"Terr us name."
"Sure thing, but I want something in return."
"What do you want?"
"A beer."
"Terr us name and we wirr bring you biru," he was told.
"His name's Lester Cole. He's a lawyer. Lives six or seven houses down, this side of the street."
The soldiers humped down the street at top speed. Clarence could hear them break in Lawyer Cole's door all the way up the street. There came a pause. Then a shot. Two. Two more. Then silence.
Clarence Giss was shaking when the soldiers returned to his door. He opened it a crack. One soldier shoved a can of Buckhorn through the crack.
"Here," he said, "biru."
"Much obliged," Clarence said hoarsely.
"Maybe we can do business again sometime." The soldiers went away and he returned to his living room, where he popped the pull-tab. Clarence Giss took a short swig and started crying uncontrollably.
The beer was warm.
When the AP stringer finally gave up on reaching Lester Cole, he thought long and hard. He decided that the transmission was not a hoax. He called his boss.
"I know it sounds insane," he said after he finished relating his story, "but there was something in the guy's voice. And I haven't been able to raise him since."
"Did you say Yuma?"
"Yeah. My atlas puts it near the border."
"Something came over the wire about a funny TV transmission from Yuma," the AP desk man said slowly. "Sounded like filler-story material. Hold up. It's on my desk here somewhere. Here it is. Get this. Station KYMA went off the air yesterday, along with two other Yuma stations. Now KYMA is back, showing what looks like war footage. Executions. Hangings. Bizarre snuff-film kinda stuff. It's been going on all day. People have been watching it, thinking it's some kind of grisly movie, but there's no plot. It's just atrocities."
"What do you think?"
"I think I'd better boot this upstairs. Back to you later. "
The networks had the story of the weird TV transmission by noon, Pacific standard time. They broke into regular programming with footage videotaped off network affiliates in Phoenix. An entire nation watched in shock the sight of foreign troops occupying an American city. That it was a city hardly anyone outside of Arizona had heard of, or could place on a map, didn't matter. Most Americans couldn't find Rhode Island if it were outlined in red. They watched as fellow Americans were hunted through the streets and bayoneted to death. Footage of the Ziffel family gunned down as they were trimming their Christmas tree was seen in all fifty states. The capture of MCAS Yuma and Luke Air Force Range was shown in all its grisly spectacle.
Among the viewers was the President of the United States. His face looked like dried white clay even though everyone else in the White House Situation Room was sweating. The Joint Chiefs of Staff were clustered behind him.
"This is the worst thing that could happen, Mr. President," Admiral Blackbird said angrily. "Now the whole world will know."
"What could they want?" the President said half to himself. "What do they hope to gain from this?"
"If the world sees this," the admiral continued, "then we'll look weak. If we look weak, then some aggressor nation could see this as an opportune time to strike. For all we know, this could be a diversionary action."
"I disagree," said the Secretary of Defense. "Every reconnaissance flight, every surveillance satellite shows the world situation to be quiescent. The Russians are on standdown. The Chinese are minding their own business. And our supposed allies, the Japanese Self-Defense Forces, are not mobilized."
"I've spoken with the Japanese ambassador," the President said, turning from the screen to face the Joint Chiefs. "He assures me that his government has nothing to do with this."
"We can't exactly take an assurance like that on faith," Admiral Blackbird sputtered. "Remember Pearl Harbor."
"Right now I'm thinking of the Alamo. We've got an American city held hostage. They're slaughtering people indiscriminately. But why? Why broadcast it?"
Admiral Blackbird drew himself up stiffly. "Mr. President, we could debate the whys until the next century, but we've got to knock out those transmissions at their source. They're practically commercials for American military impotence. The loss of prestige will be incalculable. "
"Am I hearing you right?" the President snapped. "Are you talking about prestige when we're helpless witnesses to a slaughter?"
"You've got to understand the geopolitical reality of deterrence," the admiral insisted. "If we lose face in front of our competitors on the world stage, we might as well fall on our swords. They'll come after us like pit bulls. We must neutralize the situation."
"How? We've already been over the military options. There's no way we can mount a full-scale assault without huge civilian casualties."
"This is going to be hard for you to understand, but please try," said the admiral. "During the Vietnamese action, we regularly faced operational dilemmas such as Yuma. Sometimes we were forced to resort to extreme measures to prevent certain villages from being overrun by enemy forces. Regrettable as it was from the human-factor standpoint, we had to destroy certain villages in order to save them."
The President of the United States took an involuntary step backward.
"Are you suggesting that I order an air strike on an American city?" he asked coldly.
"I see no other alternative. Better we show the world that we're not going to flinch from the tough decisions when it comes to protecting our borders. Do this and I guarantee there'll never be another Yuma."
The President's mouth came open. The words on the tip of his tongue never came out because, behind him, the endlessly repeating images of slaughter and death were replaced by the benign face of an old Japanese man. He began speaking in a quavering voice.
"My humble name is unimportant, but I am pleased to call myself Regent of Yuma," he said.
Every man in the Situation Room watched him in silence. The old man was seated at a desk. The white flag of Japan was spread out on the wall behind him. The red rising sun precisely circled his old head like a bloody halo. He resumed speaking.
"In my country we have a saying, 'Edo no kataki wo Nagasaki de utsu.' It means 'Take revenge at an unexpected place.' I have done this in the name of Showa, known to you as Emperor Hirohito. He was my emperor, whom I served with honor, and whom you humbled. Although he is with his ancestors, I now exalt him with this mighty deed."
"Nagasaki?" said the Secretary of Defense. "Didn't we nuke that city once?"
"If the American President is watching me," the old man continued, "I bring you greetings. I regret the loss of life, but it is necessary. I fear it will, and must, continue until the American government has surrendered itself to me. Sayonara."
The picture went black. Then another film clip came on the screen. It showed a man being held down while a tank ran over his head. At the bottom of the screen a legend flashed. It read, "The Execution of the Mayor of Yuma by New Imperial Army Forces."
"He's mad!" the President said. "Does he think we'll really surrender?"
"I don't know what that old rice-gobbler thinks," Admiral Blackbird growled, "but I implore you to consider my advice before the Russians or Chinese decide to take advantage of this."
"Hold on," the President said, leaping for the door.
"Where are you going?" the Secretary of Defense demanded.
"To the john," the President flung back. "I've been drinking coffee for nearly twenty-four hours straight. If I don't relieve my bladder, we're all going to be pushing mops."
The President did go to the john this time. When he was finished, he slipped into the Lincoln Bedroom and got on the red telephone to Dr. Harold W. Smith. "Smith. Anything?"