"I don't know what to believe. I can't think of any sensible explanation."
"Maybe that man ghost?"
"He felt solid enough," Remo said, straining at the periscope. It showed unobstructed road ahead.
"Then maybe you are the ghost," Lan said.
And again Remo felt that supernatural chill ripple through his bones.
Chapter 15
The Master of Sinanju had endured the indignity of the cramped cabin. He ignored the stale, tinny air and the offensive odors of meat that were inescapable in the bowels of the American submarine. The journey was long, arduous, and boring. But it was necessary if he was to be reunited with his son. Chiun was resolved to endure it all. Later he would visit his grievances upon Remo. Let Remo apologize for them.
But the Master of Sinanju would not endure the indignity of lack of respect.
"Look, grandpa," said the American sailor. "The water is only two feet deep on this bay. Just step off the raft and wade the rest of the way."
"I will not," Chiun snapped. "My kimono will be wetted. "
"Hey, just lift your skirts," the sailor said.
"And expose my nakedness before the Vietnamese barbarians?"
"You're not Vietnamese?" a second sailor asked in surprise.
He was slapped for his impudence. The slap was hard. "Oooww! What'd you do that for?"
"I will not be insulted by my inferiors."
"No offense. But when a U. S. submarine carries an Oriental all the way from Tokyo to Vietnam for a night dropoff, we kinda assume we're dropping off a Vietnamese. "
"Vietnamese are inferior."
"To what?"
"To me."
The sailors exchanged uncomprehending shrugs. "Our orders are not to touch sand," the first sailor said. "We brought you into shallow water. Now all you have to do is wade."
"No," said Chiun, standing up in the inflated raft. He folded his arms resolutely. He was determined.
"Hey, sit down. If we're seen, it could mean an international incident. "
"I will accept an international incident," Chiun said firmly. "I will not wade in dirty Vietnamese water."
"Looks clean to me."
"It is dark. How can you tell it is not dirty?"
"How can you tell that it is?" the first sailor countered.
"It smells Vietnamese."
The two sailors looked at one another and shrugged again.
"How about we sneak in just a tad closer?" the first one asked the other.
Chiun's face relaxed slightly.
"But we can't touch sand," they repeated in one voice.
"Agreed," said the Master of Sinanju. And he stepped to the bow of the raft and tucked his long-nailed fingers into his kimono sleeves. The sea breeze toyed with his facial hair and his clear hazel eyes held a satisfied light.
The circumstances might not be ideal, but this was a historic moment. No Master of Sinanju had stepped on Vietnamese soil in many centuries. He wondered if there would be a welcoming committee. But then he realized with a droop of his lips that probably there would not be one. These Americans were so obsessed with secrecy, they probably hadn't informed the rulers in Hanoi that a Master of Sinanju was secretly being deposited upon their very shore.
When the raft was a yard from shore, the sailors dug in their paddles and stopped it dead.
"Think you can jump the last couple of feet?"
Chiun turned on them haughtily. "Jump?"
"Yeah, we can't touch sand. Orders. "
"How about water?" asked Chiun, stubbing the raft with a toenail. The gray plastic burst. The raft began shipping water.
"Hey! What happened?" the second sailor demanded as water poured over his lap.
The Master of Sinanju stepped for shore and landed in a swirl of kimono skirts. He faced the disconcerted sailors, who were so afraid of being seen they sat hip-deep in Vietnamese water, their raft a flat plastic rug under them. He beamed.
"Do not worry," he told them. "So long as you remain seated thus, you will not touch sand and your superiors will not be displeased."
"Too late for that now. We gotta drag this thing onshore to patch it up."
"Inform your captain that I will signal him when I am ready to depart these shores," said Chiun, walking away.
"When will that be?" the first sailor asked as he got to his feet, dripping.
"Why, when I am finished, of course."
Although no Master of Sinanju had trafficked with the Vietnamese in centuries, Chiun was welcomed in the first village he happened upon. The welcome was abject. Chiun had to dismember only two political officers in front of the simple peasants before they fell on their knees and bumped their heads in the dirt in the traditional full bow reserved for emperors and other high dignitaries.
The village elder, who was nearly Chiun's age, invited the Master of Sinanju to sup with them. And Chiun accepted a bowl of boiled rice laced with fish heads. He smiled in gratitude, but when no one was looking, he plucked the fish heads out and placed them under a stone. Only the Vietnamese would eat the worst part of the fish. Probably swallowed the eyes too.
When the simple meal was concluded, Chiun explained why he was here.
"I seek a white man. His name is unimportant, for what matter the names of whites?"