Walking Wounded td-74

by Warren Murphy

  Remo shrugged. War was war.

  He finished siphoning off the last of the gas, hurried everyone aboard, and climbed back in. "Next stop, Cambodia---or whatever they call it now," he announced.

  In the back, they giggled nervously. They were quite a mix. American faces with almond eyes. Asian faces with Western eyes. Some were white, some brown, others black. They looked lost.

  A rusting road sign told Remo he was on Route Thirteen-what used to be known as the Road to Peace. If memory served, it went directly to the Cambodian border. He settled down for the long haul.

  Hours later, a military Land Rover appeared in the rearview mirror and Remo again called for everyone to get onto the floor. They obeyed instantly and yelled, "Go, American!" Remo liked that.

  The Land Rover drew abreast like a speedy cockroach and Remo waited until someone in a uniform stood up and shouted for him to pull over.

  Remo did. In the Land Rover's direction. The vehicle swerved, precipitating the officer onto the macadam roadway. He rolled several times, his clothes coming off as if he were a shucked ear of corn: The Land Rover spun out of control and piled into a tree.

  "Yay, American! Go, GI!" The Amerasians were shouting at the top of their lungs.

  They weren't disturbed again until the low wop-wop-wop sound of an approaching helicopter intruded over the engine's rackety roar.

  Remo held the wheel while he searched the sky. "Anybody see a chopper?"

  All over the bus, the windows shot up and heads poked out, twisting faces craned to the sky.

  The helicopter's wop-wop-wop changed to a whut-whut-whut and then became a clattering pocketa-pocketa noise, and Remo knew it was closing hard. But from where?

  The helicopter-Remo recognized it as a Russian Hind gunship camouflaged green and brown jumped up from behind a grassy hill and the Amerasians in the right row called that they had spotted it.

  "Thanks a lot," Remo muttered. Loudly he said, "Can anyone hit it?"

  They tried. AK-47's erupted at the weapons-heavy gunship. It passed overhead, its racket deafening, and vanished from sight.

  "Any luck?" Remo called.

  "No," someone with a high-pitched voice told him. "We try again."

  "Better get it on the next pass because that's when they're going to start shooting," Remo warned.

  The Amerasians with weapons piled over to the opposite side of the bus, pushed the others to the floor, and stuck their muzzles into the sky. Remo noticed the freckle-faced young girl lying on her stomach, hands tented, her lips moving silently as she prayed to her ancestors.

  Remo listened to the fading helicopter rotors. Then they changed pitch.

  "Okay, listen up. It's coming back now. I'm going to hit the brakes. That'll give us a clean shot at them. But they'll have a better shot at us too. Don't blow it."

  "Okay," he was told. It was weird to hear Vietnamese voices coming from such American faces.

  The gunship was a blot in the night-blue of the sky. It grew, bearing down on them. Remo hit the brakes. The riflemen opened up. They fired sporadically.

  "Let them get into range!" Remo warned. "Don't waste ammo."

  "We trying!"

  "Damn," Remo said. His foot poised over the accelerator. They were sitting ducks, but if he started up, they'd never get that gunship.

  Then he noticed the AK-47 he'd set beside the driver's seat. Let Chiun get as upset as he wanted.

  Remo hit the door handle as he scooped up the AK-47. He set it for single shot and raised the muzzle sight to eye level. The weapon felt strange and clumsy, like a railroad tie. It'd been so long since he'd used a rifle. He made the gun sight describe slow circles in the air around the looming Hind. He tightened the circle until he could feel the gunship's rotors vibrating the barrel and transmitting the vibration down his arm. Tighter and tighter until he found the center of the gunship. When he could see the pilot's dark glasses clearly, he fired. Once. Then he lowered the rifle confidently.

  Nothing happened for several minutes. The others continued to fire raggedly, but Remo knew they wouldn't affect what was about to happen.

  The pilot still clutched his stick, but his chin was tilted up. The helicopter started to dance in place. It wobbled, then its tail boom suddenly swung around as the pilot's feet ceased to work the stabilizing rotor pedals.

