"We're not in the habit of letting everyone be privy to the broader picture, Captain."
"Is anyone privy to the broader picture?"
"Well, frankly, Captain, I don't know either. This one's so supersecret I'm not even totally sure it's CIA. Do you want me to put down an absolute 'no' on the, surfacing for television shows?"
"Like slightly," said Captain Leahy.
"You're refusing the mission if you have to surface for the shows?"
"I am refusing."
"Can't say as I blame you. Let me see if we can get the shows bumped."
By sailing time, the admiral was beaming triumph. "I went to the wire and we won," he said. He was wearing civilian clothes and standing on the conning tower of the Darter. "You're down to three steamer trunks in the rubber rafts."
"You ever try to paddle a steamer trunk in a rubber raft in the West Korea Bay in November?"
"You don't have to succeed," said the admiral with a broad wink. "All you've got to do is try. Good luck, Lee."
"Thank you, sir," said Captain Leahy. Now he remembered the admiral's wink as he passed the steamer trunks lashed to the bulkhead and knocked on the door of the passenger's compartment.
"It's Captain Leahy."
"Yes," came the squeaky voice.
"I want you to know we're entering the Yellow Sea," said Captain Leahy.
"Then you are not lost. Is that what you are telling me?"
"Well, not exactly. I wanted to talk to you about debarkation."
"Are we at Sinanju?"
"No. The Yellow Sea. I told you."
"Then there is no need to discuss whatever-it-is-you-said."
"Well, your trunks are sort of heavy and I'm not sure the SEALS can paddle them in."
"Oh, how typical white," came the voice from inside the compartment. "You have the only ships that cannot carry things."
"We could carry in a whole city if we had to, but not into old Kim Il Sung's North Korea. The premier is not one of our most ardent admirers."
"Why should he be when you are such a defiler of the arts? Do not deny it. It was you who refused to give an old man the simple pleasure of a daytime drama."
"Sir, we might all have gotten ourselves blown out of the water if we surfaced to pick up those television shows. I refused for your own good. Would you want to be captured by the Chinese?"
"Captured?"
"Yes. You know, taken prisoner. Thrown in a dungeon."
"The hands that can do that have yet to be put on human wrists. Away, you imitation sailor."
"Sir, sir…" But there was no answer and the passenger did not come up on deck or respond to knocks until the USS Darter finally surfaced off the coast of Sinanju. All the men were bundled in cold weather gear, their eyes peering out of cold weather masks; the decks were icy and the wind was tossing ice spears at their backs.
"Here he is," said one of the sailors, and the deck crew stared in disbelief, for a frail old man, barely tall enough to see over the bridge, climbed down to the deck in only a dark gray kimono whipped by the China winds, his wisps of beard fluttering, his head uncovered, his hands in repose beneath the kimono.
"Sir, sir," shouted the captain. "The SEALS can't get your trunks into the rubber raft. They won't fit and even if they did, in this sea, you'd capsize."
"Do you think the Master of Sinanju would entrust his treasures to an imitation sailor, working for an imitation Navy? Bring the trunks to the deck and lash them together, end to end like a train. You have seen trains, have you not?"
And thus it was done upon the boat of the white men with the round eyes, and the three trunks of the Master of Sinanju that would float were bound together. For the Master had rightly thought to bring only those trunks that could sustain themselves, knowing this in all clarity: A sailor who cannot haul simple baggage for something as precious as a drama of beauty and truth is a sailor to whom one could not entrust the wealth of a village.
And wrapped in skins and clothes of nylon, their tender faces covered from the home winds that were strange to them, the white sailors lowered the trunks that had been carved and welded by Park Yee, the carpenter, the trunks which had lasted in the new land discovered by the grandfather of Chiun in the year of the dog—the year before the good czar sold the bridge of the North Peninsula called Alaska to the same Americans that Yui, the grandfather of Chiun, had discovered.
And the trunks in the home sea floated behind the flimsy yellow boats of the white men. Now, know it that all the white men were not white in color. Some were black and some were brown and some even yellow. Yet their minds had been destroyed by whiteness so that their souls were white.
Chiun, the Master of Sinanju, himself rode the last boat near the trunks, which were tribute for his people. And lo, upon the darkened shore, he saw standing a beautiful young maiden, upon the rocks above the large cove. But alas, she was alone.
"Ever see such a pig?" asked a bosun's mate, nodding toward the fat-faced Korean woman squatting on the ugly outcropping of rock.
"Yeah. In a zoo," said the other paddler.
"At least she wears heavy clothes. The old gook must have antifreeze for blood. This wind'd numb a yak."
The radio on the raft crackled with a message from the sub, surfaced six hundred yards offshore. A column of lights was approaching from Sinanju. Heavy vehicles. Possibly tanks.
The squad leader of the SEALS informed his passenger of approaching trouble. "You can return to the sub with us. But we have to go now. Right now."
"I am home," Chiun said to the young man.
"That means you're staying?"
"I will not flee."
"Okay, fella. It's your ass."
Chiun smiled and watched the frightened men scramble back into their rafts and paddle back toward the ship that bobbed on the waters of the bay. The girl climbed down from the rocks, approached, and bowed deeply. Her words were like music to Chiun, the words of his childhood and of games in which he had learned the secrets of the body and mind and of the forces of the universe. The language of home was sweet.
"Hail, Master of Sinanju, who sustains the village and keeps the code faithfully, leader of the House of Sinanju. Our hearts cry a thousand greetings of love and adoration. Joyous are we upon the return of him who throttles the universe."
"Graciously throttles the universe," corrected Chiun.
"Graciously throttles the universe," repeated the girl, who had been practicing all week and had worried only about "adoration," because that was the word she had forgotten most. "Graciously throttles the universe."
"Why are you alone, child?"