Shooting Schedule

"To the john," the President flung back. "I've been drinking coffee for nearly twenty-four hours straight. If I don't relieve my bladder, we're all going to be pushing mops."

The President did go to the john this time. When he was finished, he slipped into the Lincoln Bedroom and got on the red telephone to Dr. Harold W. Smith. "Smith. Anything?"

"No word from my people."

"How do you interpret that?" the President asked anxiously.

"Knowing them," Smith said tonelessly, "if they haven't intervened in the Yuma Emergency by now, I must conclude that they are either dead or incapacitated."

"The chairman of the join Chiefs is pressuring me to take out Yuma," the President said after a pause.

"I wish I could offer you some hope," said Smith, "but there is something to the admiral's argument. As a last resort, of course."

The President was silent for a long time. Smith broke in reluctantly.

"Mr. President, I saw the recent transmission. That man who called himself Regent of Yuma is the man I've been trying to locate for you, Nemuro Nishitsu, head of the Nishitsu Group."

"How could a conglomerate mount an invasion?"

"If you are asking me how in operational terms," Smith replied, "the answer to that is that they have the resources of a small country. In fact, it would not be far from the truth to categorize Nishitsu as a country without borders. Thanks to its many offices and factories, it has a presence in virtually every developed nation. I have been looking into the company's background. There is a disturbing pattern. Nemuro Nishitsu founded the firm shortly after World War II. At first, it was an electronics firm. It began expanding during the days of the transistor revolution. They made cheap radios, things of that sort. By the early seventies they had subsidiaries manufacturing cars, computers, VCR's and other highticket items. More recently they have branched out into global communications and military equipment. You might remember the attempt by one of their subsidiaries to buy out an American ceramics company last year. You yourself stopped it when it was brought to your attention that this company manufactured critical nuclear-weapons components."

"I remember. There was no way I could allow that to happen. "

"Unfortunately, this is also the company you permitted to manufacture the Japanese version of the F-16."

"Oh, my God," the President gasped. "That explains how they were able to outfight us in our own fighters. Their pilots had trained in the Japanese version."

"Regrettable, but true."

"What about Nishitsu himself?"

"He was, by all accounts, a fanatic follower of the emperor during the war. He has become something of a recluse in recent years, with a history of psychiatric and medical problems dating from the time he was extracted from the Burma jungle. These were thought to have been temporary. Once he had been reassimilated in Japanese society, he was considered perfectly normal."

"Does he have a wife, a family? Someone we could contact. Maybe he could be talked out of this."

"No family. They died when the atomic bomb fell on Nagasaki. If you're looking for a motive for his actions, you might not go any further than that."

"I see," the President said distantly. "Then there is nothing you can do for me. "

"I am sorry, Mr. President."

"Of course. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to make one of the most difficult decisions of my presidency." The President woodenly hung up the red telephone. He turned on his heel and walked in his tennis shoes to the Situation Room. He felt his gorge rise just thinking about the decision he faced. But he was the nation's commander in chief He would not shirk his responsibilities to America, or to the people of Yuma.

Chapter 19

Bartholomew Bronzini was adamant.

"Absolutely, positively, no fucking way!" he bellowed. Then he screamed and fell to his knees. He clawed at the dirt outside the meetinghouse on the Sun On Jo reservation. His eyes were wide with pain but he couldn't see anything except a kind of visual white noise. "Arrgghh!" he cried.

A stern voice intruded upon his agony. It was the voice of the tiny Oriental, Chiun.

"Since you do not appear to understand the enormity of your position, Greekling, then I will repeat it," Chiun was saying. "The Japanese leader has offered the lives of the children of any school I choose in return for you. This tragedy is your doing. If you have any honor, you will agree to be handed over to this man."

"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 barked.

"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 beige.

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.

Unsteadily he recovered the glasses and sought out the figure again. The face that held those eyes was not that of a god, he saw. They were set in skull-like hollows on an emaciated face. The throat was blue, as if painted. It was not paint, however. The color was too organic for paint. The neck was horribly bruised, as if broken. The skin of the face and bare arms was sunburned a lobster red.

Then, to Kawasaki's horror, the eyes seemed to fix upon him and the figure started down the hill in a jerky, stumbling, yet purposeful stride.

"Driver!" he called. "The one we seek is coming this way. "

The T-62 leapt into action. Kawasaki primed the turretmounted .50-caliber machine gun. He was afraid, even though the figure he rushed to intercept held no weapons in his hands.

Kawasaki lashed his driver up and down the streets. The figure had disappeared after it reached the base of the hill, making it difficult to determine which road he would take into the city. Kawasaki was forced to guess. He guessed correctly, he learned as the tank turned a corner onto a residential street. It stopped at the edge of the desert. And walking up that street like a corpse come back to life, was the dead-eyed man.

He came steadily, fearlessly, like a machine. Kawasaki's orders were to bring the man in alive. He began to regret them. His voice lifted. "I carr upon you to surrender to Imperiar Occupation Force."

The man made no reply. His empty hands swung at his sides lifelessly. Kawasaki turned the snout of his machine gun at the man's thin chest. He could almost count the ribs outlined by the snug T-shirt fabric.

The man didn't flinch. He advanced purposefully, his dusty feet utterly soundless as they trod the asphalt. On a hunch, Kawasaki reached into the turret hatch for the turret control lever. He goosed it until the smoothbore cannon lined up with the man's chest. Annoyed that the powerful cannon maw did not hinder the dead-eyed man's advance, Kawasaki dropped the machine-gun muzzle and sent a short burst into the man's path.

A section of pavement erupted. The man walked over it unconcernedly.

"I do not have to take you arive," Kawasaki called. It was a lie, but he didn't know what else to say. If he was forced to kill, how could he explain bringing back an unarmed corpse?

Kawasaki put a second burst over the oncoming man's head. It proved unpersuasive. He came on as if utterly unafraid of death.

Or, Minobe Kawasaki suddenly thought, as if he were already dead.

"Driver!" he ordered in Japanese. "Approach that man. Slowly!"

The tank started forward. The smoothbore muzzle was bearing down on the man's chest like the finger of doom. If both man and tank continued along their stubborn paths, the maw would ram the man, knocking him down. That was Kawasaki's intention.

The distance between them shrank. It was several yards. Then three. Then six feet. Then two. One.

Just when a collision seemed unavoidable, the man's right hand came up as if jerked by a string. That was as much as Minobe Kawasaki saw, for he was suddenly knocked off his perch. He struck the hull of the tank and slipped over the side. He missed being drawn into the big rollers only by inches. Kawasaki realized his narrow escape only later. The sound, a horrendously flat crack of a noise, beat upon his eardrums. He clapped his hands to his ears, thinking it had been an explosion.

Minobe Kawasaki felt it was safe to open his eyes only after the ringing in his ears ceased. He looked up fearfully. He was relieved to find he still had all his body parts. Then he saw the tank. It had come to a dead stop. The driver's helmeted head was turned around in his seat to look back at the turret.

Minobe Kawasaki's eyes went wide with incredulity. The turret of the tank was no longer sitting on its ring mount. The top flange of the great steel mount had that bright graininess of sheared metal.

The turret lay on the pavement a good dozen feet behind the tank. And beyond it, walking with a mechanical assurance, was the man with coals for eyes and thunder for a voice.

Minobe Kawasaki ran to the decapitated tank. He grabbed the radio from his driver and began speaking in a high, excited voice.

