As they drove past Kennedy Memorial Park, they saw the bodies twisting in the trees.
"Hell!" Roam exploded. "Don't look now, but they hung the City Council."
A T-62 tank suddenly lunged from the park like a sluggish spider from its lair. Sheryl hit the brakes. The Ninja slewed wildly. She pulled hard on the wheel and sent the machine in a tight circle.
Too tight, as it turned out. The Nishitsu Ninja heeled like a sloop in a stiff crosswind. It went over on its side and it slid until friction brought it to a halt.
Chiun flung the door open and crawled out. Bill Roam unfolded his long lanky frame after him. Together they pulled Sheryl from the interior.
The T-62 clanked to a halt.
Swiftly the overturned vehicle was surrounded by tight-faced Japanese.
"You surrender!" one spat fiercely.
"Dammit, they got us!" Sheryl said woozily. "All right, we-"
"No!" Chiun said coldly. "We will never surrender." The Japanese stepped closer.
"For God's sake," Sheryl hissed, "they'll shoot us."
"You surrender, woman!" the Japanese repeated.
Before Sheryl could say anything, Chiun snapped, "None of us will surrender. We demand to be taken to your leader."
The Japanese hesitated. Their rifle muzzles quivered nervously. Finally the squad leader relaxed slightly. "Okay, we take you," he said.
"Do as they say," Chiun whispered. "The Japanese despise those who surrender. Trust me."
"Look, chief," Bill Roam protested, "I can't go along with this. We may not be prisoners exactly, but we sure as hell ain't free either. I've got to get to my people."
"You are no good to them dead," Chiun warned.
Roam's big fists were clenched tightly. His sun-squint eyes switched between the encircling Japanese.
"My people depend on me," he said quietly.
"I understand your concern. Do as I say, and you may live to see them again. "
"And if they're dead?"
"Then I will help you avenge them," Chiun promised, his steely eyes on the Japanese.
"I'm going to count on that," Roam said as the Japanese yanked them apart and searched them for weapons. Roam endured it stoically, his arms raised. Sheryl's face turned a bright red as two soldiers ran their hands up and down her tight dungarees. Chiun slapped the first Japanese who dared to lift the hem of his kimono. The second one lost the use of his hands. None of the others made a move toward him after that.
They were marched at gunpoint down the center of the deserted street. The sun was setting. The T-62 muttered behind them.
"What do you think is going to happen to us?" Roam asked out of the side of his mouth.
"I will meet the man who has killed my son."
"And what are you going to do when you meet him?" Sheryl asked nervously.
"I do not know," Chiun admitted.
Sheryl and Sunny Joe both looked at the impassive face of the Master of Sinanju. It was fixed, as if preserved by a veneer of beeswax. His old eyelids squeezed into walnut slits.
The Nishitsu corporate jet circled Yuma International Airport while tanks were withdrawn from the runway. Jiro Isuzu watched it touch down. He stood at attention in his PLA uniform, his ancestral samurai sword at his hip. Behind him, a black Lincoln Continental limousine waited like a hearse. As the jet rolled to a whining halt, an honor guard of his men rushed to form two lines between him and the aircraft.
The ramp dropped and down the stairs came Nemuro Nishitsu. He wore a dark business suit. His white shirtfront seemed radiant in the late-evening chill. It was unseasonably cold in Yuma, and Jiro Isuzu was shaken by the difficulty with which his mentor negotiated the steps.
Nemuro Nishitsu walked down the steps on uncertain feet. But he walked alone and unassisted, a cane draped over one hand. He seemed close to falling.
When he reached the ground, he walked stiffly to his second in command. Jiro Isuzu bowed low, saying, "Greetings, Nishitsu san san," he used the most respectful form of address possible.
Nishitsu returned the bow.
"You have brought great honor to the emperor's memory, Jiro kun," Nemuro Nishitsu said quietly. His eyes shone. Isuzu thought he would weep with joy, but Nishitsu did not weep. Instead, he asked a question.
"Has there been any communication from the American government?"
