Shooting Schedule td-79

by Warren Murphy

  "You're on," he told Remo, as wind rushed into the cargo bay. "Happy landings!"

  The men went out single file, clutching their chest packs. Once out, the wind whipped them to one side. Their drag lines pulled taut from static-line tension.

  So rapidly did they jump that the last man in each transport was in free-fall before the first chutes deployed. The first man in the lead plane was Colonel Frederick Davis. He had served his country for over ten years in peacetime and he was never prouder of himself than on this day as he led his men into cinematic greatness. He didn't notice that his back chute hadn't deployed. He twisted his head around and saw that, above him, his men were falling, their arms jerking like the legs of beetles that had been turned on their backs.

  He realized their chutes weren't yet open. And, with a shock, that his hadn't deployed either.

  "Goddamn cheap Japanese equipment!" he snapped. He yanked the D-ring of his reserve chute.

  "Jesus Christ!" The ring had pulled free of the tab. He threw the useless ring away and grabbed at the tab with both hands. He pulled. The tab tore free like cheesecloth, leaving a tiny shred. Cursing, Colonel Davis pinched at that little shred with his fingertips. It was all that stood between him and a hard, hard landing.

  Colonel Davis was so absolutely enthralled by that ragged, frayed bit of cloth that time seemed to stand still. The piece of frayed nylon became his whole world. He pulled at it until it was down to three threads. And even though it was hopeless, he pulled at those too.

  But time wasn't standing still-not when you're falling at terminal velocity.

  Colonel Frederick Davis struck the Yuma Desert so hard he bounced four feet. He was only the first of many. Remo Williams was the last to leave his plane by a scant second. He felt a tug as the drag line, still attached to the static line, pulled free. It felt weaker than he expected. But he wasn't worried.

  He began to worry when he realized that although there were approximately five hundred airmen freefalling in nine lines that stretched for nearly two miles above the desert floor, he wasn't seeing any parachutes. Including his own.

  Remo went for his D-ring. It tore free of the tab. Remo threw the tab away and clawed at the folds of his reserve chute. The canvas separated and a billowing eruption of white silk spewed in front of him.

  The updraft filled the chute. It turned into a white bell, as perfect as a big silk flower.

  Remo vented a gusty sigh of relief. The sigh was short-lived as Remo realized that while the parachute was floating gracefully above him, he continued dropping like a stone.

  The shroud lines had pulled free of their anchorage. Remo looked down and saw a gentle puff of sand. It looked like smoke. Another puff followed it. And another. And then, as the first concentration of bodies reached the ground, there came a silent spattering of puffs, which repeated until the beige desert floor erupted into a pocked lunar landscape, and Remo realized that he was witnessing cold-blooded, wholesale murder in which he was simply the last to die.

  Chapter 13

  The waitress at the Shilo Restaurant and Lounge set two steaming plates on the table.

  The Master of Sinanju looked at the boiled brown rice on his plate and his face broke into a pleased smile. His hazel eyes shifted to Sheryl Rose's plate and his mouth wilted in prim disapproval.

  Sheryl Rose let the succulent smell of steak fill her nostrils and start her mouth juices flowing. She regarded Chiun's brown rice with muted distaste.

  "How can you eat that for breakfast?" she asked.

  "How can you eat that at all?" Chiun snapped back.

  "I'm a western gal. I was raised on steak and home fries for breakfast."

  "It is a wonder you survived your childhood," Chiun sniffed disapprovingly.

  "You're right welcome," Sheryl returned tartly. What a pain, she thought. Well, it beat holding up cue cards for the local news airheads.

  "There's no one in the production office," Sheryl told Chiun after they had chewed their food in silence for several moments. "No call sheets either. 'Course, if there were, I'm not sure I could read them, But it is powerful odd, you know."

  They were seated in a window booth with a spectacular panoramic view of farmland north of Yuma. Beyond, flat desert stretched for miles. It seemed to reach all the way to the Mohawk Mountains.

  "I do know," Chiun returned. "There is something wrong with this so-called shooting schedule."

  "You're not going to start with that Alexander stuff? I mean, you're not going to write it up that way."

  "A true author does not discuss his work before he has written it," Chiun said flatly.

