Bronzini dismounted and walked up to him. "Bronzini san," Isuzu demanded hotly, "what you do here so earry?"
"Nice uniform, Jiro," Bronzini said coolly. "If you're going to be an extra too, who'll be directing? A gaffer?" Isuzu's face darkened.
"I wirr direct from within shot at times. You are famiriar with technique."
"I've directed myself," Bronzini admitted. "Never with a sword, though."
Jiro Isuzu grasped the scabbard of his ceremonial sword. Bronzini knew swords. It was not Chinese, but a samurai sword. It looked authentic, too.
"Sword bring good ruck. In famiry many generation."
"Try not to trip over it," Bronzini told him. He indicated the phalanx of extras. Several of the crewmen were going from man to man, distributing Federal Express envelopes. "We are firming Chinese sordier preparing for battre,' Jiro said unctuously. "Not need you yet."
"Yeah?" Bronzini noticed the Japanese crewmen were also in uniform. Several were filming the proceedings with hand-held Nishitsu video cameras. A big yellow Chapman crane lifted a thirty-five-millimeter film camera over the men, capturing a breathtaking panoramic shot of the formation.
"Cameraman in uniform too?" Bronzini said quietly. "We need every man. Not enough extras."
"Uh-huh." As Bronzini watched, the soldiers squat ted in the sand and, removing knives from belt scabbards, started paring their fingernails. They next chopped off a lock of hair. The clippings and hair were carefully deposited in the Fedex envelopes and sealed.
"What the heck is this about?" Bronzini asked. "Chinese war custom. Sordiers going into battre send home parts of serves to be buried in famiry urn if they not return."
Bronzini grunted. "Nice touch, but don't you think the Fedex envelopes are a bit of a stretch?" Uniformed groups went through the formation as the extras climbed to their feet. They collected the envelopes.
At a nod from Isuzu, they raised their fists and shouted, "Banzai!"
"Banzai?" Bronzini said. "Stop me if you've heard this one before, Jiro, but 'banzai' is Japanese."
"Extras get carried away. We edit out. Okay?"
"I'll want my technical adviser to okay all this stuff. He's due in today. I won't have my name on a piece of shit. Understand?"
"We arready reave message at hoter. Ask him to meet us at airdrop site. Okay?"
"Not okay. I read the script last night. I know this is a Japanese film, but does my character have to die?"
"You hero. Die tragic heroic death."
"And the part about the Americans nuking their own city really bothers me. What do you call that?"
"Happy ending. Evil Red Chinese die."
"So does the civilian population. How about a rewrite?"
"Rewrite possibre. We talk rater."
"Okay," Bronzini said, eyeing the soldiers in formation. "This is amazing. How many people you got here?"
"Over two thousand."
"Well, I hope they're cheap. This is the kind of thing that put Grundy IV over budget."
"We are under budget. And on schedule. Prease to wait at base camp."
"A couple of questions first. What were they burying by the base camp?"
"Trash."
"Uh-huh. The Indians are sure going to appreciate turning their reservation into a dump site."
"Indian paid off. No trouble from Indian. Arso, have reached understanding with union. They agree to stay out of this firm, we use them in next. You go now."
"Let me know when you're ready for the first setup." Bronzini looked at his watch. "This time of year, there's only twelve hours of daylight till magic hour."
"Magic hour?"
"Yeah. After the sun goes down, there's an hour of false light before it gets dark. On American productions, we call it magic hour. It gives us extra shooting time. Don't tell me you never heard the term."
"This first firm for Nishitsu."
"No shit," Bronzini said, vaulting onto his bike. "And you know, Jiro, I think it's going to be your last. I just hope you don't drag my career down with yours."
Bronzini sent the Harley rocketing back to base camp. Remo Williams arrived at Luke Air Force Range at eight A.M. He stopped his rented car at the checkpoint. An airman stepped up to the car.
"I'm with the movie," Remo told him. "Your name, sir?"
"Remo Durock."
The guard consulted a checklist.
"My name should be easy to find. I think there's only four or five non-Japanese with the film."
"Yes, Sir. Remo Durock. You're free to pass. Take a right, then two lefts. It's the red brick building."
