Walking Wounded td-74

by Warren Murphy

  He didn't know what it was that brought him to wakefulness, hours later, in a cold sweat. He thought it had been a nightmare, because he had heard those hated footsteps again.

  Phong looked up. The jet was dark, the overhead lights dim. A man's back disappeared into the rest room just ahead of his seat. He hadn't noticed the man before, but because he was awake and his heart pounded in fright, he sat up and waited for him to come out again.

  When the man came out, he was rubbing his face as if it were sore. He kept his face averted as he walked past Phong's seat.

  But there was no mistaking him. The pock marks on his chin, the way his shoulders stiffened as he walked like the cross-brace of a scarecrow. And the dreadful sound of his footsteps.

  Captain Dai. Captain Dai was on this plane.

  Phong sank into his seat, trembling. He was not safe yet. Not yet.

  Chapter 4

  Captain Dai Chim Sao hated Americans.

  An American had killed his father when he was ten years old. He vowed to take his revenge upon all Americans on the day the local political officer brought the news to the family house in Hanoi. He vowed that he would exact a price from all Americans, a hundred times greater than the pain he felt. His mother had long ago run off with another man, leaving him to care for his younger sister. She hadn't cried at first. Not for a week.

  But then the American bombers came and the thunder was so great, the ground so shaken by their might, that his sister broke down and wept bitterly and silently for days without end, even long after the bombing stopped.

  Nothing was the same after that. When he was twelve, he abandoned his sister just as his mother had abandoned him, and tried to join the People's Liberation Army. But they refused him. So, packing his few possessions, he set off for the south and joined the Vietcong. The Vietcong didn't care that he was a boy. They gave him an old Enfield rifle and two hand grenades and sent him out into the bush.

  He shot his first American in the back. The man was in the rear of a patrol. He stopped beside a tree for a drink of canteen water. Dai Chim Sao nailed him to the tree with one shot. The noise brought others. He tossed a hand grenade in their startled faces and jumped into the elephant grass. The grenade made only a small pop. But the screaming carried for kilometers.

  They never found him. In the long years of the war, he killed and maimed and ran, never staying to fight because everyone knew there was no way to beat the Americans at war. Ambush and run. Kill and hide. Live to fight again.

  When victory finally came, Dai Chim Sao was a man. In the closing days of the war he had enlisted in the North Vietnamese Army, quickly rising to the rank of captain. He swore to kill twice as many Americans as before. But the U. S. troops withdrew back to America and suddenly there were no more Americans to slaughter.

  Life seemed purposeless after that. There was the new war in Cambodia, but it wasn't the same. When Captain Dai learned that there was an opening for a political officer at a supersecret outpost, he took it. It was a pleasant shock to discover that he would be in charge of a work camp where despised Americans were being held. He worked them very hard, did Captain Dai.

  Seated in the back of the Thai jetliner, Captain Dai wondered if he was about to be given another opportunity to kill Americans. He couldn't kill the American POW's. They were valuable barter. But in America, everyone would be fair game. It would be one gigantic free fire zone.

  Dai would have liked to start with the traitor Phong. But in a sealed aircraft, suspicion would immediately fall upon him. He had trailed Phong a long way since he'd been discovered missing from the conex container. Dai was obsessed with Phong, a soft southerner who refused to accept indoctrination, refused to bow or kneel or acknowledge the moral superiority of international socialism. When Dai had discovered Phong had escaped, he had beaten the Americans. But they knew nothing. Captain Dai requisitioned a Land Rover and two men and tried to follow Phong's path through the jungle, but a pack of Khmer guerrillas had intercepted them. His soldiers were killed and Captain Dai had been forced to retreat alone.

  Reporting to his superior, Vietnam's defense minister, Captain Dai received the first reprimand in a long and glorious career.

  "If this Phong reaches a resettlement camp, he will tell the world about the American prisoners," the defense minister had shouted. "We are not prepared for that."

  "I will find him," Dai promised stiffly. "Give me time. "

  "No. We have spies in the resettlement camps. We will alert our people there. If he reaches any of them, we will be notified."

  "Permission to eliminate Phong personally."