  Sheryl sighed as she cut off a wedge of steak. Red juices ran freely, causing Chiun to look away. He noticed, high over the desert floor, three tiny dots. To his magnificent eyes, the dots resolved into bulky aircraft. Tiny figures began to drop from them like jimmies falling off an ice-cream cone.

  "They are performing the parachute fall," Chiun said testily. "Why are we not there to observe it?"

  Sheryl looked up. "What?"

  "There," Chiun said, pointing. "They are doing it."

  Sheryl squinched her gray eyes. "I don't see anything."

  "Are you blind? They fill the sky."

  "All I see are a couple of itty bitty dots."

  "There are three of those. They are aircraft."

  "If you say so," Sheryl said, returning to her steak. "I can't make out a dang thing."

  "There are men falling from those planes."

  "I don't see any parachutes."

  Chiun's voice was cold. "There are no parachutes. They are falling to their death."

  "Oh, go on. That can't be."

  "I see them as clearly as I see you," Chiun insisted.

  "Probably dummies. It must be a rehearsal run."

  "I see their limbs waving in terror," Chiun said.

  "Probably the updraft. It's fierce. Can you imagine jumping out of one of those things? Brrr. Gives me chills, thinking about it. Know what I mean?"

  "Yes," Chiun said. "I feel such a chill even now." He stood up. "Come, we must investigate this."

  "Why?"

  "Because while you were devouring the bloodied flesh of some unfortunate cow, many hundreds of men have been falling to their doom."

  "Now, listen you-" Sheryl started to say. The brittle look in the Master of Sinanju's eyes stopped her, a piece of red beef suspended on a fork before her face.

  "Okay," she said as she signed the bill, "one less steak in my life isn't going to be missed, I guess. Although it was a good one.

  They walked out to the parking lot in silence.

  "I was unable to reach Remo," Chiun said tightly.

  "Your friend? I plumb forgot you were looking for him. Don't you worry, Sunny Joe probably took him out on the town-what there is of it."

  "Was Remo to participate in the parachute scene?"

  "Probably. I don't know. If we could scrounge up a call sheet, I could tell you. Why?"

  "Because if he did, then he is now dead. And a terrible price will be exacted from those who were responsible."

  Sheryl suddenly understood why the tiny Korean's cold demeanor had quelled her will to resist him. She said nothing as she opened the door to her jeep.

  Chiun noticed that a chrome plate on the glove compartment said: "Nishitsu Ninja."

  "Why is this vehicle called that? Ninja?"

  "It's advertised as the Stealth jeep," Sheryl told him as she turned the key in the ignition. "But everyone knows it is because of the sneaky way it will tip on you when you take a corner. Jiro stuck me with this thing until my replacement is shipped."

  Chiun nodded. "True ninjas fall over without reason as well. Usually due to rice wine."

  "That explains why this beast guzzles gas like she does," Sheryl muttered as she took Route 8 east. "You're really fretting about your friend, aren't you?"

  Chiun said nothing.

  "Now, look. We'll just go to Luke and see for ourselves. And don't you wor
ry," she added, patting Chiun's bony silk-covered knee, "I'm sure your friend is fine."

  Chiun lifted Sheryl's hand from his person and replaced it on the steering wheel.

  "We have a destination," Chiun snapped. "I suggest you take us to it."

  "You're the boss," Sheryl told Chiun as she sent the jeep toward the city outskirts.

  They were surprised when they passed a lone T-62 tank on the way.

  "That little dogie must have strayed from the herd," Sheryl remarked. Chiun ignored her. He was looking at the city skyline. A column of smoke suddenly boiled up from the downtown area.

  Seconds later, there came a distant boom and the jeep began to slew from side to side.

  "My goodness," Sheryl said. "They weren't kidding when they said these Ninjas are prone to falling on their sides. A little piece of thunder and we almost turned turtle."

  "That was not thunder," Chiun intoned. Sheryl peered past Chiun's parchment profile.

  "Fire," she decided. "Wonder where it is."

  "That was an explosion," Chiun intoned.

  Before Sheryl could say another word, two more explosions rocked the city. Sheryl had to pull over, the Nishitsu Ninja began bucking so hard.