"Much obliged," Remo said. He parked his car in front of the red brick building. It was near the airfield. A small propeller-driven plane was idling on the flight line. It looked ridiculously tiny when compared to the hulking C-130 Hercules transports parked wing to wing on the near side of the tarmac.
Remo went inside, showed a fake photo ID in the name of Remo Durock to a desk sergeant, and was directed to a room.
"Hey, Remo. You're late." It was Bill Roam.
"Sorry. I had trouble finding the main gate," Remo said. He noticed a heavyset man in a khaki safari jacket and bush hat with Roam.
"Remo, meet Jim. This is Bronzini's technical adviser, Jim Concannon."
"How're you doing?" Remo asked.
"Outstanding," Concannon replied.
"Jim's our all-around expert on military matters," Roam explained. "He worked with Bronzini on all the Grundy flicks. Right now, he's walking me through checkout on these Japanese parachutes."
Remo noticed that the room was filled with parachute packs. Hundreds of them. They were black.
Concannon was unpacking one now, untying the canvas covers to examine the nylon chute bell. He examined the fabric carefully, holding it up to the light.
"You check every stress point," Concannon was explaining. "Don't worry about any little holes you find in the canopy. Just make sure the shroud lines are anchored firmly and not tangled up."
"Right," Bill Roam said. He tossed a pack to Remo. Remo caught it. "Lend a hand, son. It's your ass that's onna be dangling from one of these Nipponese umrellas. "
Remo set the pack on the long table and undid the flaps. He checked the lines, tested the fabric. It felt sound.
"Hell of a point to come to," Bill Roam was saying as Jim showed them how to repack the chutes. "I can remember a time when Japanese products were the joke of the Western world. And today I'm working for a Japanese film company and booting several hundred Air Force boys out the back of a transport with Japanese parachutes strapped to their backs."
"Okay," Jim said. "These appear to be strack. Now, who wants to be the guinea pig?"
"Hell, man. Not me. I'm too old," Bill Roam said.
"I haven't jumped from a plane since Korea," Jim added.
They both looked at Remo.
"You game?" Bill Roam asked him.
"Why not?" Remo said, pulling the chute onto his back.
They walked out to the idling prop plane. An airman was at the controls. He wore aviator sunglasses and chewed gum vigorously. Remo climbed in.
Jim Concannon clapped him on the back.
"You be sure to let us know if it doesn't open, hear?" Everyone laughed but Remo. The door was slammed on his impassive face. Providence was still on his mind. The plane hummed down the runway and lifted awkwardly. It climbed up and out over the desert.
The pilot spoke up over the engine drone. "I'm going to stay as close to the base as I can. Not much wind right now. So you ought to land close enough to be picked up by helicopter. That okay with you?"
"Sure, Remo said. He pushed open the passenger door, placed a foot on the wing, and as the plane tipped that wing to earth, Remo launched himself into space.
As he fell, the sleeves of his Air Force uniform chattered wildly. The vast expanse of southwestern Arizona hurtled up to meet him. Remo reached for the D-ring and pulled.
The pack vomited a cloud of black nylon. The updraft filled
it, and Remo was yanked back violently. Then he swung like a pendulum. He looked up.
The big black bell was floating above him. He looked past his boots and saw the sand rising to meet them. When Remo hit the ground, he rolled and shucked off the parachute webbing all in one motion.
A helicopter rattled overhead moments later. It settled several yards distant. Its rotors blew sand in every direction, kicking up a momentary sandstorm. Remo shut his eyes until it subsided. Then he ran for the waiting chopper and ducked under the rotor.
Sunny Joe Roam put out a big hand and pulled him aboard.
"Nice jump," he said. "You know your stuff. Military background?"
"Marines," Remo admitted.
Jim Concannon grunted. "Jarheads," he said. He said it with a smile.
"Don't mind ol' Jim," Roam laughed. "He's ex-Army. He may talk like a grunt, but there's none finer. Speaking of which, Jim, we gotta get you over to that drop site. You'll be with the desert drop unit today."
"Where will Bronzini be?" Remo asked in concern.
"Search me," Roam told him. "Latest I hear, filming's split into nine units. We'll be with the parachutedrop unit. Bronzini will probably be with the tank units at the Marine Air Station. We'll have the fun. All they're doing is running tanks in and out of the main gate. Anyway, much obliged for doing the drop. I'd have sent up an airman, but if we'd lost him, they would have held it against us, probably. Right, Jim?" The two men joined in good-natured laughter as the helicopter lifted off.
