It would have been a beautiful stretch of white beach but it swarmed with soldiers in fatigues and a ranked mass of T-72 tanks and a few of the older T-64's. They were lined up at the shore, tread-to-tread, their smoothbore cannon all pointing in the same direction. Inland. Toward the shore end of the road.
In one way, the assembled might of the Vietnamese Army was beautiful in the defense minister's eyes as he stepped from the settling gunship and marched under the watchful eyes of the tank commanders, his holstered sidearm slapping his thigh.
General Trang snapped a salute in greeting.
"They are less than a kilometer away," the defense minister told him.
"They have no chance, as you can see."
"They have cut a scar down half the countryside already. Do not underestimate them-especially when they are close to their objective."
"And what objective is that? I see no rescue craft."
"Our patrol boats report sonar soundings in the bay. Very large sonar soundings."
General Trang's face grew grim. "A submarine?"
"I have ordered depth charges dropped on it," said the defense minister, climbing atop a tank for a better view of the harbor.
"Dare we risk it?"
The defense minister looked down at him coldly. "We have won the military war with the Americans," he said. "But we have lost the economic war. Our industrial base is a shambles. Our money is worthless. We have no potable water anymore. We have enemies on all borders and our supposed friends the Russians, who are like the Americans except they have no money to spend, are leeching us dry. One day soon, we may have to fight them too."
"None of what you say is new to me, comrade."
"But obviously you have not applied your brain to the political situation. Let me do that for you. Our only hope lies with our former enemies, the Americans. Only their friendship and economic assistance can save Vietnam. We must have their goodwill, even if we have to achieve it by force."
"I understand. We can never get it if the American prisoners escape on their own."
"It is too late even to return them under a pretext," the defense minister said. "Thanks to that bungler Captain Dai. The Americans must all perish. Here, on this beach. By sundown."
The defense minister abruptly stopped speaking. Rumbling detonations came from out in the bay.
"But the American submarine, which has violated our territorial waters, may be the card that achieves our objective," he said. More detonations followed. Then, like a whale coming up for air, the submarine surfaced. Its conning tower broke the surface of the bay, throwing up spray. It settled.
"We have them!" General Trang said excitedly when the American-flag emblem on the conning tower became visible.
"And we will offer them back to America-in return for certain voluntary economic concessions," said the defense minister. "Once the POW problem is totally resolved. "
"I can send my tanks forward, crushing everything in their path," General Trang suggested eagerly.
"No," said the defense minister, dropping to the sand. "Let the tank come. When they see we have their submarine, they will know they have no hope of escaping our shores. We will offer surrender terms. They will accept. And we will eliminate them."
"Stop here," ordered the Master of Sinanju.
Remo braked the tank. "Everyone sit tight," he called out. "I'm going to see what we're up against."
Remo shimied up a banana tree. From his perch he saw it all, the tanks, the grounded gunships waiting to lift off, and out in the blue waters of the Gulf of Thailand, a U.S. submarine-dead in the water and surrounded by the red-flagged patrol boats.
When his feet touched the ground, Remo's face was ashen. Everybody saw it.
"They've captured the sub," Remo said simply.
The prisoners groaned in a single voice. Some wept. A few threw down their weapons in frustration. Youngblood stamped his feet like an overgrown child. "Damn!" he said bitterly.
"You no longer have an objective, never mind a plan," Chiun told Remo coolly. "What will you do now, soldier boy?"
"Win," said Remo.
"How?" asked Youngblood. The others echoed him. Remo turned to Chiun. "I'll bet you can handle those patrol boats."
The Master of Sinanju looked at Remo pointedly. "And what makes you think a frail old man such as myself could manage that daunting task?"
"I've seen you in action before. Can you?" Chiun bowed.
"Of course-for a modest price." Remo's face clouded.
"What?" he said tightly.
"It is no great thing. I only wish your help in transporting my elephant to America."
Relief washed over Remo's face. "You got it," he said.
Remo faced the others. "While he's doing that, we have to get past the beach. They have tanks and helicopters, but we've beaten them before. Are you with me?"
"Hell, yes!" they shouted.
"Then let's do it!" Remo said. "Anytime you're ready, Chiun."
But Chiun was already gone.
The Master of Sinanju took the direct approach. With scores of tank cannon and rifle muzzles converging at the end of the road, he did the unexpected. He simply walked out of the jungle.
The Vietnamese were expecting Americans. They expected a powerless tank. They did not expect a venerable Asian man in a ridiculous kimono striding calmly toward their lines. His hands were empty, so they did not fire.
The defense minister stepped up to the old Asian. Insultingly, the old Asian walked right past him. At the defense minister's order, soldiers reached out to arrest him. They fell on their faces, their hands clutching beach sand.
The old Asian walked past the tanks and into the surf. He continued walking until his head disappeared under the waves.
While all eyes watched the venerable old man vanish so mysteriously, gunfire erupted from inland.
The defense minister dived for cover. He ordered the general to return fire. The general ordered return fire from behind a tank.
The smooth-bore cannon started shelling. The noise was deafening. Trees crashed. Dust geysered upward. The defense minister shouted for the gunships to take off, but he couldn't be heard. The gunships began collecting bullet holes from the sporadic fire of the unseen Americans.
Finally one did lift off of its own accord, the pilot frightened into action. The helicopter started to swarm away from the beach and out to sea, but it never reached the water. A storm of rounds stitched its cockpit and riddled the weapons pod. An antitank rocket ignited. The helicopter turned into a shower of flame and hot, slicing metal.
Several tanks directly beneath the plummeting gunship were smothered in flaming fuel. Soldiers fled the tanks. The burning fuel raced along the sand. Desperately the other tanks surged ahead, trying to get clear. They smashed into one another, treads gnashing treads. One tank, running blind, actually climbed the superstructure of another and tipped over like an upended turtle. It fell on the screaming body of General Trang.
It was out of control. And all because of that old man who had seemingly committed suicide. The defense minister hunkered down behind the tank line, trying to figure out a way to make his men cease fire. Burning smoke seared his lungs. His eyes smarted. He plunged into the surf for relief, thinking that it was like Dien Bien Phu all over again. But in reverse.
Remo gave the cease-fire order.
"Tell them to conserve ammo," he told Youngblood. The word was passed down the line.
"Casualties our side?" Remo whispered.
The word came back through Youngblood. "None."
"Casualties their side?"
"Heavy," Youngblood told him amiably. "And gettin' heavier. Sounds like they're doing each other."
"Okay," Remo said. "I'm going to see how Chiun is doing. "
Remo went up a tree. The top had been sheared off by a shellburst. Most of the shells had landed further inland, where the T-54 had been left. The Vietnamese had set their range on it, as Remo had assumed. Miraculously, it had survived. He'd brought his men up close to the tree line much closer than the Vietnamese would have expected. It had worked. They avoided the cannon shells, their biggest worry.