The tank-mounted howitzer and machine-gun barrels that had been pointing inward were rotated outward, covering all roads with overlapping fields of fire.
No one could approach without coming under annihilating fire. And if by chance a few did, his Zouaves would meet them with an irresistible rainbow of steel.
There was just one problem with all this. It was expressed to him in the form of a question as he moved among his charges.
"Do we wear our lead masks up on our foreheads or in front of our eyes?"
"Up on your foreheads, of course."
"And if we are attacked and must resort to showing our true colors?"
"Down before your eyes, of course."
The word was passed up and down the line. If attacked, the eye shields were to be worn on the forehead while defending with howitzer and machine gun. And if forced to pull back, the masks belonged in front of the eyes.
Marc Moise checked with every third man to be certain they understood their instructions. But in his heart he wondered about their willingness to kill. They were, after all, only Creole reenactors who had sided with the California Summer Vacation Musketeers back in Virginia because they had been offered reenactment jobs at Beasley U.S.A. Having closed ranks with the Corporation against the protesters, they had been hired on the spot.
And as they hung off the French military equipment-the first line of defense against attack-their fezzes askew, their manner excited, they looked for all the world like cannon fodder.
When the attack came, it arrived in a solitary diamond blue Citroen that coasted to a stop well short of the tank that squatted before the colorful entrance to Euro Beasley.
The doors popped open and four people got out.
They started toward the tank. They walked calmly and without fear. Except maybe for a blond guy who took up the rear. His knees were definitely knocking.
"GOD, IF THEY HUE us I hope they don't use Supergreen," said Rod Cheatwood in a nervous voice.
"Me, too," said Remo.
"Yellow, I think I could stand."
"Perhaps they will use pink," said the Master of Sinanju.
"I'd enjoy that," said Remo.
"Me, too," said Rod.
"You are all insane." Dominique Parillaud spit. "Zey 'ave machine guns and howitzers. Zey will annihilate us."
"I'd rather be annihilated than greened," said Remo.
"Or yellowed," said Chiun.
Dominique rolled her eyes. "I am not afraid of their gauche color. Only of French bullets."
"Bullets, we have covered," said Remo in a casually fearless tone.
They continued walking. Machine-gun barrels lined up on them, and excited words were shouted down.
"What're they saying?" asked Remo.
"I 'ave no idea," Dominique admitted. "It sounds like French, but no French zat I have ever heard before." She gasped. "Mon Dieu! I think zey speak franglais!"
No one fired, so they kept walking.
"No use to close our eyes," said Remo.
"How will closing your eyes protect you from bullets?" asked Dominique.
"I don't mean bullets. I mean the color stuff."
"Hypercolor," said Rod. "Too bad we don't have any lead masks," he added worriedly.
"Why do you say that?" asked Chiun.
"Lead is the only thing saturated color can't penetrate. It's too dense. When I used to work on the first hypercolor lasers, I'd wear a lead mask without any eyeholes to keep from getting hued."
" 'Hued'?"
"That's the technical term for it. Invented it myself."
"Little Father, do you see what I see up ahead?"
"I see clown soldiers wearing lead masks under their red fezzes."
"If we can get one or two of them, we're all set."
"If you wear masks without eyes, how can you fight?" demanded Dominique.
"We don't need eyes to fight with," said Remo.
"Yes," added Chiun. "We fight with our hands and our feet, not our eyes."
"You can be our eyes," said Rod.
"I will be no one's eyes," Dominique swore.
And suddenly, several 35- and 50-caliber machine guns pivoted in their direction, tipped downward, lining them up for slaughter.
Dominique Parillaud stopped dead in her tracks. Rod bumped into her and bounced back. Before the fear could overtake her, the two American agents surged forward.
They started walking calmly forward. Suddenly they shot ahead, leaping onto the main tank and breaking the machine guns with short, hard chops that looked ineffectual but caused steel gun barrels to snap and roll clanking off the armored side of the tank.
The Zouaves, seeing this, began recoiling in surprise and dug into their colorful sashes for black objects that looked to Dominique's eyes like TV remote-control clickers.
Before their weapons cleared, hands reached out to relieve them of their masks, which they were trying to simultaneously pull down over their eyes.
MARL MOISE WAS STANDING not six yards away when the strange pair appeared atop the main blocking tank. The way they broke the machine guns was awful to behold.
But the way they avoided being hued was incredible.
His Zouaves followed orders exactly. At the first sign of trouble, they simultaneously reached up for their lead masks and into their sashes for their clippedon hypercolor lasers.
They got the weapons out in time to fire short bursts of pacifying pink.
The trouble was the Zouaves were quicker on the trigger than they were on the masks. Or perhaps it wasn't their fault, after all.
Zouave hands that reached up to their foreheads encountered only warm flesh, not cold lead shields.
When their first pink bursts came, the lead masks were firmly in place-over the eyes of the attackers.
The Zouaves reacted to the pink flashes in an entirely unexpected manner, although Marc understood it after the third burst.
Smiling, they brought their lasers up to their expectant faces, pinking themselves happily.
" Let de good times roll!" they murmured in Creole.
The pink reached Marc's brain through his open eyes-he had been so stunned by what he had witnessed that he had forgotten to yank down his own lead mask-relaxing him instantly.
Marc unclipped his laser, dialed up pink and hued himself in quarter-second bursts.
When the strange pair ran past him, he didn't care anymore. And why should he? He had been offered up as cannon fodder, and Sam Beasley didn't pay dick.
Chapter 30
"We have a penetration, Director."
Uncle Sam Beasley turned to face the man who had spoken. Bob Beasley sat at the grid of video screens that monitored Euro Beasley.
"Are those damn Cajuns pinking themselves?" Uncle Sam barked.
"It seems so, Director."
"Damn. They're supposed to be our trip wire. They're no good to us now. Get the Florida regiment out there."
"Yes, Director."
Uncle Sam Beasley turned his attention back to the damaged control board where a Beasley technician was laboring.
"Aren't we back on-line yet?" he asked gruffly.
"The Hotpink button is enabled."
"I need offensive colors, damn it. What if the fucking Foreign Legion come parachuting back in?"
"Hotpink had the least damage."
"When I want excuses, I'll ask a vice president. Now, get to work."
"Yes, Director."
Bob Beasley spoke up. "Director, we have intruders on Main Street, U S.A."
Uncle Sam Beasley moved to the screen in question. He saw two men walking calmly down the cobbled street, one white, the other Asian. Both wore lead masks over their eyes that didn't seem to slow them down.
"Those are the ones!" he howled.
"The ones who interfered at Third Crater?"
"Third Crater, my pink ass. They interfered at Second Bay of Pigs! Must work for the government. Order them empurpled."