Walking Wounded td-74

by Warren Murphy

  Remo settled in his seat as a short, wiry man stepped onto the stage, shook Copra's hand with a nervous smile, and sat down.

  "Before we get into the meat of what you have to tell us, Phong, why don't you repeat for the studio audience what you told me backstage?"

  "I come from Vietnam," Phong said slowly.

  "We got that part, hon. Skip over to the juicy stuff."

  "My English not good. I learn from Americans in work camp."

  "Whoa, that's slipping too far ahead. Just tell us about your life in Vietnam."

  "I born during war," Phong said carefully. "Both parents work for South Vietnamese government. Both put in camp when I young. I left on own. I try to leave Vietnam. Not have money to pay boat captain. Caught. They say I traitor. Put me in work camp. Later, I am taken to other camp, where Americans are."

  "We'll get to that in a minute," Copra said quickly. "Tell us about your escape from Vietnam."

  "I stab guard. Run very far, then walk. I walk through Cambodia. Then I take boat. Try to reach Malaysia, but I turn back because of pirates. When I on land again, I find out am in Thailand. Go to relocation camp. Tell story, but no one believe. Everyone say Vietnamese always talk of MIA to get to America. Say I lie. I no lie. I tell truth. I escape to tell world the truth, to get help for my American friends. Americans very good to me in camp. Share rice."

  Chiun chuckled. "Did you hear that, Remo? A Vietnamese telling the truth. Heh, heh. It is against their nature."

  "I don't believe him either," Remo said sullenly. "This is a trick. He made up that story just to get on TV. There are no Americans left in Vietnam. None alive, anyway. "

  "Then why are you not laughing?" asked Chiun.

  "Because I don't think it's funny."

  "Perhaps you do not appreciate ethnic humor like me."

  "I don't appreciate lies. Or people who misuse the memory of dead Americans to get ahead."

  Up on the stage, Copra Inisfree jumped up excitedly. Bangles on her wrists tinkled and she toyed with a multicolored scarf that concealed at least two chins.

  "Now, before I let Phong tell his story, and it's an exciting one, believe me, I have a story to tell. I found this man in a resettlement camp, and when I heard his story, it was so wonderful, I just couldn't wait to get him on the air. I even agreed to sponsor him in America. And as some of you heard on the news this morning, we were attacked at the Los Angeles airport. We don't know by whom. We're not sure why, but we're pretty sure it was by someone who didn't want Phong to tell his story. Fortunately, no one was killed. Thank God. But several people were wounded and I myself was bruised during the attack."

  The audience broke into applause. They cheered Copra's bravery.

  "Thank you, thank you," Copra said, waving her bangled hands. "But I am not the hero here. Phong is the hero. Now, Phong," she said, turning to the bewildered Vietnamese, "tell us the truly amazing part of your story."

  "In second work camp, I meet Americans. They fought in war. Still there. POW's."

  "What were their names, Phong? Do you remember?"

  "One man Boyette, another go by Pond. Then there Colletta, McCain, and Wentworth. And one man, black like you, name of Youngblood."

  Remo, who had stopped trying to see over the heads of the studio audience, suddenly sat up in his chair.

  "I knew a Youngblood over in Nam. A black guy." His voice was strange.

  "Rooty-toot-toot," said Chiun, who was growing impatient. Copra Inisfree had not said anything funny in many minutes.

  "How long did you know these men?" Phong was asked.

  "Two years. I brought to camp because I know little English. Camp political officer, Captain Dai, he try make me spy on Americans. Tell if they try escape. I not do. Captain Dai get angry. Say he break me, but I stubborn. Not give in. He throw me in hut with Americans. They befriend me and so I become their friend too. "

  "That all changed a month or so ago, didn't it?" Copra asked.

  "Yes. Captain Dai wake us up in night. Camp being moved. We wonder what happening. They put us in conex-long box-take away on truck. Americans think they die, but I know different. I make deal with them. I escape. Promise to come to America, tell world, and get help."

  "Now, how do we know you're telling the truth?"

  "Have proof," said Phong.

  "Now, here it comes, folks. What you're about to see isn't a Vietnamese strip-tease act, but actual, confirmable proof that U. S. soldiers are being held against their will in Vietnam. Show us, Phong."

