Shooting Schedule td-79

by Warren Murphy

  "I didn't know," Bronzini squeezed out through set teeth. "I had no idea this was gonna happen."

  "Responsibility has nothing to do with intent. Your innocence is obvious. Otherwise you would not be fleeing from this army. Still, you will do as I say."

  "Please, Mr. Bronzini, they're only children." It was a girl's voice. That publicity girl, Sheryl. "Everyone thinks of you as a hero. I know that's only in movies, but none of this would have happened if it wasn't for you."

  "All right, all right," Bronzini groaned. The pain went away. Not slowly, the way pain sometimes recedes. But abruptly, as if it hadn't ever existed in the first place.

  Bronzini stood up. He checked his left wrist, the focal point of his pain. There was no mark or cut. He looked at the long fingernails of the tiny Korean who called himself Chiun as they disappeared into his sleeves.

  "I want you to know I didn't say yes because of the pain," he said stubbornly.

  "Whatever you tell your conscience is your business, Greekling," Chiun sniffed.

  "I just had to get used to the idea," he insisted. "And why do you call me Greek? I'm Italian."

  "Today you might possibly be Italian. Before, you were a Greek."

  "Before what?"

  "He means in another life," Sheryl said. "Don't ask me why, but he thinks you were Alexander the Great in a previous life."

  Bronzini looked his skepticism. "I've had worse things said about me," he said dryly. "Most people think I crawl out of the La Brea Tar Pits once a year to make a movie. "

  "Do you have a cold?" Sheryl suddenly asked, "Your voice sounds real nasaly."

  "How can you tell?" Chiun sniffed.

  "I resent that!" Bronzini said. "Okay, never mind. Let's just get this over with."

  Chiun turned to Bill Roam, who was standing with his arms folded. "The woman stays with you," he told the big Indian. "If we do not return, I ask you a favor."

  "Sure. What?"

  "When this is over, if I have not returned, go into the desert and recover the body of my son. See that he receives a proper burial."

  "Done."

  "Then you will avenge us both."

  "If I can."

  "You can. I have seen the greatness in you."

  And without another word, the Master of Sinanju pushed Bartholomew Bronzini to the waiting tank. "You will drive," he said.

  "What happens if they just kill us?" Bronzini wondered.

  "Then we will die," said Chiun. "But we will cost them dearly."

  "I'm with you on that," Bronzini agreed as he eased into the driver's cockpit. Chiun climbed onto the turret like a nimble monkey. He ignored the open hatch and assumed a lotus position beside it.

  Bronzini looked back and remarked, "You're gonna fall off."

  "See to your driving, Greekling," Chiun said sternly. "I will attend to my balance."

  Bronzini started the tank. The engine made wounded mechanical sounds, but eventually the machine turned on one track toward the reservation gate.

  "What do you think they'll do to me?" he wondered aloud.

  "I do not know," Chiun replied. "But the one named Nishitsu desires to see you very much."

  "Maybe he's got some kind of Japanese Oscar for me," Bronzini grunted. "I hear I'm a sure bet for best supporting idiot in a movie gone amok."

  "If so, be certain to shake his hand," Chiun said.

  "I meant it as a joke," Bronzini said. He sneezed before Chiun could reply.

  "You do have a cold," Chiun said.

  "I have a cold," Bronzini said sourly.

  "Yes," Chiun said, a faraway light in his eyes. "When you meet this man, be certain to shake his hand. Do not forget. For it is not too late for you to atone for what you, in your ignorance, have brought to pass."

  Bartholomew Bronzini thought he was prepared for the sight of Occupied Yuma. He was wrong.

  The tanks blocked the road at the city limits. They parted as he approached. The Japanese kept a respectful distance. Their eyes sought Chiun. The Master of Sinanju kept his hazel eyes on the road, disdaining to meet their challenging glances.

  As they entered the city, Bronzini saw the guards at every food store and gun shop. Here and there, bodies lay in brown-black patches of dried blood. A man hung from a lamppost. Another was on his stomach, hands bound behind his back, his head tilted up grotesquely, both eyes impaled on the needles of a cactus.

  They were given safe passage to city hall, where a Japanese flag flapped in the wind. The sight turned Bronzini's stomach.

