Bronzini rolled the body over. One look at the face confirmed that it was a body. The man's eyes were wide open. His face was undamaged, but the expression on it was one of stark horror. The mask of the face had hardened with the mouth open in a frozen scream.
Bronzini wondered what had killed the man. There wasn't a mark on his body. Had Bronzini had the nerve to squeeze the body at any point, he would have felt the gravelly grit of pulverized bone under the skin instead of a skeleton structure.
Finding nothing, he got back into the tank and pushed on. Bronzini ran the tank around a sandhill, hoping for fewer sandhills beyond it. He got what he wanted.
Before him lay a sea of sand. And like motionless corks on the undulating waves were hundreds of bodies. Bronzini jockeyed the tank between them gingerly. It was a sight of unearthly stillness. Every body wore a parachute pack. They looked as if they had simply dropped dead as they walked through the sand.
It took a while for the enormity of it all to sink in. Bronzini might not have figured it out except that beside one of the bodies was a smoke canister stuck in the sand. It had been used.
"The fucking parachute drop," he said. His voice was etched with disbelief. He looked up into the sky. It all made sense then. The drop had been sabotaged.
Bronzini hunkered down in his seat and pulled the hatch closed. It was harder to pilot the tank using the periscope, but it was preferable. He didn't see as many staring dead.
Bartholomew Bronzini immediately picked up the tracks of heavy vehicles. He lined up on the tracks and followed them, figuring they would lead him to Yuma.
Along the way, he came upon an APC that lay, still smoking, in the sand. There was a horrible stench coming from it. He popped the hatch and circled the APC. The back was blown open, uniformed bodies hanging out the door like they had been expelled from a dragon's mouth. One of the bodies looked familiar. It wore a bush hat. The man who had worn that hat in life had been his military adviser through all three Grundy films. Jim Concannon.
"What is this shit?" Bronzini howled.
Bronzini didn't stop. He pointed the muttering T-62 toward Yuma and kept on going, pushing the tank as hard as he dared. He started to wonder if going to Yuma was such a smart idea after all. He tried not to think of what had happened back at MCAS Yuma. It made no sense. It was only a movie. But now that he knew the parachute drop had gone bad, all hope that the Marine unit had simply gone berserk evaporated. He felt cold inside. And he couldn't stop sneezing.
Bronzini drove all night long, fighting to keep awake. The coyotes helped. When the sun broke over the mountains, he popped the hatch.
He was astonished to see a man walking ahead of him in the clear dawn light. The man was striding through the desert at a steady, monotonous pace. Bronzini ran the tank up alongside the walking man.
"Yo!" he called over, struggling to keep the tank on course.
The man didn't respond. He simply walked in a direct line. Bronzini took in the profile of his face. The man's features looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place them. Bronzini saw that his face was red from a combination of sunburn and wind abrasion.
"Hey, I'm talking to you!" Bronzini shouted.
No reaction. Bronzini noticed the robotlike swing of his arms, the masklike impassivity of his face. It was devoid of expression, like something chopped out of rock. He wore desert utilities like those of the dead paratroopers, but his hung in rags, leaving the arms are and exposing the white of a T-shirt.
"Is it something I said?" Bronzini joked, not expecting a response. He was not disappointed. He tried again in a joking voice, "I don't suppose you can direct me to Yuma. I'm late for first call."
Nothing.
Finally, in frustration, Bronzini put his fingers into his mouth and gave an attention-demanding whistle. This time the man did react. His head swiveled like a jewelry display in a rotating pedestal. The metronomic swing of arms and legs continued without varying. But the eyes that looked back at Bartholomew Bronzini frightened him. They were as unwinking as a serpent's. Set deep in hollow sockets, they seemed to burn with a fanatical light against dry, wasted flesh. The guy's face looked dead. There was no other word for it.
"Why don't I go bother someone else?" Bronzini said suddenly.
The head swiveled back and the man kept walking. Bronzini stopped the tank. He watched the man walk, like an automaton, along the APC tracks.
It was only then that Bartholomew Bronzini noticed a curious thing. It caused him to turn the tank north and stomp the gas pedal down as hard as his combat boots could press.
