Suddenly, without any warning, Remo slumped against the window. He tore down the shade and pressed his face and fists to the dying sunlight coming in through the glass. His eyes were squeezed tight. His shoulders shook.
"He was my best friend and I left him to rot in that stinking place." Remo's voice was twisted, hurt.
The Master of Sinanju caught Smith's eye. "He has not been himself since this afternoon," he whispered. "Why is he acting like this?"
"Let me handle this," Smith said quietly.
"Remo," Smith began, walking over to the window.
"The reconnaissance photo I showed you is of a section of the Vietnam-Cambodian border. It shows evidence of a temporary camp on that site. It is one of several such sites our government has been monitoring as possible POW encampments."
"So?" Remo said bitterly.
"This second photo, if you care to look at it, is of the same site. There is no trace of the camp. This photo was taken three weeks ago. After the approximate time the refugee Phong claimed the camp he was incarcerated in had been moved."
Remo opened his eyes and examined the photo. "It doesn't tell us much, does it?" he said.
"This third one does, however." Smith handed it to Remo. Chiun crowded close, his eyes switching from Remo's face to the photo.
"This site is similar to the first one," Smith continued. "Not exactly, but similar. Notice the ring of huts here. And the latrine trench there. The layout is very similar. "
"You think it's the same camp?"
"But moved to a new location, yes. We've determined that no other suspected site has been moved in the same time frame."
Remo looked up at Smith's face. "Then we know where to look."
"Yes. Unfortunately, this new location is on the other side of the border. In Cambodia."
"They're still fighting there."
"It's winding down, but yes, they're still fighting."
"Then we have to get him out of there."
"Patience, Remo. There's more to this story."
"Yes, Remo, there's more to this story," Chiun said gently. "Listen to your emperor."
"I discussed this matter with the President at great length. He informs me that for several months now our government has been in back-channel communication with Hanoi over normalizing relations. There has been movement in the last two months. Considerable movement. The Vietnamese want us to lift economic sanctions as a prerequisite to restoring diplomatic ties. We in turn are demanding a full accounting of all American servicemen known to be missing in action. The Vietnamese officials involved in the negotiations have been dropping hints that they have more than just the remains of our people, but when we press for details, they back off. "
"They've got some, all right," Remo said grimly. "I know. That gook's back was covered with names. If he hadn't had so many rounds shot through him, we'd have a list of them. Phong was telling the truth about American POW's. He had them sign their names on his back. That was his proof. I told you that over the phone. "
"I expect to receive a full autopsy report and morgue photos later," Smith said. "That will go a long way toward establishing the validity of the signature you saw. "
"He wrote 'Semper Fi' at the bottom," Remo said distantly. "That was so like him. Imagine him remembering to do that after all these years."
"My American slang is not good," Chiun told Smith. "I am not familiar with 'Semper Fi.' "
"Short for 'Semper Fidelis,' " Smith said. "Latin for 'Always Faithful.' It's the motto of the Marine Corps."
"Oh," said Chiun, his face puckering. "Army stuff."
"Okay, Smith," Remo snapped suddenly. "You wait for your autopsy report. But while you're waiting, book a flight for Chiun and me. We're going to Vietnam."
"I'm afraid not, Remo," Smith said quietly.
"If you're going to tell me to sit tight while some tight-assed politician negotiates them out, forget it. Dick's been there too damn long as it is. He's not spending any more time in that camp than it will take me to find him."
"We're close to a breakthrough, Remo. The President feels that the POW's may have been moved to Cambodia for some political purpose. The reasoning is that the Vietnamese can't bring them forward without having to admit they've been holding prisoners this long after the war. It's possible they intend to claim our people were found wandering the jungle during the pacification of Cambodia. If we're correct, they could come out any day now."
"I've heard that light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel speech before. I heard it before I went over there. I heard it after I left. And now you're trying to feed it to me again. Stuff it. This is personal. I'm going in."
"Remo, get a grip on yourself," Chiun said. "You are acting childishly. Vietnam was long ago. It is your past. Your dead past. You cannot go back to it."
