"I will not," Chiun snapped. "My kimono will be wetted. "
"Hey, just lift your skirts," the sailor said.
"And expose my nakedness before the Vietnamese barbarians?"
"You're not Vietnamese?" a second sailor asked in surprise.
He was slapped for his impudence. The slap was hard. "Oooww! What'd you do that for?"
"I will not be insulted by my inferiors."
"No offense. But when a U. S. submarine carries an Oriental all the way from Tokyo to Vietnam for a night dropoff, we kinda assume we're dropping off a Vietnamese. "
"Vietnamese are inferior."
"To what?"
"To me."
The sailors exchanged uncomprehending shrugs. "Our orders are not to touch sand," the first sailor said. "We brought you into shallow water. Now all you have to do is wade."
"No," said Chiun, standing up in the inflated raft. He folded his arms resolutely. He was determined.
"Hey, sit down. If we're seen, it could mean an international incident. "
"I will accept an international incident," Chiun said firmly. "I will not wade in dirty Vietnamese water."
"Looks clean to me."
"It is dark. How can you tell it is not dirty?"
"How can you tell that it is?" the first sailor countered.
"It smells Vietnamese."
The two sailors looked at one another and shrugged again.
"How about we sneak in just a tad closer?" the first one asked the other.
Chiun's face relaxed slightly.
"But we can't touch sand," they repeated in one voice.
"Agreed," said the Master of Sinanju. And he stepped to the bow of the raft and tucked his long-nailed fingers into his kimono sleeves. The sea breeze toyed with his facial hair and his clear hazel eyes held a satisfied light.
The circumstances might not be ideal, but this was a historic moment. No Master of Sinanju had stepped on Vietnamese soil in many centuries. He wondered if there would be a welcoming committee. But then he realized with a droop of his lips that probably there would not be one. These Americans were so obsessed with secrecy, they probably hadn't informed the rulers in Hanoi that a Master of Sinanju was secretly being deposited upon their very shore.
When the raft was a yard from shore, the sailors dug in their paddles and stopped it dead.
"Think you can jump the last couple of feet?"
Chiun turned on them haughtily. "Jump?"
"Yeah, we can't touch sand. Orders. "
"How about water?" asked Chiun, stubbing the raft with a toenail. The gray plastic burst. The raft began shipping water.
"Hey! What happened?" the second sailor demanded as water poured over his lap.
The Master of Sinanju stepped for shore and landed in a swirl of kimono skirts. He faced the disconcerted sailors, who were so afraid of being seen they sat hip-deep in Vietnamese water, their raft a flat plastic rug under them. He beamed.
"Do not worry," he told them. "So long as you remain seated thus, you will not touch sand and your superiors will not be displeased."
"Too late for that now. We gotta drag this thing onshore to patch it up."
"Inform your captain that I will signal him when I am ready to depart these shores," said Chiun, walking away.
"When will that be?" the first sailor asked as he got to his feet, dripping.
"Why, when I am finished, of course."
Although no Master of Sinanju had trafficked with the Vietnamese in centuries, Chiun was welcomed in the first village he happened upon. The welcome was abject. Chiun had to dismember only two political officers in front of the simple peasants before they fell on their knees and bumped their heads in the dirt in the traditional full bow reserved for emperors and other high dignitaries.
The village elder, who was nearly Chiun's age, invited the Master of Sinanju to sup with them. And Chiun accepted a bowl of boiled rice laced with fish heads. He smiled in gratitude, but when no one was looking, he plucked the fish heads out and placed them under a stone. Only the Vietnamese would eat the worst part of the fish. Probably swallowed the eyes too.
When the simple meal was concluded, Chiun explained why he was here.
"I seek a white man. His name is unimportant, for what matter the names of whites?"
And the village elder's eyes crinkled in agreement. He, too, had no use for whites, and said so.
Having come to an understanding, Chiun asked if there was gossip of a white American having returned to Vietnam.
The village elder pretended to ponder Chiun's request, and made a show of searching his memory. But Chiun could tell by the gleam in his eyes that he had the answer at once. But the night was young and why speed through gossip when, with some thoughtful pauses, socializing could be stretched far, and more rice wine could be consumed?
Chiun waved the proffered cup of rice wine aside, pretending that he was not thirsty.
At length the elder, whose name was Ngo, spoke. "There are stories of a white American causing havoc along the Kampuchean border. No one can catch this American. They seek and seek him. But he is not to be found. No one knows his purpose here. Some say openly that it is a prelude to the return of the American military. "
"You believe this?"
"No. The Americans are long gone. Although I would not be displeased at their return. Things are not good under the Communists."
"European ideas are always backward," said Chiun. And Ngo nodded sagely. It was good when two wise men came together like this, he thought, even though one of them was a mere Korean.
After more talk, Chiun declined the further hospitality of the village. He left Ngo at the edge of the village, saying, "I hope you will not be troubled by the dismembering of the soldiers of your village."
"They sneak food and try to take advantage of the women. They will not be missed by us, and tomorrow there will be two more just like them, wearing the same clothes and spouting the same revolutionary nonsense. "
"Perhaps when the Communists die off, three or four centuries hence," said Chiun, "one of your descendants may call upon one of mine for service. The era of the Ammamese kings ended young and with its true glory unfulfilled. "
"I will pass your wish along to my grandson, and he to his," promised Ngo.
And Chiun took his leave of the village, content that he had planted the seeds for future employment in a market long disowned by his recent ancestors. Perhaps, he thought, some good might come of Remo's disobedience after all.
Chapter 16
Night fell with the guillotine suddenness of Vietnam.
Remo had left the main road. He jockeyed the tank over a low hill and onto a cratered road going north. From what Lan had told him, they were working up the Vietnamese-Cambodian border. Remo still had no idea where he was or what he should be doing. They had found a manioc field at midday, and cooked the sweet-potato-like vegetables in a Vietnamese pith helmet, but even a full stomach hadn't cleared Remo's mind.
The area was alive with patrols. But most of them ignored the tank, thinking it occupied by Vietnamese. Once, they were sniped at by peasants in black pajamas, who had only pistols and bolt-action rifles. They looked like VC, but Lan had explained that they were Cambodian peasants who fought the Vietnamese.
The whole world had been turned upside down. And Remo didn't know where in it he belonged anymore. Lan was driving the tank. Remo was nerve-tired, and took the time to show her how to operate the clanking machine. He curled up in the back and tried to sleep. Lan's whispered call snapped him awake.
"What?" Remo mumbled. His head felt drowsy.
"Strange man in middle of road. What I do?"
"Soldier?"
"No. Old man."
"Go around him."
"Cannot. Him block whole road."
"The entire road?" Remo repeated incredulously. "Who is he-old King Kong?"
"I try to turn. He step in way. I go other way. He always there."