"It can get stranger if you don't cooperate," Remo warned.
"I am trying not to cooperate. Why won't my body cooperate with me?"
"Because I own your neck and your spine and your snotty attitude."
As they approached the brig, Remo could hear loud and colorful cursing.
"If you miserable sons of sea cooks don't grow working brains and cut us loose, I'll personally convert you all to assorted chum and fish bait!"
"Sounds like Sandy is giving the Canadians salty heck."
"She is well named, then."
As they approached the door, the guardsman pointed out the obvious. "We will all be shot."
"You're taking point, so you'll be shot first. I'd think fast if I were you."
There were two guards framing the entrance with M-16s at the ready. They snapped their weapons down, and the familiar "Who goes there?" rang out. Only to Remo's ears it sounded more like "Wha gaz hair?"
Remo gave his captive a squeeze.
"Petty Officer Duncan," he yelped.
"State your business," a guard demanded at gunpoint.
"I am a prisoner of a cruel Yank bent upon unspecified mischief."
"Thanks," said Remo, who lifted the guardsman off his booted feet and ran him forward like a shield.
The guardsman somehow got turned sideways en route, and both ends of his flying body caught the two guards in their exposed midriffs. All three made a midair mess, falling to the ground in a tangle of arm and leg and rifle.
Remo stepped over them and into the brig after flinging their M-16s onto the roof.
"Sandy! Sing out!" he yelled.
"What the hell are you?" Sandy Heckman called back from somewhere inside.
Remo veered for the unmistakable roar.
Various guardsmen attempted to intercept him. They were intercepted first. Remo intercepted them with fists and smacking palms and kicking feet, and after he had intercepted them, they stayed intercepted. A few lapsed into snoring.
Sandy Heckman was clutching the iron bars of a holding cell, looking very, very angry when Remo located her.
"What are you two landlubbers doing here?"
"Rescuing you," Remo said.
"Shouldn't the diplomats be doing this?"
"They're too busy being diplomatic." Remo made his index finger stiff and inserted it into the lock.
"Now what are you doing?" Sandy wanted to know.
"Picking the lock."
"With your naked finger?"
Remo shrugged. "Why not? It fits."
A second later the lock made a grating sound, and the cell door swung open.
Shaking off her disbelief, Sandy stepped out. "Still no soap on that date, if that's what's motivating you," she warned.
"Deal," said Remo pleasantly.
"Do you even want a date with me?" Sandy demanded.
"Not really."
"Then why do you keep asking?"
"I don't. You're the one who brought it up."
Sandy eyed Remo skeptically. Finally she threw up her hands and exclaimed, "The Canadians have gone crazy. They commandeered my boat on the high seas."
"We're commandeering it back," said Remo. He got the rest of the crew out of their cells, and they formed a tight, whispering knot behind Remo and Chiun.
Outside there was no sound of alarm or commotion.
"This is too easy," Remo muttered.
"This is Canada, where a street-corner mugging is national news and for a winter thrill they tune in to hear the temperature in Florida."
"If you say so," said Remo, leading them toward the water.
There were guards stationed around the Cayuga. They looked relaxed, or as relaxed as armed guards can look on post.
"So what do we do about them?" Sandy hissed.
"We will give them something to transcend," said Chiun.
"Like what?"
But Chiun had gone. So had Remo. Sandy and her crew exchanged worried glances and waited in the shelter of a marine storage shed. The air smelled of wet nylon lines and copper hull paint.
On either side of the Cayuga sat the Canadian cutters Robert W. Service and the Gordon Lightfoot. They rode the mooring lines quietly in the gently tossing tide, their red hulls and white superstructures the exact mirror image of the Cayuga's hull panoply.