"No, sir. As I told you by radio, we have shot down several reconnaissance planes. There have been none since afternoon."
Nemuro Nishitsu looked up. He wore a Westernstyle porkpie hat and had to crane to see beyond the brim. His chin quivered with the effort.
"They will use their satellites to look down upon us," he quavered. "And they will fail on this night."
Jiro nodded, looking up at the high cirrus clouds.
"It is cold, sir. Will you come now? I have an entire city to lay at your feet."
Nishitsu nodded, and allowed Isuzu to open the limousine's rear door. Jiro took Nishitsu by the elbow and guided him into the roomy interior. Isuzu hopped in.
The driver pulled out of the airport. The honor guard broke up and returned to their tanks. Within moments, the runway was blocked again.
In the speeding limousine, Nemuro Nishitsu asked the question Jiro Isuzu expected.
"Your captured television stations, will they transmit?"
"Our engineers have familiarized themselves with the transmitting equipment. We can broadcast your demands at any moment you choose."
"I wish to broadcast no demands at this time," Nishitsu said dismissively.
Jiro Isuzu frowned. Before he could comment, Nemuro Nishitsu put to him the question he dreaded.
"Where are you holding Bronzini?"
Isuzu hesitated. He lowered his eyes in shame. Nishitsu's voice was disapproving. "I understood you pacified the city and all who dwell in it."
"Bronzini escaped in a tank during action at Luke Air Force Range. He disappeared into a sandstorm. Our captured F-16's have been unable to spot him."
Nemuro Nishitsu's wizened visage darkened. "We need Bronzini," he said firmly.
"But he has served his purpose."
"We need him. Find him. Find Bronzini." Nishitsu pounded the floor with his cane. His eyes squeezed into black slits of venom. His voice was cold as the desert night.
Isuzu swallowed uncomfortably. "At once, sir," said Jiro Isuzu as he picked up the cellular phone, saying, "Moshi moshi." He wondered why his superior wanted the American actor, who was no longer necessary now that Yuma had been conquered. But he dared not question him. For Jiro Isuzu was only midoru-middle management.
When the mobile operator answered in Japanese, Jiro Isuzu asked to be put through to Imperial Command Headquarters at the Shilo Inn.
Admiral William Blackbird, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, leapt to his feet as the President of the United States entered the Situation Room in the White House basement.
"Mr. President, sir," he said, executing a snappy salute.
The President did not return it. The remaining members of the joint Chiefs pointedly stood with their hands dangling at their sides. And Admiral Blackbird knew he had stepped in it, tactical-wise.
"How was your game, sir?" he asked brightly.
"I lost," the President said sourly in his homogenized Connecticut-Texas-Maine accent. "Let's have the straight skinny on this emergency thing." He wore a white Wndbreaker over a red sweater vest.
"Yes, sir. In a phrase: We've lost Yuma, Arizona. These satellite photographs have just been received from NORAD."
The President leaned over the stack of photographs. They were still wet from their chemical bath.
One particularly grisly set of photos showed scores of bodies lying in sand.
"You're looking at the bodies of airmen from Luke Air Force Range," the admiral said. "We believe they were pushed from aircraft. They're all dead."
"This one looks like he's walking away," the President said, tapping a photo showing an apparently upright man.
&
nbsp; "Probably an optical illusion. Nobody walks away from a fall like that. Maybe he struck feetfirst and rigor mortis did the rest."
Other photos showed ordinary city streets, deserted of people and moving traffic. Except for the tanks and armored personnel carriers.
"Whose tanks are these?" the President demanded. The Secretary of Defense, who had entered with the President, spoke up a beat before the chairman could frame his answer.
"They're Soviet," he said confidently.
Because that was the answer he was going to give, Admiral Blackbird contradicted the Secretary of Defense. "Not necessarily," he said. "They could easily be Chinese. The main Chinese battle tank is a knockoff of the Soviet T-62. These are T-62's."
"Yes, they are T-62's," the Secretary of Defense insisted just as firmly. "Soviet T-62's."