  "My God, will you look at that?" she said. "They must be shooting in the city."

  "No, those were bombs."

  "Probably gasoline charges. I saw them rig a few the other day. They look like those plastic pillows with red cough syrup in them. But they are gasoline. Supposed to make a big blast and column of fire. They do amazing things with special effects, as you probably know."

  "We must hurry," Chiun urged.

  "Okay," Sheryl said, taking off again. "But if I hear another loud noise, I'm pulling over right quick."

  At the point on Route 8 where the city stopped and desolation began, the road was blocked by two desert-camouflage T-72's parked hull to hull. Their fudgeripple turrets were turned sideways so that one pointed toward them and the other down the road to the desert.

  "They aren't supposed to be filming way out here," Sheryl muttered as she slowed the Ninja. The tanks did not part for her, so she leaned on the horn.

  A Japanese in a Chinese PLA uniform popped the turret hatch and scrambled down to the road. He unlimbered an AK-47 and pointed it at the jeep as he advanced in a classic "marching fire" stance.

  "Road crosed!" he barked.

  "What?" Sheryl called.

  "That cretin is trying to tell you that the road is closed," Chiun said flatly.

  "I know that. Now, hush up a minute while I get this straightened out."

  Sheryl pushed her head out of the driver's window. "I'm Sheryl," she called. "I work for Jiro Isuzu as unit publicist. We're trying to get out to Luke. Would you mind making way?"

  Another Japanese came out of the tank. This one lugged a video camera on his shoulder. He knelt down beside the tank and sighted through the lens.

  "Why the heck are they filming us?" Sheryl wondered. "And with a camcorder to boot."

  "Road crosed. Go back!" the Japanese with the AK-47 shouted again.

  Sheryl muttered, "He probably doesn't speak English. Wait. Maybe the tank driver can help us out." Sheryl alighted from the jeep and, leaving the driver's door open, started for the Japanese. Her cowboy boots covered exactly seven steps; then the Japanese gave a hiss like a cat and let go with a short burst. Sheryl jumped nearly a foot. The noise was suddenly all around her. A burst of pops in front and a rattling drumroll behind her. The drumroll worried her the most. Blanks didn't make sounds striking targets, she knew. The paper wadding burned away in flight.

  She looked back at her open door. It was riddled with vicious black holes. The glass had shattered.

  "Are you insane!" Sheryl screamed at him. Her pretty face worked angrily, but she didn't budge from where she stood. She couldn't because, as impossible as it seemed with a camera taping her, the extra had been firing real bullets.

  "Is this a take?" Sheryl stuttered nervously.

  The Japanese laughed raucously. "Hai!" he said. "We take city."

  "No, no, I mean, is this going to be in the film?"

  "Hai." He started to line up on her stomach. Sheryl hesitated. Her heart was pounding high in her throat. Her brain fought two conflicting emotions. Disbelief and a palpable fear of that deadly weapon pointing at her.

  "Do you mind lowering that thing?" Sheryl said in a voice that sounded stretched too tight.

  The Japanese tightened down on the trigger.

  He stopped at the sound of a pungent word delivered in a squeaky voice.

  Sheryl looked back over her shoulder. "No! Don't shoot him!" she cried.

  For the little Korean named Chiun was out of the jeep and striding for the Japanese, his fists clenched like ivory bone, his sweet face now a mask of cold fury. The AK-47 burped smoke and noise.

  The Korean danced to one side. It was an elegant little two-step. He kept coming on the Japanese. Sheryl blinked. Had the gun been loaded with blanks after all? She looked back at her car door. Still riddled. And off to the side of the road, a cluster of puffs marked the impact points of the rounds Chiun had avoided.

  The Japanese hunkered down and braced the rifle stock against his hip. Barely ten feet separated him from his intended target.

  Sheryl couldn't bear to look. She covered her face and twisted around. A horrible high-pitched scream assaulted her ears and she transferred her hands to them to keep out the sound of the poor Korean gentleman's death screams. They were unearthly. It sounded like he was being torn limb from limb-although no more shots rattled out.

  Slowly, Sheryl found the courage to turn around. She was on her knees in the middle of the road. The Japanese with the AK-47 was flat on his back. The one with the video camera was the one who was screaming.