"What about the other parachutes?" Remo wondered.
"Hell," said Sunny Joe. "What do you want, to go jump in every dang one of them?" Their laughter increased. "They looked sound and yours tested out. They work."
"That's the problem with parachutes," drawled Jim. "They're like condoms. Good for that first plunge, but I wouldn't want to depend on them a second time."
"Well," Remo said, looking back at the deflated mushroom of his parachute as it flapped in the rotor wash, "we know that one worked." His face was worried. Not about the parachute drop, but over the fact that he wouldn't be working near Bronzini this first day. Maybe that wouldn't be a problem. He hadn't seen any picketing outside the hotel or at the air-base gate.
The camera crews were the first to enter the Yuma Marine Corps Air Base gate outside the city limits. Colonel Emile Tepperman was there to greet them. He wore his best utilities, and a pearl-handled sidearm at his hip. It was loaded with blanks.
The Chapman crane came next. It was a four-wheeled vehicle with a telescoping boom-mounted camera. The cameraman wore an authentic-looking People's Liberation Army uniform, down to the sidearm. The crane positioned itself on one side of the approach road.
A half-dozen Japanese piled out of a van, lugging Nishitsu video-cameras. They deployed snappily, impressing Tepperman with their near-military discipline.
Then came the Nishitsu car carrying Jiro Isuzu. He was swiftly passed through the gate. Emerging from the car, he walked up to Tepperman, trailed by a retinue of men in desert camouflage carrying leather cases.
"Good morning, Mr. Isuzu, " Tepperman said heartily. "Great morning for it, isn't it?"
"Yes, thank you. We are ready to begin."
"Where's Bronzini?"
"Bronzini san in read tank. On way. We wish to firm tank entering base. Your men fire on them. Tank fire back. Then you surrender."
"Surrender? Now, wait a minute. This isn't consistent with the image of the Corps."
"This earry in firm," Isuzu assured him. "Rater we firm Marines crushing wicked Chinese Red Army."
"Well, in that case," Tepperman said, "as long as the Corps emerges victorious, I'll go along."
"Excerrent. Stand very stirr, prease."
Two uniformed Japanese began clipping metallic buttonlike objects to Tepperman's uniform.
"What are these little doodads? Acting medals?"
"Squibs. When we fire, they break. Spirr fake brood. Very convincing."
"Does it wash off?" Tepperman asked, thinking of the dry-cleaning bill.
"Yes. Very safe. You have brank sherr?"
"Beg pardon?"
"Brank sherr," Isuzu repeated. "You have?"
"I don't quite get your drift," Tepperman admitted. Jiro Isuzu thought before speaking again. Then he said, "Brank burret."
"Oh, bullet. You mean blank shells!"
"Yes. Brank sherr."
"Yes, I received them. My men have them too. Don't worry. There'll be no accidental shooting on this base."
"Exerrent. We begin soon."
Isuzu turned to go, but Tepperman caught him by the sleeve.
"Hold on. What about my mark?"
"Mark?"
"You know. I understand that the first thing an actor has to learn is how to find his mark."
"Ah, that mark. Yes. Hmmmm. Here," Jiro said, picking a squib from Tepperman's uniform. He dropped it and stepped on it.
"You stand there," he said, pointing to the bloody blotch.
Tepperman gave a relieved smile. He hadn't wanted to look like an idiot. A lot of his relatives were moviegoers. "Great. Thanks," he said.
Colonel Emile Tepperman stepped onto the blotch. He placed his hand on the flap of his side holster, and struck a rakish pose as he awaited his international film debut.
On either side of the approach road, his Marines were positioned, their M-16's in hand. Japanese special-effects technicians finished applying blood squibs to their clothes.
Finally the grumble of the tanks came from beyond the perimeter fence. A wide grin broke out on Emile Tepperman's face. Through the dust, he could see Bart Bronzini in the lead tank. He was standing up in the open turret hatch. Tepperman wondered if he would be visible when the tank rolled by. He would really enjoy being in the same scene with the Steroid Stallion.
The tanks stopped.
Jiro Isuzu looked up at the camera operator perched on a saddle at the end of the Chapman crane boom. Someone ran up and placed a clapper board in front of the camera. Tepperman smiled. It was just like he'd seen in movies about movies.