  Phong stood up and gave the audience a polite little bow. He took off his jacket and draped it over a chair. He undid the cuffs of his shirt and removed it.

  "Are you ready for this?" Copra said. "Camera, get ready to come in close on this. This is live television, folks. You're about to see history being made. Go for it, Phong baby!"

  Phong started to turn around.

  "This is degrading," Chiun grumbled. "Have they no shame? Subjecting us to such displays of nudity."

  "Quiet, Little Father," Remo said seriously. "I want to see this."

  Down near the front, a man leapt up in his seat and pointed at Phong with a shaking finger.

  "Die, traitor," he said in Vietnamese, and his other hand swept up. A short burst of gunfire rattled out. Phong, a look of stunned uncomprehension coming over his face, jerked in place as if suddenly touched by a live wire.

  More than a dozen tiny holes erupted on his hairless chest. The wall behind him was splashed with red. For a frozen eternity Phong swayed on his feet; then his legs gave way. He twisted and fell.

  The audience gave a sick collective sound when the red monstrosity that was his back came into view. Then they jumped from their seats and ran for the exits. Excited cries in English and Vietnamese filled the studio. But above them sounded a bellow like a wounded water buffalo. Copra Inisfree's voice.

  Remo stood up. "Chiun, the guy with the gun. Stop him. I'll see to Phong."

  But the Master of Sinanju was already out of his seat. His sandaled feet hopped to one man's shoulder and then to another's head. His kimono skirts flopping, he floated over the audience, his featherlike leaps alighting only on Vietnamese heads.

  Remo, seeing the crowd was panicking, leapt high. He clung to a ceiling cross-brace and, monkeylike, swung into the hanging garden of baby spotlights. Three overhand swings later, he landed on the stage, taking care to keep his back to the TV cameras. His face must not go out over the air.

  Remo got down beside the wounded Vietnamese. Phong's body spasmed wildly. Remo knew those were involuntary nerve spasms. The man was not going to make it. His back was cratered with gaping exit wounds. Reno lifted his head and carefully turned him over.

  The small holes in Phong's chest dribbled. Sucking chest wounds. Remo had seen them in Vietnam a thousand times. He shook his head no.

  "I promise Youngblood," Phong said with effort, clear bubbles breaking over his lips. "Someone go back. Help free Americans."

  "I will," Remo said evenly. "I promise."

  Suddenly the bubbles breaking at Phong's mouth turned red. His breath wheezed out. His eyes closed. Remo let Phong's head drop to the hardwood stage and flipped him over onto his stomach. The raw meat that was his back was slick with blood. Near the bottom, over the small of his back, Remo saw the dark lines under the blood.

  With his hand, Remo gently wiped the blood away. There were two lines, the name Dick Youngblood, and below that, in Latin, the legend "Semper Fi. "

  "Dick. . . " Remo said slowly.

  On the floor, Copra Inisfree lay spread-eagled. Shaking himself out of his daze, Remo went to her side. "I'm shot. I've been shot," Copra Inisfree said over and over. "Think of the ratings this must be getting."

  "You're fine," Remo said.

  "Look at my chest. The blood."

  "It's not your blood. It's Phong's. Here, let me help you up."

  Copra slapped his hand away. "Don't you touch me with those bloody hands of yours. This dress is a Holstein o
riginal. Hand me that microphone."

  Frowning, Remo plucked up the mike and put it in her hand.

  Copra brought the mike to her lips and, staring at the ceiling, said, "More after this commercial."

  Then she dropped the microphone and started to cry. Remo shook his head in disgust and walked off the stage. The auditorium had been cleared. The cameramen sat calmly behind their cameras as if they were shooting an ant farm and not a human drama. The director picked himself off the floor, saw Copra Inisfree's bloated bulk lying inert, and said in an anguished voice, "Oh, my God, not the star!"

  His hands protecting his face from the cameras, Remo slipped out a side exit, looking for Chiun. He found the Master of Sinanju in the lobby. Chiun was standing on a squirming Vietnamese man with a ratlike mustache. The man was shouting imprecations and Chiun quieted him with a tap of one sandaled foot. In his long-nailed hands Chiun held clusters of Vietnamese by their shirt collars.