"None of these photos show markings," Admiral Blackbird countered. "Without markings, we can only make an educated guess."
"And mine," the secretary said pointedly, "is that they are Soviet machines."
"In other words," the President interrupted, "neither of you can give me a straight answer."
"It's not that simple," the Secretary of Defense said. Deciding that he was about to be outflanked, Admiral Blackbird quickly added, "I concur with the secretary." The sour expression that crossed the President's face told the admiral that he had made another tactical mistake. It also told him that the secretary had taken the President in horseshoes. No wonder the old man was ticked off.
The President sighed. "Is there any indication of this thing spreading?"
"No, sir. They-whoever they are-have Yuma. They appear to be consolidating their position. But we can't be sure that the city isn't merely a staging area."
"By gosh, how many soldiers can there be?"
"We estimate no more than a brigade."
"Is that as big as it sounds?"
"Normally a brigade could be isolated and easily neutralized, Mr. President. Not in this case. If you'll take a look at this map, you'll understand."
The President followed the others to a wall map of Arizona. The admiral poked Yuma with a fat finger. "As you can see," he rumbled, "Yuma is completely isolated. It's entirely surrounded by desert and mountains. The Mexican border is only twenty-five miles south, and the border with California a mere stone's throw west. It's entirely self-sufficient for its electric and water needs. It's surrounded by three military installations, MCAS Yuma, the Yuma Proving Grounds, and Luke Air Force Range. The invader apparently overran Luke and the Marine Air Station by force. Using aircraft captured during those operations, they bombed the Army proving grounds here to the north. It was a brilliant tactical and strategic move. In one stroke, they acquired a staggering air defense capability they could never have hoped to bring into our borders. F/A-18 Hornets, AV-8B Harriers, and Cobra attack helicopters. As we've already discovered, when we send our planes in, they shoot them down. At the moment, we're stalemated."
"Are you telling me that we can't retake our own city?" the President demanded.
"It's not that we can't, it's that we don't yet know who our enemy is. The dogfight suggests highly trained Russian pilots, but the Chinese can't be ruled out."
"Why don't we put feelers out to both governments. You know, kinda take their temperature?"
"We can't do that, Mr. President. It would show weakness and indecision."
"And what are we showing here? So far, I haven't heard a concrete suggestion out of anyone in this room."
"There's a reason for that, Mr. President. They have two of our air bases, and all the communications equipment that goes with them."
"My God," said the Secretary of Defense as he realized the importance of the admiral's words.
"Don't tell me they've captured nuclear weapons," the President demanded.
"Worse than that," the admiral replied. "We have to assume they're listening in on our message traffic. If we go to Defcon One-which I do recommend-they'll know it. Normal contingency for a situation such as this would be to mobilize the Eighty-second Airborne out of Fort Bragg, but we'd have no element of surprise. We can't make a move without their seeing it coming. Whoever these people are, they are tactically brilliant. They pinpointed the most isolated, vulnerable, yet defendable city in the nation. In one bold stroke they have coopted our entire military communications network and all our ground assets in the war zone."
"War zone . . . the President muttered. "How?"
"This is where it gets sticky, Mr. President. We've had no inkling of any military activity that could be read as a precusor to a strike of this brilliance. We are assuming that the tanks came across the Mexican border."
"Wouldn't we have detected them?"
"Er, it may be that we let them in."
"Explain," the President said tightly.
"Customs allowed a tank column to legally enter this country only two days ago. They were to be used in the making of a film. Simultaneously, permission was given to film scenes at MCAS Yuma and Luke. We believe that's how the bases were penetrated."
"The Pentagon allowed this?"
"We thought it would be good for the image of the service branches involved," the admiral said defensively.
"I don't understand."
"It was a Bartholomew Bronzini film. I think it's Grundy IV."
"No," piped up the commandant of the Marines Corps, "it's not a Grundy at all. It involves another character. A new one."
Everyone looked at him as if to say, "Thanks loads for the non sequitur." All except the President, who was looking at the floor in stunned silence.
