"That means you're in charge of the Vietnamese military, doesn't it?"
"Yes. Now, drop that man. Quickly!"
Remo did as he was told. He placed Dick Youngblood's body on the sand with infinite care. He turned to face the man with the iron-gray hair.
"You speak English?" Remo asked.
"I participated in the Paris peace talks."
"Then you're just the man I want to talk to," Remo said, advancing grimly.
"I cannot allow you to live," cried the defense minister. And he opened up. Remo veered to one side, evading the bullet stream. The second burst was corrected for his new position, but he wasn't there either. The Kalashnikov ejected its last smoking cartridge. Remo let the fact that the weapon was empty sink into the man's astonished mind.
Then Remo took the rifle and reduced it to splinters and metal grit.
Remo jammed the defense minister of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam up against a decapitated tank. He rifled his pockets, finding a wallet. The wallet contained several folded sheets of paper.
"These will do," Remo said.
"What do you mean?" the defense minister sputtered.
"Can you write English as well as you speak it?"
"Perhaps. "
Remo scrounged through the man's pockets until he found a pen. He turned the man around and slapped the paper and pen onto the tank's flat superstructure. "Write," Remo ordered.
"What shall I write?"
"A surrender treaty. Unconditional surrender."
"I do not understand."
"You were part of the Paris talks. You signed a treaty there. This treaty will replace that one. The terms are simple. Unconditional surrender to the American forces. Me."
"Such a coerced document can mean nothing."
"Humor me," Remo said, forcing his finger into the small of the man's back, where it caused the lower vertebrae to grind together painfully. The defense minister gasped for breath. He began writing.
When he was done, he handed the scraps of paper to Remo with shaky hands. His eyes were stricken.
"It means nothing," he repeated.
"Wrong," Remo told him. "The first treaty meant nothing, because your people never intended to live up to it. But this one is different. It means my friend lying over there died for something. I don't call that nothing."
"Am I your prisoner?"
"I don't take prisoners," Remo told him. Then he released the man's vertebrae. The defense minister fell to the sand with his lungs expelling a final gusty breath.
Remo walked away from the body without a second glance and stood over the mortal remains of Dick Youngblood.
He looked at the papers in his hands and realized that he would have to make a choice. Dick's body or the papers. He couldn't swim with Dick's body in tow and still hold the treaty papers above the ruinous salt water.
Remo was about to drop the papers when the Master of Sinanju called out to him. Remo looked.
Chiun was returning to shore on the back of the elephant he called Rambo.
"The submarine is leaving now," Chiun told him emotionlessly. "Do you wish to come along?"
"Is there room for Dick on that thing's back?"
"He is dead."
"So?"
"So I do not understand. We can do nothing more for him. Why bring his remains back?"
"You'll never understand," Remo said levelly, hoisting Youngblood's body onto the elephant's back. "I'm a Marine, and we don't leave our dead behind."
Chapter 23
The morning sun sent splinters of light through the skylight of the Folcroft gymnasium as the Master of Sinanju finished screwing the drum magazine into the old Thompson submachine gun.
When the expected knock came at the door, Chiun squeaked pleasantly, "Who is it?"
"It's me. Remo."
"Come in, Remo," Chiun called, and when the door opened, he set himself. The machine gun stuttered like a typewriter hooked up to a quadraphonic sound system.
Remo saw the bullets spewing toward him and weaved out of the way. A line of splinters chewed up the pine floor at his heels.
"Chiun! What are you doing?" Remo called. The bullet track chased him hungrily.
Remo hit the wall moving. He zipped into a running vertical just as the wall started spitting out chunks of bullet-chipped brick. Remo got all the way across the ceiling, running upside down, when the drum ran empty.
He slammed into the wall, scrambled in midair, and started to fall. Somehow, his scuffling feet found traction. He ran down the wall and landed lightly on his feet.
His face was a mask of fury.
"What were you trying to do, kill me?" he accused.
"You ascend the dragon well for a man who has forgotten Sinanju," Chlun replied blandly.
"Oh," said Remo, looking back at the riddled ceiling. Dr. Harold W. Smith poked his ash-white face into the room.
"Is it safe now?" he asked of no one in particular.
"Come in, Smitty. I was just about to break the news to Chiun."
"What news?" Chiun demanded.
"Remo has his memory back," Smith told him.
"I have just proven that," Chiun said, dropping the tommy gun.
"It came back this morning," Remo said. He snapped his fingers. "Just like that." His face was open and guileless.
Chiun scowled at him. "So easily."
"Smith said it would probably be a temporary thing." Chiun stepped up to Remo and regarded his blank face inquisitively. "Are you certain you remember everything?"
"Everything," Remo affirmed.
"Good," said Chiun, taking him by the elbow. Remo howled in anguish, clutching his funny bone. As he bent double, Chiun grasped him by an earlobe. His long nails clenched. Remo screamed louder.
"This is for leaving without telling me," Chiun recited.
"Owww!"
"This is for shattering my inviolate word in front of my emperor."
Remo fell to his knees. "Yeowww. Please, Little Father. "
"And this is for calling me a gook."
"I didn't mean-"
"And as punishment, it will be your permanent responsibility to hose down my faithful elephant twice daily. But first you atone for your misdeeds by spending a week on Fortress Folcroft's roof, without food, your chest bare to the cruel elements-which are less cruel than you."
"Master of Sinanju," Smith said frantically, "I really don't think you should blame Remo for any of that."
"Not blame Remo!" Chiun squeaked. "And whom should I blame, if not Remo? Are you one of those Americans who insist it is the parents' fault when a child goes astray?"
"Not really," Smith said. "It's just that we cannot hold Remo responsible for his actions. He was having a flashback."
"Yes," Chiun said imperiously, letting Remo go. Remo rubbed his sore earlobe. "His backflash. The question is: did he backflash before he left these shores-or after?"
"I don't remember," Remo said quickly.
"I believe him," Smith said.
"Pauughh!" Chiun spat. "And I suppose you believe this convenient story that he simply woke up this morning with his memory back?"
"It's plausible."
"Besides," Remo said, "I did everyone a favor. The Vietnamese were trying to stick it to us. I stuck them back."
"I've been on the phone with the President," Smith said. "The POW's and the Amerasians have all been debriefed. Their story is that they were rescued by an elderly Vietnamese who led them to the American submarine. They don't know Remo, except by sight. And the POW's think he's another missing-in-action serviceman who happened to be transferred to the prisoner camp prior to the escape. The Amerasians know differently, of course, but they have agreed to leave Remo's early role out of this, and just as a precaution, never to appear on the The Copra Inisfree Show. It was fortunate that Remo entered Vietnam under another name. That's how it will go down in the history books."
Chiun spoke up. "A minor boon, Emperor. When they write those records, may I be properly known as a Korean, not a Vietnamese?"