  "Granted. Do not fail."

  The call was not long in coming. But when Captain Dai reached the resettlement camp, he was too late. Phong had been taken away by an American journalist. He shook the spy furiously. "How long ago?"

  "Two, three hours ago. They are flying to America."

  "Which flight? When?"

  "I do not know. But the American journalist is a woman. Big, black, and built like a water buffalo." Dai had bribed his way onto the Thai plane, and sat in the rearmost row. He was halfway across the Pacific before he realized he had no plan. He had no weapon. Only a forged passport identifying him as a Thai businessman.

  Dai had nothing, but he would find a way.

  Dai's opportunity came when the plane landed at Los Angeles International Airport.

  The big black woman named Copra Inisfree and the hated Phong were the first ones off the plane. The other passengers were made to wait. Dai sneered at the obvious example of American privilege trampling on the rights of others, but the sneer hid worry. What if he lost them in the crowds?

  Inside the terminal, Dai realized that that was a silly fear. There was no mistaking the black woman for another. She moved through the terminal surrounded by an entourage of lackeys like a water bug skating across a pond and trailing scum.

  Dai followed them to a hangerlike building where hundreds of people milled impatiently around a huge baggage carousel. Dai had no baggage, but he waited anyway.

  He spotted Phong squatting on the floor like the peasant he was. Everyone else stood. A few sat on luggage. Phong squatted as if afraid, his eyes shifting nervously.

  That would make killing him easier.

  Captain Dai slid into the bustling crowds. People, seeing his hard face, instinctively stepped aside. His eyes were mean. No amount of concentration could take that away from him. He drifted closer to his intended victim.

  Strangling Phong was out of the question. Too slow. Dai would be stopped. A knife would be best. But he had no knife. There were many blows that killed, but they weren't always certain. Now only three men separated Dai from his intended victim. And still he had no plan.

  A ripple of excited chatter went through the throng of people. Dai turned to see what was happening. The first bags were tumbling down the baggage chute. The crowd became a crush. A woman pushed past him and Dai snarled at her indifferent back. Then a smile twisted his pocked face. Her big shoulder bag hung in his face, with a hard metal pen protruding from a slide pocket. It made him think of the body of one of his guards, found dead with a pen such as that plunged into his breastbone.

  Yes, a pen would do. Captain Dai eased the pen from the pocket and clicked the point home. A good, strong pen. It would go deep into Phong's soft skin.

  Captain Dai shied away from the baggage carousel and sidled up behind Phong, who still squatted away from the others. He had no baggage either. He wouldn't need any where he was going, Dai thought with pleasure.

  Captain Dai didn't hesitate. He strode up to Phong from behind and took him by his coarse hair. He snapped his head back and let Phong see his face as his final view of life. Then he brought the pen down toward the man's exposed throat.

  In Vietnamese he said, "Now you will die, enemy of the people!"

  Phong felt his head snap back. And he saw that face, deeply pocked, eyes black and ablaze. He reached back and grabbed Captain Dai by the back
of his knees. Phong squeezed with all his wirelike strength. Captain Dai's knees buckled. He fell awkwardly.

  "Help! Help!" Phong cried, grabbing for the pen. He struggled as Dai's hand reached to clamp his mouth shut. Phong took three fingers in his mouth, biting deeply. Dai yelled. The pen slipped from his other hand.

  Phong took the pen and raked the man across the eyes. A heavy foot shot up and slammed Phong's jaw shut. He bit his own tongue and felt his mouth fill with blood. He couldn't yell. No one was paying attention to him.

  Phong pulled away, sliding along the slick floor like a snake. Captain Dai clutched at his eyes. He stumbled to his feet, lurching blindly for the bank of glass exit doors. He groped for a handle and pushed through, thinking that Phong was not so soft after all.

  Phong tried to yell, but his bitten tongue was swelling in his mouth. He couldn't even whisper. He ran for his benefactor, Copra Inisfree, but she was lost in the crowd of airline passengers.

  When Phong finally clawed his way to her, he clutched at her oaklike legs.

