretch the shoulder joints in their sockets. That alone was painful enough to make some men talk without further torture.

The girl Lan required more.

Captain Dai used his cigarette. First on the soft palms of her hands. Then on the soles of her feet. He stood behind her, toying with her growing sense of expectation. She couldn't see him apply the smoldering butts. The psychological advantage was enormous.

The girl cried and whimpered. She bit her lips to bloody pulp. She refused to beg. Like the detestable Phong. Once, she swore, and he slapped her face. She spat at him and he slapped her again. Just like Phong. She would pay like Phong too.

It didn't take long to break her. And it was a simple thing that did it. He set her long hair afire with a lighter. She screamed. Dai threw water over her head. What remained of her hair smoldered. Her face, raw now, began to puff up.

"No," she whimpered. "No more. Please."

"My English is poor," Dai told her in Vietnamese. "My question is simple. The American said something about killing me again. What did he mean by that?"

"He told me he killed you during the war with the Americans," Lan sobbed.

"So," said Captain Dai. His eyes were like cold embers.

"I know nothing more," Lan told him through peeling lips.

Dai's eyes refocused.

"You remind me of Phong," he said cruelly.

"I know no Phong. "

"I will change that,". Dai said, placing his sidearm to her temple. "I will send you to meet him."

He fired a single shot.

Lan fell sideways, her body hanging up on the bamboo pole across her back. Slowly she slipped down it until her head touched the pool of water around her. It began to turn red.

Captain Dai stepped out of the interrogation hut. It was incredible. Somehow, fate had sent to him the one American he'd never dared hope he would face. The man who had murdered his father, the father whose face he now wore with arrogant pride.

Captain Dai strode to the conex. He was oblivious of the sounds of confusion erupting all over the camp. Dimly he recognized the trumpeting of an elephant. An elephant wasn't important on this night. Only the American killer of his father was important.

Captain Dai wrenched down the conex door lever. He threw it open. His set jaw loosened, sending his dangling cigarette to the ground.

The conex was empty. Moonlight filled the interior from a gaping hole.

Frantically Captain Dai raced into the camp. He hoped no one would kill the American before he found him. He prayed to his ancestors that he would not be denied that exquisite pleasure.

When Captain Dai saw the black sergeant blunder out from behind a hut, he slipped around to the other side. His pocked face broke out in ugly joy.

The American was there. He turned slowly.

Captain Dai would have shot him in the back without hesitation. Just as he had done to countless nameless Americans he had ambushed during the war. But he wanted this American to know why he was going to die. "You killed my father," he told him in Vietnamese.

"My hands are up," the American said. "I'm chu hoing, bien?"

The idiot did not understand him. It was important that he understand.

"My father NVA, bien?" Dai said. The American shrugged his shoulders.

"You killed him. For that I have killed many Americans. Now I kill you. Crackadill, bien?"

The American looked blank. Captain Dai swore. If only he knew the English word for "kill."

The Master of Sinanju freed the prisoners by a simple method. He found the hut where they were imprisoned. It was easy to identify. It was a little way from the others, and had two armed soldiers standing at the entrance.

Chiun slipped up to the back and with a fingernail sliced a low rectangular hatch out of the wall. He slipped in and invited the Americans and Amerasians to accompany him to safety.

"I am sent by the American government," he whispered. "Follow quietly. There is a submarine waiting for us."

They looked at him without comprehension. A ripple of expressions greeted him: doubt, suspicion, fear. They didn't budge.

Chiun nudged them with his lightninglike fingernails. The pain made the prisoners scramble out of the hut as if it'd been filled with swarming hornets.

Chiun beckoned them to the safety of the bush, and motioned for them to stay hidden. There was still the girl. Naturally, she would be the one who would make the rescue difficult.

Then he saw the black man, Youngblood, lumbering from hut to hut like a bear. Chiun rolled his eyes. Americans. They were like children, never staying where you told them.

He raced after Youngblood and saw Remo standing in the shadow of a building with his hands raised in surrender. A Vietnamese officer had him covered. The Vietnamese was babbling some nonsense at Remo. Chiun could tell by Remo's puzzled expression that he did not understand the Vietnamese's angry words.

"Remo!" Chiun called.

