As they drove past Kennedy Memorial Park, they saw the bodies twisting in the trees.
"Hell!" Roam exploded. "Don't look now, but they hung the City Council."
A T-62 tank suddenly lunged from the park like a sluggish spider from its lair. Sheryl hit the brakes. The Ninja slewed wildly. She pulled hard on the wheel and sent the machine in a tight circle.
Too tight, as it turned out. The Nishitsu Ninja heeled like a sloop in a stiff crosswind. It went over on its side and it slid until friction brought it to a halt.
Chiun flung the door open and crawled out. Bill Roam unfolded his long lanky frame after him. Together they pulled Sheryl from the interior.
The T-62 clanked to a halt.
Swiftly the overturned vehicle was surrounded by tight-faced Japanese.
"You surrender!" one spat fiercely.
"Dammit, they got us!" Sheryl said woozily. "All right, we-"
"No!" Chiun said coldly. "We will never surrender." The Japanese stepped closer.
"For God's sake," Sheryl hissed, "they'll shoot us."
"You surrender, woman!" the Japanese repeated.
Before Sheryl could say anything, Chiun snapped, "None of us will surrender. We demand to be taken to your leader."
The Japanese hesitated. Their rifle muzzles quivered nervously. Finally the squad leader relaxed slightly. "Okay, we take you," he said.
"Do as they say," Chiun whispered. "The Japanese despise those who surrender. Trust me."
"Look, chief," Bill Roam protested, "I can't go along with this. We may not be prisoners exactly, but we sure as hell ain't free either. I've got to get to my people."
"You are no good to them dead," Chiun warned.
Roam's big fists were clenched tightly. His sun-squint eyes switched between the encircling Japanese.
"My people depend on me," he said quietly.
"I understand your concern. Do as I say, and you may live to see them again. "
"And if they're dead?"
"Then I will help you avenge them," Chiun promised, his steely eyes on the Japanese.
"I'm going to count on that," Roam said as the Japanese yanked them apart and searched them for weapons. Roam endured it stoically, his arms raised. Sheryl's face turned a bright red as two soldiers ran their hands up and down her tight dungarees. Chiun slapped the first Japanese who dared to lift the hem of his kimono. The second one lost the use of his hands. None of the others made a move toward him after that.
They were marched at gunpoint down the center of the deserted street. The sun was setting. The T-62 muttered behind them.
"What do you think is going to happen to us?" Roam asked out of the side of his mouth.
"I will meet the man who has killed my son."
"And what are you going to do when you meet him?" Sheryl asked nervously.
"I do not know," Chiun admitted.
Sheryl and Sunny Joe both looked at the impassive face of the Master of Sinanju. It was fixed, as if preserved by a veneer of beeswax. His old eyelids squeezed into walnut slits.
The Nishitsu corporate jet circled Yuma International Airport while tanks were withdrawn from the runway. Jiro Isuzu watched it touch down. He stood at attention in his PLA uniform, his ancestral samurai sword at his hip. Behind him, a black Lincoln Continental limousine waited like a hearse. As the jet rolled to a whining halt, an honor guard of his men rushed to form two lines between him and the aircraft.
The ramp dropped and down the stairs came Nemuro Nishitsu. He wore a dark business suit. His white shirtfront seemed radiant in the late-evening chill. It was unseasonably cold in Yuma, and Jiro Isuzu was shaken by the difficulty with which his mentor negotiated the steps.
Nemuro Nishitsu walked down the steps on uncertain feet. But he walked alone and unassisted, a cane draped over one hand. He seemed close to falling.
When he reached the ground, he walked stiffly to his second in command. Jiro Isuzu bowed low, saying, "Greetings, Nishitsu san san," he used the most respectful form of address possible.
Nishitsu returned the bow.
"You have brought great honor to the emperor's memory, Jiro kun," Nemuro Nishitsu said quietly. His eyes shone. Isuzu thought he would weep with joy, but Nishitsu did not weep. Instead, he asked a question.
"Has there been any communication from the American government?"
"No, sir. As I told you by radio, we have shot down several reconnaissance planes. There have been none since afternoon."
Nemuro Nishitsu looked up. He wore a Westernstyle porkpie hat and had to crane to see beyond the brim. His chin quivered with the effort.
"They will use their satellites to look down upon us," he quavered. "And they will fail on this night."
Jiro nodded, looking up at the high cirrus clouds.
"It is cold, sir. Will you come now? I have an entire city to lay at your feet."
Nishitsu nodded, and allowed Isuzu to open the limousine's rear door. Jiro took Nishitsu by the elbow and guided him into the roomy interior. Isuzu hopped in.
The driver pulled out of the airport. The honor guard broke up and returned to their tanks. Within moments, the runway was blocked again.
In the speeding limousine, Nemuro Nishitsu asked the question Jiro Isuzu expected.
"Your captured television stations, will they transmit?"
"Our engineers have familiarized themselves with the transmitting equipment. We can broadcast your demands at any moment you choose."
"I wish to broadcast no demands at this time," Nishitsu said dismissively.
Jiro Isuzu frowned. Before he could comment, Nemuro Nishitsu put to him the question he dreaded.
"Where are you holding Bronzini?"