Warren Murphy - Walking Wounded

"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.

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."