  He was attempting to clamber onto the open tank. Chiun had caught him by one ankle. Even though the Japanese was much younger than the Korean and outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, he was howling as if an alligator had snapped at his foot.

  It was unbelievable. And then it became absurd. Chiun pulled the cameraman to the ground. One sandal lashed out. Sheryl could almost feel the gravely crunching sound of the cameraman's skull fragmenting. Then Chiun was atop the tank.

  A helmeted head lifted up from the other tank's turret. Chiun pushed it back in and slapped the hatch shut. He hammered on it rapidly and stepped to the forward hull. He stamped on the driver's hatch, then leapt to the second tank. He performed some violent manipulation on that tank's hatches.

  Sheryl knew they were violent because metal squealed like mice under the old Oriental's nimble fingers. Chiun alighted and padded back to her. He stopped, his hands sliding into his voluminous sleeves.

  "You may go around these Japanese deceivers without fear for your safety," he intoned.

  Sheryl followed Chiun to the jeep and got into the driver's seat, pulling the shattered door closed. The bullet-chewed handle came off in her hand.

  Before she could start the engine, reaction set in. She hugged herself and started to worry her lower lip with her teeth.

  "My God! What's happening here?" she asked weakly.

  "They are taking Yuma," Chiun said. "And they will be punished. First we must see to Remo's fate." Getting a grip on herself, Sheryl got the jeep going. She drove it over the sand and around the tanks and back onto the road on the other side. As they passed the tanks, she could hear frantic yelling coming from inside the vehicles. It was in Japanese. The tone was universal, however. The tank crews were trapped. But they were not helpless, as Sheryl realized when she caught a flicker of movement in her rearview mirror. The turret cannon was elevating. It coughed a blast of dirty smoke and flame.

  A geyser of sand erupted beside the road. Sheryl pressed the accelerator to the floor. She no longer questioned what was happening. It was happening and she wanted only to get away from it.

  There were Red Chinese tanks blocking the main gate to Luke Air Force Range. But that was not the strange thi
ng. On the flagpole near the guard box, a white flag was flying. It was not the white flag of surrender. In its center was a blood-red ball.

  "Call me superstitious," Sheryl said, turning off the engine suddenly. She let the jeep coast to the side of the road. "But I don't think we should go in there."

  "A wise decision," Chiun said. "You will stay here." He got out of the jeep.

  "Where the heck do you think you're going?" she called after him.

  "I seek my son. I will return."

  "You and MacArthur," Sheryl muttered. She clutched the steering wheel anxiously. Her arms trembled. And up in the impossibly blue sky, the first of three C-130 Hercules transport planes were coming in on approach.

  The Master of Sinanju drifted to the air-base perimeter fence. It was a wire-link fence. Chiun's fingernails slipped into the holes like so many darning needles. They clicked busily. Links snapped and parted. A tear opened up in the fence like a rip in a screen door.

  Chiun slipped through quietly. He moved from low building to shrubbery. He passed many Japanese attired in their ridiculous Chinese military uniforms. Whom did they think they were trying to fool? Chiun wondered. It was so transparent.

  He found his way to the flight line, where several tanks were moving in the shelter of a row of hangars. Chiun saw a Japanese in a captain's uniform lunging about, directing his men into positions.

  The first transport rolled to a halt. The second touched the tarmac with a barking of landing wheels. The third was fast behind it.

  The pilots took a long time to shut down the engines after the C-130's rolled to a stop, wing tip to wing tip. Before they could emerge, the drop gate of the third plane eased down and Bill Roam, known as Sunny Joe, walked out on wobbly knees.

  Oblivious of the men moving on him, he sank to the grass and put his head in his hands, and began making long arduous retching noises.

  Two Japanese tried to haul him to his feet.

  That was a mistake. Bill Roam got to his feet like a water buffalo breaking the surface. He decked one Japanese with his first punch. The other took three punches. Two to the stomach and one which turned the man completely around before sprawling him on the grass.

  "You bastards!" he screamed. "You cheap motherloving bastards!" He shouted it to the sky. When his head came down, his eyes saw the helmeted Japanese marching toward him. They were fixing bayonets.