Remo's head turned. He looked frightened. "Hey, Uncle Ho. Give me a hand here."

Chiun hesitated. He was too far away. If he moved on the Vietnamese, there would be shooting. He did not want to lose Remo to a stupid little rock.

"If you harm my son," Chiun told the officer in his own language, "a terrible death will descend upon you."

"I fear no death, old man."

"I am Sinanju. That white man is also Sinanju. Think hard upon that fact," Chiun intoned.

"Hey, Ho, whatever you're telling him, better stop. He's only getting madder."

"This American killed my father," the Vietnamese told Chiun, and his finger tightened on the trigger.

"I think he's going to shoot, Ho!" Remo yelled.

"Remember your training, Remo," Chiun called sternly.

"What?"

"Your mind calls them bullets, but they are only rocks."

"I'm about to be cut down and you're talking geology."

"You fear the little rock only because your mind tells you to," Chiun went on, stepping forward carefully. "You would not fear a man throwing a big rock at you."

"I fear bullets," Remo said, his eyes fixed on the quivering gun barrel.

"Yes," Chiun said. "That is right. Look at the barrel. Do not take your eyes from it. Relax. Do not move until you see the bullet coming."

"Move? I'm petrified."

"Old man," the Vietnamese said, "tell this American for me that he killed my father, Captain Dai Ma Qui, and I will spare his life."

"Remo," Chiun said, "this idiot says you killed his father."

"Tell him I know," Remo said, his eyes so intent upon the barrel they almost crossed.

"He says he knows," Chiun said. Captain Dai fired.

"Remember!" Chiun called as he flashed ahead, but Remo did not hear him. The dark gun muzzle filled with fire and smoke, the bullet a grayish blot speeding just a microsecond before them. Remo's head seemed to expand. He was no longer in control of his body. It was moving on its own, moving with a deliberate speed that made the world seem to stand still.

The bullet sped toward Remo's chest. It seemed so slow. Remo jerked aside. The bullet passed him, not an inch from the front of his T-shirt. The sharp bullwhip sound of the bullet's passing was a sharp pain in his ears.

Remo batted the pistol out of the Vietnamese's hands before he could squeeze off a second round. Remo kicked him in the groin, and when he slipped to his knees, clutching himself, Remo knocked his shovellike teeth loose.

Chiun appeared beside him. "Sloppy. Bad technique."

Remo turned. "Are you kidding? I side-stepped a live round at point-blank range and bashed this clown's face in."

"Why do you not kill him?"

"Can't."

Chiun almost staggered. He braced himself against the building and placed a stricken hand to his breast. "Can't!" he squeaked. "My son, the assassin who cannot kill. Why not?"

"It's against the Geneva Accords to kill a prisoner."

Chiun blinked. "Against . . ."

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, move. 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."

"Our patrol boats report sonar soundings in the bay. Very large sonar soundings."

General Trang's face grew grim. "A submarine?"

"I have ordered depth charges dropped on it," said the defense minister, climbing atop a tank for a better view of the harbor.

"Dare we risk it?"

The defense minister looked down at him coldly. "We have won the military war with the Americans," he said. "But we have lost the economic war. Our industrial base is a shambles. Our money is worthless. We have no potable water anymore. We have enemies on all borders and our supposed friends the Russians, who are like the Americans except they have no money to spend, are leeching us dry. One day soon, we may have to fight them too."

"None of what you say is new to me, comrade."

"But obviously you have not applied your brain to the political situation. Let me do that for you. Our only hope lies with our former enemies, the Americans. Only their friendship and economic assistance can save Vietnam. We must have their goodwill, even if we have to achieve it by force."

"I understand. We can never get it if the American prisoners escape on their own."

"It is too late even to return them under a pretext," the defense minister said. "Thanks to that bungler Captain Dai. The Americans must all perish. Here, on this beach. By sundown."

The defense minister abruptly stopped speaking. Rumbling detonations came from out in the bay.

"But the American submarine, which has violated our territorial waters, may be the card that achieves our objective," he said. More detonations followed. Then, like a whale coming up for air, the submarine surfaced. Its conning tower broke the surface of the bay, throwing up spray. It settled.

"We have them!" General Trang said excitedly when the American-flag emblem on the conning tower became visible.

