Remo allowed the man a sip of air. It went whistling in past his larynx and came out a strangled grunt.
"I'll take that as a glimmer of understanding," said Remo. "Now, we don't have a lot of time. Take us to the entrance gate, and we'll leave you to your miserable existence."
Navy Captain Bob Brown went pale. His eyes seemed to retreat into his head. Remo encouraged him with a squeeze, then released him.
The captain got the jeep going. It went racing past a crushed-coral golf course dotted with wilting mango trees, toward a line of guard towers manned by sharpshooters. Beyond were purple mountains and scooting fluffy clouds.
Moments later, the jeep pulled up at the inner-perimeter fence. There were triangular red signs that warned:
DANGER/PELIGRO MINES/MINAS
"I take it this is the famous minefield," Remo said.
"Yes, sir."
"Don't 'sir' me. I'm a civilian." Remo spied a long thin dirt path through the field. Hurricane fences paralleled it.
"That the way out?" he asked.
"They've threatened to shoot anyone who sets foot on it," Captain Brown offered.
"They say anything about walking through the minefield?"
"No. But that's certain death."
"Only if you step on a mine," said Remo. He turned in his seat and said, "Coming, Little Father?"
The Master of Sinanju stepped from the vehicle. His face was tight.
"I do not like this assignment."
"You've been saying that all through the plane ride. Give it a rest."
Captain Brown looked interested. "You guys here to smoke Castro by any chance?"
"Hear hear," Chiun said.
"He wishes," Remo grumbled. "But orders are different this time out. We gotta protect him."
"From who?"
"Believe me, you'll sleep better if you don't know."
They started toward the minefield.
The captain called after them, "Hey, good luck! This base may have its down side, but there's no drugs, no guns, no juvenile delinquency, and no crime. I'd hate to be evaced to the States. It's not safe up there."
Chiun frowned. "I do not understand this lunacy." "What lunacy?" asked Remo, as they approached the minefield fence. "The lunacy of being sent to protect Castro, or the lunacy of the skipper back there?"
"Both lunacies. If this bearded tyrant rules this island, why does he suffer the presence of his enemies? And if he is so weak as to allow this, why does Emperor Smith not simply have us dispatch him?"
"Politics are complicated."
"But death is the great toppler of dynasties."
They went to a gate in the minefield fence, and Remo sheared the padlock off with a sweep of his hand. He threw open the gate.
"Ready?" Remo asked.
Chiun nodded.
They walked into the minefield.
It was not as dangerous as it looked. For mines to be planted, soil has to be removed and repacked. No one who digs a hole and puts something in it ever gets all the soil back into the hole. That was certainly the case here. Rains had tamped down the loose soil around the mines. This wasn't noticeable to the naked eye, but as Remo and Chiun's feet inched through the minefield, their toes could feel the slight sponginess of the softer earth. Each time they encountered a spot of less resistance, they stepped around it.
By meandering through the hard-packed ground surrounding the mines, they reached the outer fence. It hummed. Electrified.
This presented a problem. Until Remo, using a spade-shaped hand, excavated a buried mine. He blew crumbs of moist soil off the top and placed it in a small depression the Master of Sinanju had cleared under the fence edge.
Then they retreated to a safe distance and threw a rock.
It struck the plunger. The mine made a surprisingly muffled boomlet . . . and there was a hole in the fence, like a torn sheet of paper.
They slipped through this hole easily.
Then the snipers of the Frontier Brigade, who had been watching in wide-eyed fascination, began to open fire.
It was lucky they did so. The first bullets missed Remo and Chiun completely. But they triggered mines placed on the other side of the perimeter fence.
"That idiot never said anything about another minefield!" Remo burst out.
"Perhaps these are Cuban mines," said Chiun.
A mine erupted a few yards in front of them, showering them with clods of dirt.
"Great," muttered Remo. "We're sitting ducks."
"Not if we keep our wits about us," said Chiun, bending down to scoop out a long-buried mine. It was gray, and shaped like a soup can with antennae.
He threw it. The mine, tumbling, sailed toward a royal palm tree, where a lone sniper was perched.
It landed, plungers down, in the swaying fronds. The top of the palm jumped apart. Palm fronds, rifle fragments, and assorted human limbs and organs showered down. The stone-gray bole now sported arty red stripes.
"Good thinking," said Remo.
Together, they excavated mines and tossed them at muzzle flashes. Before long, they had decapitated every palm in sight and cleared a lot of brush.