Warren Murphy: Terror Squad

Remo went into the pool. Not in a dive or a splashing jump, but instead, the way he had been taught, like the essence of gravity returning toward the center of the earth. Even a novice in the martial arts knew that collapsing was actually the fastest way of getting down. This was an extension of it. One moment, Remo was standing on the side of the pool, and the next, the lukewarm water surrounded him, above him, and around him, and him feet were on tile. To someone watching, it would appear as if the pool just sucked him in.

He waited, letting his eyes adjust to the stinging chlorinated water, letting him restricted use of oxygen adjust his body, letting the arms float while the mind concentrated the focus of the weight at his feet and legs to keep him steady underwater,

He was in a world of warm blue jade and he adjusted to become part of it, not fight it. When he had first learned moving through water, he had tried harder and harder, and succeeded less and less. The Master of Sinanju, Chiun, had said that when he stopped trying he would learn to move through water, and that it was Remo's arrogance that made him believe he could overpower it, instead of submitting to it.

"By submission, you conquer," Chiun had said, and then demonstrated.

The wisp of an aged Oriental had entered the water properly, leaving a trail of only three small bubbles following the descent of his body, as if a small rock had been placed gently, not dropped, into the water. Without seeming propulsion, the body suddenly was moving through the water much as Remo had seen a tiger shark do in a city aquarium back east. No flailing. No straining. Swish. Swish. Swish. And Chiun was at the other end of the pool and out of the water as though vacuumed out. It was the training of the House of Sinanju that made its masters appear not to push themselves but to be pulled.

Remo had tried. Failed. Tried again. Failed. Until one tired afternoon, following three failures in which he had moved no better than an ordinary swimmer, he felt the tuning of his body.

him body in conjunction with the water made the forward movement. It was too easy to believe. And then, trying it again, he found he could not do it again.

Chiun had leaned over the pool and taken Remo's hand. He pushed it against the water. Remo felt force. Then he pulled Remo's hand through the water. The hand moved swiftly, without effort. The water accepted the hand.

That was the key.

"Why didn't you show me this the first tune?" Remo had asked.

"Because you did not know what you did not know. You had to begin at ignorance."

"Little father," Remo had said, "you're as clear as scripture."

"But your testaments are not clear at all," Chiun had said. "And I am very clear. Unfortunately, a light to a blind man is always inadequate. You now know how. to move through water."

And Chiun was right. Remo never failed again. Now, as he un-weighted his feet, he understood the water, its very nature, and he too moved, not cutting through but blending the weight thrusts of his body with the mass of the water to pull himself forward. Swish. Swish. Swish. Up and out of the pool, then stroll back, leaving wet footprints on the yellow outdoor rag. It was not exercise, because exercise meant straining the body. This was practice.

Once more, down into the pool and off-swish, swish, swish. Then up and out and pad back to the beginning. On the third time, Remo glanced quickly back to the house. Competence had already brought him to the point of boredom. To hell with it. He slapped the water once at one end, dashed to the other and slapped It again.

"Perfect," came the Oriental voice. "Perfect. The first time you have achieved perfection. For a white man, that is."

It was only that evening when Chiun's television shows were over, and Remo continued to maintain a happy little secret smile, that Chiun looked quizzically at him pupil and said:

"That third moving through the water was false."

"What, little father?"

"False. You cheated."

"Would I do that?" asked Remo indignantly.

"Would the spring rice swallow the dew of the Yacca bird?"

"Would it? I don't know," Remo said. "I never heard of a Yacca bird."

"You know. You cheated. You are too happy for having paid the proper effort in this morning's training. But I say to you, whoever robs from his own efforts robs himself. And in our craft, the robber's price can well be death."

The telephone rang, interrupting the aged Oriental. Chiun, casting a baleful eye upon the ringing instrument, became quiet, as if unwilling to compete with a machine so insolent it would dare interrupt him. Remo picked up the receiver.

"This is Western Union," came the voice. "Your Aunt Alice is coming to visit you and wants you to prepare the guest room."

"Right," Remo said. "But what colour guest room?"

"Just the guest room."

"Are you sure?"

"That's what it says, sir," said the Western Union operator, with the smug arrogance of one observing another's discomfort.

"Just guest room. Not blue guest room or red guest room?"

"Correct, sir. I will read...."

Remo hung up on the Western Union operator, waited the few moments necessary for a dial tone, then dialled again, an 800 area-code number that he was ordered to call because the telegram did not mention the guest room's colour.

The phone barely rang once and was answered.

"Remo, we're in luck. We got them 2,000 feet over Utah. Remo, this is you, right?"

"Well, yes it is. It would help to have you verify before you start vomiting over an open line. What the hell is the matter with you, Smitty?" Remo, was shocked. Smith's external composure was usually perfect, almost Korean.

"We got a whole crew of them over Utah. They want ransom money. Federal agencies are negotiating now. The money delivery will be at Los Angeles Airport. See an FBI field representative, Peterson. He's a black man. You will be the negotiator. Jump the line to the top. This is the first lead we've had. Repeat for verify."

"See Peterson at Los Angeles Airport. Board the plane and try to find out who the leaders are of this whole thing. I assume this is an airline hijacking," Remo said drily.

"Beautiful. Get going now. You may not have time to lose."

Remo hung up.

"What is the matter?" asked Chiun.

"Dr. Harold Smith, our employer, has taken a mental leap off a cliff. I don't know what's the matter," said Remo, his face twisted in concern.

"You'll be working tonight, then?" Chiun said.

"Ummmm," said Remo,, signifying assent. "Gotta go now."

"Wait. I might go with you. It might be a nice evening."

"Barbra Streisand's on tonight, Chiun."

"This thing you do cannot be done tomorrow night?"

"No."

"Good luck. And remember when you are tempted to take risks, think of all the hours I have invested in you. Think of the nothing you were and the level to which I have raised you."

"I'm pretty good, huh, little father?" said Remo, regretting the comment as soon as he made it.

"For a white man," Chiun said happily.

"Your mother is a Wasoo," yelled Remo, dashing out 'the door. He was across the yard and into the garage before he realized the Master of Sinanju was not chasing him. He did not know what a Wasoo was, but Chiun had used the word once in a very rare moment of anger.

The Rolls Royce Silver Cloud was the car parked closest to the garage door. It didn't really matter which car Remo drove or even owned. He didn't own anything. He only used things. He didn't even own his face which, every so often, especially if anyone should accidentally get a photograph, was changed by plastic surgery. He owned nothing and had the use of practically anything he wanted. Like the Rolls Royce, he thought, backing up the Silver Cloud, its magnificently honed motor humming quietly, moving effortlessly, a paramount achievement in its field-like Remo, the Destroyer, a testimonial to manufacturing skills.