That black page was never entered into the U.S. history books. And so only a handful of people ever knew that Yuma had been saved by a television broadcast by the late, great Bartholomew Bronzini.
Because of that omission, the controversy over Bronzini's true role on the Battle of Yuma was never satisfactorily resolved.
Slowly the nation went back to normal. A new year and a new decade were marked on January 1, and although the celebrations were subdued, nowhere was the holiday celebrated with deeper feeling than in Yuma, Arizona, where many Americans had learned for the first time what it truly meant to be free.
On the first day of the new year, Remo Williams opened his eyes. He stared up at the blank white ceiling of a private hospital room in Folcroft Sanitarium. His mind was a blank too.
At first the doctor thought the opening of his eyes was a mere involuntary reflex. The patient had been in a coma for a full seven days. He tested the pupils with a penlight. The reaction he got prompted him to call Dr. Harold W. Smith.
Smith entered the hospital-white room and dismissed the doctor quietly. After he had withdrawn, Smith drew up to Remo's bedside, noticing that the bluish tinge of his throat had largely faded. Remo's brown eyes followed him with only vague comprehension.
"Smitty," Remo croaked.
"What do you remember?" Smith asked flatly.
"Falling. Parachute didn't work. Tried to equalize my mass so I could float to the ground. It was starting to work. Then I made a big mistake."
"What was that?"
"I opened my eyes. Up to that moment, I was doing great. Then the desert jumped me. That's the last thing I remember."
"You were fortunate to survive. Your neck was sprained. I don't know how you escaped breaking it."
"Simple. I landed on my face. Where's Chiun?"
"I called him. He'll be here soon. Remo, there are a number of things you should know."
Remo pushed himself up with both hands. He grunted with the effort. "What's that?"
Before Smith could answer, the Master of Sinanju swept into the room. He wore a simple blue kimono. Remo cracked a weak smile. "Hey, Little Father, a funny thing happened to me on the way to the movies." Chiun's austere face softened momentarily. Then, as he spotted an aquamarine box beneath a tabletop Christmas tree, it hardened.
"How long has he been awake?" Chiun demanded of Smith.
"Only a few moments."
"And he has not seen fit to open the present I so carefully prepared for him," Chiun said, annoyed.
"Present?" Remo asked doubtfully.
"Yes, graceless one," Chiun said, going to the tree. He picked up the aquamarine box and presented it to Remo, who accepted it in both hands.
"Feels light," he said, hefting it.
"It contains a present beyond worth," Chiun assured him.
"Really?" Remo said, trying to sit straight. "Is it Christmas yet? Can I open it now?"
"Christmas was last week," Smith told him.
"I've been out a week! Boy, I must have really taken a fall."
"Perhaps it is your white laziness that has reasserted itself once more," Chiun suggested coolly.
"I'm glad to see the spirit of the season hasn't completely overwhelmed your compassionate understanding of your fellow human beings," Remo remarked dryly.
"While you have been a lazy slugabed," Chiun went on, "I have been explaining to your emperor that even though you failed, it should not be held against you. True, I am now forced once again to accompany you on your assignments, but-"
"Failed?" Remo asked.
"Bronzini is dead," Smith said quietly.
"What happened?" Remo asked, shocked.
"It's a long story," Smith said. "When you're better, I'll brief you on the details. Suffice it to say Bronzini is a national hero."
"He is?"
"He saved the city."
"He did?"
"But no one can ever know," Smith cautioned.
"Well, they won't get it from me. And to tell you the truth, I didn't really like the guy."
"You must not have gotten to know him very well."
"Actually, I only met him in passing," Remo admitted. "He struck me as an egotistical jerk."
"That may be," Smith admitted. "He was a complex man." Smith turned to Chiun. "That reminds me. The autopsy on Nemuro Nishitsu has been made public. It seems that he died of an upper respiratory failure brought on by a common cold. I thought you said you eliminated him."
"Who's Nemuro Nishitsu?" Remo asked. He was ignored.
"I have told you how this Bartholomew Bronzini was the reincarnation of Alexander the Great?" Chiun asked.
"He what!" Remo exploded.
"I cannot say I can yet bring myself to accept that premise," Smith said.
"It is true. And one of my ancestors dispatched him."
"As I recall, Alexander died of malaria."
"True. That is how history records it. But the true fate of Alexander lies in the pages of historical records found only in the Book of Sinanju. The truth is as follows . . ."
"Do I have to listen to this?" Remo said sourly. "I'm a sick man."
Chiun's face puckered in annoyance. "This is a wonderfully instructive story," he sniffed.
"That's what you said the last thirty times you told it to me," Remo groaned, folding his arms.
"I was referring to Smith in this case," Chiun returned. "Thirty repetitions, and you still do not appreciate the beauty of this legend."
"The beauty of malaria has always been lost on me," Remo grumbled.
"Now," Chiun continued, addressing Smith, "in the days of Alexander, Masters of Sinanju were in service to India, owing to a minor dispute with our preferred client, the Persian Empire."
Remo broke in. "Translation: India offered more money. "
"I do not recall that being recorded in the Book of Sinanju," Chiun said vaguely.
"It's in the appendix."
"And if you are not silent while I finish this story, I will take out yours," Chiun continued in a more reasonable tone. "While the Master of that time served India, that sick Greekling descended upon Persia and destroyed that wonderful empire. The Master of Sinanju heard this news with great displeasure."
"Translation: he was thinking of switching sides again."
"And he approached a sultan of India," Chiun went on, pretending to ignore Remo's outburst even as he added it to the long list of injuries Remo had visited him over the years, "whose lands were threatened by this mad Greekling with the name of Alexander. And this sultan offered the Master much gold to eliminate Alexander. And so the Master chose an emissary and sent him to Alexander with a message. This messenger laid the scroll of the Master before Alexander, saying to him that it would reveal to Alexander his ultimate destiny. But the Greekling flew into a rage when he looked upon the scroll, and slew this messenger himself. It seemed that the Master's message was in Korean, which Alexander could not read." Chiun paused.
"Then what happened?" Smith asked, genuinely interested.
"Sinanju lived happily ever after," Remo inserted.
"For once Remo is correct," Chiun said, casting a baleful glance in his pupil's direction. "Sinanju did live happily ever after, for the messenger that the Master had chosen was sick in the early stages of malaria. By the time he reached Alexander, he was very ill and Alexander's cruel murder was actually a mercy to him. Unfortunately the Greekling also contracted malaria, and so he died, with none being the wiser."
"I see. And what did the scroll actually say?"
"Two things." Chiun beamed. " 'You have malaria,' and an ancient Korean expression that in modern English translates roughly as 'Gotcha.' "