Jiro Isuzu almost dismissed the first report as the excesses of a victory-drunk salaryman-turned-soldier. But then more reports started coming in, all loud, all excited, all tinged with the unmistakable oil of fear.

The New Japanese Imperial Forces had lost five tanks in short-lived encounters with a single opponent every vanquished unit insisted upon referring to as "it."

"Be more specific," Isuzu barked at the first unit to call the opponent that. "Is 'it' a war machine?"

"It," the arid reply insisted, "is a man with death in his eyes and steel in his arms."

And that was actually the most coherent description of the several that followed. Isuzu ordered more tanks into the area of the last sighting of "it." He waited. Some of the tank commanders reported back, some could not be raised. The surviving tank commanders told stories of defeat and shame. One, after completing his report, dropped the microphone and gave out a tremendous grunt that was mixed with a ripping-of-cloth sound.

Isuzu understood that the man had sat down at the scene of his defeat and opened his stomach with his own bayonet. Seppuku.

Every report agreed on one impossibility. The opponent was a lone unarmed man. And he was walking remorselessly, unstoppably in the direction of city hall, as if guided by radar.

Jiro Isuzu ordered his forces to pull back to city hall. Then he rushed to the office where Nemuro Nishitsu lay on the couch. His eyes were closed.

Gently Jiro Isuzu touched his leader's shoulder. Black slit eyes opened feebly. Nemuro Nishitsu opened his mouth to speak, but only a dry rattle came out. Jiro touched his forehead. Hot. A fever.

Jiro Isuzu put an ear close to Nishitsu's mouth. He felt the warm breath and, mixed with that hot moistness, came faint words.

"Do your duty," Nemuro Nishitsu said. "Banzai!" Then Nemuro Nishitsu turned his face to the back of the couch and closed his eyes. He slept.

Jiro Isuzu got to his feet. It would be up to him now. He went out to issue more orders. He wondered when the bombers would come.

The Master of Sinanju stared at the bleak horizon like an idol draped in scarlet cloth. The wind whipped his kimono skirts around his spindly legs.

Bill Roam came up behind him, clearing his throat noisily. Chiun did not acknowledge his approach. "The women have tucked in the children," he said, taking his place at Chiun's side. He looked in the direction Chiun's wise old eyes stared. There were flashes of light beyond the low horizon.

"There is fighting in the city," Chiun intoned.

"That sure ain't heat lightning," Roam agreed. "You know, I feel right sorrowful about Bronzini. "

"Every man pays a price for his actions in time," Chiun said dismissively. "Some pay for their failures, some for their successes. Bronzini's successes brought this down on all of us. I have lost my son because of him, and with him goes the hope of my village."

"I know what you mean. I'm the last Sunny Joe." Chiun turned, sympathy smoothing his wrinkled features.

"Your wife bore you no sons?"

"She did. He died. A long time ago. I never remarried. "

Chiun nodded. "I know that pain," he said simply. He turned back to the display of red and blue lights that lit the sky. They were too far away from the city for the sounds of conflict to reach their ears.

"When I'm gone," Sunny Joe Roam said, "there'll be no one to protect the tribe. What's left of it."

Chiun nodded. "And when I am gone, there will be no one to feed the children of my village. It is that fear that has made every Master of Sinanju reach beyond his limitations, for it is one thing to give up one's own life, another to surrender those who depend upon you."

"Amen, brother."

"Know, Sunny Joe Roam, that I do not hold you responsible for anything that has transpired in the last two days. But I intend to make those who brought this pain down upon me to suffer for their evil. I cannot, as long as they hold innocent young lives hostage. For all children, not just those of our blood, are precious to Sinanju. Is this so among the Sun On Jos?"

"I think that's one of the universal ones," Roam said.

"Not to the Japanese. When they took my country, no one, from those who sat on the Dragon Throne to even the babes suckling at their mothers' breasts, were safe from the bayonets."

"This can't go on much longer. The Marines ought to be landing soon. Washington isn't going to ignore this."

"And then how many lives will be lost?" Chiun said, looking back toward the flashes of light that shook the sky. After a pause, his dry lips parted.

"Your son. What was his-"

"Sunny Joe! Sunny Joe! Come quick!"

Roam spun around. Sheryl Rose was in the doorway of an adobe house, her face a mask of horror. "What is it?" Roam called.

"They're going to hang Bronzini! It just came over the TV."

"Come on," Roam said harshly.

Chiun followed him into the house. Sheryl led them to the TV, talking nervously. "I don't know why I turned on the TV. Reflex, I guess. But Channel Eleven is on the air again. Look."

The TV screen showed a scene out of Dante's Inferno. A group of policemen were marched, blindfolded, their hands tied behind their backs, into a room festooned with Christmas decorations. A red-and-white banner with the words "Peace on Earth Good Will Toward Men" hung mockingly above their heads.

"Oh, dear God," Sheryl choked out. "That's the studio commissary. I used to work for this station."

Off camera, a high-speed whine started up and then casually, with ruthless efficiency, a Japanese in desert camouflage stepped up to the blindfolded police and, holding their heads steady with one hand, one by one drove the bit of a drill into their temples.

Sheryl turned away, making sick noises in her throat. "Why are they doing this?" Bill Roam asked, clenching his fists. No one had an answer.

"They ... they announced that they were hanging Bronzini at dawn," Sheryl choked out. "This harmless-looking little Japanese man said it. He claimed it would prove America was too weak to stop them."

"Can this station be seen in other cities?" Chiun demanded coldly.

"They get it in Phoenix. Why?"

"The Japanese can be a cruel people, but they are not stupid," Chiun said thoughtfully. "They must know that this will force the American armies to strike."

"That's what I've been saying all along," Sheryl said.

"We hold out long enough, and Washington will put a stop to this."

"It is as if they wish this to happen," Chiun said softly. "But why?" His hazel eyes narrowed. He turned to Sunny Joe. "Do you have a copy of the script?"

Roam looked startled. "The script? Sure. Why?"

"Because I wish to read it," Chiun said firmly. Roam went out the door. He returned with the script.

"At a time like this?" Sheryl asked, dumbfounded.

"I should have thought of this before," Chiun said, accepting the script.

"I think this is the final draft," Bill Roam said. "They kept revising it on us. Sort of makes you wonder why, now, doesn't it?"

"How does it end?" Chiun asked as he leafed through it.

"Don't ask me. I didn't get that far. There was too much to do, what with all those Jap extras not speaking English or knowing how to die on cue."

"I never got a script," Sheryl said. Her face was pale, but the color was slowly returning. She kept her eyes averted from the flickering TV screen.

Chiun read in silence. His parchment features lost their animation. Only his eyes moved as they skimmed the pages.

He looked up with grave features when he was finished. "I understand now," he said, clapping the script shut. "We cannot wait. We must go into the city. Now.. "

"What is it?" Bill Roam demanded. "I will explain on the way."

"I'm coming too," Sheryl said.

"No offense, Sheryl," Bill Roam rumbled, "but no squaws this time out. This is men's work."

"I've got just as much right to fight those bastards as you do," Sheryl shouted. "It's my city, Sunny Joe. Not yours. You're a damn reservation Indian. And Chiun isn't even American. But those are my family and friends they're butchering. I have to do my part."

Bill Roam looked to Chiun. "The little lady has a powerful point, I guess."

"Then come," Chiun said. "We must act swiftly."

The Christmas-morning sun broke over the eastern seaboard like a slow radiant kiss. As the planet revolved, the twilight zone between day and night crossed the continental United States like a shadow in retreat.