The man was striding through sand so loose that the wind blew it off the prominences in hissing sprays. It was not hard-packed stuff at all.
Yet the man left no footprints behind him.
Nemuro Nishitsu looked up from the reports on his desk. The nameplate on the desk read "Mayor Basil Cloves." He had not bothered to change it. He did not expect to occupy this office for very long.
Jiro Isuzu bowed in greeting.
"A man insists upon meeting with you, Nishitsu san -san," he said in a respectful tone.
Nishitsu's old brow wrinkled distastefully. "Insists?"
"He is a Korean, very old. He claims to represent the American government. And he asks to hear your terms."
Nemuro Nishitsu put aside his reports. "How do you know he is Korean?" he demanded. "How did he get here?"
"I do not know the answer to your second question, but to the first, I can only say that he claims to be the Master of Sinanju."
Nishitsu raised a tired eyebrow.
"Sinanju? Here? In America? Is it possible?"
"I thought the line had died out."
Nishitsu shook his tremorous old head. "During the occupation of Korea," he said, "I heard stories of how our forces dared not enter one fishing village, called Sinanju. This village was respected, not for tradition's sake, but out of fear of reprisals. I will see him."
Nemuro Nishitsu waited pensively for Jiro Isuzu to return. He came back accompanied by a cold-eyed Korean in a vermilion kimono.
"I am Chiun, Reigning Master of Sinanju," the Korean said in excellent Japanese. His face lacked warmth. It also lacked respect.
Nishitsu frowned. "How did you come to be in this, of all cities?" he asked, also in Japanese.
"Think not that your evil scheme was hatched in total secrecy," Chiun said craftily.
Nemuro Nishitsu accepted this in silence. Then he said, "My aide, Jiro, informs me that you are with the Americans. How is it that the House of Sinanju has come to this?"
"I serve America," Chiun said haughtily. "Their gold is greater than that of any modern nation. The rest does not concern you. I am here to hear your terms."
Nemuro Nishitsu regarded the old Korean at length. His thin lips compressed into a bloodless line.
When he spoke, his words surprised Jiro Isuzu as much as they did the Master of Sinanju.
"I offer no terms."
"Are you mad?" Chiun spat. "You cannot hope to hold this city against the might of the Americans forever."
"Not forever, perhaps, but long enough."
"I do not understand. What is your purpose here?"
"It is about kao. It is about face."
"You and I understand face. But Americans do not."
"Some do. You will see. You will understand in time. Everyone will understand." Chiun's face puckered.
"What is to prevent me from extinguishing your life, here and now, Japanese?" he queried levelly.
Jiro Isuzu went for his sword. He was surprised that the Master of Sinanju simply stood there as he placed the tip of the blade before the old Korean's chest.
Chiun's eyes went to Nemuro Nishitsu.
"Do you value this bakayaro?" he asked quietly.
"He is my right arm," Nishitsu said. "Please do not kill him."
Jiro Isuzu could not believe what he was hearing. Did he not have the upper hand?
Nemuro Nishitsu's next words told him that despi
te all appearances, he did not.
"Jiro kun," Nishitsu whispered, "put that away. This man is an emissary. He must be treated with respect."
"But he threatened you," Isuzu protested.
"And he has the means to carry out that threat. But he will not, for he understands that if he spills my blood, there is nothing to prevent my soldiers from putting to the sword every man, woman, and child in this city. Now, put your sword away."
"Tradition demands I quench this sword in blood now that I have drawn it," Isuzu said stubbornly.
"If you wish to commit seppuku," Nishitsu told him coldly, "then it is your choice. Either way, you are dead. But do me the courtesy of not ensuring my death along with yours, and with it, the ruin of all we have achieved together."
Jiro Isuzu's face was stung. He lowered his eyes as the sword whispered back into its sheath. His chin quivered uncontrollably.
"Know, Japanese," Chiun said forcefully, "that if the lives of innocents were not in peril, I would rend your very heart and lay it steaming at your worthless feet."
"You may take my words back to your American masters," Nemuro Nishitsu said pointedly. "I will see that you are given safe passage to the desert."
"I have two others with me, a man and a woman. The man is of a tribe that dwells in the desert. It is there that I wish to go."
