J.B. Bucklin

The Return of Sun Tzu

A murder in New Orleans triggers an epic tale of The Art of War

Meet Buck Langley, 50-year-old ad man and occasional ghostwriter about to go broke when a letter arrives in his mailbox with an irresistible invitation and a Honolulu postmark, 4,000 miles away from Langley's home on the West Bank of New Orleans ...

Meet Howard Choy, who offers Langley a million dollars to ghostwrite his father's autobiography with a string attached: Milton Choy, following a car accident and a coma, has awakened to claim he is an ancient Chinese military sage from twenty-five centuries past …

Meet Sun Tzu, the legendary general who literally wrote the book on The Art of War, but committed a sin in 513 BC that would haunt his conscience for eternity …

Meet the men who thought they'd planned the perfect frame, until their victim survives to become ...

The Return of Sun Tzu

"Buy the book, grab a comfortable chair, and enjoy the roller coaster ride."

Visit www.sonshi.com for a book review and author interview

"Original and intriguing, the details of Sun Tzu's life historically fascinating."

Writer's Digest

"An extraordinary look at The Art of War in action with stunning political twists."

John Grimm, Political Consultant, Multi-Quest International

"Truly unique, a tantalizing read for scholars and mystery mavens alike."

Ed Dodge, Author of the critically acclaimed Dau: A novel of Vietnam

"Great plot! A fresh spin on the man, the history, the background . . . sheer genius."

iUniverse Editorial Review

Recommended reading at the Northern Westchester (New York) Chinese School for bilingual students

Available in soft cover and e-Book format

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e-mail to: thereturnofsuntzu@yahoo.com

Scroll Down to Read the First Four Chapters

Chapter 1

"Well, is it Mr. Buck Langley or Mr. Sun Tzu?"

"Call me what you like, but I have no memory of the name Buck Langley or any deeds associated with it."

"Including murder?" she asked.

"To be truthful, I have committed murder. But that was as the man Sun Tzu, long ago in a country far away. I regretted it then as I do now. My conscience haunts me to this day . . ."

"Tell me about it."

"It was in the summer of 513 BC. I left my native state of Qi and ventured south to the state of Wu, where I hoped to secure a position as general and war proconsul to King Helu."

"And what country was this?"

"China."

"Do go on, please."

"I was barely twenty at the time, but that was of no concern to Wu's sovereign. He knew of my family's background in military affairs and the accomplishments of my father in Qi. That was enough to get me an audience with Helu, who was intent on expanding his empire beyond Wu, initially to the west and into the state of Chu and its capital city of Ying."

"Cigarette, Mr. Tzu?"

"Yes, thank you." She eased a pack of Virginia Slims across the tabletop. I would have preferred Kools, but beggars and crazy men can't be choosy.

"I'll need a light," I said with a hint of displeasure. As a resident of the Louisiana State Institute for the Criminally Insane, I wasn't allowed to carry firepower. Nor was I allowed to watch television, listen to the radio, or communicate with my fellow inmates--such liberties were denied as part of my "isolation" status. That meant I could talk to lawyers, to psychiatrists, or to myself.

Anyway, the good doctor obliged me and slid one of those infernal childproof lighters in my direction. I fumbled with the damn thing, my hands quivering a bit. Finally I struck a flame and ignited the Virginia Slim, my first smoke in a month, when my attorney last paid me a visit and then disappeared into thin air.

"Do continue, Mr. Tzu," my visitor prompted. Her name was Amanda Blake and, despite her seemingly pleasant attitude, I knew she'd been sent to destroy me courtesy of the DA's office in New Orleans.

I let out an audible sigh, slowly exhaling the fumes of that delicious cigarette. Then I spoke softly, as if the memory of that horrific day still weighed heavy on my soul.

"To put it bluntly, I was in desperate need of employment with King Helu. If I could dazzle him with new and unique strategies, the position was mine. If not, I faced the prospect of going back to Qi, where my uncle--fearful of my skills and ambitions--would put a hefty price on my head."

"Why would he do that?" Doctor Blake wanted to know.

"Because blood ran no thicker than water in those days and I took the threat to heart; elimination of family rivals was a common practice in Qi, as well as across the land."

"But you said you were only twenty. What possible threat did you pose to your uncle at such a young age?"

"A lad well-schooled in military matters was deemed fit for command at twenty, even a general's post. That may be hard for you to grasp, but such was the norm in ancient China."

I inhaled another hit of nicotine and waited patiently while Doctor Blake jotted down notations on her legal pad.

"After I made my presentation to King Helu, he appeared to be most impressed. 'You see the way to victory as no man has before you,' he declared. 'But I wonder if your tactics can work with women? Could you train a legion of my concubines and still be so certain of winning?'

"I told him I could, but I would prefer not to. He asked me why and I answered, 'Because men are better suited for the task.' I left it at that, but Helu would not let it drop.

"'Show me you can train an army of concubines,' the emperor of Wu persisted, 'and the title of general is yours.'