  As he dismounted, Chiun floated to his side.

  "Well, this is it," Bronzini said. "The denouement. Or is it the climax? I get them mixed up."

  "Wipe your nose," Chiun said as they walked to the front door. Two Japanese guards flanked the entrance, standing at attention. "It is dripping," Chiun added.

  "Oh," Bronzini said, pulling at his Roman nose with a thumb and forefinger.

  "Do not forget what I told you. The Japanese will deal with you less harshly if you show respect."

  "I'll try not to sneeze all over their uniforms."

  Nemuro Nishitsu received the news with pleasure. "Bronzini san is here," Jiro Isuzu reported stiffly. "The Korean has brought him."

  Nemuro Nishitsu reached for his cane. He pushed himself from his chair and with difficulty stepped out from behind the desk. He had gone without sleep for more than twenty-four hours. It felt like a week.

  The Master of Sinanju floated into the office first.

  "I have brought the one you seek," he said loudly. "And I demand that you fulfill your part of our agreement."

  "Yes, yes, of course," Nishitsu said, looking past Chiun. Bronzini stepped into the room then. His hangdog face was devoid of expression. He ignored Isuzu.

  "So you're Nishitsu," he said quietly.

  "I am he," Nishitsu said. He bowed slightly.

  "I got one question for you. Why me?"

  "You were perfect. And I have seen every one of your movies several times over."

  "I knew I should have let Schwarzenegger have this one," Bronzini said with ill-disguised distaste.

  "I wonder . . ." Nishitsu said, his eyes twinkling. "Please to honor an old man with your autograph?"

  "Blow it out your bazooka, sushi breath."

  Bronzini suddenly felt a sharp pain. He looked and saw his elbow pinched between tiny fingernails.

  "It will go easier on you if you abide by this man's wishes," Chiun said pointedly.

  "Who's it for?" Bronzini grudgingly asked.

  Nishitsu gave him a cellophane-dry smile and said, "For me."

  "That figures. Sure. Why not?"

  Bronzini accepted a pen and paper, and using the palm of one hand for a hard surface, dashed off an autograph. He handed it to Nemuro Nishitsu.

  "Do not forget to congratulate this brilliant military leader on his great accomplishment," Chiun prodded.

  "What's that? Oh, yeah." Bronzini put out a big hand. "Brilliant casting."

  Jiro Isuzu suddenly rushed forward. Chiun tripped him with a sandaled toe.

  "He will not harm him. I give you both my word," Chiun said.

  "I would be honored to shake Bronzini san's hand," Nishitsu said after the surprise left his face. He offered a quivering hand. Both men shook hands warily.

  "You were a perfect Trojan horse," Nemuro Nishitsu said smilingly.

  "That explains the nagging hollow feeling," Bronzini grunted. "Now what?" he laughed self-consciously. "The last time I was a prisoner of war, I got star billing, six million dollars up front, and points against the gross." Nemuro Nishitsu's face flickered doubtfully.

  "They're not laughing," Bronzini told Chiun out of the side of his mouth.

  "That is because you are not funny. And this is not a movie. Try to hold that thought in your infantile mind."

  "You will be taken to a safe place," Nishitsu said. He pounded the floor twice with his cane. Two soldiers came and took Bronzini by the arms.

  "Forrow," Jiro Isuzu bar
ked.

  "Whatever happened to 'prease to,' Jiro baby?" Bronzini asked as he was escorted away.

  "What will you do with that one?" Chiun asked when he was alone with Nemuro Nishitsu.

  "This is my concern. I will have the children released into your custody."

  "I will need a vehicle," Chiun said. "One large enough to bring them to the Indian reservation."

  "As you wish. Now, leave me, I have much to do."

  "I am again prepared to hear your terms," Chiun offered.

  "I have no terms at this time. Now, please be gone." Chiun looked at the fragile old Japanese as he limped back to his desk. His mouth thinned. Without another word, he was gone in a swirl of kimono skirts.

  They threw Bartholomew Bronzini into the back of an armored personnel carrier and clanged the door shut. He sat in darkness, and felt a cold dread that had nothing to do with personal peril.

  The ride was long. Bartholomew Bronzini wondered if they had left the city behind.

