But the shooting continued. Marines fell. Some of them spurted red fluid in ways that were obviously special effects, but others went down with arms and legs suddenly bent at weird angles. A Marine's head exploded in a halo of blood that no Hollywood special-effects shop could duplicate-because it was horrifyingly real, as Colonel Emile Tepperman now knew.
The tanks rolled over many of the bodies with callous disregard for human life. Some of the men were already dead. Others simply played dead, not realizing that the script had been changed. The expressions on their faces when they felt the bite of steel tank tracks was horrible, their screaming inhuman.
It was completely out of control.
Tepperman yelled "Cut!" until his voice cracked. He stumbled between the tanks and the broken bodies until he reached Jiro Isuzu. He grabbed the Japanese by the shoulder and whirled him around.
"Stop this!" Tepperman thundered. "I order you to stop this at once. What are you doing?"
"We are firming," Jiro said. He pointed above their heads. A big square camera lens was focused on them. "This is carnage, slaughter, and you're filming it."
"Branks," Isuzu told him, smiling toothily. "Not to worry. "
"Those tanks aren't blanks. They're real. They're crushing people. Listen to those ungodly screams.
"Perhaps mistake has been made. Gun, prease. I check." Dazedly Colonel Tepperman allowed Jiro Isuzu to take his sidearm. The Japanese was so calm and unruffled that for a moment Tepperman doubted the reality-or unreality-of what was going on all around him.
Isuzu placed the muzzle to Tepperman's forehead. "Now, for camera. Do you surrender this base?"
"Uh, yes," Tepperman stammered.
"Say the word, prease."
"I surrender," Tepperman said.
"Now I wirr purr trigger. Not to worry. Brank. Okay?" Tepperman steeled himself. He knew that a blank shell could not hurt him. He never learned differently. For when the trigger was pulled, it was as if a sledgehammer had struck Tepperman between the eyes.
The explosive force of the gunpowder had punched a hole in his skull. Propelled by expanding gases, the paper wadding penetrated his brain. He hit the ground as dead as if shot by a steel-jacketed round. The only difference was that there was no exit wound.
"You never surrender," Jiro Isuzu told his unhearing ears, as the last involuntary twitching of his leg muscles died down. "It is shameful."
Chapter 12
Bartholomew Bronzini had been accused of many things during his cinematic career. He had been criticized for making too much money, usually by the rich. He had been criticized for his monotone delivery, usually by out-of-work off-Broadway actors. He had been criticized for being prolific, usually by someone who had never done anything more creative than listing a Cocker Spaniel as a dependent on a Form 1040.
Bronzini got used to those things. They were the price of fame. Like signing autographs for people who insisted they wanted them for relatives.
But the criticism that really perplexed Bartholomew Bronzini was the accusation that he was somehow a phony when he played the American war superhero Dack Grundy without ever having served in the U.S. military himself.
The first time he fielded that question during a TV interview, Bronzini replied "What?" in a dumbstruck voice. The interviewer assumed that was his definitive answer and went on to the subject of his latest multimillion-dollar divorce settlement. By the time he was asked it again, Bronzini had formulated a ready-made answer. "I'm an actor playing a part. Not a soldier playing at acting. I'm a John Wayne, not an Audie Murphy." Bartholomew Bronzini was not acting now.
He was perched on the sloping turret of the lead T-62 tank rolling along the main road of MCAS Yuma. Behind him, a Japanese crewman stood in the turret well and sprayed the air with the swivel-mounted .50-caliber machine gun. Defending Marines were corkscrewing more realistically than any extra. Heads exploded. Arms were sawed off by bullet streams.
Bartholomew Bronzini was no fool. He might never have seen combat, but he had made a lot of war movies. He realized before anyone else that this was no movie. This was real.
Yet they were filming it. It made no sense. Isuzu had told him that they were going to make a grand entrance to impress the Marines, and that Bronzini should ride on the lead tank. But as soon as the column passed the gate, the Marines had opened up. With blanks. Then all hell broke loose.
Even though it wasn't in the script, Bronzini leapt upon the machine-gunner. The Japanese released the gun's trips and tried to rabbit-punch the powerful actor. Bronzini took the man by the back of the head with one hand and pummeled his flat features to a pulp with the other. Then he knocked the Japanese off the tank and took the .50-caliber in hand.