"And we will offer them back to America-in return for certain voluntary economic concessions," said the defense minister. "Once the POW problem is totally resolved. "

"I can send my tanks forward, crushing everything in their path," General Trang suggested eagerly.

"No," said the defense minister, dropping to the sand. "Let the tank come. When they see we have their submarine, they will know they have no hope of escaping our shores. We will offer surrender terms. They will accept. And we will eliminate them."

"Stop here," ordered the Master of Sinanju.

Remo braked the tank. "Everyone sit tight," he called out. "I'm going to see what we're up against."

Remo shimied up a banana tree. From his perch he saw it all, the tanks, the grounded gunships waiting to lift off, and out in the blue waters of the Gulf of Thailand, a U.S. submarine-dead in the water and surrounded by the red-flagged patrol boats.

When his feet touched the ground, Remo's face was ashen. Everybody saw it.

"They've captured the sub," Remo said simply.

The prisoners groaned in a single voice. Some wept. A few threw down their weapons in frustration. Youngblood stamped his feet like an overgrown child. "Damn!" he said bitterly.

"You no longer have an objective, never mind a plan," Chiun told Remo coolly. "What will you do now, soldier boy?"

"Win," said Remo.

"How?" asked Youngblood. The others echoed him. Remo turned to Chiun. "I'll bet you can handle those patrol boats."

The Master of Sinanju looked at Remo pointedly. "And what makes you think a frail old man such as myself could manage that daunting task?"

"I've seen you in action before. Can you?" Chiun bowed.

"Of course-for a modest price." Remo's face clouded.

"What?" he said tightly.

"It is no great thing. I only wish your help in transporting my elephant to America."

Relief washed over Remo's face. "You got it," he said.

Remo faced the others. "While he's doing that, we have to get past the beach. They have tanks and helicopters, but we've beaten them before. Are you with me?"

"Hell, yes!" they shouted.

"Then let's do it!" Remo said. "Anytime you're ready, Chiun."

But Chiun was already gone.

The Master of Sinanju took the direct approach. With scores of tank cannon and rifle muzzles converging at the end of the road, he did the unexpected. He simply walked out of the jungle.

The Vietnamese were expecting Americans. They expected a powerless tank. They did not expect a venerable Asian man in a ridiculous kimono striding calmly toward their lines. His hands were empty, so they did not fire.

The defense minister stepped up to the old Asian. Insultingly, the old Asian walked right past him. At the defense minister's order, soldiers reached out to arrest him. They fell on their faces, their hands clutching beach sand.

The old Asian walked past the tanks and into the surf. He continued walking until his head disappeared under the waves.

While all eyes watched the venerable old man vanish so mysteriously, gunfire erupted from inland.

The defense minister dived for cover. He ordered the general to return fire. The general ordered return fire from behind a tank.

The smooth-bore cannon started shelling. The noise was deafening. Trees crashed. Dust geysered upward. The defense minister shouted for the gunships to take off, but he couldn't be heard. The gunships began collecting bullet holes from the sporadic fire of the unseen Americans.

Finally one did lift off of its own accord, the pilot frightened into action. The helicopter started to swarm away from the beach and out to sea, but it never reached the water. A storm of rounds stitched its cockpit and riddled the weapons pod. An antitank rocket ignited. The helicopter turned into a shower of flame and hot, slicing metal.

Several tanks directly beneath the plummeting gunship were smothered in flaming fuel. Soldiers fled the tanks. The burning fuel raced along the sand. Desperately the other tanks surged ahead, trying to get clear. They smashed into one another, treads gnashing treads. One tank, running blind, actually climbed the superstructure of another and tipped over like an upended turtle. It fell on the screaming body of General Trang.

It was out of control. And all because of that old man who had seemingly committed suicide. The defense minister hunkered down behind the tank line, trying to figure out a way to make his men cease fire. Burning smoke seared his lungs. His eyes smarted. He plunged into the surf for relief, thinking that it was like Dien Bien Phu all over again. But in reverse.

Remo gave the cease-fire order.

"Tell them to conserve ammo," he told Youngblood. The word was passed down the line.

"Casualties our side?" Remo whispered.

The word came back through Youngblood. "None."

"Casualties their side?"