  The gunship reeled, pitched, and suddenly nosed to the earth. It exploded in a spectacular orange fireball. Sooty smoke billowed up after the dissipating flames. The gunship was lost in the smoke. There were screams.

  "Okay, let's go!" Remo said, returning to the wheel. He sent the bus careening down the road as his passengers happily congratulated themselves on their combined marksmanship.

  Remo rolled his eyes. "This is going to be a long ride," he muttered.

  The sun rose on his impassive countenance, and though he welcomed its warmth after the chill of evening, the Master of Sinanju refused to open his hazel eyes.

  Harold Smith's footsteps approached, the slightly arthritic creaking of his right knee sounding louder to Chiun than it ever had before. But even for his emperor, the Master of Sinanju did not open his eyes.

  "Er, Master of Sinanju?" Smith's voice was hesitant.

  "I am awake."

  "Good. "

  "But I have not moved since last we spoke. I have slept all night like this."

  "That is your right."

  "No," Chiun's parchment lips intoned, "it is my shame, my responsibility, my atonement. But not my right. Never my right."

  "Yes," said Smith. He looked at the frail figure of the Master of Sinanju seated on the gravel roof of Folcroft Sanitarium. Chiun wore a thin white kimono, completely without decoration or adornment, the blouse rent so that his hairless chest was bared to the elements. He sat in a lotus position, his tiny feet unshod and his hands held palm-up and loose-fingered in his lap. He faced the rising sun. A chill breeze off nearby Long Island Sound played with the wisps of hair over his ears. His beard hairs danced like wafting smoke.

  "I will remain here until my son returns," Chiun said.

  "That could be a long time," Smith pointed out.

  "If it takes the rest of my life, then so be it. I gave my word that Remo would return and he has not. My word has been violated. Until Remo does return, I will stay here, not eating, not drinking, my flesh exposed to the cruel elements. But I do not worry about the cruelty of the elements. Neither bitter wind nor lashing rain could sting so deep as the indifference of my adopted son, who would allow my promise to be broken."

  "Is that your final word?"

  "Inviolate word. Absolute word. My word given in Remo's name has been shattered, but the word of a Master of Sinanju, given of his own actions, cannot be broken. Will not be broken," Chiun said emphatically, raising a long-nailed finger. "I have spoken."

  "Well," Dr. Smith said unhappily, "I'm not certain I understand, but I won't force you to do anything you feel is dishonorable. I'd just have to find another way to get word to Remo. "

  Chiun's eyes blazed open. His wrinkles gathered tensely and exploded outward as the impact of Smith's word's hit him.

  Chiun was on his feet like a jack-in-the-box springing. Smith recoiled at the unexpected movement. Chiun was suddenly in front of him, looking up into Smith's shocked face.

  "Remo. You have word of him?"

  "Yes, I do," Smith said shakily. "And it is as I feared."

  "He is ... dead."

  "No, he is in Vietnam."

  "Then he might as well be dead," Chiun snapped. "He expressly told us he would not go there."

  "It might not be his fault."

  "How can he escape that responsibility?" Chiun asked querulously.

  "He could be having another flashback. Or something. I don't know. What I do know is that a Rye man named Krankowski has been hospitalized after having his hand removed from a brick wall with jackhammers. This person claims he was mugged by someone fitting Remo's description two night ago. The man has a long criminal record,
so I have my own ideas about what really happened. Nevertheless, he claims his credit card was stolen. I ran a check, and someone using that card booked a flight to Bangkok and then on to Ho Chi Minh City on the night we last saw Remo. There's no question in my mind that it was Remo and he is now in Vietnam. God knows what he's doing."

  "Perhaps not even Him, knowing Remo," Chiun muttered.

  "We can't let Remo run loose over there. He could start an international incident and destroy all chance of getting our POW's back through negotiations."

  "I will go there and bring him back," Chiun announced suddenly, the wind flapping his kimono skirts against his bony legs.

  "I was hoping you would say that," Smith said gratefully. "But what about your atonement?"

  Chiun drew himself up haughtily. "Why should I atone for Remo's idiocy?" he said peevishly. "I will go to Vietnam and drag Remo back by the scruff of his neck. He will sit on this roof without so much as a straw mat under him and atone for his own sins."