The last place to see the sun rise was California. And at Castle Air Force Base, the word came down the Air Force chain of command to cart-start the B-52 bomber chosen to carry out Operation Hellhole.

Captain Wayne Rogers, USAF, received his orders in a sealed envelope. Face ashen, he turned to his copilot. "Well, this looks like it."

The big B-52 bomber rolled out of its revetment and onto the flight line. Rogers eased the throttle forward, and the big lumbering bird surged ahead, gathering airspeed for takeoff.

They rolled past a line of K-135 aerial tankers. They would not be needed for midair refueling. Not on this mission. Even though he hadn't opened his sealed orders, Captain Rogers knew his target.

The bomber lifted off and swung in a 180-degree right turn. Not toward the Pacific and some foreign target, but inland. Into the continental United States. When he had leveled the ship off at cruising altitude, Captain Rogers nodded to his copilot. The other man tore the envelope open.

"It's Yuma," he croaked.

"Holy Christ!" Captain Wayne Rogers said.

He tried to concentrate on his instruments. The hundreds of red and green lights were like a high-tech Christmas tree. From time to time they blurred and he wondered if his sight was going. Then he realized he had been crying unawares.

"Merry Christmas, Yuma," he muttered bitterly. "Wait'll you see what Santa's bringing you this year."

Chapter 21

Bartholomew Bronzini watched the sun rise on the final day of his life.

The red light came in through the ornate bars of his cell in the main cellblock at Yuma Territorial Prison. It transformed the now-completed scaffolding into a smoldering silhouette. The cameras had long ago been put in place; they were using a three-camera setup.

"Like they were filming a cheap sitcom," he spat. Bronzini had not slept all night. Who could sleep when he was worth an estimated one billion dollars, had a face that hung in millions of dorms and dens, and was about to be hanged by the neck for the crime of agreeing to star in a Japanese movie?

Besides, all night long, sounds of fighting had come from the city. Bronzini wondered if the Rangers had landed. But he saw no parachute drop, heard no planes overhead. Maybe the citizens had found their balls.

Hope had begun to rise in his heart, hope of rescue, but as the night wore on, it was dashed time and again as the fighting died down, began anew, and nothing happened at the Yuma Territorial Prison except that his guards continued fussing with the camera setup. They rushed back and forth nervously, which Bronzini attributed to being up all night without sleep.

With the dawn, Bartholomew Bronzini, America's number-one screen superstar, knew exactly how prisoners felt on death row.

He decided they wouldn't take him without a fight. Bronzini withdrew from the door and hunkered on one side of the cell. His fist compressed into bloodless mallets of bone. He waited.

The sounds of commotion stabbed at his heart. He set himself. Sounds of running, yelling, and frantic activity swept through the prison-turned-museum. APC motors started up. A tank growled to life, and its tracks clanked on asphalt.

"Ready when you are, you sake guzzlers," Bronzini growled under his breath. "You're going to need more than a tank to get me up on that stage."

To his surprise, the sounds faded in the distance. An eerie silence fell over the Yuma Territorial Prison. It was broken only by the distant percussive stutter of automatic-weapons fire and intermittent explosions.

Bronzini came up out of his crouch. In the courtyard, cameras stood unattended. His guards were gone. Bronzini wasted no time. He attacked the cell door. The wrought iron was held in place by two horizontal crosspieces attached to hinges. Since the former hellhole of Arizona had been turned into a tourist attraction, the cell doors had been maintained with an eye toward appearance, not practicality. Bronzini knelt beside one crosspiece and tried to force it. The screws were embedded in three-foot-thick stone walls. He felt some give, but not much. The top crosspiece felt solid.

Bronzini looked around the cell. There were only a bed and a plain wooden dresser for furniture, but in the center of the stone floor a fat steel restraining ring was bolted to a metal plate. Bronzini went to this. He squatted over it, taking a position not much different from one he used to lift heavy weights.

Bronzini began pulling slowly, then with greater force. The veins in his reddening neck bulged. He groaned: The ring refused to budge, but he was Bartholomew Bronzini, the man with the greatest muscles in Hollywood. He grunted and groaned with the strain. Sweat soaked the hack of his black leather combat suit.

Bronzini's animal-like groans grew into a crescendo, and were joined by another groan-the inhuman cry of metal stressed-to the breaking point.

The plate gave: Bronzini fell on his ass. But he had the ring. He jumped up and attacked the door with it. It took very little time. One hinge cracked. Another one came free. The door hung by the padlock. Bronzini shoved it aside impatiently.

He stepped out into the stone courtyard and made his way past the rows of open-air cells until he came to the parking lot. He moved cautiously, although he expected to encounter no opposition.

There was a pickup parked in front of the museum gift shop. Bronzini got in and hot-wired the engine and soon had the pickup squealing up Prison Hill Road.

Bronzini drove recklessly, not exactly sure where he was going or what he was going to do once he got there. The roads were deserted, but as he pulled into the city, there were people standing in their yards, looking anxious and confused. Bronzini pulled up to one of them.

"Yo! What's going down?" he barked.

"The Japanese have pulled back into town," an older man said excitedly. "There's heavy fighting, but no one knows who they're mixing it up with."

"Rangers?"

"Your guess is as good as anyone's. We're all wondering what to do."

"Why don't you fight? It's your city."

"With what?" the man demanded. "They took all our guns."

"So? This is Arizona. The wild west. Take 'em back."

The man peered closer. "Say, now, aren't you that actor fella? Bronzini."

"I'm not exactly proud of it right now, but yeah."

"Didn't recognize you without your headband."

Bronzini cracked a pained grin. "This wasn't supposed to be a Grundy movie. Know where I can find some guns?"

"Why?"

"Back where I come from, if you make a mess, you clean it up."

"Now, that's right smart reasoning. They're supposed to have weapons cached at the Shilo Inn," Bronzini was told. "Maybe you could sort of spread 'em around."

"If I do, will you and your friends fight?"

"Shucks, Bart. I seen every one of your movies. I'd fight with you any day."

"Tell your friends, I'll be back."

Bronzini took off. He floored the pickup until he got to the Shilo Inn. As he pulled into the parking lot, he spotted uniformed Japanese troops in the lobby. Bronzini wheeled the pickup into a parking space, and there, leaning between two cars, was his Harley. He slipped over to it and kicked the starter.

The Harley gave a full-throated roar that brought a smile to Bronzini's sleepy-eyed face. He backed it up and sent it rocketing toward the lobby entrance.

Attracted by the noise, two Japanese came out shouting. The Japanese had AK-47's. But Bronzini had the element of surprise. He went through them like a hurricane. They threw themselves to the ground. The bike hit the curb and vaulted through the glass doors. It wasn't special-effects candy-glass, however. Bronzini sustained a gash that opened up one cheek, and a shard embedded itself in his right thigh.

Undeterred, Bronzini danced off the careening bike and landed on the plush lobby seats. He yanked the triangle of glass from his thigh and used it to slash open the jugular of the Japanese who jumped from behind the front desk.

Bronzini pried the AK-47 from the guard's fingers. He pulled off the bayonet and sheathed it down his boot. Then he stepped outside and sprayed the two guards while they were picking themselves off the ground.

That accomplished, Bronzini raced through the firstfloor rooms. He found the guns behind a door marked with the Red Christmas Productions symbol-a Christmas tree silhouetted against a mushroom cloud. This was the film's in-town production office. Bronzini carried the rifles out to the pickup under both arms. He filled up the bed with rifles and crated hand grenades and then lifted his Harley into the back by main strength.

