Out in the gulf, Remo saw three patrol boats circling the wallowing submarine. He grinned tightly. Before, there had been four boats. As he watched, one slipped under the water, stern-first. It went down as if pulled by unseen fingers. Remo spied the colorful figure of Chiun swimming from the vortex of the sinking boat to the next-nearest craft.
As Remo watched, the Master of Sinanju pressed up against the stern of that boat. He could be seen jabbing his fingers into the hull below the waterline. Remo could almost imagine the punch-press sound of his fingers piercing the hull.
The third patrol boat disappeared with all hands. Remo dropped to the ground.
"Okay, the sub will be in the clear by the time we hit the beach."
"How are we gonna do that?" an American demanded. "We're still outnumbered."
"The same way Chiun did. March right down to the water and swim for it."
"But they'll zap us for sure."
"Our tank made it. I'll use it to create a diversion. They'll open up on me. While I keep them busy, everyone slips into the water at the far end. They're so confused down there, it should be a piece of cake."
"Good plan," Youngblood said. "Except for one thing." Remo looked at him.
"I'm drivin' the tank."
"Nothing doing," Remo said. "It's too dangerous."
"I sure ain't walkin' down. I'm too old. Can't outrun the bullets like I usta."
"I'm with the sarge," Boyette piped up. "After all he's done for us, he deserves a free ride."
"Shit, I ain't lookin' for no free ride," Youngblood protested. "I just know I'm the man for the job, is all." He looked at Remo intently. "Unless someone thinks he knows a better man than me."
"Not me," said Remo, shaking his head.
"They're gonna need you to save their raggedy butts," Youngblood whispered to Remo. "I carried 'em this far. I'm countin' on you gettin' them home."
"We're all goin' home," Remo shot back.
"I hear you," said Youngblood. And without another word he charged back to the tank. Its rumbling engine started up immediately.
The old T-54 rolled past them and Dick Youngblood shot them a lazy wave of the hand before he buttoned up the driver's hatch and sent the grinding machine sliding down to the beach.
"There goes a man," a voice said. "Amen. "
"Save the prayers for church," Remo barked, his eyes anxious. "Dick won't be able to buy us much time. We go in twos. Starting-"
The gunfire started up again. The sounds of bullets ricocheting wildly off plate metal came to their ears. "Now!" Remo said, pushing the first two off.
He watched as they worked down the tree line; running parallel with the T-54. They reached the water unseen and unhurt.
"Next!" Remo yelled.
And so it went. The first three teams got to the water while the Vietnamese peppered the T-54 with machinegun fire. By then Youngblood's tank was cannon-to-cannon with a heavier T-72.
"What does he do?" someone asked. Remo noticed it was one of the Amerasians, Nguyen.
It became immediately apparent what Youngblood was up to. When the T-54 cannon barrel rammed the heavier smoothbore, the dummy bore began to splinter. The tanks kept lurching at each other.
But out of the driver's hatch, Dick Youngblood arose like a genie from a lamp. He leapt to the other tank and popped its turret hatch, raking the interior with his AK-47.
Then he disappeared inside.
"That hulking sonovabitch," Boyette said in awe. Youngblood, obviously in command of the T-72, sent the cannon swiveling toward the remaining line of tanks. He began firing. Shells coughed out explosively. The concussions hurt their ears.
"Now!" Remo yelled, jumping to his feet. "Everybody!" They raced for the beach. There was so much noise and smoke and confusion that even if they were seen, they were a minor factor compared with the rampaging T-72. Remo made sure everyone got into the water before he turned to see about Youngblood.
Youngblood's tank was indistinguishable from the others. It was like bumper cars played with military equipment. Tanks rammed one another blindly. Men ran in all directions. The Vietnamese military had reverted to its fundamental mind-set: every man for himself.
Remo was about to plunge in when one of the American POW's began calling for help. Remo turned. It was Colletta. Too weak to swim, he was going under.
Remo hesitated momentarily, but in the end he had no choice. He plunged in after Colletta.
Gripping the man's chin in the accepted rescue headlock, Remo swam for the sub. All around him, the others were paddling for their lives, their weapons left behind.
Chiun's head bobbed up to one side.
"Take this guy, will you?" Remo asked him. Seawater squirted from Chiun's mouth.
"Why?"
"I've got to go back. Youngblood's still on the beach." Chiun looked to shore. Each time a shell or tank exploded, a ball of fire climbed heavenward like a raging fist and a wave of heat struck their faces.
"If your friend is there, he is lost."
"Take him!" Remo spat.
Reluctantly the Master of Sinanju took charge of the semiconscious Colletta. Remo struck back for shore. By the time he stepped onto the open sand, the conflict had settled down. Broken, flaming tanks lay strewn everywhere. The one surviving gunship sat like a broken dragonfly, abandoned and shot to pieces. It had never gotten off the ground.
Remo ran from tank to tank, avoiding gasoline fires, and kicked hatches open in a vain effort to find his friend.
"Dick!" he called. "Dick! Damn!"
Remo found Dick Youngblood half in and half out of the driver's hatch of one T-72, his face pressed to the deck.
Remo turned him over. His face was gray and bloodless, his eyes open as if seeing everything and nothing at the same time.
Frantically Remo pulled Youngblood onto the deck. He slammed his doubled fists over the man's heart. "Come on, come on," he said, applying mouth-to-mouth. Dick's breath smelled like a pulled tooth.
Youngblood suddenly coughed. His eyes fluttered. His lips moved weakly.
"Give it up, man," he whispered. "I'm gone."
"No!" Remo shouted. "I came all this way for you. Breathe!"
"Hey, give it a rest." Youngblood's voice was gentle.
"Phong died for you, dammit," Remo said, shaking him. "Don't you understand? I left you behind the first time. I won't do it again. This can't all have been for nothing."
"It ain't, man. It ain't, 'cause I'm dying free." Then the breath went out of Youngblood's body in a slow, deflating rush.
"Dick . . ." Remo said, hugging the man tightly. "You waited so long. So damn long. Why did it have to be you? Why couldn't it have been one of the others?"
When the tears stopped, Remo pulled the body of his friend free. Dick Youngblood's massive body, for all its bulk, felt strangely light in his arms-as if the best part of him had deserted the physical shell.
With unseeing eyes, Remo walked toward the surf. He. was oblivious of the sight of his fellow Americans climbing into the submarine's deck hatches. He didn't notice the man with the iron-gray hair and military bearing crawl out from under a disabled tank, pick up a fallen Kalashnikov rifle from the sand, and point it at his back.
"You!" the man called in heavily accented English.
"Go away," Remo said dully. "It's over."
"I order you to surrender."
"Who are you to order me to do anything?" Remo asked stonily.
"I am the defense minister of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam."
Remo stopped suddenly. An odd light leapt into his eyes.