"Rorring!" Jiro called.
The clapper clapped. The man dropped it and ran to retrieve an assault rifle he'd left leaning against the guard box. The camera panned toward the tank line.
They started up the road, a rumbling line of clanking machinery, dust tunneling in their wake.
Tepperman felt a thrill of expectation course through him. So real. He saw his men tense expectantly. He had lectured them last night about looking sharp. And not looking into the camera. He had read somewhere that that was a no-no, the mark of an amateur actor. Tepperman took pride in the professionalism of his men. He just hoped they had sense enough not to upstage him.
The tank column turned into the gate, and on cue the guard fired his M-16 three times, and it occurred to Tepperman for the first time that if this was supposed to be the enemy rolling in, why was the hero standing in the lead tank? He decided the plot must be more complicated than he'd been led to believe. Tepperman watched as the guard went down in a return hail of fire. Blood squirted from the radiocontrolled squibs. He threshed wildly as he went down, and Colonel Tepperman made a mental note to reprimand the guard for overacting.
The tanks split into two columns. Isuzu raised his sword and brought it down with a flourish.
That was Tepperman's cue.
"Return fire!" he thundered, dropping into a crouch. His weapon came up in his hand. He snapped off eight rapid shots, hoping the pearl handles showed up on camera. Tepperman noticed with a frown that none of the Chinese troops hanging off the tanks were going down.
"Dammit!" he muttered. "Where's the realism?" He saw Marines drop all around him, their shirts spattered with realistic-looking blood. One man was really yelling his head off. "Damn these overactors," Tepperman grumbled, reaching for another clip.
Tepperman squeezed off another shot, trying to knock off a tank machine-gunner. He didn't go down, which of course he would not. Tepperman was not using live ammun
ition. He hoped someone would blow this take, so he could tell Isuzu that what this scene really, really needed was for the heroic base commander to score a few hits. For the good of the story line, of course.
Tepperman was screwing his face into a heroic grimace when he felt something clutch his ankle.
He turned, still crouched on his haunches.
A pain-racked face stared up at him. It was a Marine. He was on his stomach. He had crawled from the side of the road to his commander's side, leaving a very realistic trail of blood.
"Nice touch, son," Tepperman hissed. "The old dying soldier trying to warn his superior officer. Good. Now play dead."
But the Marine clutched Tepperman's ankle more tightly than ever. He groaned. And through the groan came rattling words that were audible above the percussive cacophony of gunfire and tank clatter.
"Sir ... the bullets ... real," he choked out.
"Get a grip on yourself. It's only a movie. What have you been smoking? Loco weed?"
"I'm wounded ... sir. Bad. Look ... blood. "
"Squibs, man. Haven't you ever seen special effects before?"
"Sir ... listen ... to ... me...."
"Calm down," Tepperman said savagely. "That's Bart Bronzini in that lead tank. Get a grip on yourself. You'd think a Marine could stand the sight of fake blood. You make me sick to my stomach."
The Marine let go of Tepperman's ankle and reached under himself. He grimaced. When his hand came away, it was covered with dripping red matter.
"Here ... proof," he croaked. Then his cheek dropped to the ground.
Colonel Emile Tepperman looked at the red matter that had been plopped into his hand. It looked astonishingly like human viscera. On impulse, Tepperman sniffed it. It smelled like an open bowel wound; Commandant Tepperman knew that horrid smell well. He had done a tour in Vietnam.
Tepperman jumped to his feet, horror making the points of his mustache quirk like cat whiskers.
"Stop the action!" he cried. "Hold it! Something's gone wrong! This man is really wounded. Someone must have mixed up the ammunition."
The firing roared on, directed by Jiro Isuzu with an upraised sword.
"Isuzu! Bronzini! Bronzini!" Tepperman hollered hoarsely. "For God's sake, can't anyone hear me?" Not thinking, Commandant Emile Tepperman stepped off his mark. Unexpectedly, the blood squibs in his uniform erupted in all directions. He ignored them. "Stop this. Turn off those cameras!" Tepperman bellowed, without result. "Dammit," he muttered. "What's the word they use? Oh, right." He cupped his hands over his mouth. "Cut! Cut!"
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