"Shoot them, dammit!" Major Fordell ordered an instant before a bullet from his own gun ended his life.
As the Major fell, the rest of the commandos opened fire. Guns crackled. One by one the ASDF men fell.
Panicking, some men threw down their weapons and flung up their hands. They were slaughtered where they stood.
The few Alaska State Defense Force men who tried to defend themselves found their targets impossible to track. They always seemed to be everywhere other than the path of the bullets.
The commandos disappeared and reappeared. Some abandoned guns for knives, materializing next to a terrified ASDF man just long enough to slit his throat.
When there was only one ASDF man left standing, the slaughter abruptly ceased.
The Alaska State Defense soldier had already thrown down his gun. He stood whimpering and defenseless, as the crowd of masked men formed a circle around him. He didn't even hear the hushed words from the commandos. Didn't see the crowd part. Didn't notice the lone man who strode into their midst.
The last arrival was dressed like the others, save one distinction. He wore no mask.
His features were delicate enough to be considered pretty. His eyes were powdery brown mixed with flecks of red. Although he was young, his closecropped hair was prematurely white. He had the confident, graceful stride of a gymnast. With a perfect economy of motion, he stepped up to the last ASDF man.
The soldier was babbling incoherently. His eyes were unfocused as he stared blankly at the ground. The white-haired commando paused before the man. He cast one pale eye around the circle of faceless soldiers.
All at once, his hand shot out. So fast did it move, most there could not even follow it.
The side of the white-haired man's flattened palm met the Adam's apple of the last soldier. There was a wet thwack as the ASDF man's head left his neck.
With a thud the head hit the ground. The body joined it a split second later.
The white-haired commando gave the decapitated body a single look of disdain. A sneer still on his delicate lips, he turned.
The others parted in quiet reverence.
As the lone commando walked away, a single word muttered by one of the masked men trailed behind him.
"Mactep," a man in the crowd said in awe.
And as if in response, the white-haired man vanished from sight.
Chapter 4
Remo drove aimlessly the remainder of the night, arriving back in Rye a little after seven in the morning. The lone guard at the security shed didn't even glance up as Remo steered his leased car through the main gates of Folcroft Sanitarium. He drove up the gravel drive and parked in the employee lot next to the rusty old station wagon of his boss, Harold W. Smith. He was heading for the side door of the ivycovered brick building when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye.
Folcroft's rear lawn rolled down to the rimy shore of Long Island Sound. An old boat dock extended into the water. On the most distant plank stood a solitary figure.
The old man was so frail it seemed as if the gentlest breeze would send him spinning like a colorful pinwheel into the cold water. But despite the buffeting gusts that blew in from the Sound, the wizened figure remained fixed in place. His back to the shore, he stared out across the water.
Pausing in the parking lot, Remo studied the tiny figure on the dock for the briefest of moments.
"Do I want to open myself up to this or do I sneak inside?" he said under his breath.
Since he knew he'd been heard arriving-in spite of the seeming disinterest of the old man on the dock-he decided against ducking inside. On sure feet he glided down the gentle back hill and onto the dock. At the far end he paused next to the tiny figure.
"This a private party or is everyone invited?" Remo asked Chiun, his teacher and Reigning Master of Sinanju.
The elderly Korean continued to study the whitecapped waves. "It is a free country," he replied, his singsong voice uninterested. "Stand wherever you like."
At only five feet tall, the old Asian's head barely reached Remo's shoulder. He wore a simple gold kimono that flapped like a wind sock around his bare ankles. His hands were tucked far inside his voluminous sleeves.
Two tufts of yellowing white hair clutched to a spot above each shell-like ear. His age-speckled head was otherwise bald. The skin was like tan rice paper left to dry on his ancient skull. Fine veins showed like a map of crisscrossing blue roads beneath the delicate surface.
The two men stood staring at the water for a few long minutes. Remo's thoughts were of his California trip and the lost thought his mind could not seem to retrieve.
Beside him, the Master of Sinanju sensed his pupil's frustration. He turned his birdlike head to Remo.
"You have had no luck remembering that which you have forgotten?" Chiun asked quietly.
Remo seemed surprised by the question. He looked down into his teacher's upturned face.
"How'd you know?" he asked.
"Please, Remo," Chiun clucked dismissively. "You always wear whatever you are thinking on that sandwich board you call a face. I have been tempted at times to stand you out beside the highway and rent it for advertising to that cowburger-frying clown. Now, what is it that troubles you?"
Remo bit his lip thoughtfully. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "You ever go in a room looking for something and then when you get there you forget what it is, you were going in there for? That's what I feel like right now."
A bony hand appeared from the Master of Sinanju's kimono sleeve. With the tips of his long fingernails he stroked the thread of beard that extended from his pointed chin.
"Hmm," he mused softly. His youthful hazel eyes turned back to the water. He said nothing more.
"That's the best you can do?" Remo asked. "Hmm?"
"It is all I can do," Chiun said. "The path you are on must be walked alone."
Remo's face grew troubled. "What do you mean?" he asked cautiously. "Do you know what this is all about?"
Chiun appeared insulted by the question. "Of course," he sniffed. "I am the Master of Sinanju. What is more, you know what it is about, as well." The old man's tone was ominous. Remo had heard that same tone before. He whirled on his teacher.
"Oh, cripes, not again," Remo said, his face sagging. "Is this the start of some new ditfrimmy Sinanju ritual? 'Cause if it is, I'm throwing in the towel before it even starts."
"Too late," Chiun said. A stiff wind caught his thin wisps of hair. "It has already begun."
Remo shook his head. "I don't believe this," he muttered. "The worse thing is, every time one of these cockamamie things comes up, you tell me it's the last one and I believe you. I'm like Charlie Brown and you keep pulling away that goddamn football every time. So what do I have to do this time? Journey to the center of the Earth and battle the mole people? Go for a swim in the Big Dipper? What?"
"Nothing so difficult or so easy," Chiun replied. He held up a hand, halting further questions from his pupil. "And now is not the time."
"That's easy for you to say. You don't have some melting-ice-cube-of-a-thought slipping around your head."
Chiun's face softened. "Do not try so hard, my son. Put it aside. When it is time, it will come."
Beside the old man, Remo rolled his thick wrists in frustration. The advice his teacher was giving him seemed impossible to follow. His body, his spirit, everything seemed to be screaming something at him. He didn't know how to ignore it. Yet he trusted the Master of Sinanju more than anyone else he'd ever known. If Chiun said to put it aside, the old Asian had to be certain it was the right thing to do.
With great effort of will, Remo forced the troubling thoughts from his mind.