  Finally the APC stopped. The door opened. The light hurt his eyes. When he emerged too slowly for the guards' liking, Bronzini was pulled from the machine.

  Bronzini blinked until his eyes adjusted to the light. The sun was going down, casting lavender shadows. "Come," a guard barked.

  Bronzini allowed himself to be led toward a group of buildings. A sign over one of the them said "Yuma Territorial Prison Museum." It was a gift shop. Bronzini looked around. The other buildings were rude stone prisons with Spanish-style wrought-iron doors. Prison cells.

  A sign said "Tickets $1.40 per person. Under seventeen admitted free."

  "What am I, a trophy?" he grunted. "I'll bet people would pay a whole five bucks to see the sucker of the century."

  Bronzini was shoved through a gate and down a narrow stone corridor past empty cell doors in silence. He smiled bravely. "Just my luck. My first time playing to a live audience and they're all stiffs."

  As he was marched to the end, the smile vanished from his Sicilian face. A number of Japanese were erecting a structure of rude wood beside an old guard tower. The structure wasn't completed, but even in its unfinished state, Bronzini recognized it as a gallows.

  The cold dread settled into the pit of his stomach. They flung Bartholomew Bronzini into one of the cells and padlocked the door after him. He went to the criss-cross bars, and found he had a perfect view of the scaffolding. They were raising the L-shaped crosspiece that would support the noose.

  "Jesus H. Christ!" Bartholomew Bronzini said in a sick voice. "I think this was in the fucking script."

  As Christmas Eve approached, opening presents was forgotten. Carols went unsung. Church services were canceled for lack of attendance.

  The nation was glued to their TV sets. Regular programming had been suspended. For the first time in memory, It's a Wonderful Life wasn't playing somewhere. Instead, network anchors reported the latest in the "Yuma Emergency."

  The news consisted of videotape of the early hours of the takeover. Although they had been played and replayed a hundred times over, these scenes were the only news the networks had. The White House had announced and postponed a presidential address to the nation several times. Official Washington, for once, was not leaking. The situation was too grave.

  Then, in the middle of a live transmission showing carolers singing "White Christmas" as they were executed by automatic-weapons fire, the face of Nemuro Nishitsu, the self-proclaimed Regent of Yuma, reappeared.

  "My greetings to the American people and their leadership," he said. "In times of conflict it is sometimes necessary to resort to regrettable action in order to accomplish ends. So it is on this, the day before one of your most precious holidays. Tomorrow will be the beginning of the third day of the occupation of Yuma. Your leadership has made no move to unseat my forces. In truth, they cannot. But they dare not admit this. I will force them to admit this. If the American leadership is not impotent, I challenge them to prove it. Tomorrow morning, as a demonstration of my contempt for them, I will hang your greatest hero, Bartholomew Bronzini, by the neck until he is dead. The time of his execution has been set for seven o'clock. This necessary action will be televised on this station. Until then, I remain the unchallenged Regent of Yuma."

  Nemuro Nishitsu signaled the cameraman that he was done. The red light under the lens went out.

  Jiro Isuzu waited until the cameraman was out of earshot before he approached the desk.

  "I do not understand," he said anxiously. "You have as much as dared them to take action against us."

  "No, I have goaded them into taking action. If they fail to do so, they will lose face before the world."

  "I do not think they will fail to act."

  "I agree, Jiro kun. For the insult is calculated to incite the American people into demanding action."

  "I will order the perimeter forces back into the city," Isuzu said quickly. "We can hold out longer if we concentrate them."

  Nemuro Nishitsu shook his head. His slit eyes sought the desktop absently.

  "No," he said. "They will not come by land. They know, just as I do, that the crossing through the desert would not go unchallenged."

  "Then what?"

  "They will send no troops. It is too late for that. In less than twelve hours their greatest hero will be hanged, his last moments of agony to be seen on their television. No assault force could hope to act in time to prevent that. Instead, they will send a plane."

  "And we will shoot it down!" Isuzu cried. "I will alert our air defense forces."

  "No," Nishitsu said coldly. "I forbid it! For this is the fruition of my plan. A city so isolated that once captured it cannot be retaken. The American military, if they have any stomach, must resort to the unthinkable to wipe this stain of shame from their land."

