"I was up two nights writing that line," Bronzini said, wondering if the guy was ever going to let go. Finally Curry disengaged and left the warehouse, walking backward. He said good-bye at least thirteen times. He was so impressed he never thought to ask Bronzini for his autograph. It was a first. Bronzini was almost disappointed. The tanks rolled across the border that night. They crossed arid desert to the checkpoint, where they stopped, forming a long snakelike column. They grumbled and coughed diesel fumes.
Customs gave the documents a cursory examination, stamped them as "Passed," and without a fight waved through the first invading force to cross into U. S. territory since the British Army took Washington in 1812.
The customs officials gathered around to watch. They smiled like boys watching a parade. The Japanese drivers, their helmeted heads poking up from the drivers' compartments like human jack-in-the-boxes, waved. Friendly salutes were exchanged. Nishitsu cameras on both sides flashed, and more than one voice asked "Do you see Bronzini? Is he in one of those things?"
Chapter 7
Remo changed planes in Phoenix for Yuma. He was not surprised, but neither was he happy to see that the Air West plane that would take him to Yuma was a small two-prop cloudhopper seating, at most, sixteen people in an incredibly narrow cabin. And no stewardess.
The plane took off and Remo settled back for the bumpy ride. He dug out Smith's folder to read his professional credits-or rather, Remo Durock's professional credits. Remo was amazed to read that he had been a stunt man in everything from Full Metal jacket to The Return of Swamp Thing. He wondered how the hell Smith could expect him to get away with that, but then remembered that one of the cardinal rules of stunt performing was to keep your face from the camera.
Remo's International Stunt Association card was clipped to the folder. He pulled it out and inserted it into his wallet. Remo was interested to read that he had won a Stuntman Award certificate for his work on Star Trek: The Next Generation. He had never watched Star Trek: The Next Generation. He looked to see if he had won an Oscar and was disappointed to find that he had not.
Less than ten minutes into the flight, the terrain under the plane's wing abruptly changed. Phoenix's suburbs gave way to desert, and the desert to mountains. The mountains were surrounded by more desert. For miles in every direction there was nothing but desolation. Only the rare ruler-straight road, passing through nothing and apparently going nowhere.
Then Yuma came into view like a surprise oasis. For the city was a virtual island in a sea of sand. It was green around the edges, thanks to the nearby Colorado River, and Remo's eyes, zeroing in on the flat lushness, recognized expansive lettuce beds fed by blue irrigation pipes. Beyond the lettuce fields, Yuma looked like any other desert community, except it was much larger than he had expected. Many of the homes had clay-red roofs. And almost every yard had a swimming pool. There were as many blue pools as red roofs.
Yuma International Airport-so called because it was a way station between the U. S. and Mexico-was much smaller than Remo had expected. The plane alighted and rolled to the tiny terminal.
Remo stepped out into the clear dry air that, even in late December, was immoderately warm. He followed the line of passengers into a terminal that seemed to consist of a gift shop around which someone had added a single ticket counter and a modest security and waiting area as an afterthought.
There was no one waiting for him in the waiting area, so Remo walked out the front entrance and looked for a studio representative.
Almost instantly a station wagon slithered up to the curb. An outdoorsy young woman with a cowboy hat over her long black hair leaned out of the window. She wore a fringed buckskin vest over a T-shirt. The shirt depicted two skeletons lounging on lawn chairs under a broiling sun and the words "But it's a dry heat."
"Are you Remo Durock?" she called in a chirping voice. Her eyes were gray in her open face.
Remo grinned. "Do you want me to be?"
She laughed. "Hop in, I'm Sheryl, unit publicist for Red Christrnas."
Remo climbed in beside her. "Where's your luggage?" she asked.
"I believe in traveling light."
"You should have brought your boots," Sheryl said as she piloted the station wagon onto the main drag.
"I thought it didn't snow in the desert," Remo remarked as he took note of the plasticky Christmas decorations that festooned the windows of every business establishment that whipped past them. They were identical to the decorations he had seen back east. Somehow, they looked tackier here in sun-soaked Arizona.
"It doesn't," Sheryl was saying. "But there are snakes and scorpions where you'll be working."
"I'll watch my step," Remo promised.
"This must be your first location shoot," Sheryl prompted.
"Actually I've been in a lot of stuff. Maybe you saw me in Star Trek: The Next Generation."
"You were in that? I've been a Trekker since I was six years old. Tell me which episode? I've seen them all." Remo thought fast.
"The one with the Martians," he ventured.
Sheryl's attractive face puckered. "Martians? I don't remember any Martians. Klingons, Romulans, Ferengi, yeah. But no Martians."
"They must not have aired that one yet," Remo said quickly. "I was the stunt double for the guy with the pointy ears."
Sheryl's eyes widened. "Not Leonard Nimoy?"
The name sounded familiar so Remo said, "Yes." He regretted it instantly.
"Leonard Nimoy's going to be in a Next Generation episode? Wow!"
"It was just a cameo role," Remo said, glancing into the file folder and the glossary of movie terms Smith had provided. "I was actually the stunt cameo double."
"I never heard of such a thing."
"I pioneered the concept," Remo said soberly. "It was quite an honor. I have my heart set on an Oscar."
"You mean an Emmy. Oscars are for films, not TV."
"That's what I meant. An Emmy. I almost got an Oscar, but some guy named Smith beat me out of it." Sheryl nodded.
"Too bad," she said. "But count yourself lucky. Unit publicists don't get Emmys or Oscars or any of that stuff. Actually, this is my first film. Until last week I was a cue-card girl at one of our TV stations here. It's such a hot potato that an experienced publicist wouldn't touch it, so I applied and here I am."
"Because of the union trouble?"
"You know it. You'll see when we get out to the location. We'll be running the gauntlet. But it's worth it. This film is going to be my ticket out of Yuma."
"Is it that bad?" Remo asked as they passed through the city and out into the desert. Remo saw lettuce beds on either side of the dusty road. They were the same beds he had seen from the air.
"It's a big, growing city, but it's in the middle of nowhere. Always has been, always will be. Uh-oh." Remo had been watching Sheryl's chiseled-in-sandstone profile as they talked. He looked out the windshield to see what had brought the frown to her pretty face. The road ahead was a swirl of boiling dust. Visible through it were the backs of several ponderous tracked machines. They were barely moving.
"Are those tanks?" Remo asked.
"Tanks they are. Hang on. I'm going to try to get around these dusty brutes."
Sheryl sent the car onto the soft shoulder of the road and crept around the tanks. They had stopped now, exhaling fumes into the settling dust. Remo rolled up his window.
As they sped past, Remo watched the inscrutable faces of the tank drivers that poked up from the drivers compartments.
"Unfriendly fellows, aren't they?" Sheryl said.
"Who are they?"
"Those are the Chinese extras."
"I hate to be the one to rain on anyone's fantasy, but those guys are Japanese."