"Heavy," Youngblood told him amiably. "And gettin' heavier. Sounds like they're doing each other."

"Okay," Remo said. "I'm going to see how Chiun is doing. "

Remo went up a tree. The top had been sheared off by a shellburst. Most of the shells had landed further inland, where the T-54 had been left. The Vietnamese had set their range on it, as Remo had assumed. Miraculously, it had survived. He'd brought his men up close to the tree line much closer than the Vietnamese would have expected. It had worked. They avoided the cannon shells, their biggest worry.

Out in the gulf, Remo saw three patrol boats circling the wallowing submarine. He grinned tightly. Before, there had been four boats. As he watched, one slipped under the water, stern-first. It went down as if pulled by unseen fingers. Remo spied the colorful figure of Chiun swimming from the vortex of the sinking boat to the next-nearest craft.

As Remo watched, the Master of Sinanju pressed up against the stern of that boat. He could be seen jabbing his fingers into the hull below the waterline. Remo could almost imagine the punch-press sound of his fingers piercing the hull.

The third patrol boat disappeared with all hands. Remo dropped to the ground.

"Okay, the sub will be in the clear by the time we hit the beach."

"How are we gonna do that?" an American demanded. "We're still outnumbered."

"The same way Chiun did. March right down to the water and swim for it."

"But they'll zap us for sure."

"Our tank made it. I'll use it to create a diversion. They'll open up on me. While I keep them busy, everyone slips into the water at the far end. They're so confused down there, it should be a piece of cake."

"Good plan," Youngblood said. "Except for one thing." Remo looked at him.

"I'm drivin' the tank."

"Nothing doing," Remo said. "It's too dangerous."

"I sure ain't walkin' down. I'm too old. Can't outrun the bullets like I usta."

"I'm with the sarge," Boyette piped up. "After all he's done for us, he deserves a free ride."

"Shit, I ain't lookin' for no free ride," Youngblood protested. "I just know I'm the man for the job, is all." He looked at Remo intently. "Unless someone thinks he knows a better man than me."

"Not me," said Remo, shaking his head.

"They're gonna need you to save their raggedy butts," Youngblood whispered to Remo. "I carried 'em this far. I'm countin' on you gettin' them home."

"We're all goin' home," Remo shot back.

"I hear you," said Youngblood. And without another word he charged back to the tank. Its rumbling engine started up immediately.

The old T-54 rolled past them and Dick Youngblood shot them a lazy wave of the hand before he buttoned up the driver's hatch and sent the grinding machine sliding down to the beach.

"There goes a man," a voice said. "Amen. "

"Save the prayers for church," Remo barked, his eyes anxious. "Dick won't be able to buy us much time. We go in twos. Starting-"

The gunfire started up again. The sounds of bullets ricocheting wildly off plate metal came to their ears. "Now!" Remo said, pushing the first two off.

He watched as they worked down the tree line; running parallel with the T-54. They reached the water unseen and unhurt.

"Next!" Remo yelled.

And so it went. The first three teams got to the water while the Vietnamese peppered the T-54 with machinegun fire. By then Youngblood's tank was cannon-to-cannon with a heavier T-72.

"What does he do?" someone asked. Remo noticed it was one of the Amerasians, Nguyen.

It became immediately apparent what Youngblood was up to. When the T-54 cannon barrel rammed the heavier smoothbore, the dummy bore began to splinter. The tanks kept lurching at each other.

But out of the driver's hatch, Dick Youngblood arose like a genie from a lamp. He leapt to the other tank and popped its turret hatch, raking the interior with his AK-47.

Then he disappeared inside.

"That hulking sonovabitch," Boyette said in awe. Youngblood, obviously in command of the T-72, sent the cannon swiveling toward the remaining line of tanks. He began firing. Shells coughed out explosively. The concussions hurt their ears.

"Now!" Remo yelled, jumping to his feet. "Everybody!" They raced for the beach. There was so much noise and smoke and confusion that even if they were seen, they were a minor factor compared with the rampaging T-72. Remo made sure everyone got into the water before he turned to see about Youngblood.

Youngblood's tank was indistinguishable from the others. It was like bumper cars played with military equipment. Tanks rammed one another blindly. Men ran in all directions. The Vietnamese military had reverted to its fundamental mind-set: every man for himself.