Before he drove off, he tore one of the sleeves off his combat suit and used it to dress his leg wound. There was some cloth left over and Bronzini tied it over his forehead to keep the sweat out of his eyes.

"What the fuck," he said as he climbed behind the wheel. "Maybe we'll retitle this Grundy's Last Stand." Bronzini returned to the knot of men. It had doubled in size. He distributed the guns from the back of the pickup. While the men checked their weapons, he raised his voice.

"Yo! Listen up, everybody. There's more guns back at the hotel. Form teams and go get them. After that, it's up to you. It's your city."

Bronzini mounted the Harley and started her up. "Hey, where are you going?" a man asked.

"It's your city, but it's my problem," he said, shoving stick grenades into his belt. "I got a score to settle." And with that, Bartholomew Bronzini roared off, his ponytail dancing after him like a fugitive spirit.

Jiro Isuzu no longer had to rely on radio reports confirming that his crack units were being decimated. He had only to look out the window where the tanks formed a bristling line of cannon muzzles.

As he watched, one smoothbore coughed a shell. The recoil made the tank roll back. The shell reduced an already-shattered storefront to further ruin.

"It" walked in under the shell, which overshot him by no more than a hand span. Now that he had penetrated the outer perimeter, by all accounts destroying men and tanks with his bare hands, the burning-eyed man had come to Isuzu's last line of defense.

Isuzu shoved open the window. "Crush him!" he shouted. "Crush him in the name of the emperor. Banzai!"

The tanks started up. It was a calculated risk, breaking the last bulwark that separated him from that creature that walked like a man, but they had no choice.

Isuzu was alone. Nemuro Nishitsu lay unconscious on the couch. He was crying out in his fevered sleep. Isuzu tried to block out the words. "Death comes," Nemuro Nishitsu warned over and over. "Death that leaves no footprints in the sand."

Nishitsu was obviously delirious. Isuzu turned his attention to the conflict.

The once-supreme New Japanese Imperial Army had been reduced to a small band of defenders. All night long the battle had raged. Tanks, men, and heavy guns against a lone man who walked unarmed and unafraid.

They would surround him and he would render the tanks helpless with his bare hands, breaking the tracks and snapping off gun barrels with openhanded blows.

He had progressed to city hall, remorseless, unstoppable. At first it was reported that he moved with impunity, as if the mere soldiers who got in his way were insignificant fleas to be swatted and thrown aside. But as more tank units were thrown up against him, the unknown man had shaken off his zombielike demeanor as if coming out of a trance. He moved with increasing grace and speed, until, as one frightened assistant director cried over a walkie-talkie, "We cannot halt his advance. He dances out of the way of our bullets. He crushes everything under his feet. We must pull back."

The weird picture that had been conjured up over scores of frantic radio reports was of a mad dance of death and destruction. And Isuzu was forced to withdraw his units into a smaller and smaller circle around city hall until those tanks that had not fled in blind panic remained. With growing dread he awaited the approach of the unstoppable one.

Finally Jiro Isuzu got a clear look at "it." The sight froze the breath in his lungs. "It" looked like death walking. No, like death dancing.

It was beautiful, yet ghastly. A squad of fresh Japanese troops rushed up to confront the aggressor. He spun like a dervish from the bullet tracks of their chattering rifles. He weaved around them, limbs flung with abandon, feet leaping, turning, kicking. One stiff index finger entered many skulls, creating dead Japanese.

A soldier charged him with fixed bayonet. Suddenly the soldier was flailing, impaled on his own bayonet, which the creature held up like a triumphant banner.

It was a dance of death, yes, but only Japanese died. The tanks fared no better. Two circled him. A foot flashed left. A hand, open and stiff of finger, knifed right. Tracks whipped free and the tanks careened helplessly into the smoking ruins of the street.

Foot by foot, the thing advanced. Stick grenades flung toward it. The creature caught each one with unerring reflexes and hurled them back in the faces of those who threw them. Some exploded; others did not. Isuzu cursed the unreliable Chinese-made weapons. It had been easier to buy them on the Hong Kong black market than to make Nishitsu versions. A mistake. The entire operation had been a mistake, he now knew.

Jiro Isuzu was prepared for death. His loyalty to Nemuro Nishitsu required it. His feelings for Nippon demanded it. Death, he could face. Defeat, he could not.

Jiro Isuzu took up an assault rifle and knelt before the open window. He attempted to sight on the oncoming fury. He emptied one clip. The only reaction was that the fire-eyed creature turned its gruesome sunburned visage, inhuman in the cold ferocity of its baleful gaze, toward him. The gash of a crack-lipped mouth broke into a cunning grin. The grin seemed to say, "When I am done with these puny ones, you will be next."

Jiro Isuzu gave it up. "Who are you?" he cried, lowering the weapon. "What do you want?"

And a voice like thunder answered him with one word. The word was: "You."

"Why? What have I done to you, demon?"

"You have roused me from my ancient slumber. I cannot sleep again until I crush your bones into powder, Japanese."

Jiro Isuzu slammed the window closed. He shrank from the glass. He couldn't bear to look at the carnage anymore. His only hope, lay in escape.

Without a glance toward his mentor and superior, now shaking with chills and fever, Jiro Isuzu ran to the back room. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob.

For over his head he heard a dreaded sound. A heavy bomber. And he knew that all was lost.

Woodenly he returned to the office and squatted on the rug. He unsheathed the sword that had belonged to his samurai ancestors. He tore the front of his shirt to expose his belly. There was no time for introspection, regrets or ceremony. He placed the point of the sword against his side and steeled himself to deliver the quick sideways ripping slash that would spill his bowels onto his lap. He prayed that he would die before atomic retribution obliterated him. Better to die by one's own hand than at the hands of the hated enemy.

Outside the window, the sounds of conflict died with the trailing scream of a Japanese warrior. And then a voice that cried, "I am coming for you, Japanese."

And Jiro Isuzu broke down sobbing. For his arms trembled so much he could not wield the sword properly. He fumbled a stick grenade from his waistband and pulled the cap with this teeth.

He waited. The grenade sat inert in his hand. A dud. And outside the office walls Isuzu heard the front door shatter under the approach of a demon in human form.

"You are too late," Jiro Isuzu spoke softly when the demon entered the room. "For in another instant we will both be obliterated in nuclear fire."

"A man may die a thousand times in one instant," the demon mocked.

"What name do you go by, demon?"

"I?" The creature advanced. Through the cords of its face, it was possible to make out the hint of an Occidental man. It looked almost familiar, as if Jiro had seen it during the early stages of the operation, before the fighting began. It was not Bronzini. Nor the one known as Sunny Joe. And then the demon spoke its name and Jiro Isuzu was no longer troubled by the face it wore, but by the spirit it represented.

"I am created Shiva, the Destroyer; Death, the shatterer of worlds."

The dance of the dead, Isuzu thought with a shock of recognition. Shiva. The Eastern god who danced the cycles of creation and destruction.

Jiro Isuzu knew not what he had done to rouse a god of the Hindus, but he had. He lowered his head and spoke words he thought would never pass his lips.

"I surrender," said Jiro Isuzu as a palpably cold shadow fell over him.

Chapter 22

Bill "Sunny Joe" Roam was astonished by the lack of roadblocks leading into Yuma. No tanks prowled the streets, although cannon fire continued without respite somewhere in the heart of the city.

"Something's happened," he said as they cut up and down the streets of Yuma. "Hey, those are Americans over there, and they're armed."

