The tank kept going. And out of the open driver's hatch, an American voice boomed.
"Lan! Hop aboard. I'm not sure I can stop this thing." Even though Captain Dai knew that the Amerasian girl was about to jump out of the bush, he made no attempt to stop her when she did. He stood there, his pistol hanging loose and impotent at his side, as the girl disappeared into the open turret hatch and clanged it shut.
The T-72 continued on. There was nothing Captain Dai could do but inhale its foul exhaust and fight back the racking sobs of failure.
"See if there's any food in here," Remo said, straining in the driver's bucket to see through the periscope. The seat was mounted low to accommodate someone of Asian stature. Remo felt cramped in the tiny cockpit, which was set in the tank body just in front on the turret.
Lan stuck her head forward. "You believe Lan now?"
"I'm reserving judgment," Remo told her.
Lan shrugged. "Whatever that mean. I will look for food." She stepped around the bodies of the tank crew and opened steel ammunition boxes. They contained ammo clips. There was a crate tucked under a shelf. She lifted the lid.
"No food. But look."
Remo twisted around in his seat. He saw the gleaming stocks of new Kalashnikov assault rifles packed in Cosmoline.
"Food would be better," he grunted. Lan frowned.
Remo turned back to the periscope. Just in time. He had steered the tank toward some trees. He corrected the tank, his feet searching for the brake. He found it, and the tank rumbled to a halt.
"I'd better get rid of these bodies," Remo said. "In this heat they're going to stink. "
"I help."
"You sit." Remo climbed back to the turret and hoisted the bodies out the top hatch. He kicked them off the back of the tank and climbed back in. He left the hatch open to ventilate the tank.
As he got the tank moving again, Remo motioned for Lan to sit behind him. She did so without speaking. "You were pretty brave back there," he told her.
"Not brave. Scared."
"Same difference," Remo said, shooting her a smile. Lan bowed her head, but finally the smile was returned. "We friends?"
"Yes," Lan said. "Friends." She shook his hand and Remo laughed at the gesture, although it touched him.
"A while back you said something about my American friends. What was that about?"
"You say you come to Vietnam to help other Americans. POW's."
"Prisoners? Of the Vietnamese?"
"Yes. "
"Did I say where they were?"
"No. I think you not know."
"Great. I don't know where I am, where I've been, or where I should be going."
"Not my fault."
"I know. I wish my head would clear. I feel like I've got all the answers swimming around in my head, but the thoughts won't stop long enough for me to get a clear look at them."
"I know one thing."
"What's that?"
"We need food."
"Yeah, maybe we can find a friendly village."
"Not here. Not anywhere."
"We'll come up with something," Remo said. But he had no idea what.
They hadn't driven much further when the sunlight streaming through the open hatch was suddenly blocked. Remo looked up first. Then Lan screamed. Remo braked and wriggled back into the tank's main body.
A face was looking down at them. A thin face pocked like a golf course, with thin, cruel black eyes. There was something vaguely familiar about that face, Remo thought, but his eyes were focused on the pointing barrel of the pistol that was aimed at his face.
"Dung lai!" the Vietnamese screamed.
"Sure thing, buddy," Remo said, putting his hands up. "Just don't get excited." To Lan he whispered, "Stay calm. I can handle this jerk."
The Vietnamese screamed at them. "What's he saying?" Remo asked Lan.
"He say get out of tank. Now."
"I'll go first," Remo said. He grabbed a pipelike handhold and climbed up. The Vietnamese-he was a captain, Remo realized-stepped back from the turret, and when Remo lifted his head out into the air, he suddenly felt his stomach go cold.
"No," he croaked. "Not you."
The Vietnamese screamed at him again.
"Yeah, sure, I'm coming," Remo said thickly as he got out of the tank. His legs felt rubbery. He held his hands at shoulder height, but they trembled.
"Captain Spook," Remo said dully. His eyes were sick.
Lan came out next.
The captain motioned for them to step to the rear of the tank.
"Lai dai! Lai dai, maulen!" he screamed. His face was a mask of pocked fury.
"Cai gi?" Remo asked. And received a slap in the face for his question. He had no idea what the man was screaming.
"He wants us to walk to back," Lan told him. "I think he plan kill us."
"Why not?" asked Remo, stepping toward the back. "He's dead. Why shouldn't we be too?"
"What you mean?"
"I know this guy. He's dead." Lan said nothing.
When Remo reached the rear deck of the tank, the captain motioned for them to turn around. Remo did as he was told. Lan stood beside him. She trembled.
The cocking of the pistol told them they were going to be unceremoniously executed.
Remo started to react. But Lan was already in motion. She screamed. Not in fear, but in a high, keening rage. The Vietnamese captain, not expecting the sound, was paralyzed with shock.
Lan fell on him, yanking at his pistol. Remo swept in from the opposite side. He knocked the captain over with a body block. The captain rolled off the tank and scrambled for cover under the tank chassis.
Lan had his pistol. She was sweeping the sides of the tank with its muzzle. She fired once, hitting nothing. Remo took the gun from her. "Forget it!"
"I will kill him!" Lan screamed.
"Not possible. You can't kill him. He's already dead!" Lan looked at Remo doubtfully.
"Come on," Remo said, shoving her into the turret. He climbed down after her and pulled the hatch shut, heat or no heat. He felt an almost supernatural chill course through his body.
"Why you afraid?" Lan asked as Remo started the tank moving again. "Why you not stay and kill him?"
"It's a long story."
"We have long ride."
"I already killed that guy."
"When?"
Remo considered in silence. Finally he said, "Good question. I don't know. Seems like two, maybe three months ago. Maybe longer."
"He not dead now."
"No, he's not. But I killed him during the war. You bien?"
"No. Not understand."
"I killed him during the war. In 1967. And he pops up again, not only alive, but not any older. Certainly not fifteen or twenty years older."
"You not believe Lan again?"
"I don't know what to believe. I can't think of any sensible explanation."
"Maybe that man ghost?"
"He felt solid enough," Remo said, straining at the periscope. It showed unobstructed road ahead.
"Then maybe you are the ghost," Lan said.
And again Remo felt that supernatural chill ripple through his bones.
Chapter 15
The Master of Sinanju had endured the indignity of the cramped cabin. He ignored the stale, tinny air and the offensive odors of meat that were inescapable in the bowels of the American submarine. The journey was long, arduous, and boring. But it was necessary if he was to be reunited with his son. Chiun was resolved to endure it all. Later he would visit his grievances upon Remo. Let Remo apologize for them.
But the Master of Sinanju would not endure the indignity of lack of respect.
"Look, grandpa," said the American sailor. "The water is only two feet deep on this bay. Just step off the raft and wade the rest of the way."