"Ruination," said Ghiun. He was not moving.
"What's wrong?"
"You do not see it?"
"No. C'mon."
"Your whole country is doomed."
"You always said it wasn't worth saving anyhow. Let's go."
"And this doesn't bother you?" said Chiun, smiling wanly and shaking his head.
"No. I said so. Let's go."
"I'll explain then," said Chiun. "Many of these people who are in wheelchairs have been injured because perhaps at a moment of' crisis their minds wandered. Maybe they thought of something else while they drove their cars and did not have time to avoid an accident. You are rewarding lack of excellence. And in so doing you are promoting lack of concentration in your populace."
"Chiun," said Remo, "a lot of people suffered accidents that weren't their fault, and a lot of people were born with problems, so let's go."
"There is no such thing as an accident. There are events you have failed to control."
"Chiun, will you tell me what's wrong?"
"Read your histories."
"I'll read the histories. Let's go."
"You promise now because you want to get on to another silly little assignment."
"What's wrong?"
"Armies. I hate armies."
"You loved the assignment back in Flora del Mar."
"I would like anything that would get us out of that dump," said Chiun.
"It was a nice resort. Let's go."
"An army," said Chiun, "steals the bread out of the mouth of an assassin. An army-"
"I know, Little Father. I read the histories of Sinanju," said Remo, and to get him moving repeated that armies terrorized populations, promoted amateurism, instability, and loss of wealth to a host nation, and worse, gave a monarch the idea that perhaps an assassin wasn't necessary. A monarch often thought, wrongly, if he could have a hundred thousand killers for a pittance each, why would he need one assassin who would cost a fortune? There were many examples in the histories of Sinanju of a Master having to show a monarch his army was useless before he could get hired.
And as they drove a rented car toward Little Big Horn National Park, Chiun repeated the examples, with exactly what tribute was given, and at the end of each account he would mention that that tribute too was lost when Remo was off doing other things while Chiun was hot on the trail of the thief.
"We're never going to find that treasure, so stop carping about what you can't do anything about, and let's get on with this assignment."
"I can do something about it," said Chiun.
"Good. Let me know so I can help."
"You can never help."
"Then what is it you're doing?"
"I'm reminding you," said Chiun, nodding in sour satisfaction.
The entire national park was sealed off by military police. No one could enter without a pass. No civilians could stay on the road.
"All civilians should evacuate to the nearest area designated safe, sir," said the MP, his white helmet glistening in the sun, his sidearm polished in its holster, his boots immaculate.
"Thanks," said Remo, gliding past him. He wore his usual dark t-shirt and gray slacks. Chiun had on his gray traveling kimono and refused to wear the black kimono with red trim indicating a Sinanju Master was performing work. He did not think armies should ever be considered work.
The MP issued the threat again.
"Civilians are not allowed in the designated combat zone," he said.
Remo grabbed his brass belt buckle in two fingers and yanked the MP after them to a nearby jeep. Another MP ran up to help, his sidearm drawn. Chiun got him with his fingernails, and pressing nerves in the MP's neck, convinced him that driving them both into the combat zone was in their best interest.
Thus did they pass the miles and miles of cannon, tanks, and half-tracks, with Chiun complaining constantly.
"When I think of the billions your country spends on its armies, every tank costing many millions, every artillery shell costing five thousand dollars apiece, I am appalled at what a mere four hundred billion dollars would do in tribute to Sinanju."
"What would it do? Sit there?"
"The treasures are living things. They span all ages."
"They sit there," said Remo, and Chiun refused to answer such a low and base insult. Of course, he could have said he was planning to move them to a bigger building to show the glories of Sinanju to the rest of the world. But Remo knew that almost every Master for the last twenty-five centuries had planned to do that and never gotten anywhere, so Chiun could not dispute Remo's charge. Instead, he chose to sit in wounded silence.
As they approached the perimeter of the army encampment they heard groans. The morning attack had been called off. Some of these young volunteers complained that they might never get a chance to fire their weapons in combat.
"Armies," scoffed Chiun. "Soldiers."
"I was once a marine," said Remo.
"And that's why it took so much more time for me to break you of so many absolutely bad habits. You used to think enduring pain was a virtue, not the stupidity of ignoring the wisdom of your body talking to you."
Several soldiers, their M-16's cradled in their arms and the dust of the day on their khaki uniforms, their eyes blackened so they could see better in the glare of the sun, warned the two not to proceed farther.
"There are hostiles up there," said one frecklefaced lad with a bayonet stuck in his belt.
"I'm with one," said Remo.
"He an Indian?" asked the young soldier.
Remo saw Chiun thinking of explaining the difference to the young man between the heavenly perfect people and others, like Africans, Indians, and whites. Chiun could be physical in his lessons at times.
"We don't have time, Little Father," he said.
So instead, Chiun simply endured another injustice from the ungrateful society he served and followed Remo along the little valley. Up ahead they could sense the river. There was a way the earth responded to its water. Some people using divining rods could, crudely, sense the water too. But Remo and Chiun just knew the water was there, and they also knew there was a large encampment of people.
A young man with dark hair and high cheekbones, and a hunting rifle with a big bore, fidgeted inside a foxhole and then chose to rise from it as though trying to surprise Remo and Chitin.
"White man, your time has come," he said, and Remo just walked over him, pushing him back down into the hole. No talk was needed.
They both knew what they were looking for and they both knew how to find a command headquarters. It was always the same. Command headquarters might be in different places on different battlefields, but they were always located in the same relationship to the units they controlled. There were always subordinates running to and fro, from the low in rank to those not-quite-so-low, and from the not-quite-solow to those higher up.
One only had to find someone giving an order and ask him who gave him his orders. Then it was easy to follow the chain of running messengers to the head man.
That was it.
All armies were the same.
This was the wisdom of the lessons of Sinanju. The difference between sides was only in the imagination of those sides.
When Remo had first learned this, he became angry. He had fought in Vietnam in the early days as a marine, and said he certainly wasn't like the Vietcong.
"If we're all alike, how come one side wins and one side loses?"
"Because some are trained better and some are trained worse. But they are all trained. And they are trained the same way. Not to think. Not to feel. Not to be. Only to act in some crude way that will make them more effective. An army, Remo, is a mob with its mind taken away."