"Squibs. When we fire, they break. Spirr fake brood. Very convincing."
"Does it wash off?" Tepperman asked, thinking of the dry-cleaning bill.
"Yes. Very safe. You have brank sherr?"
"Beg pardon?"
"Brank sherr," Isuzu repeated. "You have?"
"I don't quite get your drift," Tepperman admitted. Jiro Isuzu thought before speaking again. Then he said, "Brank burret."
"Oh, bullet. You mean blank shells!"
"Yes. Brank sherr."
"Yes, I received them. My men have them too. Don't worry. There'll be no accidental shooting on this base."
"Exerrent. We begin soon."
Isuzu turned to go, but Tepperman caught him by the sleeve.
"Hold on. What about my mark?"
"Mark?"
"You know. I understand that the first thing an actor has to learn is how to find his mark."
"Ah, that mark. Yes. Hmmmm. Here," Jiro said, picking a squib from Tepperman's uniform. He dropped it and stepped on it.
"You stand there," he said, pointing to the bloody blotch.
Tepperman gave a relieved smile. He hadn't wanted to look like an idiot. A lot of his relatives were moviegoers. "Great. Thanks," he said.
Colonel Emile Tepperman stepped onto the blotch. He placed his hand on the flap of his side holster, and struck a rakish pose as he awaited his international film debut.
On either side of the approach road, his Marines were positioned, their M-16's in hand. Japanese special-effects technicians finished applying blood squibs to their clothes.
Finally the grumble of the tanks came from beyond the perimeter fence. A wide grin broke out on Emile Tepperman's face. Through the dust, he could see Bart Bronzini in the lead tank. He was standing up in the open turret hatch. Tepperman wondered if he would be visible when the tank rolled by. He would really enjoy being in the same scene with the Steroid Stallion.
The tanks stopped.
Jiro Isuzu looked up at the camera operator perched on a saddle at the end of the Chapman crane boom. Someone ran up and placed a clapper board in front of the camera. Tepperman smiled. It was just like he'd seen in movies about movies.
"Rorring!" Jiro called.
The clapper clapped. The man dropped it and ran to retrieve an assault rifle he'd left leaning against the guard box. The camera panned toward the tank line.
They started up the road, a rumbling line of clanking machinery, dust tunneling in their wake.
Tepperman felt a thrill of expectation course through him. So real. He saw his men tense expectantly. He had lectured them last night about looking sharp. And not looking into the camera. He had read somewhere that that was a no-no, the mark of an amateur actor. Tepperman took pride in the professionalism of his men. He just hoped they had sense enough not to upstage him.
The tank column turned into the gate, and on cue the guard fired his M-16 three times, and it occurred to Tepperman for the first time that if this was supposed to be the enemy rolling in, why was the hero standing in the lead tank? He decided the plot must be more complicated than he'd been led to believe. Tepperman watched as the guard went down in a return hail of fire. Blood squirted from the radiocontrolled squibs. He threshed wildly as he went down, and Colonel Tepperman made a mental note to reprimand the guard for overacting.
The tanks split into two columns. Isuzu raised his sword and brought it down with a flourish.
That was Tepperman's cue.
"Return fire!" he thundered, dropping into a crouch. His weapon came up in his hand. He snapped off eight rapid shots, hoping the pearl handles showed up on camera. Tepperman noticed with a frown that none of the Chinese troops hanging off the tanks were going down.
"Dammit!" he muttered. "Where's the realism?" He saw Marines drop all around him, their shirts spattered with realistic-looking blood. One man was really yelling his head off. "Damn these overactors," Tepperman grumbled, reaching for another clip.
Tepperman squeezed off another shot, trying to knock off a tank machine-gunner. He didn't go down, which of course he would not. Tepperman was not using live ammunition. He hoped someone would blow this take, so he could tell Isuzu that what this scene really, really needed was for the heroic base commander to score a few hits. For the good of the story line, of course.
Tepperman was screwing his face into a heroic grimace when he felt something clutch his ankle.
He turned, still crouched on his haunches.
A pain-racked face stared up at him. It was a Marine. He was on his stomach. He had crawled from the side of the road to his commander's side, leaving a very realistic trail of blood.
"Nice touch, son," Tepperman hissed. "The old dying soldier trying to warn his superior officer. Good. Now play dead."
But the Marine clutched Tepperman's ankle more tightly than ever. He groaned. And through the groan came rattling words that were audible above the percussive cacophony of gunfire and tank clatter.
"Sir ... the bullets ... real," he choked out.
"Get a grip on yourself. It's only a movie. What have you been smoking? Loco weed?"
"I'm wounded ... sir. Bad. Look ... blood. "
"Squibs, man. Haven't you ever seen special effects before?"
"Sir ... listen ... to ... me...."
"Calm down," Tepperman said savagely. "That's Bart Bronzini in that lead tank. Get a grip on yourself. You'd think a Marine could stand the sight of fake blood. You make me sick to my stomach."
The Marine let go of Tepperman's ankle and reached under himself. He grimaced. When his hand came away, it was covered with dripping red matter.
"Here ... proof," he croaked. Then his cheek dropped to the ground.
Colonel Emile Tepperman looked at the red matter that had been plopped into his hand. It looked astonishingly like human viscera. On impulse, Tepperman sniffed it. It smelled like an open bowel wound; Commandant Tepperman knew that horrid smell well. He had done a tour in Vietnam.
Tepperman jumped to his feet, horror making the points of his mustache quirk like cat whiskers.
"Stop the action!" he cried. "Hold it! Something's gone wrong! This man is really wounded. Someone must have mixed up the ammunition."
The firing roared on, directed by Jiro Isuzu with an upraised sword.