"They must be joking, trying to keep me off my own set," he muttered. "Who do they think they're dealing with? Heather Locklear?"
The base camp was deserted. Off in the near distance, one of the prop tanks was chugging back and forth in the sand. It had a bifurcated plow blade mounted on the front. The tank used the blade to make piles of sand and push them into a hole.
Bronzini sped up to the main-unit location. He got a surprise when he turned the corner.
There were over a thousand men lined up in battalion formation. They wore brown People's Liberation Army uniforms and stood with their AK-47's at parade rest. On either side of them, the tanks and APC's had been lined up in ruler-straight rows. Tank commanders and crewmen clustered in front of the waiting machines. Jiro Isuzu stood facing them, his back to Bronzini.
Bronzini dismounted and walked up to him. "Bronzini san," Isuzu demanded hotly, "what you do here so earry?"
"Nice uniform, Jiro," Bronzini said coolly. "If you're going to be an extra too, who'll be directing? A gaffer?" Isuzu's face darkened.
"I wirr direct from within shot at times. You are famiriar with technique."
"I've directed myself," Bronzini admitted. "Never with a sword, though."
Jiro Isuzu grasped the scabbard of his ceremonial sword. Bronzini knew swords. It was not Chinese, but a samurai sword. It looked authentic, too.
"Sword bring good ruck. In famiry many generation."
"Try not to trip over it," Bronzini told him. He indicated the phalanx of extras. Several of the crewmen were going from man to man, distributing Federal Express envelopes. "We are firming Chinese sordier preparing for battre,' Jiro said unctuously. "Not need you yet."
"Yeah?" Bronzini noticed the Japanese crewmen were also in uniform. Several were filming the proceedings with hand-held Nishitsu video cameras. A big yellow Chapman crane lifted a thirty-five-millimeter film camera over the men, capturing a breathtaking panoramic shot of the formation.
"Cameraman in uniform too?" Bronzini said quietly. "We need every man. Not enough extras."
"Uh-huh." As Bronzini watched, the soldiers squat ted in the sand and, removing knives from belt scabbards, started paring their fingernails. They next chopped off a lock of hair. The clippings and hair were carefully deposited in the Fedex envelopes and sealed.
"What the heck is this about?" Bronzini asked. "Chinese war custom. Sordiers going into battre send home parts of serves to be buried in famiry urn if they not return."
Bronzini grunted. "Nice touch, but don't you think the Fedex envelopes are a bit of a stretch?" Uniformed groups went through the formation as the extras climbed to their feet. They collected the envelopes.
At a nod from Isuzu, they raised their fists and shouted, "Banzai!"
"Banzai?" Bronzini said. "Stop me if you've heard this one before, Jiro, but 'banzai' is Japanese."
"Extras get carried away. We edit out. Okay?"
"I'll want my technical adviser to okay all this stuff. He's due in today. I won't have my name on a piece of shit. Understand?"
"We arready reave message at hoter. Ask him to meet us at airdrop site. Okay?"
"Not okay. I read the script last night. I know this is a Japanese film, but does my character have to die?"
"You hero. Die tragic heroic death."
"And the part about the Americans nuking their own city really bothers me. What do you call that?"
"Happy ending. Evil Red Chinese die."
"So does the civilian population. How about a rewrite?"
"Rewrite possibre. We talk rater."
"Okay," Bronzini said, eyeing the soldiers in formation. "This is amazing. How many people you got here?"
"Over two thousand."
"Well, I hope they're cheap. This is the kind of thing that put Grundy IV over budget."
"We are under budget. And on schedule. Prease to wait at base camp."
"A couple of questions first. What were they burying by the base camp?"
"Trash."
"Uh-huh. The Indians are sure going to appreciate turning their reservation into a dump site."
"Indian paid off. No trouble from Indian. Arso, have reached understanding with union. They agree to stay out of this firm, we use them in next. You go now."
"Let me know when you're ready for the first setup." Bronzini looked at his watch. "This time of year, there's only twelve hours of daylight till magic hour."
"Magic hour?"
"Yeah. After the sun goes down, there's an hour of false light before it gets dark. On American productions, we call it magic hour. It gives us extra shooting time. Don't tell me you never heard the term."
"This first firm for Nishitsu."
"No shit," Bronzini said, vaulting onto his bike. "And you know, Jiro, I think it's going to be your last. I just hope you don't drag my career down with yours."
Bronzini sent the Harley rocketing back to base camp. Remo Williams arrived at Luke Air Force Range at eight A.M. He stopped his rented car at the checkpoint. An airman stepped up to the car.
"I'm with the movie," Remo told him. "Your name, sir?"
"Remo Durock."
The guard consulted a checklist.
"My name should be easy to find. I think there's only four or five non-Japanese with the film."
"Yes, Sir. Remo Durock. You're free to pass. Take a right, then two lefts. It's the red brick building."
"Much obliged," Remo said. He parked his car in front of the red brick building. It was near the airfield. A small propeller-driven plane was idling on the flight line. It looked ridiculously tiny when compared to the hulking C-130 Hercules transports parked wing to wing on the near side of the tarmac.
Remo went inside, showed a fake photo ID in the name of Remo Durock to a desk sergeant, and was directed to a room.
"Hey, Remo. You're late." It was Bill Roam.