  "Very good," said Smith, following Chiun to the roof hatch. "I will arrange a flight. There is a U.S. submarine in that area that will take you to a dropoff point. It will be up to you to bring Remo back."

  "Remo will come back, never fear."

  "Only Remo," Smith said.

  Chiun turned. "Not his Army friends?"

  Smith hesitated. "Not if any of them know him as Remo Williams. It will be hard on him, but we have no choice. CURE is too important."

  "If I have to dispatch one of Remo's friends, he may never forgive me."

  "We have no choice. Remo has given us none."

  Chiun bowed. "Then the consequences will be on Remo's head, not ours."

  Chapter 12

  Remo Williams didn't notice he was running out of gas until the engine started missing. He looked down at the fuel gauge. The red pointer was bouncing off the empty pin.

  Remo wrestled the bus over to the shoulder of the highway and braked. He turned in his seat. A score of unblinking eyes looked back at him, like baby owls in a forest.

  "Listen up, everyone," Remo told them. "This is just a pit stop. I want everyone who has a rifle to deploy around the bus and stand guard. I hear running water. Probably a stream nearby. Two armed people will escort those who want to drink. Everyone else stay close to the bus. Got that?"

  Their exotic faces bobbed in understanding.

  "Then let's go," Remo said, jumping out. The AK-47 went over his shoulder without conscious thought. Remo removed the last remaining jerrican and unscrewed the gas cap. As he poured the evil-smelling gas into the tank, he tried to dig into long-buried memories. He'd been driving all night, and had no idea where he was, or how far it was to the Cambodian border.

  One of the Amerasians hovered near him. Remo crooked a finger for him to step into talking range. "Yes?"

  "What's your name, pal?"

  "Nguyen. "

  "How far to the Cambodian border, Nguyen?"

  The man scratched his head and stared down the road appraisingly. "Forty kilometers," he said, pointing back in the direction they had come.

  "You mean that way," Remo said, emptying the last of the jerrican and nodding in the westerly direction. Nguyen shook his head.

  "No," he insisted, pointing east. "That way."

  "That's the road back to Saigon," Remo said. "Cambodia is the other way."

  "That road back to Vietnam," the man disagreed. "We in Cambodia now."

  Remo dropped the jerrican in surprise. "When did we cross the border?"

  "Hour ago. When we pass that mountain."

  Remo followed Nguyen's pointing finger. Low on the horizon was a steep, forested summit. Remo had paid it no attention before. Suddenly he recognized it. It was the mountain known as the Black Virgin. It straddled the border of Vietnam and Cambodia. It was many kilometers back.

  "Great," Remo said. "Why didn't somebody tell me?"

  "No one want you to stop. This dangerous area. Khmer Rouge here. Much fighting."

  The others returned from the bush at that moment, some of them wiping cool water off their mouths. They looked refreshed.

  Remo went around to the front of the bus, turned on the headlights, and gathered them together in the light. "This is it, everyone. Cambodia. Last stop. You're on your own now. You have weapons, so you can take care of yourselves. "

  "You take bus?" asked Nguyen.

  "Yes," Remo said. "I'll need it if I'm going to rescue my friend. Sorry."

  The green-eyed girl pushed out of the huddled group.

  "Please not go, American. Stay with us. Help us reach U.S."

  "I wish I could," Remo said sincerely. "But I have a mission."

  "We go with you. Help you. Fight fiercely. Not like old ARVN troops. Kill many gook for you."

  The others took up her call to action, promising to fight bravely for the American and his friend.

  Remo was touched by their willingness to fight by his side, but it was out of the question.

  "I work best alone. Next time."

  The green-eyed girl came up to Remo, her eyes impossibly sad.

  "If I not reach America alive, will you tell my American father I love him?"

  "Sure," Remo said. "What's his name?"

  "Bob."

  "Bob what?"

  "Not know other name. You will tell him Lan love him and ask that he will remember me?"

  "Yeah, I'll tell him. Bob. Sure. How many green-eyed Bobs can there be in America?"