"I thought about this for a short spell and concluded Helu was simply bluffing. Perhaps in modern warfare you do indeed have female militias, but the mere notion was unimaginable in those days; no ruler in his right mind would train women to do--"

"A man's job?" the doctor interrupted.

"I'm only giving you history, Doctor, not an opinion."

"Well, do go on, Mr. Tzu. I have another appointment and time is running short. You said this king wanted to see if you could train women to fight instead of men."

"Yes."

"And you thought he was bluffing?"

"Correct."

"And what happened next?"

"I accepted his challenge."

"And?"

"Much to my dismay, he took me up on it. 'Good then,' he said with a grin, as if this were a game of sorts. 'I'll supply you with a legion of concubines from my harem, including the two I favor over all the rest--show me you can make soldiers of them and the position of general is yours.'"

I paused for one last drag and then snuffed out the Virginia Slim in one of those grimy little prison ashtrays. Doctor Blake glanced at her watch.

In turn, I cut to the chase. "We proceeded to a small parade arena toward the rear of the palace. Helu ascended to his terrace, an observation tower made of brick with a bamboo roof to shield him from the hot summer sun. A trio of attendants fanned the emperor while he nibbled from a bowl of fresh fruits and waited for the show to begin.

"Into the arena came a throng of women, 180 in all, dressed in their palace gowns. I told them to form two ranks and then sent a runner up to Helu with the request that his two most cherished concubines be appointed as leaders of each group. I watched from below as the messenger--a bit timidly I might add--whispered into the king's ear. And then Helu grinned again, as if this were nothing more than sport to him. I felt anger within, but did my utmost to suppress it--emotions have no place in war.

"The runner returned with the names Helu valued above the rest. I ordered them to come forward, in hopes their lofty status with the sovereign would make them capable leaders of each platoon. I felt if I could get but two of these ladies to comply with my instructions, the rest might follow suit.

"As agreed beforehand, Helu bequeathed me three assistants: one man to beat signals on a drum and two swordsmen ready to enforce military discipline. A chopping block was set between them to make clear the punishment for disobeying my orders--"

A shrill, piercing noise erupted from the vicinity of Doctor Blake's handbag.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Tzu, but that's all we have time for today." She slipped her pad and pencil into the large purse, taking her pack of Virginia Slims with her.

I'd been a model prisoner up to this point, quiet as a church mouse, docile as a houseplant. But every man has his limit.

"So, what do you think of my story?" I asked.

"I think its bullshit. You're very clever or very lucky to be here right now instead of sitting on death row in Angola, which is where your sociopathic ass belongs." She eased herself up from her chair. "Your charade is amusing, Mr. Langley. But we will find you out, I can assure you." Then Doctor Blake buzzed for the guards.

"Well," I huffed, suddenly insulted. "I am the greatest man in military history and yet you choose to treat me like an ignorant peasant." I began to raise my voice.

"Don't you want to hear about it--the murders? It was bloody havoc!" I sprang from my seat and then started to scream: "HERE I AM, THE MASTER SUN TZU, CONFESSING MY SINS TO THE LIKES OF YOU--"

The door flew open at the same instant I lunged toward the petrified woman, thrusting myself over the tabletop in an effort to kill the bitch with my bare hands--or so I made it appear.

The guards intervened, of course, and dragged me back to my isolation room.

My captors used leather thongs to strap me to the bed and next punched a horse needle into my writhing derriere.

I quickly lost consciousness and, for the first time since my arrest, dreamed the nightmare away.

Chapter 2

It all began with a letter from Howard Choy, who represented himself as President of Choy Publishing, Inc., Post Office Box 3591, Honolulu, Hawaii, 96811.

His intriguing solicitation read as follows:

Dear Mr. Langley,

I would like to meet with you in New Orleans this Tuesday evening to discuss a book venture that calls for a ghostwriter. An old classmate of yours has recommended you for the assignment and I'm hopeful we can agree to terms. In exchange for your consideration, I'm prepared to pay you the sum of one thousand dollars to hear me out on the nature of the manuscript and compensation. I'm currently traveling abroad, but please call my secretary, Betty Wong, and let her know your intentions.

Well, kiss my grits, I mused to myself. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to set me up for what I presumed to be an elaborate practical joke. True enough, I'd served as a ghostwriter upon occasion, but the money was paltry and the credit always went to someone else--there's no future in it, believe me.

Instead, most of my bread and butter came from the advertising business and I never saw a book hit the stands with the name Buck Langley on the cover.

For the better part of thirty years, I earned my living within the media trade, writing and producing radio and television commercials plus negotiating air-time rates and schedules for a bevy of eccentric clients, among them Louisiana politicians, perhaps the most colorful and corrupt gang of public servants ever to prowl the planet.

Had Choy's letter been postmarked Baton Rouge or Houston or Atlanta, I would have put more stock in it. But the envelope was stamped Honolulu, some four thousand miles from the doorstep of my home on the West Bank of New Orleans. I sensed shenanigans and who could blame me? Nobody journeys that far to find an ad man, let alone a ghostwriter.