"Chiun is right, Remo."
"My gut tells me different," Remo retorted. "I'm going."
"The President and I discussed the possibility of sending you over there. It's out of the question."
"Give me one good reason."
"If we were dealing with a collection of POW's-any POW's-that might be possible, but you've admitted you have a friend among them."
"That's why I'm going."
"No, that is why you must not go."
"Listen to your emperor, Remo," Chiun warned. "He is about to speak wisdom."
"Shut up," Remo snapped. Chiun flinched. To Smith he said, "What does that have to do with anything?"
"You're not thinking clearly, Remo, or it would be obvious to you. When we selected you as CURE's sole enforcement arm, it was because you met certain critical criteria. You were an orphan. You had no close friends. Your background in Vietnam and on the Newark police force indicated a predisposition toward our kind of work. Because our organization officially does not exist, you became our agent who no longer existed."
"No sale, Smitty. You picked me because I was a patriot. Well, Dick is a patriot too. He can keep a secret. I'll just explain the way it is and he'll keep his mouth shut."
"Officially, you are dead, Remo. No one must know different. Suppose you bring your friend back from Vietnam. The publicity would be enormous."
"Dick won't tell. He was so gungee he'd salute Captain Kangaroo. "
"Perhaps so, but there are other men with him. You can't trust them. They may not know you, but they will have seen your face, perhaps hear Dick call you by name. No, this is a job for political professionals. Let them handle it."
"I'm going back," Remo said firmly. "You can help. You can not help. Just don't get in my way."
"Emperor Smith will not get in your way," the Master of Sinanju intoned.
"Thanks, Chiun," Remo said sincerely.
"I will get in your way."
Remo spun on the Master of Sinanju. His face was shocked. "Not you too!"
"Look at yourself, Remo," Chiun spat back. "You are not you. You do not talk like yourself. You are nervous, high-strung. All in the space of a few hours. I am watching years of training unravel because you cannot let go of your past. Your dead past."
"Dick Youngblood is my friend. I would never have left him had I known he was alive back there."
"That is guilt talking. But it was not your fault. You were lied to. A soldier should expect that. Listen to Smith. Wait. Your friend will return. You may not see him or speak with him, but you will have the comfort of knowing that he lives."
"I'm going to have the comfort of bringing him back to America," Remo insisted.
"Please, Remo, Be reasonable," Smith said. "Here, look at this."
"What is it?" Remo asked, taking a manila folder, but not looking at it.
"A police report on The Copra Inisfree Show murder. Ms. Inisfree told the police that Phong confided to her that he knew his airport attacker. Phong claimed it was a Vietnamese political officer named Captain Dai. Ms. Inisfree thinks Dai followed Phong from Thailand to Los Angeles and New York to silence him. That means we have a Vietnamese intelligence agent operating
in our country. He was the political officer of Phong's work camp. He could tell us a lot."
"You want me to find him?"
"Alive, he could give us leverage."
"Fine," said Remo. "I'll find him and make him take me to the camp."
"No, find him and hold him. We'll do the rest." Remo opened the folder. He looked inside. His face went white.
"What is it?" Smith asked.
Chiun snapped the folder from Remo's hand worriedly. He looked at the photo. It was a pock-faced man with ratlike eyes. It showed him standing in the studio audience, pointing a machine pistol. The picture was not clear. It had obviously been copied off a video monitor. "Why are you the color of death?" Chiun asked.
"I know him. I know that gook," Remo said hollowly.
"Oh?"
"Yeah, I killed him. Back in the war. Over twenty years ago. I killed him. He can't be here. He's dead." The Master of Sinanju looked at the photo again and looked at Remo's dazed, pale face.
"Enough!" he shouted, throwing the folder into the air. Its contents fluttered down around them. "First you see your friend's name scrawled on a dead man's back, now you are claiming that ghosts walk. You cannot be trusted on any mission. You must return to Folcroft immediately. For rest. Then retraining." Chiun wheeled on Smith. "Emperor Smith, others must attend to Remo's assignment. He and I will be occupied, possibly for months."