  Lan smiled. Remo forced a smile in return. The poor kid had no idea how big America was.

  "Well," Remo said slowly, not really knowing what to say in farewell, "see you all back in America."

  The Amerasians waved. They looked too scared to move. For a moment Remo hesitated, wondering if taking them along would possibly work out. They looked so helpless. Even the armed ones. But their very helplessness convinced him they were better off on their own.

  Remo tore himself away. He replaced the jerrican in its wire bracket. He checked to make sure the gas cap was on tight. He spent more time at it than necessary, trying to look preoccupied, hoping the others would start walking on their own. But no one took the initiative. They watched him in mute wonderment.

  Remo got back behind the wheel. He started the engine. The headlights flared brighter. Then, slowly, he sent the bus lumbering around in a circle. As he passed the huddled group, he shot them a weak salute. They waved back. Remo searched their faces one last time, looking for the girl called Lan. He didn't see her.

  Then Remo sent the bus rumbling back toward the border. The Amerasians stood watching him until they were swallowed by the darkening jungle.

  Remo felt a slow lump rising in his throat. He tried to swallow it away. It wouldn't go away. He concentrated on the road.

  Remo had to guess when he got near the Cambodian border. He used the Black Virgin for a reference point. He remembered having seen a dirt road somewhere along this stretch that veered north. For lack of a better plan, he intended to follow it. He had no idea where the POW camp was. But he knew he would have a better chance of locating it on foot. He hoped to find a place to stash the bus while he conducted his search. He would need the bus later. There was no telling what kind of shape Youngblood and the others would be in.

  Remo watched the jungle until he found the road. He slid onto it, and the bus tires started crunching rock. The bus slowed in the dirt. It bounced and rattled.

  Remo wondered if the old springs would hold. Then he stopped wondering. Abruptly there was a roaring in his ears and the pressure made his vision turn red, as if the blood vessels in his eyes had all popped at once. He never heard the sound of the explosion.

  When Remo woke up, the first thing he felt was a stabbing pain at the small of his back. His eyes would not focus. Everything was dark-dark and blurred. He sensed he was on the ground, and dimly a flicker of conscious thought made him wonder if he'd been wounded.

  Carefully he moved his hands. They worked. He tried sitting up. His back
ached dully; then the sharper pain began. Half-sitting up, he felt a sick fear in the pit of his stomach. Resting on one palm, he reached for his back with the other, afraid of what he might find. The exertion brought more pain. But he felt no moisture, no ruptured flesh, no protruding bone. He looked back to discover that he'd been lying on a rugged rock.

  Now, why would he go to sleep on a rock like that? Had he been drinking?

  Remo sat up and looked around. There was something there. Even with his vision out of focus, he made out the front end of a bus. But there was something odd about it. It was too short. Remo looked further and not far away found another shape. His eyes started to clear and he realized that the second shape was a bus too.

  But there was only one bus. It had been cut in half. He was looking at the rear half, open in front like an old loaf of bread and spilling the charred remains of its seats.

  Remo understood what had happened. An artillery shell. Or maybe a mine. He could see no bodies. He hoped there were none. He was wondering who'd been on the bus, when he noticed his feet.

  His feet were encased in shoes. Where the hell were his boots? he wondered. Experimentally Remo tried to bend his legs. They were stiff, but they moved. He removed one shoe. A loafer. Good leather, too. Maybe Italian. Remo couldn't remember ever owning shoes of this quality before. Maybe he'd bought them in Saigon. Foreign goods were cheap in Saigon. But Remo couldn't remember having bought them. That wasn't his chief worry, however. He could see that he was somewhere out in the bush. Where the hell were his boots? Without them, he'd have immersion foot in no time. Assuming this was the rainy season. Funny, he couldn't remember that either.

  Remo put the shoe back on and took a minute to breathe deeply. Then he got to his feet. His joints ached. He tried walking in a circle. Nothing damaged, just aches. He flexed his arms, working his biceps to get the night chill out of his muscles.

  It was then that he noticed that his arms were bare. "What the hell is this?" he asked aloud.