The tank shifted its tracks, and eased from its slot. It rolled to a halt in front of Bronzini and the others. Jack Curry entered the turret with his big flashlight. He speared light over the interior. He inspected the big cannon. It lacked a breech. Obviously a dummy. It could not possibly fire without the missing components. The turret-mounted .50-caliber machine gun was also apparently a shell. There was no firing mechanism.
Curry wriggled his way into the driver's pit. It was so cramped he got tangled in the handlebarlike steering yoke. He poked his head up from the driver's hatch.
"It looks fine," he said. "I take it these things are completely self-propelled."
"Yes," Jiro Isuzu told him. "They wirr run like rearistic tank, but cannot shoot."
"Well, in that case, there's only one thing that prevents me from passing these things."
"What that?" Isuzu asked tightly.
"I can't seem to get out of this hatch so I can sign the proper forms," Curry said sheepishly. "Would someone give me a hand here?"
Jack Curry was amazed when Bronzini himself offered him a leather-wristband-supported hand.
"Here, just take it slow," Bronzini told him. "Put your foot on that bar." Bronzini pulled. "There. Now the other one. Uhhh, there you go."
"Thank you, gentlemen," Curry said, stepping off the hull. "Guess I'm not as spry as I once was.
"Tanks buirt for Japanese extra. Much smarrer than American," Isuzu said with a rapid-fire bowing of his head.
Bronzini thought he was going to throw his head out of whack, he was bobbing it so much.
Customs Inspector Jack Curry gave the rest of the tanks and APC's a cursory glance and then he produced a sheaf of documents. He set them on the tank's fender and began stamping them with a little rubber stamp.
When he was done, he handed them to Bronzini. "There you are, Mr. Bronzini. Just have your people show these at the place of entry and you should have no trouble. By the way, how are you going to get them into the U.S.?"
"Don't ask me. That's not my department. Jiro?"
"It very simpre," the Japanese answered. "We wirr drive them across border into desert."
"There," Bronzini said. "Now, is there anything else?"
"No," Curry replied, grabbing Bronzini's hand with both of his and shaking it vigorously. "I would just like to tell you what a genuine thrill it was to meet you. I really loved that scene in Grundy II where you said; 'Blow it out your bazookas!' to the entire Iranian Navy.
"I was up two nights writing that line," Bronzini said, wondering if the guy was ever going to let go. Finally Curry disengaged and left the warehouse, walking backward. He said good-bye at least thirteen times. He was so impressed he never thought to ask Bronzini for his autograph. It was a first. Bronzini was almost disappointed. The tanks rolled across the border that night. They crossed arid desert to the checkpoint, where they stopped, forming a long snakelike column. They grumbled and coughed diesel fumes.
Customs gave the documents a cursory examination, stamped them as "Passed," and without a fight waved through the first invading force to cross into U. S. territory since the British Army took Washington in 1812.
The customs officials gathered around to watch. They smiled like boys watching a parade. The Japanese drivers, their helmeted heads poking up from the drivers' compartments like human jack-in-the-boxes, waved. Friendly salutes were exchanged. Nishitsu cameras on both sides flashed, and more than one voice asked "Do you see Bronzini? Is he in one of those things?"
Chapter 7
Remo changed planes in Phoenix for Yuma. He was not surprised, but neither was he happy to see that the Air West plane that would take him to Yuma was a small two-prop cloudhopper seating, at most, sixteen people in an incredibly narrow cabin. And no stewardess.
The plane took off and Remo settled back for the bumpy ride. He dug out Smith's folder to read his professional credits-or rather, Remo Durock's professional credits. Remo was amazed to read that he had been a stunt man in everything from Full Metal jacket to The Return of Swamp Thing. He wondered how the hell Smith could expect him to get away with that, but then remembered that one of the cardinal rules of stunt performing was to keep your face from the camera.
Remo's International Stunt Association card was clipped to the folder. He pulled it out and inserted it into his wallet. Remo was interested to read that he had won a Stuntman Award certificate for his work on Star Trek: The Next Generation. He had never watched Star Trek: The Next Generation. He looked to see if he had won an Oscar and was disappointed to find that he had not.
Less than ten minutes into the flight, the terrain under the plane's wing abruptly changed. Phoenix's suburbs gave way to desert, and the desert to mountains. The mountains were surrounded by more desert. For miles in every direction there was nothing but desolation. Only the rare ruler-straight road, passing through nothing and apparently going nowhere.
Then Yuma came into view like a surprise oasis. For the city was a virtual island in a sea of sand. It was green around the edges, thanks to the nearby Colorado River, and Remo's eyes, zeroing in on the flat lushness, recognized expansive lettuce beds fed by blue irrigation pipes. Beyond the lettuce fields, Yuma looked like any other desert community, except it was much larger than he had expected. Many of the homes had clay-red roofs. And almost every yard had a swimming pool. There were as many blue pools as red roofs.
Yuma International Airport-so called because it was a way station between the U. S. and Mexico-was much smaller than Remo had expected. The plane alighted and rolled to the tiny terminal.
Remo stepped out into the clear dry air that, even in late December, was immoderately warm. He followed the line of passengers into a terminal that seemed to consist of a gift shop around which someone had added a single ticket counter and a modest security and waiting area as an afterthought.
There was no one waiting for him in the waiting area, so Remo walked out the front entrance and looked for a studio representative.
Almost instantly a station wagon slithered up to the curb. An outdoorsy young woman with a cowboy hat over her long black hair leaned out of the window. She wore a fringed buckskin vest over a T-shirt. The shirt depicted two skeletons lounging on lawn chairs under a broiling sun and the words "But it's a dry heat."
"Are you Remo Durock?" she called in a chirping voice. Her eyes were gray in her open face.
Remo grinned. "Do you want me to be?"
She laughed. "Hop in, I'm Sheryl, unit publicist for Red Christrnas."
Remo climbed in beside her. "Where's your luggage?" she asked.
"I believe in traveling light."
"You should have brought your boots," Sheryl said as she piloted the station wagon onto the main drag.
"I thought it didn't snow in the desert," Remo remarked as he took note of the plasticky Christmas decorations that festooned the windows of every business establishment that whipped past them. They were identical to the decorations he had seen back east. Somehow, they looked tackier here in sun-soaked Arizona.
"It doesn't," Sheryl was saying. "But there are snakes and scorpions where you'll be working."
"I'll watch my step," Remo promised.
"This must be your first location shoot," Sheryl prompted.
"Actually I've been in a lot of stuff. Maybe you saw me in Star Trek: The Next Generation."
"You were in that? I've been a Trekker since I was six years old. Tell me which episode? I've seen them all." Remo thought fast.
"The one with the Martians," he ventured.
Sheryl's attractive face puckered. "Martians? I don't remember any Martians. Klingons, Romulans, Ferengi, yeah. But no Martians."