The damned thing could be anywhere by now.
Which meant that he was trapped with Stockwell, Chalmers and the guide. He could start back alone, as the professor mockingly suggested, but it would be suicide for him to strike off through the jungle on his own. He had no compass, and it would have made no difference if he did. A city boy at heart, he looked for landmarks in the form of street signs and familiar buildings. Sibu Sandakan could no more chart a safe course through the wilderness than he could build a rocket ship from scratch and fly it to the moon.
Thus far, he thought he had concealed his mounting panic from the others fairly well. The argument in camp had been a test for him, and Sandakan had passed, not shouting once, and swallowing the tremor in his voice before the others could detect it They already thought of him as weak, but if they knew that he was terrified, it could become a different game entirely. Chalmers was a bully, and Sandakan would have no peace for the remainder of their journey.
Which, if the guerrillas struck again, would not be long.
He didn't grieve for the dead Americans, although the news would be embarrassing when it got back to the United States. His first consideration was potential damage to his own career resulting from his loss of the transmitter and whatever followed as a proximate result. Germuk Sayur and the men above him were expecting an alert if any member of the party found uranium, a dinosaur or any other object that the sitting government could seize and turn to profit for the state. Sandakan's own negligence had let them down—or would if there was anything to find in this forsaken hell on earth—and he couldn't expect the lapse to go unpunished.
He would be disciplined, of course, but there were varying degrees of punishment in civil service. Flat dismissal was among the worst, accompanied by the humiliation of explaining to his friends and family why he was fired. Sandakan knew men who had committed suicide with lesser provocation, but he wouldn't feel like dying for a job already lost. With any luck, he might get off with a demotion, possibly a reprimand. It would depend on what came next, the expedition's course from that point on, and whether they actually found anything of interest.
Before Germuk Sayur had a chance to punish him, however, Sandakan would have to make it back alive. And at the moment, he had no great confidence in his ability to manage that. No confidence at all.
He knew that he must watch the others—Chalmers in particular—and be prepared to save himself at any cost. Guerrillas might turn out to be the least of it where they were going. Sibu Sandakan didn't believe the legends of Nagaq, but there were hungry predators aplenty in the wilderness, and any one of them might prize a second deputy for dinner.
It would be different, he considered, if he were armed. Pike Chalmers held their only firearms, though, and he wasn't the sort to share his toys with "bloody wogs."
If I get out of this alive, thought Sibu Sandakan, I'll see the bastard's visa canceled. Yes, indeed.
But getting out alive would have to be the first priority.
And it would take up every bit of concentration he could muster in the next few days.
"You didn't have to hit me," Remo told Chiun as he was dusting off his clothes.
"A simple touch," the Master of Sinanju said. "If you were properly alert, I could not have surprised you."
"Some surprise," said Remo, blustering. "I heard you tramping through the forest like a water buffalo. You must be getting old."
"I let you hear me," Chiun responded, "and your impudence is unbecoming, even for a white man."
"Impudence? You knocked me on my ass."
"You fell upon your face," Chiun corrected him, "although I must admit the two are easily confused."
"Oh, that's hilarious. I see you're doing stand-up comedy these days."
"At least I manage to stand up."
"So, what's the story? Did you travel all this way to get a few digs in?"
"I am the Master of Sinanju, not a common miner. Is there something precious here that I should dig for it?"
"Could be," said Remo, frowning as he flexed his shoulders, working out the pain that lingered from Chiun's "simple touch."
"It is appropriate for an instructor to observe his student," Chiun remarked. "Your style leaves much to be desired."
"You ought to see the other guys."
"I have," Chiun replied. "Did you have difficulty killing them?"
"Get real."
"Then you have set yourself no challenge. In the early days of training, students learn from repetition of the simplest moves. A more advanced practitioner must test himself, seek new plateaus of knowledge and achievement, always learning."
"You've been watching Sally Struthers."
"Who?"
"You want to learn a new trade? Sure, we all do."
"You speak gibberish."
"Forget it," Remo said. "What brings you all this way?"
"A wish to supervise your mission. It occurred to me that you might not be totally prepared."
"I couldn't have a better teacher than the Master of Sinanju," Remo said.
"That much is obvious. The doubts lie not in my ability, but yours."
"Oh, thank you very much."
"Don't mention it. A master is expected to correct his pupil as the situation merits."
"Besides, I already earned the right to be a future Reigning Master, remember? So what exactly have I done to make you doubt me, Little Father?"
"Aside from simple negligence, there's nothing—yet." Chiun considered what he had to say for several seconds more before continuing. "I'm not convinced that you are ready to confront a dragon."
"What?"
"The challenge may be more than you can handle. It was not appropriate of me to send you on a job that needs a Reigning Master's touch."
"That's it?"
"Disposing of a dragon calls for special knowledge. We have not addressed it in your lessons up to now. I do not doubt your courage, Remo, but it may not be enough."
"You can relax," he told Chiun. "We haven't seen a footprint or a dragon turd so far, much less the Big Kahuna."
" 'Big Kahuna' is no fit name for a dragon."
"Little Father—"
"It is settled," said the Master of Sinanju. "I cannot allow you to proceed without the proper supervision."
"This is all about uranium," said Remo with a smile. "The dragon's just a smoke screen."
"Are you certain?"
"Well—"
"The white man often scoffs at things he has not seen or does not understand."
"The fact is, no one on the team apparently believes there is a dinosaur, except for Dr. Stockwell and the guide. He says it ate his grandfather."
"The doctor's grandfather was eaten by a dragon?"
"No, the guide's."
"Do not be quick in denigrating native tales," said Chiun. "I grant you, these are not Koreans, and their understanding of the world is therefore minimal at best, but they are not completely ignorant of their surroundings."
"Superstitious is the word that comes to mind."
"Even superstition may be based on fact. A legend stretches truth, but it does not begin without some circumstance to prompt its telling in the first place."
"What I'm thinking," Remo said, "is that the story makes a handy cover. Now, I know they've got a ringer on the team, who works for the Chinese. I got it straight from the guerrilla leader."
"He was Chinese?" asked Chiun.
"That's right."
"And you believed him?"
"In the circumstances, yes."
"You tortured him," said Chiun with satisfaction.