Bartholomew Bronzini immediately picked up the tracks of heavy vehicles. He lined up on the tracks and followed them, figuring they would lead him to Yuma.
Along the way, he came upon an APC that lay, still smoking, in the sand. There was a horrible stench coming from it. He popped the hatch and circled the APC. The back was blown open, uniformed bodies hanging out the door like they had been expelled from a dragon's mouth. One of the bodies looked familiar. It wore a bush hat. The man who had worn that hat in life had been his military adviser through all three Grundy films. Jim Concannon.
"What is this shit?" Bronzini howled.
Bronzini didn't stop. He pointed the muttering T-62 toward Yuma and kept on going, pushing the tank as hard as he dared. He started to wonder if going to Yuma was such a smart idea after all. He tried not to think of what had happened back at MCAS Yuma. It made no sense. It was only a movie. But now that he knew the parachute drop had gone bad, all hope that the Marine unit had simply gone berserk evaporated. He felt cold inside. And he couldn't stop sneezing.
Bronzini drove all night long, fighting to keep awake. The coyotes helped. When the sun broke over the mountains, he popped the hatch.
He was astonished to see a man walking ahead of him in the clear dawn light. The man was striding through the desert at a steady, monotonous pace. Bronzini ran the tank up alongside the walking man.
"Yo!" he called over, struggling to keep the tank on course.
The man didn't respond. He simply walked in a direct line. Bronzini took in the profile of his face. The man's features looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place them. Bronzini saw that his face was red from a combination of sunburn and wind abrasion.
"Hey, I'm talking to you!" Bronzini shouted.
No reaction. Bronzini noticed the robotlike swing of his arms, the masklike impassivity of his face. It was devoid of expression, like something chopped out of rock. He wore desert utilities like those of the dead paratroopers, but his hung in rags, leaving the arms are and exposing the white of a T-shirt.
"Is it something I said?" Bronzini joked, not expecting a response. He was not disappointed. He tried again in a joking voice, "I don't suppose you can direct me to Yuma. I'm late for first call."
Nothing.
Finally, in frustration, Bronzini put his fingers into his mouth and gave an attention-demanding whistle. This time the man did react. His head swiveled like a jewelry display in a rotating pedestal. The metronomic swing of arms and legs continued without varying. But the eyes that looked back at Bartholomew Bronzini frightened him. They were as unwinking as a serpent's. Set deep in hollow sockets, they seemed to burn with a fanatical light against dry, wasted flesh. The guy's face looked dead. There was no other word for it.
"Why don't I go bother someone else?" Bronzini said suddenly.
The head swiveled back and the man kept walking. Bronzini stopped the tank. He watched the man walk, like an automaton, along the APC tracks.
It was only then that Bartholomew Bronzini noticed a curious thing. It caused him to turn the tank north and stomp the gas pedal down as hard as his combat boots could press.
The man was striding through sand so loose that the wind blew it off the prominences in hissing sprays. It was not hard-packed stuff at all.
Yet the man left no footprints behind him.
Nemuro Nishitsu looked up from the reports on his desk. The nameplate on the desk read "Mayor Basil Cloves." He had not bothered to change it. He did not expect to occupy this office for very long.
Jiro Isuzu bowed in greeting.
"A man insists upon meeting with you, Nishitsu san -san," he said in a respectful tone.
Nishitsu's old brow wrinkled distastefully. "Insists?"
"He is a Korean, very old. He claims to represent the American government. And he asks to hear your terms."
Nemuro Nishitsu put aside his reports. "How do you know he is Korean?" he demanded. "How did he get here?"
"I do not know the answer to your second question, but to the first, I can only say that he claims to be the Master of Sinanju."
Nishitsu raised a tired eyebrow.
"Sinanju? Here? In America? Is it possible?"
"I thought the line had died out."
Nishitsu shook his tremorous old head. "During the occupation of Korea," he said, "I heard stories of how our forces dared not enter one fishing village, called Sinanju. This village was respected, not for tradition's sake, but out of fear of reprisals. I will see him."
Nemuro Nishitsu waited pensively for Jiro Isuzu to return. He came back accompanied by a cold-eyed Korean in a vermilion kimono.
"I am Chiun, Reigning Master of Sinanju," the Korean said in excellent Japanese. His face lacked warmth. It also lacked respect.
Nishitsu frowned. "How did you come to be in this, of all cities?" he asked, also in Japanese.
"Think not that your evil scheme was hatched in total secrecy," Chiun said craftily.
Nemuro Nishitsu accepted this in silence. Then he said, "My aide, Jiro, informs me that you are with the Americans. How is it that the House of Sinanju has come to this?"
"I serve America," Chiun said haughtily. "Their gold is greater than that of any modern nation. The rest does not concern you. I am here to hear your terms."
Nemuro Nishitsu regarded the old Korean at length. His thin lips compressed into a bloodless line.
When he spoke, his words surprised Jiro Isuzu as much as they did the Master of Sinanju.
"I offer no terms."
"Are you mad?" Chiun spat. "You cannot hope to hold this city against the might of the Americans forever."
"Not forever, perhaps, but long enough."
"I do not understand. What is your purpose here?"
"It is about kao. It is about face."
"You and I understand face. But Americans do not."
"Some do. You will see. You will understand in time. Everyone will understand." Chiun's face puckered.
"What is to prevent me from extinguishing your life, here and now, Japanese?" he queried levelly.
Jiro Isuzu went for his sword. He was surprised that the Master of Sinanju simply stood there as he placed the tip of the blade before the old Korean's chest.
Chiun's eyes went to Nemuro Nishitsu.
"Do you value this bakayaro?" he asked quietly.
"He is my right arm," Nishitsu said. "Please do not kill him."