"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.