"The oil company, of course. The despoilers."
"That's not how it works. Oil companies are only responsible if they spill oil before they sell it. After that, it's not their problem."
"Then who do I sue?"
"Depends on who sunk the sub," said Remo, stepping out of his shoes. "If the North Koreans did, you can sue them. If it was an accident, you're out of luck."
"Why is that and why are you taking off your shoes?" Chiun demanded indignantly.
"If it was an accident, it was an act of God. You can't sue God."
"Then I will sue the Vatican," proclaimed Chiun.
"And I don't want oil on my shoes while I look for that sub."
Without another word, Remo moved off the ledge of rock.
His bare feet skidded briefly on the suck water, then he was moving forward. The water supported him. Not because it possessed any miraculously bouyant properties or because Remo was weightless, but because he was moving horizontally faster than the molecules of the water could separate under his feet.
Remo was running out to sea, running with deceptively slow and controlled motions that belied his actual speed.
Face tightening, the Master of Sinanju stepped out of his black sandals and followed.
He caught up, running with his short legs churning and his pipestem arms pumping. His kimono sleeves flapped so much he looked like an ungainly white sea gull skimming across the West Korea Bay.
"The main slick seems to be this way," Remo said through well-spaced breaths.
Chiun said nothing in reply. To run across water without falling in was one of the most difficult feats of the discipline of Sinanju and it depended as much on the breathing rhythms as on the motions of his arms and legs. He was not going to risk losing his momentum and falling in. Not in front of his show-off pupil.
The stink of fuel oil grew more offensive to their nostrils when they reached an area five miles out, where the oiliness of the water made running more challenging. The naked bottoms of their feet grew slick and unpleasant.
Suddenly they were out of the oil and into clear water.
Remo indicated they double back with a quick toss of his head, and together they described a wide arc- reversing was too risky—and started back toward the heart of the spreading oil slick.
"Right about here," said Remo, and suddenly stopped.
Remo dropped under the surface so fast the oil had no time to coat his clothes and bare skin.
The Master of Sinanju followed suit.
The water was cold and vise-like. They oriented themselves, increasing breathing rhythms so their heartbeats rose in tempo, forcing the blood to circulate more quickly, raising their body temperature to ward off the heart-freezing cold.
Eyes adjusting to the weak ambient light, Remo and Chiun found themselves in a world of slow shadows and strong carrying currents.
The West Korea Bay is at its rockiest off Sinanju, and they headed down to the seafloor, looking for un- rocklike shapes.
Stones, ranging in size from a clenched fist to small buildings, and encrusted with barnacles, loomed before them. They moved among these like human dolphins, feet propelling them along with economical kicks that created spurts of motion enabling them to ride the currents.
The rocks felt cold and slick to the touch—but not oil slick. They moved on.
To the west they saw the tendril of oil. It was snaking up toward the surface like a lazy strand of seaweed seeking sunlight.
They swam toward it, staying close to the sea floor.
Topping a tumulus of submerged stone, they came upon the great sail of the submarine. One of the diving planes drooped in defeat. The hull's smooth lines were warped and dented, as if gargantuan fingers had plucked it from the surface and after careless manhandling dropped it to the unforgiving ocean floor less than one hundred feet down.
Remo gave a sudden froglike kick, and his entire body arrowed toward the low-lying cigar of steel. Chiun paddled after him.
The oil was coming out of a rent in the aft hull. There were other holes, jagged and violent, at widely spaced intervals along the sides and deck.
Remo circled the damaged sail and spotted the hull number, 671-A.
He pointed to the white letters and flashed an okay sign. It was the Harlequin.
Chiun signed back, making a G for gold, crooking one finger into a question mark and pointing at the sub. The question mark came again.
Remo thrashed around, spotted the weapons shipping hatch in one side and pointed toward a hull rip a few yards in front of it.
Chiun nodded and went in search of his gold. Remo picked another hole and entered it, easing himself in with his hands. He noticed that the jagged hull tears were pointing outward.
Inside, debris floated by—sailor's hats, sneakers and the odd paperback book. Crabs had already taken up residence in the dark crannies of the doomed sub.
Remo felt his way around the empty compartment. The flood-control doors had been sealed. There were no bodies. He went to one of the doors and tried tapping on it. The door drummed under his imperative fist. No answer. He went to another and did the same thing. The ringing of his fist on steel was like a watery bell tolling.
There seemed to be no survivors.
Flashing out of the hole, Remo swam toward the rip near the great weapons shipping hatch.
The Master of Sinanju swam out to meet him. He was clutching something in one hand.
When Remo joined him, he saw what it was—a splintered piece of fresh wood. He recognized it as a piece of a crate. No flimsy orange crate, it was made of hard timber, and there were deep indentations where heavy steel strapping had dug in tight.
Remo had seen the heavy reinforced crates used to ship U.S. gold to Sinanju before. And the angry look on Chiun's face told the rest. The gold was gone.
Remo pointed up, and they rose, releasing carbon dioxide bubbles one at a time and with no sense of urgency. If necessary, they could hold their breaths for an hour or longer. Remo's head broke the surface first. Then Chiun's. He spat out a stream of water before speaking.
"They have stolen my gold!" he said sharply.
"Who did?"
"The mutinous crew, obviously. They sank their own vessel in order to cover up their perfidy."
"Doubt it," Remo said.
"Why do you say that, Fair One with Korean Eyes?"