Remo was about to plunge in when one of the American POW's began calling for help. Remo turned. It was Colletta. Too weak to swim, he was going under.

Remo hesitated momentarily, but in the end he had no choice. He plunged in after Colletta.

Gripping the man's chin in the accepted rescue headlock, Remo swam for the sub. All around him, the others were paddling for their lives, their weapons left behind.

Chiun's head bobbed up to one side.

"Take this guy, will you?" Remo asked him. Seawater squirted from Chiun's mouth.

"Why?"

"I've got to go back. Youngblood's still on the beach." Chiun looked to shore. Each time a shell or tank exploded, a ball of fire climbed heavenward like a raging fist and a wave of heat struck their faces.

"If your friend is there, he is lost."

"Take him!" Remo spat.

Reluctantly the Master of Sinanju took charge of the semiconscious Colletta. Remo struck back for shore. By the time he stepped onto the open sand, the conflict had settled down. Broken, flaming tanks lay strewn everywhere. The one surviving gunship sat like a broken dragonfly, abandoned and shot to pieces. It had never gotten off the ground.

Remo ran from tank to tank, avoiding gasoline fires, and kicked hatches open in a vain effort to find his friend.

"Dick!" he called. "Dick! Damn!"

Remo found Dick Youngblood half in and half out of the driver's hatch of one T-72, his face pressed to the deck.

Remo turned him over. His face was gray and bloodless, his eyes open as if seeing everything and nothing at the same time.

Frantically Remo pulled Youngblood onto the deck. He slammed his doubled fists over the man's heart. "Come on, come on," he said, applying mouth-to-mouth. Dick's breath smelled like a pulled tooth.

Youngblood suddenly coughed. His eyes fluttered. His lips moved weakly.

"Give it up, man," he whispered. "I'm gone."

"No!" Remo shouted. "I came all this way for you. Breathe!"

"Hey, give it a rest." Youngblood's voice was gentle.

"Phong died for you, dammit," Remo said, shaking him. "Don't you understand? I left you behind the first time. I won't do it again. This can't all have been for nothing."

"It ain't, man. It ain't, 'cause I'm dying free." Then the breath went out of Youngblood's body in a slow, deflating rush.

"Dick . . ." Remo said, hugging the man tightly. "You waited so long. So damn long. Why did it have to be you? Why couldn't it have been one of the others?"

When the tears stopped, Remo pulled the body of his friend free. Dick Youngblood's massive body, for all its bulk, felt strangely light in his arms-as if the best part of him had deserted the physical shell.

With unseeing eyes, Remo walked toward the surf. He. was oblivious of the sight of his fellow Americans climbing into the submarine's deck hatches. He didn't notice the man with the iron-gray hair and military bearing crawl out from under a disabled tank, pick up a fallen Kalashnikov rifle from the sand, and point it at his back.

"You!" the man called in heavily accented English.

"Go away," Remo said dully. "It's over."

"I order you to surrender."

"Who are you to order me to do anything?" Remo asked stonily.

"I am the defense minister of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam."

Remo stopped suddenly. An odd light leapt into his eyes.

"That means you're in charge of the Vietnamese military, doesn't it?"

"Yes. Now, drop that man. Quickly!"

Remo did as he was told. He placed Dick Youngblood's body on the sand with infinite care. He turned to face the man with the iron-gray hair.

"You speak English?" Remo asked.

"I participated in the Paris peace talks."

"Then you're just the man I want to talk to," Remo said, advancing grimly.

"I cannot allow you to live," cried the defense minister. And he opened up. Remo veered to one side, evading the bullet stream. The second burst was corrected for his new position, but he wasn't there either. The Kalashnikov ejected its last smoking cartridge. Remo let the fact that the weapon was empty sink into the man's astonished mind.

Then Remo took the rifle and reduced it to splinters and metal grit.

Remo jammed the defense minister of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam up against a decapitated tank. He rifled his pockets, finding a wallet. The wallet contained several folded sheets of paper.

"These will do," Remo said.

"What do you mean?" the defense minister sputtered.

"Can you write English as well as you speak it?"

