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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
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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." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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