Nancy hesitated. She glared daggers at King and took Thorpe's hand in a firm clasp.
"Good luck, Thorpe."
"Cheerio."
King snapped his fingers so hard they stung. "Wait! I almost forgot! Just in case, we've got to send a package ahead."
"Package?"
"A film package."
They called down the skycrane and passed off three video cassettes. The helicopter lifted into the blue sky and rattled off toward the east.
Then the locomotives were fired up. They were steam models. It took some time. Everyone helped shovel coal. Except Skip King. He found the most comfortable seat in the lone passenger car behind the cargo car and popped a beer he pulled from an ice chest.
All the locomotives started up at once.
Great iron wheels screeched as they attempted to revolve. Couplings clanked.
And bearing its monstrous cargo, the train began moving.
They got up to twenty-five miles an hour and held that speed for the remainder of the day. King was talking nonstop.
"I wonder who should publish the excerpts from my biography?" he wondered aloud as a blur of jungle ran past the windows. "Vanity Fair or-"
"Mad magazine," Nancy finished.
"Don't mind her, boys," King told the attentive Berets, "she's just post-menstrual. It'll pass."
When no one joined in his braying laughter, King took a cold sip and said. "Well, we've all had a rough day."
Less that thirty miles from Port Chuma, the engineer spotted the logs on the tracks and blew his whistle. He hit the air brakes.
It was a European-style engine. There was no cow catcher. Just a pair of spring-loaded rams mounted in the front of the lead boiler.
The brakes took. Screeching, the train slid that last hundred yards, to stop just shy of the barrier of logs.
"What it is?" King muttered. "Why'd we stop?"
The sound of gunfire gave him his first clue.
Out of the bush poured knots of black men in camouflage fatigues with green berets perched on their heads. They carried Skorpion machine pistols.
"Bandits!" King shouted. "Burger Berets, do your corporate duty!"
Nancy grabbed his shoulder. "Are you crazy, King? If there's a gun fight, we'll be certain to lose Jack!"
King shook off the clutching hand.
"Relax baby," he said. "Skip King knows what he's doing." He took an AR-15 away from a Burger Beret, dashed out the glass in the window, and shouting, "Have it your way!" opened fire.
There was immediate return fire and Nancy dived to the floor.
For a firefight, it went on a long time.
The Burger Berets laid down covering fire. Return fire was sporadic. Nancy hugged the floor, face cradled in her crossed arms to protect it against flying glass and splinters.
The popping of the AR-15s filled the car, and she was forced to clap her hands over her ears. They were still sensitive from the abuse they had taken after King had fired his trank gun in her ear.
"Okay!" King shouted. "Get ready to jump. I'll cover you."
The Burger Berets piled out, shooting.
"Don't worry, Nancy, I'll protect you!"
"Jackass!" Nancy spat. "Who's going to protect Jack!"
"Don't sweat it. God looks out for fools and dinosaurs."
The firing came in percussive waves. King emptied two clips and was ramming a fresh one home when the car door was thrown open and a deep basso voice said in slightly Oxford-flavored English, "You are all prisoners of the Congress for a Green Africa."
Nancy looked up.
A wide-faced black man with a curly black beard was smiling at them with his teeth and menacing them with the muzzle of his machine pistol.
Nancy decided the weapon canceled out the teeth and lifted her hand at the elbows, saying, "We surrender."
"Speak for yourself," King said defiantly. "I may want to tough this out."
"If you don't shoot that idiot," Nancy said in a bitter voice. "I want the privilege."
King looked from Nancy to the black man to Nancy again and lay down his weapon.
"A seasoned jungle fighter can tell when he's outflanked," he grumbled, throwing up his hands. "I choose to live to fight another day."
Nancy spoke up. "Somebody please tell me that Old Jack is safe."
"You mean mokele m'bembe?" asked the basso voice.
Nancy looked startled. "Mokele m'bembe is what they call Jack in Gabon."
"And I am from Gabon, come to claim mokele m'bembe for my country."