Smith hesitated. "If you think that's truly necessary."
"Wait a minute-" Remo began.
"You have seen how he acts. You have heard his speech. He speaks like the Remo of old. He is regressing in mind. It is the shock of thinking that his dead friend still lives. Remo has not let go of his past. I must shake it from him."
"I know what I know," Remo insisted.
"You are seeing ghosts from your past-first your friend and now this enemy you admit you killed."
"Try to stop me!" Remo said, lunging for the door. In a swirl of kimono skirts, the Master of Sinanju left the floor. He sailed across the room, landing in front of the door, barring Remo from leaving.
"Hold!" said Chiun, lifting a warning hand.
"You can't stop me." And Remo came on.
Chiun pulled his hand into a claw and twisted it menacingly. Instinctively Remo's hands swept up to weave in defensive circles.
While Remo's eyes were on Chiun's right hand, his left came out from behind his back and released a wadded ball of paper.
The ball came at Remo's face so fast he couldn't react to it. It struck him on the forehead. Remo's head snapped back as if hit by a sledgehammer and he staggered sideways.
The Master of Sinanju caught him before he kneeled to the floor, then he carried him to the sofa and gently laid him there.
Doubtfully Smith picked up the ball of paper and unfolded it. He expected to find something heavy inside, like a paperweight. But it was empty. It was the photo of Captain Dai.
"Is he hurt?" Smith asked.
"Of course not. Only stunned. That is why I used mere paper."
"How is it possible to knock a man out with-a crumpled sheet of paper?" Smith asked in a wondering voice.
"You throw it very fast," replied the Master of Sinanju as he felt Remo's brow.
Chapter 8
Remo Williams thought he was back in the bush.
He seemed to be walking point through the elephant grass two klicks south of Khe Sanh-or was it Dau Tieng? Looking around, it was impossible to tell. All elephant grass looked alike-sharp-edged stuff that grew over your head and tangled your feet. Just touching it was like getting a million paper cuts. Behind him the rest of his patrol slogged through the stuff, but only one man trailed close enough to be clearly seen. A black grunt with a gold bead in one nostril. He looked familiar, but Remo couldn't recall his name. His face was a gaunt shell. Only the eyes moved.
Williams pushed forward deliberately, alert for tripwires. He refused to worry about the pressure-sensitive mines the VC planted everywhere. You don't worry about the things you can't see coming. They are part of the wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time violence of Vietnam, like mortar fire or dysentery. It was no different from being run over back in the world, so you put it out of your mind. But tripwires you could see.
Williams slipped the selector switch on his M-16 from semi to full automatic, counted to twenty, and then went back to semi. It was a ritual he'd practiced since his third month in-country, when he realized that the randomness of sudden death had a mathematical basis. You couldn't know in advance what would pop out of the jungle. It was impossible to predict your chances of surviving a firefight if you walked into it on automatic or semi. But the difference could mean everything. So three times a minute, Williams changed his fire selection. The odds were still virtually even that in a given situation, he'd be in the right mode, but it gave him the illusion of being in control of the uncontrollable. It was just superstition when you got right down to it. But then, everyone was superstitious in Nam.
Williams switched back to automatic fire just as a sound like a sickle swiping through the corn-high grass made the patrol freeze. Williams lifted his hand to signal a halt. Then they heard the percussive chatter of AK-47 rifles.
"No." someone shouted.
But it wasn't the Vietcong. They were wearing uniforms. NVA regulars. Williams could see their gray figures moving beyond the chopped grass. And behind them loomed Hill 881 South.
Khe Sanh, Williams thought. I'm back at Khe Sanh. He opened up. Everyone opened up. At first, only the elephant grass fell. Then the black guy with the nose bead went down with both legs cut out from under him. Williams recognized him then. Chappell. Private Lance Chappell, who'd bought it in October '67 when he test-fired an AK-47 he'd found on the trail, unaware that U.S. Special Forces were in the habit of replacing the powder in captured weapons with explosive C4 and leaving them for the Vietcong to find. Chappell was blown to bits.