  "Hey, Phong, take it easy," Copra Inisfree boomed. "I know you're grateful to be here in the U. S. of A., but there's no reason to get all worshipful. Though I admire your taste in idols. Hah!"

  Phong tugged at the hem of her skirt. He opened his mouth to speak. He was pointing toward the exit doors. Blood poured from his mouth and ran down his chin. The only sounds he made were bubbly gurgles.

  Copra Inisfree saw the blood and screamed. Then she fainted. Three people were hospitalized after being pinned under her massive body for nearly an hour. That's how long it took LAX airport officials to summon a forklift to raise her off their moaning bodies.

  Chapter 5

  Remo walked the dusty streets of Brownsville until he got tired of walking. He found a phone booth and called his employer, Dr. Harold W. Smith.

  He reached Dr. Smith by dialing an evangelical hotline and promising to donate exactly $4,647.88 for the purpose of smuggling Bibles into East Germany.

  "Could you repeat that amount, please?" a woman's cool voice asked.

  Remo did, and there came a procession of clicks and suddenly he got a ringing line.

  "Yes?" said the dry voice of Dr. Harold W. Smith, head of CURE, the super-secret government agency which operated outside of constitutional restrictions. "Smitty? Mission accomplished."

  "That was well-timed," Smith said. "I have something new for you."

  "How about a 'Well done' before I grab the next bus?"

  "Actually, you'll be flying to New York City. There has been a strange incident at Los Angeles International Airport. I want you to look into it."

  "I get it," Remo said brightly. "For security reasons, I'm to fly to New York and do my investigating by phone. That way no one will know it's us."

  "No," said Smith. "The people involved are now in New York. Have you ever heard of a television personality known as Copra Inisfree?

  "Yeah. She's Chiun's latest passion. I'm not sure 'person' exactly describes her, though. My personal theory is that she's a Macy's Parade balloon and that midgets operate her from inside."

  "Highly unlikely," said the humorless voice of Dr. Harold W. Smith.

  Remo sighed. He wished he could somehow get a rise out of his employer. "Just give me the broad outlines," he said resignedly.

  "Ms. Inisfree has just returned from looking into Asian refugees in Thailand. She has brought back with her a Vietnamese refugee named Phong, whom she claims was attacked upon arrival in this country. Several persons were seriously injured in the attack, so it seems like something more portentous than a publicity stunt. The assailant escaped, and Ms. Inisfree has given a press conference where she promised to reveal dramatic proof of American servicemen still being held prisoner in Southeast Asia on her next show."

  "That's an old story," Remo said sourly. "I don't buy it. Vietnam was a long time ago. "

  "We have nothing on the calendar for you and Chiun. It wouldn't hurt if the two of you were in the studio audience when the supposed evidence is revealed."

  "What's the point? Can't you just tape it?"

  "You were in Vietnam, Remo. You know those people. Maybe you can tell if this Phong is telling the truth, and while you're at it, evaluate the supposed evidence."

  "Waste of time," Remo repeated.

  "Your other task will be to protect this man in case he is attacked again."

  "I don't do bodyguard work. Ask Chiun. It's beneath Sinanju Masters. We're assassins. Strictly cash-and-carry."

  "Your flight leaves in ninety minutes. When you reach New York, call the local dial-a-horoscope and tell the machine you're a Virgo with the sun in Taurus. Further instructions will be given at that time." Smith hung up.

  The first thing Chiun asked when Remo returned to the hotel was the exact question Remo knew he would ask.

  "Did you speak with Emperor Smith?"

  "Yeah," said Remo. He looked around for something to sit on. Finding nothing, he took up a position near the sliding glass doors.

  "Did you ask the permission that I requested?"

  "No."

  Chiun turned, shocked. "No! A little request such as that? And you forgot. Tell me you forgot. I could forgive you if you forgot. Forgiveness is possible when one is not willfully at fault."

  "I made a point of not asking," Remo said, annoyed.

  "Then forgiveness is not possible here. I am sorry. Our friendship is over. You may pack your bags and leave now."

  "Cut it out, Chiun. I didn't bother asking Smith if you could stay on for The Copra Inisfree Show, because he's sending us to see it live."