Chapter 8
Harold W. Smith was explaining the painstaking selection process that resulted in the acquisition of a castle for the Master of Sinanju while he attempted to get the morsels of steamed rice to his mouth with the silver chopsticks provided.
The rice kept falling back, and he succeeded only in getting three or four grains to his tongue each time, and then only because the stuff had a sticky consistency.
"There were several operational considerations beyond simply satisfying the Master of Sinanju," Smith was saying.
"Where does simple come in?" Remo growled, poking at his duck, which he had already pronounced as too greasy. Chiun had countered that the cook should not complain about his own cooking, but should strive for perfection. "Simple is a nice clapboard house with a white picket fence. Simple is not a castle."
"Remo, eat your duck," Chiun said.
"It's greasy."
"The cook was inferior. Continue, Emperor Smith."
"A city large enough for the two of you to blend in was of paramount importance," Smith said. "Small town people tend to be too sensitive to those who do not fit in, and would be apt to snoop."
"Couldn't have us kill every old lady who came to peer through our venetian blinds," Remo grumbled, taking up his bowl of rice. He began eating with his fingers because it would annoy the Master of Sinanju.
"You are eating like a Chinaman," Chiun said, nose wrinkling.
"So I'm eating like a Chinaman. Sue me."
Smith continued. "Proximity to a major airport is critical, of course. You must be able to move on a moment's notice."
"If the world depends on us getting through Boston traffic in less than a day, I'd say the world has a grim prognosis."
Chiun said, "We will walk to the airport if necessary, Emperor Smith. For our gratitude knows no bounds."
"There is public transportation," Smith said. "Another consideration."
"I can see the headlines now," Remo said through a mouthful of rice, knowing it would make Chiun complain about his manners, " 'SUBWAY PASSENGER REFUSES TO GIVE UP SEAT FOR KOREAN MAN; TRAIN PULLS INTO STATION WITH ALL ABOARD DEAD.'"
"Remo, do not speak with your mouth full."
"So, today I'm a Chinaman."
"Today, you are a Chinaman and a Thai. Thais talk with their mouths full. This is why they do not wear beards which might catch expelled rice grains."
"Maybe I'll grow a beard," Remo muttered.
"You have too much unsightly facial hair to grow a proper beard," said Chiun, stroking the thin tendril of hair clinging to his tiny chin. "Do not pay him any heed, Emperor Smith," he confided in Smith. "Remo is in a cranky mood because he will have to sleep indoors tonight, for his moat is not yet ready."
"Har de har har har," Remo said, swallowing.
"Additionally," Smith said doggedly, "I took the demographic makeup of the local population into consideration."
"I have no objection to dwelling among Demographs," Chiun said loftily. "As long as there are an equal number of Republicrats to keep their spendthrift tendencies in line."
Smith set down his rice, giving up.
"You should have no problem shopping for correct foods and other items," he said.
"The rice Remo was able to purchase locally is of good quality. And the duck would have been superb-if prepared properly."
"I am glad everything is satisfactory," said Smith.
"It is." said Chiun. "All we lack is the sou
nd of a child's happy laughter."
"And the sour reek of unchanged diapers," Remo muttered.
Chiun frowned. "Remo," he said in a steady tone, "Soon Cheeta will once again shower this land with her wisdom and grace. Please serve dessert and turn on the television device."
"I do not think my diet will allow me to eat dessert," Smith said.
"Your diet will definitely allow you to eat these," said Remo, pointing to a linen-covered basket set in the center of the circle in which they sat.
Remo reached over and lifted the basket by the handle, snatching away the linen.
"Enjoy."
Smith frowned. He saw a cluster of small horny brown shapes. Gingerly, he lifted one.
"What are these?" Smith asked in a doubtful tone.
"Lichee nuts," said Remo.
"How does one remove the shell?"
"You do it like so," said Remo, digging a thumbnail into the area of the stem and popping the top off to expose the juicy white grapelike fruit. Then he broke away the remaining shell and popped the fruit into his mouth.
Smith attempted the same operation. He managed to crush the fruit in its shell and, embarrassed, swallowed it with bits of shell still clinging to it.