  "Once again," he said bitterly, "you have left me with the dirty job."

  Remo lifted his blood-smeared hands wordlessly.

  "I suppose there are worse chores than catching lice-infested Vietnamese," Chiun admitted, dropping his handfuls of captives.

  "Which one is our guy?" Remo asked.

  Chiun shrugged. "How should I know? All Vietnamese have faces like burnt biscuits. Who can tell biscuits apart?"

  "I didn't see the killer's face, did you?"

  "No. I followed him this far, but they all look alike from the back."

  "He wore a blue shirt," said Remo, looking over the men Chiun had captured. Only one of them had a blue shirt.

  "You," Remo said. "You're the guy."

  "No!" the man protested. "I no shoot. Am American. Naturalized. "

  Remo reached down and took the man's wrists, one in each hand. He squeezed and the man's fingers went limp. They were empty. Remo bent over and sniffed his palms.

  "No gunpowder smell. Let's try the others." Remo checked the rest of them. Their hands didn't give off the telltale smell of burned gunpowder that would have irritated his supersensitive nostrils. Just to be certain, he patted them down. None were armed.

  Chiun walked up and down the back of the Vietnamese under his feet.

  "This one is not carrying any weapon either," he said.

  "You let him get away," Remo said bitterly.

  "I tried. Who would have expected so many Vietnamese in one place? Perhaps we should take the head of one of these wretches back to Smith. Who will know the difference?"

  "We will," said Remo. "Come on. We have things to do."

  "Oh?" asked the Master of Sinanju, stepping off his Vietnamese captive. He wiped his sandals on the plastic foot rug on his way out.

  "What things?" asked Chiun curiously, noticing the purposeful set of Remo's face.

  "I made a promise back there. And Smith is going to help me keep it."

  Chapter 7

  Remo paced his suite at the Park Central Hotel impatiently. He had washed the blood off his hands and changed his clothes. Instead of a white T-shirt and tan slacks, he now wore a black T-shirt and gray chinos.

  "Where the hell is Smitty?" Remo asked for the twelfth time. "He said he'd call right back."

  "Emperors live by their own sun," Chiun said absently. "It is an old Korean saying." The Master of Sinanju sat on his tatami mat, watching Remo with concern. He couldn't remember having seen his pupil so tense. He was acting almost like a typical nerve-frayed American instead of what he truly was, heir to the House of Sinanju, the finest assassins known to recorded history.

  "Your breathing is wrong," Chiun pointed out.

  "It's my breathing."

  "You are wasting energy pacing the floor. You should exercise if you desire to work off stress."

  "I'm not stressed. I'm impatient. I'm going to call Smitty again," Remo said suddenly, reaching for the phone.

  He dialed the correct code on the first try, not even noticing that historical first. He slammed down the phone when he got a recorded message informing him that the number was not in service.

  "Damn. He's not even in the office. I got what passes for his frigging busy signal."

  Chiun, noticing where the sun sat in the sky, frowned. "Odd," he said. "The emperor always holds forth at Fortress Folcroft until much later than this. Perhaps he has succumbed to some minor malady."

  "Not Smith. He's so bloodless, bacteria die in his mouth. "

  "Hark!" said Chiun, cocking his head to the door.

  "What?" Remo asked peevishly.

  "If you would focus on your breathing and not on your strange concerns, you would recognize Emperor Smith's footsteps approaching our door."

  "What?" Remo flew to the door. He threw it open. The shocked, lemony face of Dr. Harold W. Smith stared back at him. Smith wore a white coverall with the name "Fred" stitched into a red oval over his breast pocket. In his right hand he carried a small pressurized tank and nozzle device. His left clutched a shabby leather briefcase.

  Smith's high forehead puckered under his thinning white hair. Though the door was open, he knocked loudly.

  "What's this?" Remo wanted to know.

  "Hotel exterminator," Smith said in a loud and obvious voice. "Open up, please."

  "It is open," Remo told him.

  "Shhh," Smith said. He rattled the doorknob, then said noisily, "Ah, sorry to disturb you, sir. May I come in? This will only take a moment."

  Remo rolled his eyes and said, also in a too-loud voice, "Yeah, okay, Mr. Hotel Exterminator. You can come in." But he slammed the door after Smith so hard that Smith dropped his pressurized tank with a muffled thunk.