Suddenly the knot of Americans broke into a run. They were firing as they ran between houses. Out from behind a white stucco home, a lone Japanese skulked. He was spotted, and ducked back into the trellis-bordered courtyard. He got as far as an onyx spa, when a crossfire chopped him up like so much celery.

"We have no time for this," Chiun said quickly. "We must reach the television station."

"Look," Sheryl broke in, "even if by some miracle we get there alive, it's probably got a passel of guards."

"I will deal with the guards," Chiun said unconcernedly.

"Then what?" Sheryl said, looking around at the fires. "Suppose I go on the air. What do I say? We were filming a movie and it got out of hand?"

"If you do not go on the air, the bombs will fall."

"I can't believe our government would bomb one of its own cities. It's too farfetched."

"Believe it," Bill Roam said, taking a corner on two wheels. He fought to keep the Ninja on the road. "Worse things happen in wartime."

"I still can't accept this. It was only a movie."

"Helen of Troy was only a woman," Chiun told her. "Yet many died because of her, and an entire city fell."

"Are we getting closer?" Roam asked. They passed a disabled tank. Here and there bodies hung from the lightpost. They were Japanese bodies.

"Yes. The next right. That's South Pacific. Just follow it until I tell you to stop."

They took the corner at high speed. This time the Ninja didn't go up on two wheels, but it did fishtail wildly.

"I don't know why they went to all this trouble," Roam growled.

"What do you mean?" Chiun asked.

"They'd have killed more Americans by selling these rolling hunks of junk at cost."

"Concentrate on your driving. On our survival depends the fate of this city, and all who dwell in it."

"I think we're past that point," Sheryl said in a sick voice. "Listen."

"Pay no attention." Chiun told Roam. "Drive faster."

"What?" Roam asked. Then he heard it.

Far in the distance came the low sound of jet engines. It was a deeper, throatier roar than that of a commercial passenger jet.

"You don't suppose that's-" Roam began.

"Drive," Chiun admonished.

Roam floored the jeep. He took a sharp left and almost caused Bartholomew Bronzini, coming in the opposite direction, to wipe out.

"Bart!" Bill Roam called out as Bartholomew Bronzini extracted himself from the tangle that had been a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. "We could use a hand."

"Ignore him," Chiun snapped.

"No, wait," Sheryl said quickly. "Don't you see? Everyone knows Bronzini. If we put him on the air, he'd be believed."

"You are right," Chiun admitted.

"Bart!" Roam shouted. "No time to explain. Hop in." Bronzini leapt into the back of the jeep, his AK-47 in hand.

"Where are we going?" he demanded, looking about wildly.

"To the TV station," Sheryl explained. "They're going to bomb the city."

"Those fucking Japs," Bronzini spat.

"No, the Americans. That was the plan all along. We may be able to stop it if we can get you on the air."

"Go go go!" Bronzini shouted as the drone of the approaching B-52 filled the crystalline morning sky. Television station KYMA was only lightly defended. Bronzini went in the front door spraying bullets. When the clip ran empty, he used his bayonet.

The Japanese, although trained soldiers, were demoralized by the sight of the greatest warrior in cinema history coming at them in full cry. It was too much for them. They dropped their weapons and ran.

None of them escaped. The Master of Sinanju met them at the exit door. His fingernails flashed in the orange light. He stepped over the bodies he made.

Sheryl led them to the main studio.

"I was just a cue-card girl," she said, "but I've seen this done a thousand times." She took one of the cameras in hand. "Sunny Joe, check the monitors. See if this is going out."

Roam hurried into the booth and ran his dark eyes along the screens while Sheryl dollied the camera in to frame Bartholomew Bronzini, sweaty and bloodied.

"My left side is my best," Bronzini quipped.

"I got Bart on one of the screens," Roam called out. "Okay, we're on the air."

Bronzini faced the camera squarely. In his husky flat voice he spoke. "This is Bartholomew Bronzini. First of all, I want to apologize to the American people for-"

"There is no time for that," Chiun snapped harshly. "Tell them the danger is over."

"Everybody wants to be a fucking director," Bronzini growled. He continued in his stage voice: "I'm broadcasting from station KYMA in Yuma, Arizona. The emergency is over. The Japanese are falling back. I'm calling on the American government to send in the Rangers, the Marines, hell, send the Cub Scouts too. We got the Japs on the run. Repeat, the emergency is over."

The drone of the bomber grew in intensity.

"Are you sure this thing is hooked up?" Bronzini asked fearfully.

"Keep talking!" Sheryl shouted.

"I am not speaking under duress," Bronzini continued. "The emergency is over. We need troops to finish mopping up down here, but the citizens of Yuma are fighting back. The city is in American hands. It's over. Just don't do anything rash, okay?"

The bomber sound made the walls tremble and the trio looked up as if clear sky and not a soundproofed ceiling stood between them and the sight of one of the mightiest bombers in the U.S. Air Force.

"What do you think?" Bronzini said. "Maybe we should do a duck and cover, like when I was a kid." No one laughed. But no one ducked either.

When it seemed as if the bomber drone could get no louder, it did.

"I don't think it worked," Sheryl said, biting her lips.

"They say if you're on ground zero," Bill Roam said in a faraway voice, "you don't feel a thing."

The sound swelled and then began to recede.

"It's going away," Sheryl said, her words more prayer than hope.

"Don't get your hopes up," Bronzini said. "It takes a long time for one of those mothers to fall."

An anxious minute crawled past. After five minutes, Bronzini let out a pent-up breath. "I think we did it," he said, in disbelief.

Bill Roam stepped out of the control booth.

"What do you think, chief?" The question was addressed to the Master of Sinanju.

In the distance, the sound of tank cannon resumed with renewed ferocity.

"I think our job is not yet done. Come!"

They followed the Master of Sinanju out of the studio, their knees shaking in nervous reaction.

Jiro Isuzu walked backward, his eyes locked with those of the demon who called itself Shiva. He felt like a mouse withering under the cold glare of a viper.

Shiva came closer, his stark stripped-of-flesh shadow falling across the unconscious form of Nemuro Nishitsu. And so great was Isuzu's panic that he did something that mere hours ago would have been unthinkable.

"There!" he cried out. "He is the one you want. It was his plan. His. Not mine. I am only a soldier." Shiva stopped. His head swiveled, displaying the corded side of his blue-bruised throat.

Reaching down, Shiva touched the twitching brow of Nemuro Nishitsu, his emaciated visage unreadable. "This one suffers under the vengeance of one who is known to me," said the demon called Shiva. "I leave him to his death. I will be the instrument of yours." And Shiva came.

There was no place to run for Jiro Isuzu. His back was to the flag-covered wall. Throwing his arms in front of his face, he went through the window.

Jiro Isuzu landed on a pile of dead Japanese. He rolled to his feet, and kept going. He did not look behind him. Isuzu knew that the demon called Shiva would pursue him with that same relentless, remorseless, unhurried gait that said, "Run, puny mortal, but you cannot escape me, for I am Shiva. I will never tire. I will never give up until I crush your bones to powder."

Jiro Isuzu stumbled down First Street, past the ruined tanks, past the inert bodies of his New Imperial Japanese Army, knowing he could never outrun Shiva on foot. A Nishitsu Ninja jeep caught his eye and he veered for it. The keys were still in the ignition. The Japanese driver was slumped across the wheel, a deep hole in his forehead exactly the circumference of a man's index finger. Isuzu pushed the body aside.

