"This man belongs in a hospital," he said softly. "Both shoulders are separated. The major muscles in the right thigh are actually ripped. The pain must be excruciating. Frankly, Doctor, I think you overstepped yourself by removing him from the scene of the accident. He should have been carried by ambulance from the wreck."
Smith nodded as if he agreed with the lecture. "Patch him up as best you can until I convince him to get to the hospital, please."
The doctor nodded.
Despite Remo's total lack of enthusiasm, he bandaged Remo's shoulders, restricting his arm movements even further, but guaranteeing that the separated muscles would have time to knit before being abused. He also bandaged Remo's right thigh heavily. His last act was to reach into his bag and withdraw a hypodermic syringe.
"I'm going to give you something for the pain," he said.
Remo shook his head. "No, you're not."
"But the pain must be terrible. This will just help to relieve it."
"No needles," said Remo. "Smitty, remember that hamburger that put me in the hospital? No needles. No drugs in the system."
Smith looked at the doctor and shook his head. "He'll deal with the pain, doctor. No injections."
Smith escorted the doctor to the door and outside on the walkway thanked him for his assistance.
"Don't mention it," said the doctor, who had not come willingly, but only because his hospital director had told him if he did not go on this case he might find someday that he had trouble in obtaining his specialty licenses. The medical director of the hospital had said this because he had been advised that it would be beneficial in the ongoing review of his income tax returns to make sure that a doctor was available for a motel call, in exactly three minutes.
When Smith reentered the room, Remo was sitting up on the bed.
"Okay, Smitty, where is it?"
"Where is what?"
"My submarine."
"One thing at a time."
"Anybody who can get a doctor to make a house call won't have any trouble getting a submarine to sneak me into North Korea."
And with that, Remo closed his eyes and lay back to rest.
He would soon be on his way to Sinanju; he had done all he could; the next thing was to warn Chiun about the danger from Nuihc. It was only as he drifted into sleep that he allowed himself to remember that it was Remo himself who had drawn the first three blows from Nuihc's kamikazes, and the next blow, under the ages-old tradition of Sinanju, would mean Remo's death.
And after Remo, Chiun.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Captain Lee Enright Leahy of the U.S. Submarine Darter thought it was all very funny. Sneaking into enemy waters, putting ashore a man old enough to be Confucius, sneaking away, and what kind of a man was the old Oriental? A man who wanted to watch soap operas and was annoyed that Navy submarines did not have TV reception facilities for As the Planet Revolves.
Captain Leahy thought this all very funny, so funny in fact that he was in the process of telling it to his fellow drinkers at the officers' club bar at Mindanao, where the Navy maintained a small base to refuel submarines.
But he had not gotten quite to the good part, the part about the soap operas, when he was tapped on the shoulder by a chief petty officer,
"Cap'n, sir."
"What is it?" Leahy said, his voice surly at being interrupted.
"Phone call, sir."
"Tell them I'll be there in a minute."
"It's Washington, sir."
The CPO's voice was insistent.
The moment was gone; the officers who had been listening with rapt attention were now turning back toward each other, picking up the threads of their own conversations. Damn, thought Leahy. Aloud he said, "probably another ferry run for another old gook who likes soap operas," but the comment did not get the rise he had hoped for and Captain Leahy went to the phone.
There he was told by an official in the Navy Department that he would be presented with a passenger who would have sealed orders. Leahy would follow the orders. He would not mention this to anyone as the orders were top secret and so was the mission.
And he was directed to return to his ship immediately to await the arrival of the passenger.
Annoyed, without even time to finish his drink, Captain Leahy, jaw set, marched out of the officers' club and walked the hundred yards to the pier where the Darter had been refueled and made ready for another voyage. The long oil and supply hoses that were used to revitalize the sub's innards had been dropped from the feeder holes as the sub lay tied up at dock-side. Refueling, resupply was over.
Captain Leahy clambered up the gangway to the deck of the sub where he was met by his executive officer.
"We've taken aboard a passenger," the exec said.
Leahy shook his head. "Another Charley Chan?" he asked.
"No, sir, this one's an American. Young. Or I think he's young. He seems to be injured. He walks with a cane. I've put him in my quarters, sir."
"All right, Lieutenant. I'd better go see what nitty-witty the U.S. Government is up to tonight."
Captain Leahy went down the forward hatch and knocked on the door of the passenger's compartment.
"Yeah?"
"The captain."
"What do you want?"
"I'm coming in to talk to you."
"If you want to."
When Leahy opened the door, the new passenger was lying on the built-in bunk, wearing jockey shorts. Both shoulders were heavily bandaged, his right thigh was wrapped around with bandages. A cane leaned against the small built-in writing desk. The passenger's clothes were strewn on the floor.
"Don't tell me," Leahy said. "We're taking you to the Rusk Institute for Physical Rehabilitation." He smiled at his own joke. He was the only one who did.
"No, actually you're taking me to Sinanju." The passenger nodded his head toward the desk. "It's all in those orders over there."
Leahy opened the sealed envelope marked "top secret." The orders were identical to those he had received for the old Oriental.