  "Live!" Chiun's facial hair trembled with delight. He brought his long-nailed fingers together in a gentle clap. "We are going to see Copra Inisfree live? In person?"

  "It was Smith's idea. I didn't even bring it up."

  "No? You do not want credit for this happy gift? You did not suggest it to him?"

  "I don't want to go, Chiun."

  "Then stay. I will go. You may pack my things as long as you do not have to pack things of your own."

  But Remo didn't move a muscle. He was staring out the sliding glass doors. His dark eyes had that inward light of a man who looks into himself and sees something unwelcome.

  "What troubles you, my son?"

  "This stupid assignment. Smith has his back up because this yo-yo talk-show woman claims she has proof that missing American servicemen are still being held prisoner in Vietnam."

  "So?"

  "There are no Americans back there. They all got out or were killed in action."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because I was there, I know. It's a wild-goose chase. It's crap."

  "If it is, as you say, crap, why are you angry?"

  "It's a stupid idea. There are no Americans alive over there. Can't be."

  And Chiun, looking at the dark profile of his pupil, said an odd thing.

  "I will pack for both of us."

  Remo said nothing. Half an hour later, when the sun set on his impassive face, he hadn't moved from the doors. He might have been staring at his own reflection. If so, his expression said that he did not like what he saw.

  Chapter 6

  Their tickets were waiting at the studio door, just as Dr. Smith had promised Remo during his check-in call. Chiun snatched them out of Remo's hand, examined them critically, and returned one to Remo.

  "That one is yours," he said firmly.

  "How do you know? They don't have our names on them. "

  "It has a lower number than my ticket."

  An usher led them into the studio, which was nearly full.

  "So?" Remo asked.

  "It means I will have a better seat."

  "Doesn't work that way," Remo said flatly.

  The usher stopped at a row near the back and gestured to a pair of vacant seats.

  "See?" Remo said, letting Chiun go ahead of him. "We're both in a back row. Smith's idea, I'm sure."

  "One sees more from a distance,"
Chiun said loftily as he pointedly stepped on the toes of several members of the audience who declined to rise as he passed them. He settled into the seat like a bedspread descending over a mattress.

  "Right," said Remo. He dropped into the seat beside Chiun. Almost at once, canned music blared an introduction and a scarlet curtain parted to reveal a stage. A camera dollied forward, blocking Remo's view.

  "I can't see," Remo complained.

  "I can see perfectly," Chiun said smugly.

  "I don't care," Remo said as Copra Inisfree stomped onto the stage. "I don't understand what you see in her."

  "She's loud, rude, and obnoxious."

  "That's what you see in her?"

  Chiun shrugged. "Doesn't everybody?"

  "I'm not sure," Remo said, looking around the audience. He noticed an unusual number of Asians. Vietnamese. Their faces made shards of old memories dance in his head.

  "She reminds me of the Korean jugglers at home," Chiun went on. "Every spring they paint their faces funny colors, throw on rags, and perform tricks for the villagers. Sometimes they pretend to be happy, and other times they weep like faucets."

  "Like clowns?"

  "Yes. That is the word. I couldn't think of it before. Thank you, Remo."

  "I'm starting to get the picture," Remo said.

  Up on stage, Copra Inisfree grabbed a microphone and boomed out a greeting. "Today we have a very important show for you, people. I know I promised pets of Vietnam POW's for today, but I have something even better. Our guest is a very brave Vietnamese gentleman who walked barefoot across the war zones of two countries to share his remarkable story with us. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Cung Co Phong."

  The audience applauded. The Master of Sinanju laughed deliriously. He continued laughing even after the applause died down. Several annoyed faces turned to glower at him. Most of them were Vietnamese.

  "Why are you laughing, Little Father?" Remo whispered.

  "Because she is so funny. Did you not get the joke about the brave Vietnamese person? A Vietnamese-brave. Heh, heh. Who ever heard of such a thing? Heh, heh, heh!"

  "I think she was serious."

  "Nonsense, Remo," Chiun said, composing his kimono skirts. "She is never serious. Her job is to make us laugh. She is Copra the Clown. Listen."