To his relief, the jeep responded. Isuzu laid rubber for six blocks. He allowed himself the luxury of a glance in the rearview mirror. At the far end of the street, Shiva emerged from city hall like something seeping from hell. Isuzu pressed the accelerator to the floor and turned his attention back to the road.

He saw the intersection coming up too late. He made an instant decision to go to the left. The Ninja, taking the corner at high speed, went up on two wheels. So desperate was Jiro to make that turn that he leaned into the turn. The added weight was enough to throw the jeep completely off balance.

The Nishitsu Ninja went over on its side and skidded like a toboggan. It struck a mailbox and cracked a fire hydrant. It stopped, wheels spinning madly.

Jiro Isuzu climbed from the jeep and, limping, kept on going. This time he did look back.

Up ahead, he heard the unmistakable grumble and clatter of tanks. He forced his pained legs to go faster. The Master of Sinanju stepped out of station KYMA onto the street. With him were Bartholomew Bronzini, Bill Roam, and Sheryl Rose. They had no sooner reached the sidewalk than a pair of T-62 tanks clanked around the corner. They were running backward, their turret cannon swiveling as if tracking a pursuing enemy.

Bartholomew Bronzini broke into a wolfish grin when he saw them. Pulling a stick grenade from his belt, he bounded for the nearest tank.

"Where the hell are you going?" Bill Roam called after him.

Bronzini hurled his answer back. "Are you kidding me? I'm the star of this thing, remember?"

Bronzini took a running jump and landed on the rear hull. He scrambled up the turret on all fours and, throwing himself on his stomach, pulled the cap off the grenade. He dropped it in and slid off like a cat from a hot stove.

The open hatch vomited a brief flash of fire. It was followed by a mushroom of black smoke. The T-62 veered out of control, still running backward, and stayed in the front of a drugstore.

Bronzini turned and executed a hammy bow. "And now," he said, "for my next trick."

Then Jiro Isuzu huffed around the corner, practically dragging one leg.

Turning, Bronzini spotted him.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't my old pal Jiro," he said pleasantly, pulling another grenade. He let fly.

"Bronzini," Bill Roam cried, "don't be an idiot! This is no movie." Roam started forward. Chiun held him back.

"No," he said. "Let him be. If he is fated to die this time, at least it will not be the ignominious death of Alexander."

Jiro Isuzu didn't see the grenade land at his feet. He was too intent on watching the corner around which he had just come. One of his boots encounterd the grenade, knocking it away. It did not explode.

"Fuck!" Bronzini said. He reached for another one. Then around the corner lurched a silent remorseless apparition.

"Remo!" Sheryl gasped, pointing excitedly. "Look, it's Remo. He's alive."

But the Master of Sinanju, seeing the blue discoloration on Remo's throat, said, "No, not Remo. He wears the wasted flesh of Remo, and walks in his bruised bones. But it is not Remo."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sheryl snapped. "Of course it's Remo. Let me go to him."

"He's right," Bill Roam said, holding her back. "Remo couldn't have survived that fall." He raised his voice. "Bart! Get back! Don't get near him!"

"Jiro's a pussy, I can take him," Bronzini laughed.

"I don't mean Jiro," Roam called back.

The distraction was momentary, but it gave Jiro Isuzu time to catch up with the lone surviving tank. He grabbed hold of a stanchion, and the tank pulled him along. His boots dragged liked deadweight. He felt dead. Once he caught his breath, Jiro Isuzu climbed onto the hull and clambered up the turret. He slid down the hatch with an evident lack of agility.

"Hold up, Jiro, baby," Bronzini shouted, oblivious of the inexorable figure that bore down on the tank. "This is our big scene together."

Bronzini pulled the fuse cord of a stick grenade and tossed it down. He jumped off the tank.

Nothing happened. He picked himself off the ground and searched his belt for another grenade. The expression on his face told the others he was out of grenades. He dug a bayonet from his boot, sticking it between his teeth, and went after the tank with a kind of wild joy in his drooping eyes.

Bronzini disappeared into the tank just as the turret finished swiveling in the direction of the emaciated man. The smoothbore cannon dropped its elevation to point at Shiva's chest.

A harsh order barked out in Jiro's voice. The tank stopped, its cannon just inches from Shiva's face. Two sun-reddened hands reached up to take the cannon muzzle.

From inside the turrent came a rapid tattoo of sounds: fist blows, cries, piglike grunting, and the unmistakable meaty ripping of a knife rending flesh.

And Bartholomew Bronzini's voice, saying, "Eat this!" over and over again.

Shiva's hands compressed, and the smoothbore muzzle, in the grip of a power that was in tune with the universe, could not resist. It was only metal. The metal shrieked.

Then Jiro's voice gasped a one-word command. Chiun realized what was about to happen. He pulled Sheryl and Bill Roam back into the station and threw them to the floor.

The explosion was deafening. It blew out windows for five blocks in every direction. In the aftermath, the air rang like an invisible bell. And then the T-62's turret, blown twenty feet into the air by the force of the smoothbore blowback, came back down.

It pulverized what remained of the tank, like an anvil falling on an egg crate.

Then there was silence except for the crackle and spit of flames.

Chiun rose from the floor of the TV station, bits of glass falling from his kimono like tinkling bells. He stepped out into the smoky street, his parchment features tight with concern.

The tank was an unrecognizable wreck.

But standing there, watching the tank burn, was a figure of terrible aspect. The flames illuminated his stark face with a hellish light. As Chiun watched, he stepped onto the smoldering T-62 and bent at the waist. His hands, apparently oblivious of the heated metal, pulled and tore until they unearthed something that resembled a blackened pomegranate. Except that it showed discolored teeth in a frozen grimace.

Shiva the Destroyer lifted the head from the wreckage. A blackened, smoking body came with it. Silently, mercilessly, Shiva began to rend the body limb from limb. He stripped the skin from the bones. It slid off easily, for it had been cooked. He broke the bones into short sections and methodically crushed each section in his hands. All the while, he was pulverizing the bones of the rib cage and spinal column as he danced on the fleshy bag of Jiro Isuzu's torso. His crushing feet beat like terrible drums in his dance of death.

Finally he took up the head and held it to his face. "I consign you to the Hell of Hells, Japanese!" Shiva roared, and pulped the head with a nervous compression of hands. Steaming brain matter bubbled from nose, mouth, ears, and skull fissures. Fingers worked, grinding and cracking bone.

"So perish the enemies of Sinanju!" Chiun said loudly. Shiva dropped the remains in the pile of charcoalblack meat and pulverized bone that was the mortal remains of Jiro Isuzu. And then the head swiveled around like a radar dish. Twin eyes lit by scarlet flames fixed upon the Master of Sinanju.

And Chiun, his facial hair trembling, stepped up to meet Shiva the Destroyer.

A cold voice emanated from the barely recognizable mouth that had once belonged to Remo Williams.

"I have claimed my vengeance," Shiva said.

Chiun bowed. "If you are done, I demand that you return my son to me."

"Have a care how you address me, Korean. Your son exists only through my sufferance. He would not have survived his fall."

"And I am grateful for that. I did not feel Remo's mind. I thought him dead."

"Death will never claim my chosen avatar."

"All men come to the end of their days in time," Chiun said stubbornly. "Even, perhaps, gods as well."

"Know, Master of Sinanju, that this fleshy envelope exists only for the day I claim him. You have made him the perfect vessel for me, but my hour has not yet come. Soon. Perhaps very soon. But it will come, and one day I will claim him forever. And leave you weeping."

"As you wish, Supreme Lord," said the Master of Sinanju. "But until the appointed hour, he is mine, and I demand his return."