"Perhaps. "

Remo scrounged through the man's pockets until he found a pen. He turned the man around and slapped the paper and pen onto the tank's flat superstructure. "Write," Remo ordered.

"What shall I write?"

"A surrender treaty. Unconditional surrender."

"I do not understand."

"You were part of the Paris talks. You signed a treaty there. This treaty will replace that one. The terms are simple. Unconditional surrender to the American forces. Me."

"Such a coerced document can mean nothing."

"Humor me," Remo said, forcing his finger into the small of the man's back, where it caused the lower vertebrae to grind together painfully. The defense minister gasped for breath. He began writing.

When he was done, he handed the scraps of paper to Remo with shaky hands. His eyes were stricken.

"It means nothing," he repeated.

"Wrong," Remo told him. "The first treaty meant nothing, because your people never intended to live up to it. But this one is different. It means my friend lying over there died for something. I don't call that nothing."

"Am I your prisoner?"

"I don't take prisoners," Remo told him. Then he released the man's vertebrae. The defense minister fell to the sand with his lungs expelling a final gusty breath.

Remo walked away from the body without a second glance and stood over the mortal remains of Dick Youngblood.

He looked at the papers in his hands and realized that he would have to make a choice. Dick's body or the papers. He couldn't swim with Dick's body in tow and still hold the treaty papers above the ruinous salt water.

Remo was about to drop the papers when the Master of Sinanju called out to him. Remo looked.

Chiun was returning to shore on the back of the elephant he called Rambo.

"The submarine is leaving now," Chiun told him emotionlessly. "Do you wish to come along?"

"Is there room for Dick on that thing's back?"

"He is dead."

"So?"

"So I do not understand. We can do nothing more for him. Why bring his remains back?"

"You'll never understand," Remo said levelly, hoisting Youngblood's body onto the elephant's back. "I'm a Marine, and we don't leave our dead behind."

Chapter 23

The morning sun sent splinters of light through the skylight of the Folcroft gymnasium as the Master of Sinanju finished screwing the drum magazine into the old Thompson submachine gun.

When the expected knock came at the door, Chiun squeaked pleasantly, "Who is it?"

"It's me. Remo."

"Come in, Remo," Chiun called, and when the door opened, he set himself. The machine gun stuttered like a typewriter hooked up to a quadraphonic sound system.

Remo saw the bullets spewing toward him and weaved out of the way. A line of splinters chewed up the pine floor at his heels.

"Chiun! What are you doing?" Remo called. The bullet track chased him hungrily.

Remo hit the wall moving. He zipped into a running vertical just as the wall started spitting out chunks of bullet-chipped brick. Remo got all the way across the ceiling, running upside down, when the drum ran empty.

He slammed into the wall, scrambled in midair, and started to fall. Somehow, his scuffling feet found traction. He ran down the wall and landed lightly on his feet.

His face was a mask of fury.

"What were you trying to do, kill me?" he accused.

"You ascend the dragon well for a man who has forgotten Sinanju," Chlun replied blandly.

"Oh," said Remo, looking back at the riddled ceiling. Dr. Harold W. Smith poked his ash-white face into the room.

"Is it safe now?" he asked of no one in particular.

"Come in, Smitty. I was just about to break the news to Chiun."

"What news?" Chiun demanded.

"Remo has his memory back," Smith told him.

"I have just proven that," Chiun said, dropping the tommy gun.

"It came back this morning," Remo said. He snapped his fingers. "Just like that." His face was open and guileless.

Chiun scowled at him. "So easily."

"Smith said it would probably be a temporary thing." Chiun stepped up to Remo and regarded his blank face inquisitively. "Are you certain you remember everything?"

"Everything," Remo affirmed.

"Good," said Chiun, taking him by the elbow. Remo howled in anguish, clutching his funny bone. As he bent double, Chiun grasped him by an earlobe. His long nails clenched. Remo screamed louder.

"This is for leaving without telling me," Chiun recited.

"Owww!"

"This is for shattering my inviolate word in front of my emperor."

Remo fell to his knees. "Yeowww. Please, Little Father. "

"And this is for calling me a gook."

"I didn't mean-"

"And as punishment, it will be your permanent responsibility to hose down my faithful elephant twice daily. But first you atone for your misdeeds by spending a week on Fortress Folcroft's roof, without food, your chest bare to the cruel elements-which are less cruel than you."