Bronzini swept the gun muzzle around. He had never fired a loaded .50 caliber. But he had fired many blanks. Pulling the trigger was no different. It was what came out the barrel that counted. He pulled the trigger.
The face of the Japanese driver in the following tank disintegrated. He slumped forward. Out of control, the tank veered left, cutting off the tank behind it. The tracks merged and began shredding one another.
Bronzini swiveled his .50 toward the Japanese foot soldiers. He cut them down with a long burst. A Japanese popped out of the turret of his own tank. Bronzini didn't waste any bullets on him. He yanked the .50-caliber's muzzle around and brained the soldier with it, putting him over the side. As he lay stunned, the second tank crushed his legs with a splintery sound.
Bronzini looked around. He saw Jiro Isuzu off to one side of the entrance, his samurai sword high in the air.
He was directing the action in a style that was half-Hollywood and half-military.
Bronzini sighted on his open mouth and pulled the trips. Nothing happened. He spanked the breech with the heel of his hand, saying, "Come on, you mother!" Then he saw that the feed belt was empty.
A bullet spanged off the turret by his boot with so much force Bronzini felt the impact in his clenched teeth. Another round went past his ear. It made an audible crack as it split the air.
"The fuck!" Bronzini said, seeing AK-47's in the Japanese hands lining up on him. He was no soldier, but he knew that when you're taking fire, you seek shelter. He dived into the turret.
He found himself sprawled behind the cannon breech. Obviously, the tanks had been restored to fully operable condition before they crossed the border. Beside it was the open hatch that led to the driver's cockpit, which was set forward, inside the hull.
Bronzini crawled to the hatch. The driver was down in his seat, peering through the periscope as he guided the tank by its handlebarlike lateral controls.
Bronzini silently unshipped the combat knife sheathed in his boot. It was no prop. He reached in and took the driver by the throat and ran the knife into his kidneys. The Japanese thrashed, but there was nothing he could do in the cramped driver's cockpit except sit and struggle against the remorseless hand that found his mouth with a stifling hold as the knife was slowly turned clockwise, and then counterclockwise, until he was dead.
Bronzini pulled him back and squeezed into the bloodsoaked driver's seat. There was no time to sort this out. Bronzini was on automatic pilot, going on pure instinct, the very thing that had guided his career.
Bronzini realized that he couldn't hope to fight the Japanese from the driver's seat. He had no gun or cannon control. He'd need a tank crew for that.
So he jammed the lateral to the left, sending the tank pivoting on one locked track. The perimeter fence came into view. Beyond it was an endless expanse of sand.
Bronzini lined up on the fence. There were knots of crouching Japanese soldiers between him and freedom. "Fuck 'em," Bronzini said, sending the tank clanking ahead, "and the rats they rode in on."
Bronzini kept the fence in view. The Japanese saw him coming. They scattered. He heard frenzied screaming as his tracks caught a running man's boot and pulled him into the rollers. Bronzini kept going. Somewhere in the din of gunfire, he could hear Jiro Isuzu shouting the name "Bronzini" over and over.
Two Japanese suddenly appeared in the periscope. They set themselves against the fence and, firing single shots, tried to hit Bronzini through the periscope.
Bronzini hunched down and floored the gas. The T-62 surged ahead like a steel-plated charger.
The tank's smoothbore cannon went between the soldiers, collapsing the fence like so much mosquito netting. The soldiers, lashed by Isuzu's harsh voice, held their ground, trying to put their shots into the bouncing periscope port. One went in. It missed Bronzini's head and ricocheted once, digging a furrow across the top of the seat back.
Then the tank rolled over the fence. And the two men. Their screams were cut off very quickly.
Bronzini sent the tank across the road. The clatter of its tracks on asphalt turned with a gritty growl as it dug into the sand. Bronzini put the tank on a straight heading.
He abandoned that tactic when a geyser of sand and fire exploded thirty yards in front of him. A dull boom echoed in the cockpit.
Bronzini threw the tank sharply to the right, then to the left. Another cannon shell struck off to starboard. Sand particles peppered the hull like a fine dry hail.
Bronzini zigzagged across the desert. He popped the driver's hatch and craned his head out. Back at the ruined fence, two T-62's were elevating their 125-millimeter smoothbore cannon. One cannon spit a flash of fire. The recoil sent the tank rolling back.