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?"
"Cut it out. Look, these holes look like they were made by shaped demo charges set inside the boat. But those hull dents could only be made by depth charges. The sub was scuttled, all right. But I don't think the crew did it. They'd need a boat to drop depth charges on their own sub."
"Why not? The gold was more money than they would ever see in their miserable lives. They would go to any lengths to evade discovery."
"Don't forget they radioed that a Korean frigate had overhauled them."
"A dead herring."
"That's 'red herring,' and I think we should check out the Korean angle before we tar the memories of dead U.S. sailors."
"I saw bodies," Chiun said pointedly.
"Yeah?"
"A man who wore the stars of a captain."
"The sub commander."
"He had been shot. This suggests mutiny."
"I want to see."
"And I want to show you," said Chiun. "Come." And the Master of Sinanju disappeared under the flat malodorous water.
Trailing tendrils of clinging oil, Remo and Chiun kicked down toward the submarine. Remo beat Chiun through the aft most hole.
Inside was a large flooded section. Remo had traveled on enough subs to figure out his way around the corridors, but it was strange and eerie to be swimming down them. He found his way to the main storage area.
There were lights here. Evidently somewhere in the ship batteries still produced juice. The protected lights glowed feebly.
The body of the captain of the Harlequin had floated to the top of a large storage room. Remo missed it until Chiun entered and tugged on his sleeve, pointing ceilingward with an impatient finger.
Remo swam up, pulled the body down and spun it around. The man's skin had turned a maggoty white, and internal gases had inflated his chest cavity, bursting his shirt buttons.
The corpse was a mess, but nothing could disguise the bullet holes in its chest. They still exuded dim threads of dissolving blood.
Frowning, Remo let the body return to the ceiling. He made a quick circuit of the storage room. There were other fragments of shipping crates, along with spent shell casings. He picked up a few and pocketed them. There was nothing else of interest. Debris floated past them with annoying frequency. Remo squirmed out of the storage room and tried kicking at several doors. He put his ears to them and heard nothing.
Coming back, he came upon the Master of Sinanju turning the wheel of one door.
Remo flashed to Chiun's side and pulled him away.
Abruptly Chiun disentangled himself from Remo's grasp and glared at him, his wrinkled face turning crimson with rage.
Remo tried to sign his annoyance, but couldn't make himself understood. He went to the door and put an ear to it.
He thought he heard breathing. He gave the door a smack. It rang, vibrating on its hinges.
No one responded, but the character of the breathing seemed to change. Concentrating, Remo tried to focus on it.
One man—if a man. Twisting about, Remo motioned for the Master of Sinanju to clear a path. Skirts fluttering about his thin legs, Chiun backed away with sweeping motions of his hands.
Remo set himself. If there was anyone alive on the other side, he would have to work fast.
He hunted for the valve he knew would be near the door. Opening the door would let in a solid wall of water that would probably crush the life out of the person on the other side. By flooding the compartment first, the door could be opened safely.
Remo found the valve. He opened it. Water began flowing in, gathering velocity. Putting his ear to the door, Remo heard the rush of water, frantic splashing and the panting of a man in escalating distress.
When the water stopped flowing in, he gave the door a violent turn. The creak of the mechanism unlocking carried through the conducting water.
Water pressure against the door kept it closed tight. Bracing a bare foot against the wall, Remo grabbed the wheel with both hands. His braced leg strained inexorably. He was using his muscles to unbend the legs, but the strength of his leg bones would make the difference. That was the Eastern way, to rely on bone where muscle was not enough.