  "You cannot mean . . ."

  "Think of the irony, Jiro kun. America, the mightiest nuclear power in the world, invulnerable to invasion, immune to attack, forced to obliterate one of their own cities with one of their own weapons. In one stroke, the shame of Hiroshima and Nagasaki will be as if it never transpired. With the dropping of one bomb, Nippon is avenged. Think of how proud our emperor will be."

  Jiro Isuzu stood stunned. His mouth opened like a gulping fish. He could not force from it the words he wanted to speak.

  Nemuro Nishitsu smiled tightly. Then his face quirked up in surprise. He sneezed. His hands fumbled around the desk for a box of Kleenex.

  In the White House Situation Room, the President shut off the television. He turned to face the stony array of faces that was his Secretary of Defense and his joint Chiefs of Staff. Everyone knew what was on the President's mind, but no one ventured to speak before the commander in chief did.

  "We can't let this happen," he croaked at last. He reached for a glass of water, gulped it down greedily, and then cleared the frog from his throat. "I want a bomber ready to go, but not until I give the word. There may still be a way out of this dilemma."

  The Joint Chiefs rushed to their telephones.

  At Castle Air Force Base, in Atwater, California, a B-52 bomber from the 93rd bombardment wing was designated for the Yuma mission. A single nuclear bomb was cocked and placed in her bomb bay. The pilots took their seats and went through a cockpit check. They had not yet been given their orders, but they had a sickening inkling of what those orders might be.

  In the Yuma Desert, a man continued walking with an inhumanly measured gait. His eyes, like burning coals, were fixed on the horizon beyond which lay the blacked-out city of Yuma, Arizona. His regular, mechanical strides made no imprint in the endless sands.

  Chapter 20

  On Christmas Eve the sun set slowly on Yuma. It disappeared behind the Chocolate Mountains, leaving the still light of its passing. It was magic hour.

  At precisely 5:55, a man appeared on the crest of a hill overlooking the city. He paused, the rags on his emaciated body a memory of desert utilities, his white T-shirt as brown as brick dust, and his black chinos a powdery b
eige.

  No one noticed the man as he stood, immobile as a presentiment, his empty hands hanging from his thick wrists like dead nerveless things. But everyone heard him.

  In a voice like thunder he spoke, and even though there were over fifty thousand people living in the city sprawled under his burnt-coal gaze, each pair of ears heard his words clearly.

  "I am created Shiva, the Destroyer; Death, the shatterer of worlds. Who is this dog meat who challenges me?"

  Nemuro Nishitsu heard those words and sat up in alarm. He had been dozing in his chair. He reached for his cane and climbed stiffly to his feet. Quickly he sat down again. His legs felt weak.

  "Jiro kun," he called in a dry, raspy voice. "Jiro!" Jiro Isuzu came running. His face was stark with bewilderment. "You heard it too?" he demanded. "Find out who that was," Nishitsu said. "But first, help me to the couch. I do not feel well."

  "What is wrong?" Isuzu asked anxiously as he wrapped Nishitsu's arm around his shoulder. He levered the old Japanese from the leather chair, surprised at his lightness, frightened by his frailty.

  "It is nothing," Nishitsu rasped as he allowed himself to be half-led, half-carried to a couch. "A cold, perhaps. It will pass."

  "I will summon a doctor. Even a cold at your age is not to be taken lightly."

  "Yes, a doctor. But first, locate the source of that voice. For it fills me with dread."

  "At once, sir," Jiro Isuzu said, and sped off.

  Ninth A. D. Minobe Kawasaki scanned the darkening horizon with his Nishitsu binoculars. The voice had come from the south, he felt certain. He sat up in the turret seat of the T-62 tank. Word had just reached him from Imperial Command Headquarters-formerly the mayor's office-to capture the author of those unearthly words that had boomed over the city. Kawasaki thought they must have come from the lungs of some god or demon.

  His gaze ran along the line of a near hill. The preternatural blue of the sky was shading into indigo. Already there was the faint suggestion of stars.

  He gave out a cry when the lenses came in contact with a magnified pair of eyes that burned him with their awful gaze. Those eyes made him think of dead planets spinning in a cold void.