"Tribe?" Nishitsu said. His eyes sought Jiro.
"Indians," Jiro supplied. "They do not matter. Our tanks surround their land. They are known to be a peaceful tribe. None have ventured out, nor will they. Indians do not love the whites, their oppressors."
"Then go," Nishitsu told Chiun.
"One other matter," Chiun said quickly. "I demand to ransom the children. They are innocents. Whatever you intend by this outrage, they are not a part of this."
"They keep the adults passive. Fewer of my men die this way, and I am able to spare more Americans."
"Then the youngest of them," Chiun suggested. "The ones under eight years. Surely they are not necessary to your plans."
"The youngest ones are the most precious to their mothers and fathers," Nemuro Nishitsu said slowly. "But I might offer you, say, the students of one school if you will do something for me in return."
Curiosity wrinkled Chiun's wise face. "Yes?"
"I seek Bartholomew Bronzini. If you can deliver him to me, alive and in good condition, I will surrender to you the school of your choice."
Chiun frowned. "Bronzini is not your ally in this?"
"He is a pawn."
"I will consider your offer," said Chiun. And without bowing, he turned and left the mayor's office.
Jiro Isuzu followed him with hate-filled eyes. Then he turned to Nemuro Nishitsu.
"I do not understand. Why do you not offer terms?"
"You will see, Jiro kun. Is the television station ready?"
"Yes. "
"Then begin broadcasting."
"This will enrage their military."
"Better. It will humiliate them. They are impotent and soon the entire world will know it. Go now!"
The Master of Sinanju was silent all during the ride to the reservation, his eyes fixed on some imaginary point beyond the sand-scored windshield.
Neither Bill Roam nor Sheryl Rose tried to converse with him after Sheryl offered what she thought was a comforting suggestion.
"You know, Remo might not be dead. I read about a fellow who survived a skyjumping accident. It happens."
"He is dead," Chiun had said sadly. "I do not sense his mind. In the past, in times of great urgency, I have been able to touch him with my thoughts. I cannot now. Therefore he is no more."
Bill Roam was driving. They were in Sheryl's Nishitsu Ninja, which Chiun had restored to its wheels with what had seemed to be an effortless expenditure of strength. So stunned were they by the events of the day that neither Bill Roam nor Sheryl remarked on Chiun's many feats.
A single road led to the reservation. It was fenced off, but the gates were open. Beside it was a weatherbeaten wooden sign. The legend was half-obliterated by desert sun and wind-driven sand. The top line was nearly unreadable, except for the letter S at the beginning of an indecipherable word. The bottom line said: RESERVATION.
"I could not read the name of your tribe," Chiun said as they passed through the fence.
"You wouldn't know the name," Bill Roam replied dully. His eyes searched the road ahead as a line of cracked adobe buildings came into view.
"I did not suggest that I would," Chiun said flatly. "I asked the name."
"Some people call us Sunny Joes. That's where I get my nickname. I'm sort of the tribal guardian. It's a hereditary title, being a Sunny Joe. My father was one."
"Your tribe, they are mighty warriors?"
"Hell, no," Roam scoffed. "We're farmers. Even back before the white man came."
Chiun's brow wrinkled in puzzlement.
Bill Roam let out a relieved sigh as signs of life began to show in the doorways of the buildings they passed. He pulled up in front of one and got out.
"Hey, Donno, everything okay here?"
"Sure thing, Sunny Joe," a fat old man in blue jeans and a faded cowboy shirt replied. He clutched a bottle of Jim Beam. "What's doing?"
"There's trouble in the city. Spread the word. Nobody goes off the reservation unless I say so. And I want everyone in the meetinghouse inside of ten minutes. You hustle now, Donno."
"You got it, Sunny Joe," said the fat old man. He slipped the bottle into a back pocket and disappeared down the sidewalk, which was raised off the dusty street like an old-fashioned western boardwalk.
Bill Roam parked in front of the meetinghouse, a long wooden building that resembled an old-fashioned one-room schoolhouse right down to the rows of folding chairs inside. Roam went among the chairs, clapping them shut in his big hands. He stacked them against the walls with intent fury.
"Hope you don't mind squatting on the floor," he said after he cleared it. "It's clean."
