"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.