Dream Thing

“And this is exactly what he hopes you will do,” Chiun said harshly. “What if he makes use of you as I have foreseen, and you—Remo Williams—become the tool of Ru-Taki-Nuhu? At his disposal will be the man who possesses unsurpassed skills. He will send you out hunting.”

“Urk,” agreed the parrot.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Remo said.

“You will be dispatched on sustenance-gathering excursions into the world—and no one will be able to stop you,” Chiun hissed angrily. “You will seek them out, the imbalanced minds of the seers and the sensitives, and bring these sweetmeats to your master. You’ll stalk the most powerful unbalanced minds. Prince Howard shall be one of your first victims. Maybe you will not even be permitted to feel remorse as you transport him to his death. He will be alive and fully aware, so that his mind sings its song of life as Tako-Ika drains him of it and absorbs his very essence and becomes stronger.”

The bird bobbed its head and squawked raucously like a churchgoer enjoying Reverend Chiun’s fire-and-brimstone sermon.

“And when Prince Howard is devoured, then our enemy will be more powerful and his hold on you will be stronger. You will go out into the world again, and even I will be forced to stand against you and I will fall, for who can stand against the Master of Sinanju? Sa Mangsang will strengthen, his hold on you will be stronger and there will be nothing that can stop either of you.”

Remo was shaken. “You have foreseen this, Little Father?”

Chiun pursed his lips. “Not foreseen.”

“Not foreseen, exactly,” the parrot agreed.

“But you believe this is what’s going to happen?” Remo asked.

“I predict that this will happen,” Chiun replied. “Is that not reason enough to heed my warnings?”

Chapter 40

The Japanese fishing trawlers should have steered around the perimeter that was being guarded by the international fleet. The trawler ignored the radioed warning and entered the off-limits watch zone around the vortex.

“Here they come—it’s a U.S. Coast Guard ship,” announced Chad, peering through his binoculars. ‘It’s a little cutter.” He read off the numbers on the bow.

Dr. Williamson punched it up on his laptop computer. He had loaded a database of all Coast Guard vessels—as well as U.S., Japanese and French navy ships—just for this eventuality. They knew they’d run into resistance from somebody.

“She’s a quick one,” Williamson announced. He fed the specifications on the ship into a little piece of software he had improvised this morning. It took their current position and the position of any potential pursuit craft and came up with an estimate of their ability to reach safety, once the pursuit started.

The laptop gave them a yellow-flag warning. “We’ll make it to the inside border of the watch zone ahead of them, but only if they don’t fire on us,” Williamson announced. “That’s too risky. We need one more kilometer of clearance between us and them.”

“Maybe they won’t fire,” Mick Chad said. “Let’s try it.”

“They will fire. They’ve been firing on any vessel that tries to get in,” Williamson said. “They’ll disable us and take away the Flying Fish.”

The radio beeped. It was Tom Bomi, captain of the fishing trawler.

They could see him. He was on the bridge of the trawler, smiling and waving to them. Mick Chad and Dr. Williamson were on the bridge of the Flying Fish, the vessel that was in tow behind the trawler.

“You need a little extra space, right? I get it for you?”

Chad perked up. Williamson frowned. “How?” he asked.

“I cut you free, then make a run for the vortex, see?” Bomi explained on the speaker. “They chase me, and when they out of range you go like hell.”

“You’ll get fined,” Williamson pointed out.

“And arrested,” Bomi said. “That’s why it cost you five thousand dollars more.”

Williamson choked. “Does he think I’m rich? I’m a professor.”

Mick Chad shrugged. Not even a professor, Chad thought. Professors teach in colleges and work in labs. Williamson didn’t do that. He lived off of grants from freaks with too much money and too little common sense.

Mick Chad had been on more than one silly “expedition” with Dr. Williamson. Once they were looking for gargantuan earthworms in Siberia. Big as diesel locomotives, miles long. They didn’t find any. Another time they went to Tibet to find a yeti. All they found were yaks and Tibetans.

What they were looking for this time, Mick Chad had no idea. He was just along for the ride. He knew how to drive the vessel—more or less—so once again Williamson had hired him. Chad was a good guide who could pilot just about anything and who knew how to cut a path through any international red tape.