"It is the preferred way in my village too," Chiun said. He gathered his skirts up and settled to the floor. Sheryl joined him. They watched as the reservation Indians drifted in, their faces sun-seamed and stoic. Most were older than Sunny Joe Roam. There were no children and very few women of any age.
Sheryl leaned over to Chiun. "Will you look at them! I've never been here before. But darned if they don't look sort of Asian about the eyes."
"Don't you read books?" Bill Roam said. "Every one of us sorry redskins came across the Aleutian Islands from Asia."
"I have never heard that," Chiun said.
"How could you, chief? You're one of the ones who got left behind. But it's a fact. If the anthropologists can be believed."
The last tribesmen slipped in and took their places on the floor in stony silence.
"That's everyone," the fat old man named Donno called out as he closed the door.
"You forgetting the chief?" Roam asked.
"Not me, Sunny Joe. He took off for Las Vegas with the money he got for leasing the reservation to that Bronzini fella. Said he was gonna double it or get drunk."
"Probably both," Roam muttered.
"What kind of leader deserts his people in their hour of need?" Chiun said querulously.
"A savvy one," Roam remarked dryly. He stood up; raising his hands, palms open. "These are my friends," he announced. "I bring them here because they seek retisae. The man is called Chiun. The girl is Sheryl. They are here because there is trouble in the city."
"What kind of trouble, Sunny Joe?" a wizened old man asked.
"An army has come from across the seas. They have captured the city."
The tribespeople turned to one another. They buzzed in conversation. As it settled down, an old woman with iron-gray pigtails asked, "Are we in danger, Sunny Joe?"
"Not now. But when the government sends in troops, we could be in the middle of a powerful lot of fighting."
"What can we do? We aren't fighters."
"I am the Sunny Joe of
this tribe," Bill Roam rumbled. "I will protect you. Don't anyone worry. When the bad times came, my father, the Sunny Joe before me, kept us fed. During the hard days of the last century, his father watched over his people. Before the whites came, your forebears lived in peace going back all the way to the days of the first Sunny Joe, Ko Jong Oh. This will not change while I walk the ground of our ancestors. "
Chiun had been listening to this with growing interest on his parchment face. His head snapped around suddenly.
"What name did you speak?" he insisted.
Roam looked over. "Ko Jong Oh. He was the first Sunny Joe."
"What is the name of this tribe?" Chiun demanded. "I must know."
"We are the Sun On Jos. Why?"
"I am known as the Master of Sinanju. The place I come from is called Sinanju. Does that name mean anything to you?"
"No," said Sunny Joe Roam. "Should it?"
"We have a legend among my people," said Chiun slowly, "of the sons of a Master of Sinanju, my ancestor, whose wife bore him two sons: One was named Kojing." Chiun paused. In a firm voice he added, "The other went by the name Kojong."
"Ko Jong Oh was the progenitor of the Sun On Jos," Roam said slowly. "Coincidence."
"It is tradition that the son of the Master of Sinanju be trained to follow in his father's footsteps," Chiun said, his voice rising so that everyone heard him clearly. "For Masters of Sinanju were great warriors. But only one Master of Sinanju could exist in a generation. The mother of Kojing and Kojong knew this. And she knew that if the father of the boys learned she had borne him twins, one would be put to death to prevent a dangerous rivalry when they became men. But the mother of the two youths could not bring herself to do this. She concealed Kojong from his own father. And when it became time to train Kojing, the mother artfully switched babies every other day, so that both Kojing and Kojong were trained in what we call the art of Sinanju."
Chiun's hazel eyes swept the faces in the room. The eyes that looked back were so like those of his own village, far away on the West Korea Bay. The men and the old men. They had unfamiliar faces, but each was touched by something Chiun recognized.
Chiun resumed his story, his voice deepening.
"The father, who was called Nonja, never knew this, for he was old when he sired the twins. His eyes were failing. Thus, the artifice went unsuspected. And one day, Master Nonja died, He went into the Void never knowing that he left behind two heirs, not one. On that day, Kojing and Kojong appeared together in the village for the first time, and the truth was revealed for all to see. No one knew what to do, and for the first time in history, there were two Masters of Sinanju."
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