"Master of Sinanju," Smith said frantically, "I really don't think you should blame Remo for any of that."

"Not blame Remo!" Chiun squeaked. "And whom should I blame, if not Remo? Are you one of those Americans who insist it is the parents' fault when a child goes astray?"

"Not really," Smith said. "It's just that we cannot hold Remo responsible for his actions. He was having a flashback."

"Yes," Chiun said imperiously, letting Remo go. Remo rubbed his sore earlobe. "His backflash. The question is: did he backflash before he left these shores-or after?"

"I don't remember," Remo said quickly.

"I believe him," Smith said.

"Pauughh!" Chiun spat. "And I suppose you believe this convenient story that he simply woke up this morning with his memory back?"

"It's plausible."

"Besides," Remo said, "I did everyone a favor. The Vietnamese were trying to stick it to us. I stuck them back."

"I've been on the phone with the President," Smith said. "The POW's and the Amerasians have all been debriefed. Their story is that they were rescued by an elderly Vietnamese who led them to the American submarine. They don't know Remo, except by sight. And the POW's think he's another missing-in-action serviceman who happened to be transferred to the prisoner camp prior to the escape. The Amerasians know differently, of course, but they have agreed to leave Remo's early role out of this, and just as a precaution, never to appear on the The Copra Inisfree Show. It was fortunate that Remo entered Vietnam under another name. That's how it will go down in the history books."

Chiun spoke up. "A minor boon, Emperor. When they write those records, may I be properly known as a Korean, not a Vietnamese?"

"I'm sorry. That would destroy our cover story."

"Then be certain they leave my name out of it entirely," Chiun said bitterly. And he left the room in a huff.

"What about the treaty?" Remo asked after Chiun had gone.

"I spoke with the President about that too. Worthless, I'm afraid," he said, digging the papers from his suit pocket. Remo took them.

"Even when we win, they don't let us win, do they?" he said.

Smith cleared his throat. "I thought you'd want to know that Youngblood has been interred in Arlington National Cemetery with full military honors."

"He deserved better. He deserved to live."

"Try to put it out of your mind."

"I wish you had told me about the service. I would have gone."

"And I would not have let you," Smith said, pausing at the door.

"I feel like I should do something more."

"Security comes first."

The door closed on Remo's muttered curse.

At the Vietnam Veterans' Memorial in Washington, D. C. , the custodian was clearing the grounds of the day's litter. There was surprisingly little, considering how many people passed before the twin black-granite walls each day. It made the custodian's job that much easier, but more important, it made him feel good that Americans once again respected their war dead.

As he made a last sweep of the area, he noticed a man crouched before one of the two 250-foot-long angled slabs on which the names of the over fifty-eight thousand U. S. servicemen killed in Vietnam were carved.

The man's fingers touched the highly reflective surface the way he had seen many do when they came to a familiar name.

Quietly the custodian withdrew. The man was probably looking at the name of an old war buddy or relative and deserved to be left in peace.

A little while later, the custodian noticed the man leaving. Despite the bitterness of the Washington winter, he didn't seem cold in his black T-shirt. The custodian nodded in greeting as he passed, and the man nodded back. He had the deadest eyes the custodian had ever seen. Those eyes made him shiver in a way the stark memorial never had. The guy was probably a vet himself. He had that look. What did they call it? Oh, yeah. The thousand-yard stare.

Finishing his work, the custodian paused at the section of the wall where the dead-eyed man had crouched. Impulsively he crouched in the same place. He was surprised to find himself staring at the blank section of the wall reserved for the name of missing servicemen whose fates had yet to be determined.

At the bottom of the row of names, there was a new name. It didn't look like the others. It was not neatly carved and the lettering wasn't of professional quality. A fresh pile of granite dust lay on the ground under the name. Loose grains sifted down from the irregular letters. The custodian read the name:

RICHARD YOUNGBLOOD, USMC SEMPER FI

The custodian decided that if anyone asked, he had no idea when or how that unauthorized name got there. He just knew it belonged there as much as any of the others. Maybe more so.

What he could never figure out was how the dead-eyed man had carved the name. He hadn't carried any tools.