Warren Murphy: Walking Wounded

"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?"

"I'm sorry. That would destroy our cover story."

"Then be certain they leave my name out of it entirely," Chiun said bitterly. And he left the room in a huff.

"What about the treaty?" Remo asked after Chiun had gone.

"I spoke with the President about that too. Worthless, I'm afraid," he said, digging the papers from his suit pocket. Remo took them.

"Even when we win, they don't let us win, do they?" he said.

Smith cleared his throat. "I thought you'd want to know that Youngblood has been interred in Arlington National Cemetery with full military honors."

"He deserved better. He deserved to live."

"Try to put it out of your mind."

"I wish you had told me about the service. I would have gone."

"And I would not have let you," Smith said, pausing at the door.

"I feel like I should do something more."

"Security comes first."

The door closed on Remo's muttered curse.

At the Vietnam Veterans' Memorial in Washington, D. C. , the custodian was clearing the grounds of the day's litter. There was surprisingly little, considering how many people passed before the twin black-granite walls each day. It made the custodian's job that much easier, but more important, it made him feel good that Americans once again respected their war dead.

As he made a last sweep of the area, he noticed a man crouched before one of the two 250-foot-long angled slabs on which the names of the over fifty-eight thousand U. S. servicemen killed in Vietnam were carved.

The man's fingers touched the highly reflective surface the way he had seen many do when they came to a familiar name.

Quietly the custodian withdrew. The man was probably looking at the name of an old war buddy or relative and deserved to be left in peace.

A little while later, the custodian noticed the man leaving. Despite the bitterness of the Washington winter, he didn't seem cold in his black T-shirt. The custodian nodded in greeting as he passed, and the man nodded back. He had the deadest eyes the custodian had ever seen. Those eyes made him shiver in a way the stark memorial never had. The guy was probably a vet himself. He had that look. What did they call it? Oh, yeah. The thousand-yard stare.