Lance Chappell. First Battalion, Twenty-sixth Marines, a victim of the Green Berets.
Williams' rifle ran empty. He dropped to one knee, inserted a fresh clip, and flipped the selector back to semiautomatic. The enemy were scattering under the wild return fire. Williams moved forward, firing single shots.
Someone started screaming off in the trees where the North Vietnamese had retreated.
"You greased one, Williams. Good goin'!" Who said that? I know that voice.
Williams' patrol advanced on the tree line. Return fire was sporadic, ineffectual.
"Anyone see how many there were?" he shouted.
"Three. Three for sure."
"Well, that dink yelling his head off don't count no more," that familiar, ironic drawl said.
They reached the trees, Williams first. He found the wounded NVA soldier lying on his side, no longer screaming, just crying, "Troi Oi! Troi Oi!" in a pained voice. Williams' round had caught him in the chest, and pink bubbles broke from his lips with every word. A lung wound.
"Anyone know what he's saying?" he asked.
"Yeah," the ironic voice replied just out of Williams' range of vision. "He's callin' for his God. Probably be meetin' him soon, too. "
"Why don't someone speed him on his way?" someone else suggested.
"Good idea." The owner of that familiar voice fired point-blank. The burst went in like a sprinkle of tacks and came out the back like a thresher. The Vietnamese collapsed. The rifleman turned to give Williams a thumps-up sign, and suddenly Williams could make out his grinning face.
Williams smiled back, pleased. It was Ed Repp. The last time he had seen Ed, they were on a two-man patrol on Hill 860. Williams had the point. Ed had called, "Hold up, I'm gonna take a leak," and disappeared into the bush. The explosion came a minute after. Williams ran in after him. He found Ed's right hand first. It ended in a mass of raw meat flecked with white cartilage. The rest of him lay scattered about a fifty-yard radius. A mine. VC mines released steel pellets that were the equivalent of seventy twelve-gauge shotguns going off under your feet. They did the job.
/> Williams didn't cry. He didn't react. He just pulled a body bag from his rucksack and started loading. He didn't feel a thing-not even the brief sprinkle that followed the explosion that wasn't the color of rain.
Ed Repp was the last new friend Williams had made in Vietnam. After that, he stopped making friends. They were a bad investment.
Ed Repp, killed while relieving himself near Khe Sanh, Republic of Vietnam, Summer 1967.
But it was a pleasure to see him again. "So, how've you been, Ed?" Williams asked.
Ed stopped smiling and his eyes took on that thousand-yard stare you saw everywhere in the bush.
"Dead. I've been dead," he said quietly.
"Yeah, I know. I was there, remember?"
Ed's eyes came back into focus, and a smile lit up his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes but somehow making him look younger, like a twenty-four-year-old. He was nineteen.
Before he could speak, someone asked, "What about those other two dinks? There might be an NVA base camp nearby." When Williams looked around to see who spoke, the face was vague in the late-afternoon light and he decided it was better not to look closer.
"What do you think, Point Man?" Ed Repp asked lazily. There was a mischievous light in his eyes that Williams recognized.
"Later. We've got a seriously injured man back in the grass. Someone get the bitch box and call in a medevac. Ed, you pop smoke for the dustoff "
The helicopter beat the grass flat as it touched down. They loaded Chappell into the side, and the others climbed aboard too. They waved at Williams as the chopper lifted off. Williams waved back, wondering why he had been left behind.
Then he turned around, and there, inexplicably, were the hills of the Central Highlands off in the distance, green and lush and unspoiled by war, with a heavy mist hanging over them like the breath of angels. Williams just sat down, laid his rifle along his crossed legs, and stared at the beautiful sight until the tears welled in his eyes and he felt a deep, overpowering joy that no one who hadn't lived through Vietnam could understand-and even those who had, had never found the words to describe.
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