The voice of Shiva was silent a long time. At last it spoke. "Seek not to thwart my will, Master of Sinanju." Chiun bowed. "I am but a speck on the wheel of inexorable destiny," he said.

"Well-spoken. I now give you back your dead night tiger. Keep him strong for me."

And the red light in Shiva's dark eyes dwindled. The harsh lines of the face relaxed. The eyes closed. And Remo collapsed like a slowly deflating balloon.

Chiun caught him up in his arms and laid him on the ground.

Bill Roam approached respectfully. Sheryl, hand over her mouth, trailed behind.

"Is ... he dead?" Roam asked.

Chiun hesitated before speaking. His hand lay over Remo's heart. He felt the beat of it, sluggish but regular. "Yes," Chiun said. "He is gone."

Sheryl sat down on the ground, oblivious of the oil and broken glass, and buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook uncontrollably but no sound came forth.

"If you want," Bill Roam said gently, "we can bury him on Sun On Jo land. I don't accept your legend as being the same as mine, but I made you a promise."

"No," Chiun said solemnly, lifting Remo into his arms. "I have decided that you are correct, Sunny Joe Roam. Merely because our legends have sounds in common does not make us brothers. I will take Remo home with me. Lead me to the place where the airplanes come and go. I will await transportation for my dead son there."

Bill Roam nodded. His bleak eyes went to the ruined tank, still smoking and sputtering.

"Bronzini's gone too. No one could survive that blast."

"He achieved in death what he only pretended to be in life," Chiun said distantly.

"Yeah, he died a hero, all right. Too bad no one thought to film it. He would have liked that."

Then the sky was suddenly full of C-130 transport planes. Tiny specks began jumping from them. The specks blossomed into white buds. They stretched in lines across the sky like dandelion seeds strung along filaments of spider silk.

"Looks like the Rangers are landing," Bill Roam said, looking up.

The Master of Sinanju did not look up. "They are too late," he said solemnly. "They are always too late."

Chapter 23

A week passed. A week in which a stunned nation attempted to pick up the pieces. Yuma was declared a federal disaster area and money and men were rushed into the city before the last of the dead had been laid to rest. A congressional inquiry was launched, but when its report was delivered to the President's desk nine months later, nowhere in its 16,000 pages was mention that on Christmas Day the President of the United States had given the order to drop an atomic bomb on an American City.

That black page was never entered into the U.S. history books. And so only a handful of people ever knew that Yuma had been saved by a television broadcast by the late, great Bartholomew Bronzini.

Because of that omission, the controversy over Bronzini's true role on the Battle of Yuma was never satisfactorily resolved.

Slowly the nation went back to normal. A new year and a new decade were marked on January 1, and although the celebrations were subdued, nowhere was the holiday celebrated with deeper feeling than in Yuma, Arizona, where many Americans had learned for the first time what it truly meant to be free.

On the first day of the new year, Remo Williams opened his eyes. He stared up at the blank white ceiling of a private hospital room in Folcroft Sanitarium. His mind was a blank too.

At first the doctor thought the opening of his eyes was a mere involuntary reflex. The patient had been in a coma for a full seven days. He tested the pupils with a penlight. The reaction he got prompted him to call Dr. Harold W. Smith.

Smith entered the hospital-white room and dismissed the doctor quietly. After he had withdrawn, Smith drew up to Remo's bedside, noticing that the bluish tinge of his throat had largely faded. Remo's brown eyes followed him with only vague comprehension.

"Smitty," Remo croaked.

"What do you remember?" Smith asked flatly.

"Falling. Parachute didn't work. Tried to equalize my mass so I could float to the ground. It was starting to work. Then I made a big mistake."

"What was that?"

"I opened my eyes. Up to that moment, I was doing great. Then the desert jumped me. That's the last thing I remember."

"You were fortunate to survive. Your neck was sprained. I don't know how you escaped breaking it."

"Simple. I landed on my face. Where's Chiun?"

"I called him. He'll be here soon. Remo, there are a number of things you should know."

Remo pushed himself up with both hands. He grunted with the effort. "What's that?"

Before Smith could answer, the Master of Sinanju swept into the room. He wore a simple blue kimono. Remo cracked a weak smile. "Hey, Little Father, a funny thing happened to me on the way to the movies." Chiun's austere face softened momentarily. Then, as he spotted an aquamarine box beneath a tabletop Christmas tree, it hardened.

"How long has he been awake?" Chiun demanded of Smith.

"Only a few moments."

"And he has not seen fit to open the present I so carefully prepared for him," Chiun said, annoyed.

"Present?" Remo asked doubtfully.

"Yes, graceless one," Chiun said, going to the tree. He picked up the aquamarine box and presented it to Remo, who accepted it in both hands.

"Feels light," he said, hefting it.

"It contains a present beyond worth," Chiun assured him.

"Really?" Remo said, trying to sit straight. "Is it Christmas yet? Can I open it now?"

"Christmas was last week," Smith told him.

"I've been out a week! Boy, I must have really taken a fall."

"Perhaps it is your white laziness that has reasserted itself once more," Chiun suggested coolly.

"I'm glad to see the spirit of the season hasn't completely overwhelmed your compassionate understanding of your fellow human beings," Remo remarked dryly.

"While you have been a lazy slugabed," Chiun went on, "I have been explaining to your emperor that even though you failed, it should not be held against you. True, I am now forced once again to accompany you on your assignments, but-"

"Failed?" Remo asked.

"Bronzini is dead," Smith said quietly.

"What happened?" Remo asked, shocked.

"It's a long story," Smith said. "When you're better, I'll brief you on the details. Suffice it to say Bronzini is a national hero."

"He is?"

"He saved the city."

"He did?"

"But no one can ever know," Smith cautioned.

"Well, they won't get it from me. And to tell you the truth, I didn't really like the guy."

"You must not have gotten to know him very well."

"Actually, I only met him in passing," Remo admitted. "He struck me as an egotistical jerk."

"That may be," Smith admitted. "He was a complex man." Smith turned to Chiun. "That reminds me. The autopsy on Nemuro Nishitsu has been made public. It seems that he died of an upper respiratory failure brought on by a common cold. I thought you said you eliminated him."

"Who's Nemuro Nishitsu?" Remo asked. He was ignored.

"I have told you how this Bartholomew Bronzini was the reincarnation of Alexander the Great?" Chiun asked.

"He what!" Remo exploded.

"I cannot say I can yet bring myself to accept that premise," Smith said.

"It is true. And one of my ancestors dispatched him."

"As I recall, Alexander died of malaria."

"True. That is how history records it. But the true fate of Alexander lies in the pages of historical records found only in the Book of Sinanju. The truth is as follows . . ."

"Do I have to listen to this?" Remo said sourly. "I'm a sick man."

Chiun's face puckered in annoyance. "This is a wonderfully instructive story," he sniffed.

"That's what you said the last thirty times you told it to me," Remo groaned, folding his arms.

"I was referring to Smith in this case," Chiun returned. "Thirty repetitions, and you still do not appreciate the beauty of this legend."

"The beauty of malaria has always been lost on me," Remo grumbled.

"Now," Chiun continued, addressing Smith, "in the days of Alexander, Masters of Sinanju were in service to India, owing to a minor dispute with our preferred client, the Persian Empire."

Remo broke in. "Translation: India offered more money. "

"I do not recall that being recorded in the Book of Sinanju," Chiun said vaguely.

"It's in the appendix."

