A movement beside him startled him, frightened him. He twisted and saw that Ellen was standing a foot behind him. Everything seemed to be in slow motion. He had time to notice that she had her breasts back inside her brassiere, but that there was something wrong with her dress. Then he figured out that she hadn't gotten the right button in the right hole.

She had Zimmerman's Thompson in her hands, holding it as if she was afraid of it. And around her shoulder was Zimmerman's musette bag. The bulges told him there were two spare drum magazines in it. Her eyes were wide with horror.

He returned his attention to the mob, and fired again.

"Shoot, for Christ's sake!" McCoy shouted. Zimmerman looked baffled.

Sessions finally did something. He snatched the Colt from Zimmerman's hand. Holding it with both hands he aimed at the ground in front of the Chinese. He fired, and then fired again. McCoy heard a slug richochet over his head.

That dumb sonofabitch is actually trying to wound them in the legs!

He put the Thompson back to his shoulder and emptied the magazine in four- and five-shot bursts into the mob of Chinese. There was no longer time to aim. He sprayed the mob, aware that most of his shots were going wild. And then when he tugged at the trigger, nothing was happening. The fifty-round drum was empty.

Conditioned by Parris Island Drill Instructors to treat any weapon with something approaching reverence-abuse was the unpardonable sin-he very carefully laid the empty Thompson on the ground and only then took Zimmerman's Thompson from Ellen.

When he had raised it to his shoulder, he saw that the mob had broken and was running toward the ferry slip. For some reason that produced rage, not relief. Telling himself to take it easy, to get a decent sight picture before pulling the trigger, he fired at individual members of the now-fleeing mob. He was too excited to properly control the sensitive trigger, and the Thompson fired in four-, five-, and six-shot bursts until the magazine was empty. By then there were five more Chinese down, some of them sprawled flat on their faces, one of them on his knees, and another crawling for safety like a worm, his hands on the gaping wound in his leg.

McCoy ejected the magazine and went for the spares in the musette bag around Ellen's shoulders. He snared one on the first grab, but as he did so he dislodged the top cartridge from its proper position in the magazine. He put the magazine to his mouth and yanked the cartridge out with his teeth. Then he jammed the magazine into the Thompson and put it back in his shoulder. Two Chinese were rushing toward him, one with a knife, the other with what looked like a boat pole. He took both of them down with two bursts. One of the 230-grain.45 slugs caught the second one in the face and blew blood and brains all over the road.

And then it was all over. No Chinese were on their feet; and when he trained the Thompson on the ground, the ones down there seemed to be dead. Except one, who was doggedly trying to unjam his Broomhandle Mauser. McCoy took a good sight on him and put two rounds in his head.

There were more than a dozen dead and wounded Chinese on the ground. Some were screaming in agony.

Lieutenant Sessions ran over to McCoy, looking as if he was trying to find something to say. But nothing came out of his mouth for several moments.

"My God," he whispered finally.

McCoy felt faint and nauseous. But forced it down. Then Ellen slumped to her knees and threw up. That made McCoy do the same thing.

"What the hell was that all about?" Sessions finally asked.

"Shit!" McCoy said.

Ellen looked at him, white-faced, and he thought he saw disgust in her eyes.

"I guess the Japs decided you're not really a Christer, Lieutenant," McCoy said.

"Jesus Christ, the film!" Sessions said. "Where is it?"

"Goddamn it," McCoy said, and started to run back to the car.

He was halfway to the car when he heard shots and then a scream. He spun around. Zimmerman had finally got his shit together. He had put a fresh magazine in McCoy's Thompson and was walking among the downed Chinese, methodically firing a couple of rounds into each of them to make sure they were dead.

Ellen was doing the screaming, while Lieutenant Sessions held her, staring horrified at what Zimmerman was doing.

And McCoy saw the cavalry finally galloping to the rescue.

The ferry was in midstream. Lieutenant Macklin, who had found his steel helmet somewhere, stood at the bow with his pistol in his hand and a whistle in his mouth. Behind him were the two BAR men, and behind them the rest of the drivers, armed with Springfields. McCoy did not see the Reverend Mr. Feller.

He ran the rest of the way to the car. The film was where he had left it, in the crown of his campaign hat, concealed there by a skivvy shirt.

He got behind the wheel and backed up to where Ellen stood with Lieutenant Sessions. Sessions opened the back door, and she got in and slumped against the seat, white-faced and white-eyed.

The ferry finally touched the near shore, and Lieutenant Macklin, furiously blowing his whistle, led the cavalry up the road to them.

(Three)

Lieutenant Sessions learned quick, McCoy decided. You had to give him that. He took charge, the way an officer was expected to. Lieutenant Macklin was running around like a fucking chicken with his head cut off. The first thing he was worried about was that the Chinese would "counterattack." They were a bunch of fucking bandits, more than half of them were dead. Military units counterattacked. What was left of the Chinese were still running.

The second thing that worried Macklin was what the colonel would think. His orders were to avoid a "confrontation" at all costs. There had obviously been a "confrontation."

"There's sure to be an official inquiry," Macklin said. "We're going to have to explain all these bodies. God, there must be a dozen of them! How are we going to explain all these dead Chinese?"

"There's eighteen," McCoy said helpfully. "I counted them. I guess we're just going to have to say we shot them."

Both Sessions and Macklin gave him dirty looks. Sessions still didn't like it that McCoy was contemptuous of Macklin, who was after all an officer. And Macklin thought that Killer McCoy was not only an insolent enlisted man, but was more than likely responsible for what had happened.

What bothered Macklin, McCoy understood, was not that they had almost gotten themselves killed, but that he himself was somehow going to be embarrassed before the colonel. He was, when it came down to it, the officer in command.

"Corporal," Macklin snapped. "I don't expect you to understand this, but what we have here is an International Incident."

"You weren't even involved, Lieutenant," McCoy said. "You were on the other side of the river. By the time you got here, it was all over."

"That's enough, McCoy!" Sessions snapped.

"I'm the officer in charge," Macklin flared. "Of course, I'm involved!"

"Aye, aye, sir," McCoy said.

Macklin sucked in his breath, in preparation, McCoy sensed, to really putting him in his place.

Sessions stopped him by speaking first.

"The important thing, Macklin," he said, while Lieutenant Macklin paused to draw in a breath, "is to place the rolls of film McCoy took into the proper hands at Tientsin. That's the primary objective of this whole operation."

"Yes, of course," Macklin said impatiently, itching to launch into McCoy. "But-"

Sessions cut him off again.

"Next in importance is the physical safety of the Reverend and Mrs. Feller."

"Yes, of course," Macklin repeated.

"And as you point out, there is the problem of the bodies," Sessions said.

"Obviously," Macklin said. "McCoy's latest contribution to the death rate in China."