Chiun stared at him in horror. Smith, seeing this, looked to Remo, who was spitting the biggest pit he had ever seen this side of a peach into a flat, silver dish.
"You're supposed to lose the pit," Remo said.
"I do not think I will have another," Smith said weakly.
"Good. But because one is all Chiun and I are allowed. Right, Little Father?"
The Master of Sinanju took his litchi nut between his extra long fingernails and performed an operation that seemed not to break the shell, but suddenly it lay at his feet, along with the pit. The limp white meat went into his mouth. He chewed it for over a minute, until the pulp was liquid. Then he swallowed the result as if it were a refreshing nectar.
"And now it is time for Cheeta," Chiun said in a satisfied voice.
Remo grabbed the clicker and pointed it at the large screen television he had purchased earlier and carted by hand up the stairs. That had been the easy part. Chiun had made him move it sixteen times until the sun was not reflected on the screen.
"Anybody know which channel she's on locally?" Remo asked as he ran up and down the channels.
"Remo! Hurry! I must not miss a moment of Cheeta's-"
"Screed," Remo muttered, stopping when the familiar BCN News graphic filled the screen.
Chiun's tight features relaxed, and his nails touched delicately as his eyes fell on the face of Cheeta Ching, the Korean anchorwoman with whom he had been infatuated for over a decade now. Her face, under a layer of pancake makeup thick enough to pass as cake frosting, was puffy. She was due in six weeks, and Remo dreaded the approaching day.
"Hello. This is the BCN Evening News with Cheeta Ching. "
Chiun sighed. "What eloquence."
"What crap," Remo muttered.
Smith sat attentively.
Cheeta fixed her predatory eyes on the camera. "Tonight, a startling video out of Africa-and a mystery. Did the Burger Triumph corporation send a safari into the darkest Gondwanaland to bring 'em back alive only to fall into a snare themselves?"
The camera zoomed in on Cheeta's flat features.
"BCN News has obtained an exclusive video of what may be confirmation of what explorers and natives have been claiming for over a century. That deep in the Gondwanaland's imperiled Kanda Tract, an actual dinosaur survives."
Remo brightened. "No kidding!"
"Here is a clip reportedly shot last night by a Burger Triumph-sponsored exploration team," Cheeta announced.
Remo sat up straighter. Chiun's eyes narrowed.
The clip ran nearly three minutes-long for network TV.
It showed an orange-and-black long-necked dinosaur lumber out of a swatch of jungle growth and fall before a withering fusillade of rifle fire.
"A spokesman for Burger Triumph assures us that only nonlethal tranquilizer bullets were employed to stun the creature, which appears to be some sort of dinosaur."
"Brontosaur, you dip," Remo said,.
"Remo, hush," Chiun admonished.
"How can she call herself a reporter when she doesn't even recognize a Brontosaur when she sees one?"
"Actually," Smith started to say, "it is a-"
"Silence!" Chiun thundered, and both men fell silent.
Cheeta Ching was still doing a voice-over as scenes of the dinosaur falling onto its stomach were played and replayed.
"After this footage was shot," she said, "the monster was loaded on a train and set out for the capital, Port Chuma. Mysteriously, no trace of the train has been seen in over twenty-four hours. Authorities in Port Chuma express confidence that the train, with its strange cargo, will eventually be found. But as of this hour, there are no new developments to report."
"Which is anchorspeak for 'We don't know nothing,' " Remo said sourly.
"A Burger Triumph spokesman who asked not to be named said the company is considering launching a second expedition to locate the first. Next up, an interview with my personal gynecologist with his thirdtrimester report. But first, this message."
The screen cut to a different shot of Cheeta Ching extolling the virtues of a home pregnancy testing kit, and Remo and Smith looked to Chiun to see if it was acceptable to talk or not.
Chiun's eyes were narrow. Almost slits. He was very still.
He turned to meet Smith's gaze with his own.
"Emperor Smith, I crave a boon, as ungrateful as it may sound."
"Yes?"
"Dispatch Remo and me to Africa to seek those who are lost."