  Smith stripped off the coverall to reveal a three-piece gray suit and mumbled, "Security," as he carried his briefcase over to a round table. He pulled the shades.

  "Is this really necessary?" Remo demanded.

  "Of course it is, Remo," Chiun inserted, rising in place. "Greetings, Emperor Smith. Your presence here fills us with joy."

  "Some of us more than others," Remo said. "I've been losing weight waiting for your return call."

  "I've been talking with the President," Smith explained. "Could you please hit the lights?"

  Remo switched on the overhead lights. "I prefer sunshine," he added sourly.

  "What we're about to discuss is highly classified and must not go beyond this room," Smith said. He retrieved the pressurized tank from the floor, turned a gasket, and toted it to the telephone.

  "Oh, come off it," Remo shouted. "You're not actually going to spray for roaches too?"

  "This is a debugging unit. It will ensure that our conversation is not eavesdropped upon."

  "Fine," Remo said, sinking into the sofa and kicking off his Italian loafers. "While you're at it, sweep my shoes too. The clerk who sold them to me looked shifty."

  Smith ignored the remark and finished his circuit of the room. He set down his equipment and joined Remo on the sofa, carefully hitching up his pant legs so the knees wouldn't bag.

  "Look at these, Remo," Smith said, pulling a sheaf of glossy photographs from his briefcase. "You too, Master of Sinanju."

  Remo looked at the top photo. It showed a misty pattern of green.

  "What does that look like to you?" Smith asked.

  "An electron-microscope slide of romaine lettuce," Remo said dismissively.

  "Yes," Chiun said firmly, "Remo is exactly correct. This is romaine lettuce. I can see the leaf pattern clearly. "

  "No, these are reconnaissance satellite photos."

  "Of romaine lettuce," Chiun added hopefully. Smith shook his head no.

  "No! Remo," Chiun scolded, "you are wrong. And your wrongness influenced my judgment. You will have to forgive him, Emperor, he has been agitated all day. I do not know what the problem is."

  "You both know what the problem is," Remo snapped, jumping to his feet. "I told you the problem. I left a friend back in Vietnam. I thought he was dead. Now I know he's still there."

  "Only this morning, you
were firm in your belief that none of your Army friends remained in Vietnam," reminded Chiun.

  "That was before I saw Dick Youngblood's name written on that Vietnamese guy's back. Youngblood was the friend I left behind."

  "I have Youngblood's file right here, Remo. Please tell me your story again."

  Remo slapped the photograph onto the table.

  "Dick Youngblood served with me in I Corps. He and I rotated in together. We served our whole tour together. I guess you could say he was the only true friend I had in those days. We were scheduled to return to the world the same week. I was choppered to a rear area first. I hung around waiting for him to catch up. We were planning to take the same C-130 transport back. Then the VC infiltrated our base camp and we had to dig in. An NVA battalion moved in and started hitting us with rockets. We had to evacuate. I was one of the last ones out. I never saw Dick again. Later they told me that his helicopter was shot down and he was presumed dead. I believed them, so I came home. End of freaking story."

  "Did you understand a word he said?" Chiun asked Smith.

  "Yes. "

  "Then could you please translate? I do not understand all the VC's and NVA's and other alphabet nonsense. "

  "Later," Smith said.

  Chiun's mouth puckered. He watched Remo with concern.

  "You left the Republic of Vietnam on April 28, 1968," Smith said, glancing at the file. "Is that correct?"

  "Sounds right."

  "I have the file of a Sergeant Richard Youngblood, reported as missing in action on the twenty-sixth of that month in the province of la Drang. A marine. A black. This is his service photo."

  Remo took the photo silently. He stared at it a long time.

  "That's him. That's sure him," Remo said stonily. "They told me he was dead. Not captured. Dead."

  "It's possible they were mistaken," Smith admitted. Remo threw the photo down and started pacing again. "Dammit, Smitty. They were wrong! I know they're wrong. That was Dick's signature on the back of that gook. "

  Chiun started. His papery lips silently formed the word "gook."

  "You are quite certain?"

  "He was my best friend," Remo shouted. "Don't you understand? My best friend. I know his signature. He was my best friend and I left him behind!"