"I'll scare him off," said Remo, grabbing his AK-47 and climbing up the turret. He popped the hatch and poked his head out.
The tank clattered to a halt.
The man couldn't have been much more than five feet tall. He was old, with a shiny head decorated with little puffs of hair over each ear. He wore a gaudy skirted outfit that Remo had never seen on a Vietnamese before. Lan poked her head up beside Remo's.
"Is he a priest or something?" Remo asked quietly.
"Not know. Never see one like him."
"Tell him to get out of the way."
"Step aside, old man," Lan called in Vietnamese. The old Oriental rattled back words in sharp Vietnamese.
"What'd he say?" Remo asked.
"He want to know if we've seen an American." Remo pulled his helmet lower over his head.
"Ask him why."
"Why you seek an American?" Lan asked.
The old man squeaked back and Lan translated. "He say that his business, not ours."
"Tell him to get out of the way, or be run over," Remo said, disappearing below. He got behind the handlebarlike lateral controls and started the tank up. He inched it forward.
The old man stepped toward him. Remo shifted the tank right. The old Oriental shifted in tandem. "What's his problem?" Remo muttered.
Lan called down, "He says he wants a ride. He's tired of walking."
"Tell him to screw off."
"Tell him to what?"
"Never mind," Remo sighed, grabbing up his rifle. "There's only one way to convince him we mean business. "
Remo popped the driver's hatch and stepped to the front of the tank. The old Oriental stood, arms tucked in voluminous sleeves, directly in front and beneath him.
Remo pointed the rifle at his stern, wrinkled face. "Get lost," he said.
The Oriental's face suddenly lost its impassive demeanor.
"You," he shouted in squeaky, angry English. "Liar! Deceiver! You would do this to your own father? How could you leave me after I gave my word to your emperor?"
Surprised, Remo lowered his rifle.
"Who's he talking to, you or me?" he asked Lan.
"Not know."
"I think it's you. He says he's your father. "
"I would not have that . . . that white Vietnamese for an offspring," the old Oriental snapped. "You are quite bad enough. Have you taken leave of your senses? Look at you. That weapon. And a uniform? Really!"
"I think he talk to you," Lan said. "He look at you."
"You know me?" Remo asked.
"Has grief aged me so much that you do not recognize your own father, Remo?"
"Hey! How do you know my name?"
"Smith is greatly displeased. He has sent me to punish you for your vileness."
Remo snapped the AK-47 level.
"I don't know any Smith. And whatever gook trick you're trying to pull, pal, it won't work. Now get out of the way."
"You will need more than that clumsy boom stick to protect you from my wrath, insolent one." And the old man lunged at Remo.
Remo tried to duck out of the way. He didn't want to shoot the crazy old man. But he quickly regretted his hesitation.
The rifle was snapped from his hands and sent flying. Remo put up his fists. A steel-hard finger stabbed him in the stomach and he doubled over and rolled off the tank.
The pain was worse than anything he had ever felt. Remo was certain the old gook had slipped a knife into his gut. It hurt like hell.
The Master of Sinanju watched his pupil writhe on the ground. Remo did not curse him or complain as he usually did. In truth, he looked in fear of his life. Chiun frowned.
Then Remo, trying to crawl away, encountered his rifle. He snapped it around and pointed it at Chiun. And in Remo's eyes there was hatred mixed with fear. He fired.
Chiun sidestepped the first bullet. "Remo!"
"Die!" Remo said, firing again. This time he was on automatic and the Master of Sinanju had to leap up and over him. He landed behind Remo.
Remo was looking around frantically.
"Lan!" Remo cried desperately. "Where'd he go?"
"Behind you," the girl cried, pointing.
Remo spun around. He opened up again, and then the Master of Sinanju realized what it must be. Of course. It was Remo's turn. Very well, he thought to himself, two may play games.
The Master of Sinanju moved like an eel, flashing to the right of the bullet track and then cutting across it so swiftly that he passed between two bullets. It was too easy. The rifle was filled with tracer bullets, making the bullet stream look like green fireflies spitting toward him.
The rifle ran empty. "Shit!" Remo swore.
"Are you quite through?" Chiun demanded, walking up to Remo. Remo fought to get to his feet. He clutched his stomach with one hand and tried to swipe at Chiun with the other. He grabbed the rifle by the stock. The blow was weak, the form ridiculous. Chiun snatched the rifle.
"Now it is my turn," he told Remo. He called up to Lan. You, girl. I will need more bullets. Throw them to me."
"Are you crazy, you old buzzard?" Remo demanded. "She's with me."
"Buzzard!" Chiun's cheeks puffed out in rage. "How dare you speak to your father so?"
"Father! You are crazy. I never saw you before." Chiun stopped. His beard trembled. His clear hazel eyes narrowed.
"You deny me?"
"Call it what you want."
"Never before has a pupil denied his Master."
"His what?"
It was then Chiun understood. It was instantly clear to him.
"I am Chiun, Master of Sinanju," he said formally.
"Never heard of you or it."
"And who is this girl?" Chiun asked.
"A friend of mine."
"Your taste in females is as desolate as ever."
"Up yours."
"I will ignore that," Chiun told him evenly.
"Ignore what you want, Uncle Ho. Just get out of the way. I have places to go."
"How can you go to those places if you do not know where they are?"
"What makes you say that?"
"Because if you knew where you were going, you would be there by now."
"What do you know about where I'm going?"
"I know because I know where you have been." Remo climbed back into the tank. Lan came to help him when she saw he was having trouble moving. He was breathing raggedly.
"Do you not want your boom stick, O warrior?" Chiun asked him.
"Keep it, Ho. I have more just like it."
The Master of Sinanju took the rifle by muzzle and stock and brought his hands together. The rifle splintered its entire length. Even the metal splintered.
Remo turned at the shrill, tormented sound. His eyes widened at the sight of the old Oriental wiping his hands clean. The ruins of the Kalashnikov settled at his feet, barely recognizable.
"How'd you do that?"
"With ease," said Chiun, beaming. "It is called Sinanju."
"Is it like karate?" Remo asked.
"It is far superior. With Sinanju, I could reduce your tank machine to powder."
"No shit," Remo said skeptically.
"Indeed," Chiun replied haughtily. "I could teach you, perhaps?"
"Don't need it," Remo said, letting Lan help him into the driver's bucket. "I've got a right hook that can fell a tree." Why did he keep talking to the crazy old man?
"I could use a ride, for I am old and my feet tired."
"I'm sure there'll be a bus later on," Remo said. He reached up to pull the hatch closed after him. Something made him hesitate. He looked at the old Oriental who looked like Ho Chi Minh in drag. He didn't look familiar. But something kept him talking, something instinctive and familiar.
"You are cruel. I was wrong about you. You are not my son. My son would not leave me alone in the jungle to be eaten by tigers."
"I'm glad we have that settled," Remo said, clanging the hatch shut. He had gotten the last word. Somehow. that made him feel good. But when he painfully inserted himself in the driver's seat and started the tank, he felt a vague, elusive sadness-as if he were leaving something behind. Something important.