"Sir?" asked Admiral Blackbird.
The President looked up from his thoughts. "Go to Defcon One. Continue to monitor the situation. I'll get back to you."
"Where will you be?" the admiral asked, surprised at the President's sudden forcefulness.
"I'll be in the john," said the President as he slammed the Situation Room door behind him.
The admiral looked at the Secretary of Defense and asked a low question.
"How bad did you take him?"
"Bad enough," the secretary said morosely, "that I'm going to make a point of losing every match for the remainder of the President's first term."
The President of the United States did not go to the bathroom. He went directly to the Lincoln Bedroom and to the top drawer of a nightstand, which he pulled open to reveal a red telephone with a smooth blank area where a dial would normally be. He lifted the receiver.
The sound of ringing penetrated his ear. After only one ring, a lemony voice asked, "Yes, Mr. President?"
"Is your man still in Yuma?"
"Actually, both of them are."
"Have you had any contact in the last few hours?"
"No," Smith admitted. "This is a routine assignment. Check-ins are not necessary. Is there a problem?"
"We've lost all communication with Yuma. There are tanks in the streets."
"It is a war movie," Smith pointed out.
"Well, it's turned real. A Marine air station and an Air Force range are in unfriendly hands. They already shot down two recon patrols."
"Oh, my God," said Harold W. Smith. "This is a Japanese production, isn't it?"
"Yes, you know it is. The Nishitsu Group is behind it. "
"The Japanese are supposed to be our allies. Is there any chance that this is actually a Soviet or Chinese operation? Could Nishitsu be a dummy corporation or something?"
"If so," Smith returned, "then the situation is graver than Yuma. There are literally hundreds of Nishitsu plants in the country. But I do not believe that theory makes sense. Nishitsu is too big. They're definitely Japanese."
"How about Japanese Red Army connections? They're among the most vicious terrorists in the world."
"Doubtful."
"Smith, use your computers," the President rapped out. "Dig into Nishitsu's background. Find out everything you can about them. I need answers."
"Specifically, Mr. President?"
&n
bsp; "Specifically, why they would invade the U.S. I need something I can take to the Japanese ambassador. Maybe we can sort this out quietly."
"Mr. President," Smith said sternly, "if what you tell me is true, we have an American city under occupation. I do not think this is something that can be negotiated away. It calls for a swift response."
"That's why I came to you, but you can't reach your people. "
"If Remo and Chiun are in the area, you can be assured that they will not stand idly by while an American city is overrun."
"You're using the wrong tense, Smith. Yuma has been overrun. It's fallen to the Japanese or whoever these people are. And where are your people?"
Smith had no answer to that.
The President continued. "If I unleashed our military, the civilian casualties would be enormous. No, I can't have that. Quiet diplomacy, Smith. This must be solved with quiet diplomacy. Get back to me as soon as you can."
The President hung up. Miles away, Dr. Harold W. Smith hunched over his computer terminal. As his fingers flew over the keys, he wondered what could have happened to Remo and Chiun.
Chapter 17
It was bad enough, thought Bartholomew Bronzini, that he had been shot at by a crazed movie crew. It was bad enough that he had been chased out into the desert with his tail between his legs. Running from a fight was not Bartholomew Bronzini's style, in real life or on the screen.
But as night fell over the desert and the cold got worse, he started sneezing over and over.
"Perfect," he said, trying to keep the T-62 tank pointed at Yuma. "Just when it couldn't get worse, I've caught a freaking cold."
Bronzini had run the tank blindly through the desert until he knew he was in the clear. The sandstorm had long since died down. There was no water. Just mountains and low rippling desert sand as far as the eye could see. He had to go around the mountains frequently in order to stay on course for Yuma. The detours cost him all sense of direction.
Bronzini was no longer sure that he was still headed toward Yuma.
He came across the bodies quite unexpectedly. First there was a man lying in his way. Bronzini stopped the tank and leapt out of the driver's pit. He went to the body, which lay on its stomach, clad in desert utilities. An unused parachute pack was strapped to the body.
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