"And if you are not silent while I finish this story, I will take out yours," Chiun continued in a more reasonable tone. "While the Master of that time served India, that sick Greekling descended upon Persia and destroyed that wonderful empire. The Master of Sinanju heard this news with great displeasure."

"Translation: he was thinking of switching sides again."

"And he approached a sultan of India," Chiun went on, pretending to ignore Remo's outburst even as he added it to the long list of injuries Remo had visited him over the years, "whose lands were threatened by this mad Greekling with the name of Alexander. And this sultan offered the Master much gold to eliminate Alexander. And so the Master chose an emissary and sent him to Alexander with a message. This messenger laid the scroll of the Master before Alexander, saying to him that it would reveal to Alexander his ultimate destiny. But the Greekling flew into a rage when he looked upon the scroll, and slew this messenger himself. It seemed that the Master's message was in Korean, which Alexander could not read." Chiun paused.

"Then what happened?" Smith asked, genuinely interested.

"Sinanju lived happily ever after," Remo inserted.

"For once Remo is correct," Chiun said, casting a baleful glance in his pupil's direction. "Sinanju did live happily ever after, for the messenger that the Master had chosen was sick in the early stages of malaria. By the time he reached Alexander, he was very ill and Alexander's cruel murder was actually a mercy to him. Unfortunately the Greekling also contracted malaria, and so he died, with none being the wiser."

"I see. And what did the scroll actually say?"

"Two things." Chiun beamed. " 'You have malaria,' and an ancient Korean expression that in modern English translates roughly as 'Gotcha.' "

"Remarkable," said Smith.

"It's twice as remarkable when you stop and consider it has absolutely nothing to do with the guy who caught cold and died," Remo groused.

"I was coming to that," Chiun hissed. In a softer voice he resumed his story. "When I encountered this Bronzini-"

"Hold the phone," Remo interrupted. "You met Bronzini? You were in Yuma? How'd you pull that off-kidnap Smith's wife?"

"I was there as a correspondent for Star File magazine, I will have you know," Chiun said loftily.

"Never heard of it."

"Of course not. They pay a dollar a word. Obviously it is beyond your penny-a-word reading tastes."

"I stand corrected."

Chiun went on. "And when I saw that the former Greekling, Bronzini, had a cold, knowing how frail this Nishitsu was, I resolved to surrender Bronzini to the evil Japanese aggressor."

"Japanese aggressor?" Remo said. "The movie people?"

"No, the invasion army," Chiun told him.

"He's joking, isn't he?" Remo asked. Smith didn't reply.

Chiun kept talking. "I knew that if I dispatched Nishitsu, his forces would kill the children. But if he died of natural causes, it would demoralize his occupation forces. No reprisals would have been undertaken. "

Remo's mouth formed the silent words "Occupation forces?"

"And so it would have come to pass if the plane bearing the nuclear weapons had not appeared."

Smith nodded. "It was fortunate that Bronzini had escaped his prison, for only one of his reputation could have convinced the military not to nuke Yuma."

"Nuke!" Remo exploded. "The Japanese tried to nuke Yuma?"

"No, the Americans," Chiun said.

"You're pulling my leg," Remo insisted. He turned to Smith. "He is pulling my leg, isn't he?"

"It's a long story," Smith sighed. "But every word of it is true. Chiun was instrumental in averting a catastrophe. The President is very grateful to him."

"We will discuss this at another time," Chiun said loftily. "Perhaps when we resume contract negotiations."

Smith winced at the reminder. "If you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

Chiun bowed formally. "Please convey my regards to your illustrious cousin Milburn."

"I will if we ever get back on speaking terms again. He was very unhappy that you submitted your story in poem form. He insists that you were given explicit instructions not to do so."

"The man is a philistine not to recognize great literature when it is offered to him at a mere dollar a word," Chiun said sharply.

"I won't tell him that part. He returned your manuscript, and I've promised to rewrite the story myself."

"I will not have my name attached to your drivelous writings, Smith. Put some other name on it. Perhaps Remo will be pleased to lend his name to your work. But be certain that the check is in my name."

"We'll discuss it another time," Smith said, closing the door after him.

"I get the feeling I missed a lot," Remo said after he and Chiun were alone. "You were in Yuma?"

"That is the past now. I wish you to forget it. You are in Folcroft now, where you are safe."

"I gathered that much. Too bad. I wanted to say good-bye to Sheryl. I never really got to know her."

"Forget her," Chiun said quickly. "Why don't you open your Christmas present?"

"You know, I don't have any presents for you."

"It is nothing," Chiun said with a dismissive wave. "When you are yourself again, I am certain you will shower me with the gifts I so richly deserve. Although I am certain none will be as fine as that I have made for you," he added pointedly.

"Handmade, huh? Nice to see you're getting into the Christmas spirit," Remo said as he pulled at the silver ribbon, "even if it is a week late."

Remo stopped suddenly. "I met a guy on the set named Sunny Joe. Did he make it?"

"Alas, no," Chiun said. "You will not see him again. "

"Too bad. He seemed like a nice guy."

"I would not know. I never met him."

Remo looked up suspiciously. "Then how do you know he died?"

"He was a friend of Bronzini's. All of Bronzini's friends were put to the sword by the Japanese."

"Damn."

Remo tore the wrapping free and fumbled at the lid of a simple cardboard box. The expression of sadness on his face gave way to pleasurable expectation. When he lifted the lid, the expression fell like a piano.

"It's empty!" Remo blurted.

"How white," Chiun spat. "How deeply you wound me with your base ingratitude."

"I'm not ungrateful," Remo said. "I'm just ... uh . . ."

"Disappointed?" Chiun suggested.

"Yeah. Kinda. Yeah, I am disappointed. There's nothing in this thing."

"Look again."

Puzzled, Remo held the box up to the light. He turned the box so that every corner was illuminated.

"It's still empty," he complained.

"You are so dense."

Remo dropped the box into his lap. He folded his arms. "Okay, I've been asleep for a week. I'm a little slow. So tell me."

"I offer you a thing of beauty and you tear it to pieces."

"The box was the present?" Remo said wonderingly.

"It is no mere box," Chiun corrected. "I chose it from countless others, rejecting many as flawed or unworthy to hold the gift I offer you."

"It looks like an ordinary cardboard box," Remo said sullenly.

"The wrapping paper was aquamarine. I chose aquamarine because I knew it was your favorite color."

"It is?"

"One of them. Perhaps not the most favorite."

"Well, I do kinda like aquamarine-after red, blue, yellow, green, and magenta. Maybe mud-brown too."

"The ribbon was silver. I chose it because it harmonized with the aquamarine paper I so painstakingly selected. When I had the box and the paper and the ribbon, I set them on the floor and meditated over them for an entire afternoon. Only after I had prepared myself mentally did I wrap the paper over the box and tie it with the magnificent bow which you plucked apart with your childish fingers with no thought given to the effort put into tying it."

"Sorry. Obviously I lost my head. Must have been delirious."

Chiun's hard countenance softened slightly.

"It might be that I can restore this present beyond measure, for in truth it is but a symbol of something greater. "

"What's that?"

"A father's love. For I am the only father you have ever known. "

"Oh," said Remo. And he understood. "How can I top this?" he asked, holding up the simple aquamarine box, which no longer seemed empty at all.

"You already have," Chiun told him warmly. "For I have you, who are the true treasure of Sinanju." Chiun beamed. Remo smiled back. Their smiles met and seemed to fill the room.

"This is the best Christmas I never had," Remo said. And he meant it.