Remo nodded. "I haven't heard you tell that one in a long time," he said.
"It is wrong to burden the inferior races with the tale of their defective origin," Chiun said seriously. "I have learned this in America, and this is why I have been silent on this subject for to these many years."
Remo-who thought Chiun had been anything but silent on the matter of race-shook his head. "I don't understand," he said. "What does this have to do with Sun?"
"Pyon ha-da," Chiun insisted. "It is the end of your long wait. I am so happy for you!" Unable to contain his joy, he threw his arms around his pupil.
Remo was not prepared for such a physical expression of happiness from the Master of Sinanju. He endured the hug, leaning uncomfortably away once Chiun released him.
"So what is pyon ha-da?" Remo asked uneasily.
"It is the time foretold in which he who made all finally corrects the errors of his creation."
Remo was still at a loss. Something intensely weird was going on here. Chiun's being happy, for one. The old Korean generally had an emotional range that ran the gamut from annoyed to full-out rage.
Even more out of character, the Master of Sinanju had also taken up with a bogus cult leader. And why was Chiun's story of the creation resurfacing after all these years?
As the old Korean beamed joyfully at him from his simple reed mat, a thought suddenly struck Remo.
"No," Remo said hollowly.
Chiun's smile broadened. "Yes."
"No way."
"Yes way," said Chiun, nodding.
"You actually think this kook Sun is going to wave some magic wand and turn the whole world population into Koreans?" he exploded.
"Of course not," Chiun said placidly. "Sun is but the prophet of pyon ha-da. He sees the future as it has been designed by the Creator. It is the Creator who will change everyone into Koreans."
"Are you out of your freaking mind!?" Remo demanded, hopping to his feet.
"Do not fight it, Remo," Chiun said, his soothing voice sounding for all the world like a Sunnie cult member. "Be happy that pyon ha-da has come in our lifetimes. No longer will I be forced to come up with creative ways to explain your paleness in the histories of Sinanju."
"I'm not pale, Chiun-I'm white," Remo snapped. "And I'm going to stay that way no matter what kind of bullshit that lunatic Sun feeds you."
"Do as you wish," Chiun said, shrugging gently. "It will come to pass whether you desire it or not."
"Well, if it does it's going to have to come looking for me, because I'm not staying one more second in this loony bin."
With that, he spun on his heel and stomped loudly across the room. The door slammed shut with a viciousness that rattled the big mansion to its very foundation.
After Remo had gone, Chiun breathed deeply, exhaling a thoughtful puff of air.
Remo was quick to anger. He had always been that way. It came from a sense of inferiority. Luckily for both of them, that would all soon change.
Smiling contentedly, the Master of Sinanju turned his attention back to the sprawling lawns below his balcony.
Chapter 18
Ensign Howell McKimsom could hardly remember the intensive brainwashing sessions. What he could remember he would hardly have termed "brainwashing." If he had been permitted to talk about it, he would have more accurately called it "divine enlightenment." But he had been instructed not to talk about it with anyone.
Not with his friends.
Not with his family.
Not even with his shipmates aboard the USS Courage.
It was a shame, for Ensign McKimsom really wanted to share his conversion with his fellow sailors. It was part of the Sunnie indoctrination that made the faithful want to go out and preach to the world the greatness of the Reverend Man Hyung Sun. But Ensign McKimsom had also been instructed in the matter of obedience. He had been told not to talk; therefore, he would not talk. Ensign McKimsom was nothing if not faithful.
He was sitting calmly in the weapons room of his U.S. Navy destroyer as it cruised the waters of the Yellow Sea off Inchon on the western coast of South Korea.
As he went methodically through the prelaunch routine, he thought it was a shame he could not talk to any of his shipmates about the Sunnie faith.
At first he had been skeptical. When members of the pink-robed cult had thrown a bag over his head while he was on shore leave and dragged him into their waiting car several weeks ago, Ensign McKimsom had actually been resistant.
He had grown since then.
There were others of the faith on board. They had been brought into the fold much as he had. But there were only a few. Just enough to carry out the special mission. They had been clearly instructed not to attempt to convert the rest, lest their true mission be revealed.
Ensign Howell McKimsom sighed as he thought of all the potential faithful that would not be reached because of his inability to speak the truth.
Oh, well. It was all Sun's will.
All at once, the preprogrammed flight plan of the missile system he was reviewing changed drastically. In a heartbeat, the intended target moved 131 miles south.
Sitting up, McKimsom double-checked the green text on his monitor. There would be no room for error.
Everything checked out. The inertial guidance system would keep the missile true during its brief trip over water.
Smiling, he began initiating the system.
"Mr. McKimsom, what are you doing?"
The voice was sharp. Directly behind him.
McKimsom turned. He found himself looking up into the angry face of his commanding officer.
Howell McKimsom had been instructed what to do at every phase of the operation and in every possible eventuality. He had been given a specific order on how to deal with this precise situation.
Using his body to conceal his hand, Ensign McKimsom reached into one of the big pockets of his Navy-issue trousers. Removing the automatic he had stuffed inside his pants at the beginning of his watch, McKimsom turned calmly to the CO. Face serene, he quickly placed the warm gun barrel against the man's beefy chin and-before the commander even knew what was happening-he calmly pulled the trigger.
The sudden explosion within the confines of the weapons room was overwhelmed by the roar up on deck.
Even as the CO fell-his brains a gray frappe splattered against the gunmetal gray walls-McKimsom had initiated the launch.