"Oh no!" Remo said harshly. "I'd rather stay here than go to Africa. I've been there. It's hot and it stinks."
"I will go alone, then," Chiun said coldly.
"Why?" asked Smith.
Chiun made a face. "I cannot tell you, but granting this boon may mean that the House of Sinanju will continue to serve America far into the next century."
Smith looked to Remo. Remo shrugged. Smith cleared his throat. "Well, since these people are American citizens, I suppose you could go. So long as you are discreet."
Like smoke rising, the Master of Sinanju came to his feet. He bowed once. Then, padding over to the TV, he did something that made Remo's mouth hang open in surprise.
He switched off the set just as Cheeta Ching was starting to speak.
"Remo, you and I will look into the Shortsleeve question while Master Chiun is away," Smith offered.
"Nothing doing," said Remo, finding his voice. "I don't know what's got into Chiun, but if it is big enough to make him turn off Cheeta Ching in midyap, I want to be along for the ride."
They ran the rental van back to the airport, dropped Smith off at the departure terminal, and drove on to international departures.
Remo bought two round-trip tickets to Port Chuma, using a credit card that identified him as Remo Burton, with the Department of Health and Human Services. He had a matching passport.
"Proof of shots?" asked the ticket agent.
"Would someone from the Department of Health and Human Services be going to Africa if he didn't have his shots?" Remo asked in a firm voice.
The agent thought not, and the tickets were surrendered.
Over the Atlantic, they sat in a silence that was not broken until they reached London, where they had to change planes.
At Heathrow, Remo decided to break the ice.
"Care to tell a fellow traveler why he's traveling?"
"No."
"Toss a hint in my direction, then?"
"Reflect upon the lesson of Master Yong."
Remo reflected. In the early days of his training in Sinanju, Chiun used to drum into his head the exploits of past Masters. Each Master, it seemed, was remembered for one special reason. Wang because he discovered the sun source. Yeng because he was too greedy. Yokang because he consorted with Japanese women
and caught certain diseases from them. Remo had learned about every Master--or so he thought. In recent years, there had been fewer legends. Remo had assumed it was because Chiun had run out of Masters, but was forced to conclude that the true reason was that in Chiun's eyes, Remo had grown to full Masterhood, the penultimate step toward Reigning Master status, which Remo could only achieve upon Chiun's death or retirement.
Master Yong, Remo could not remember.
He wracked his brain as the British 747 winged its way to Africa.
"Yong, Yong, Yong," he muttered aloud. "Not Bong. He discovered India. Can't be Nonga. He was deaf and dumb."
"Render it in English," Chiun said thinly.
Over his twenty-year association with the Master of Sinanju, Remo had picked up a little Korean here and there until one day he found himself, to his infinite surprise, considering that he had flunked French I three years running in school, fluent in the language.
"Dragon!" he said snapping his fingers. "Yong means dragon."
"Some Masters are remembered for their true names, others-those held in contempt-are remembered by false names so as not to shame their ancestors. It is so with Yong."
"Yeah? What'd he do?"
The Master of Sinanju made a face. He touched his thin beard as if debating the wisdom of answering the question.
"I will tell you if you promise not to reveal what I am about to divulge to Emperor Smith."
"Family secret, huh?"
"A deep shame is attached to Yong the Gluttonous."
"Gluttonous? Are we off to Africa to make the world safe for hamburger companies?"
"Silence! If your ears would hear, your mouth must be still. Preferably closed."
Remo folded his bare arms. It was cool in the big jet and his arm hairs were lifting in response. He willed them to lay flat and they did. It was a minor example of the nearly total control he exercised over every cell in his superbly trained body.
Chiun began speaking.
"The story I am about to tell you transpired in the Year of the Peacock."
"Give me a number."
"I do not know the American year and I do not care," Chiun retorted. "In these days we served the Middle Kingdom, Cathay, a land of barbarians who ate their rice with their fingers."
"Don't rub it in."
"Master Yong-not his real name of course-was summoned to the throne of Cathay. For a great dragon was devouring rice farmers and other subjects of the Chinese emperor. This being how dragons typically passed their days.
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