Then again, I had indeed lived in the Island State for a year and made many friends while sowing the wild oats of my wayward youth. But that was more than three decades ago; who thought so much of me to remember my name and my flair for literary composition?

I judged it to be a prank, pure and simple.

But a shot at an easy grand was enough to hook me. By the age of fifty, I'd lost all interest in the advertising game and my income reflected it. Try as I might, the passion that drove me to the top of my profession had soured into despondency and cynicism. By the time Choy's letter popped up in my mailbox, I'd hit rock bottom. My once fat account list had dwindled down to one measly customer--an aging pretty boy with an incurable obsession to become the next governor of the Pelican State. With the primary election only a week away, sample polling gave my candidate 6% of the vote; his chances of pulling off an upset were slim and none. My chances of bagging a gimme job on his administrative staff were the same. The future was bleak for both of us.

Almost totally broke, behind in my bills with no relief in sight, I was a desperate man indeed. My wife, Daisey, had gone back to work as a travel agent and my son, Brett, dropped out of college and faced the daily drudgery of laboring at a fast food restaurant in a commendable effort to come home and help out the old man.

But it wasn't enough. We'd lived high on the hog for decades off my talent and six figure wages. Now the hog was a skeleton, his bones plucked dry, and we would lose everything . . . unless something changed.

A thousand bucks would keep the utilities on.

A big payday as a ghostwriter would miracle my ass out of immediate financial ruin.

I picked up the phone and dialed the number on the swanky stationary. It was Saturday afternoon and I expected to find no one guarding the fort at Choy Publishing, but I was wrong. A single blip, the sound of call waiting, preceded the first ring.

"Choy Publishing, Betty speaking. How may I help you?"

Her voice rang lightly with an oriental accent, bringing back fond memories of Oahu.

"My name's Buck Langley and--"

"Ah, Mr. Langley," she cut in. "I'm so glad you called! Your meeting with Mr. Choy is scheduled for this coming Tuesday, six PM sharp, the Regal Hotel, New Orleans, room 902. Is that convenient for you?" Ms. Wong fell silent.

Five or six seconds elapsed as my mind raced for the proper response. I was caught by surprise, ambushed at the pass. In short, I was speechless.

"Will that be convenient for you, Mr. Langley?" she repeated.

"Yes, I, ah, suppose that would be fine," I mumbled.

"Excellent! I'm sure Mr. Choy will be delighted to hear the news. Thank you for calling, Mr. Langley, aloha--"

Click, dial tone, end of conversation.

I stared at the receiver, stunned. I fully expected the ruse to be over in one phone call.

Now, I wasn't so sure.

Was this really on the level? Was Howard Choy about to become the savior in my darkest hour of need?

It was Saturday, half-past four.

In little more than seventy-two hours, I would have my answer.

Chapter 3

I was off sedation and back to stark reality less than a week after my outburst with Doctor Amanda Blake.

Still professing to be a Chinese military sage who made his mark more than two millenniums past, I humbly apologized to the guards who pushed my meal tray through a slot and into the domain I now called home, a ten-foot by six-foot isolation chamber designed to drive me insane or, perhaps, to my senses.

"I'm so sorry to have troubled you," I whimpered pathetically through the slit near the floor. "I promise to behave if the good doctor will just give me a second chance."

No reply. They used to take me for a walk in the prison yard once a day--same as you'd do for your dog. I'd come to rely upon these respites, where the chirp of a single sparrow was enough to renew my spirit. Now that was taken away as well.

Five days passed like molasses in winter. On the sixth day, bound in handcuffs and leg irons, I was escorted back to the scene of my evildoing and shackled to a wooden chair. I wondered if Amanda had brought along her Virginia Slims.

I woulda killed for a smoke.

The door closed behind me and a figure emerged to my right and proceeded around to the opposite side of the table.

But it wasn't Doctor Blake who took a seat across from me. Today it was a new shrink; a roly-poly little man with a full-moon face, black-beady eyes, and soft, fleshy features--almost mushy. I'd say he was about five-seven, three hundred pounds. He resembled a mound of melting white chocolate.

Ah, but rich white chocolate! He sported a beige physician's smock with the initials A.S. embroidered on the pocket, a pink Oxford button-down shirt, silk crimson tie with creamy polka dots and diamond stick pin, monogrammed ivory cufflinks with onyx trim, a Presidential Rolex on his wrist and a wide band of gold wrapped around a stubby finger--a wedding band, I concluded.

It all added up to money and money creates opportunities.

"I'm Doctor Sloan," he announced, running a palm over his balding pate. "But my friends call me Arnie. We can be friends, can't we?"

"Absolutely, Arnie. I could use a friend."

"Good. You can call me Arnie and I'll call you Sunny."

"Sunny?" I asked.

"Yes. That would be a nickname for Sun Tzu. I hope you don't mind. It's my way of being less formal with my patients, getting to know you better."

"Then by all means call me Sunny."

Doc Sloan placed a buffed aluminum attaché case on the table and snapped it open. He withdrew a thick manila folder.

"I've reviewed your file and Doctor Blake's report, but let's see if I missed anything in the translation; she was quite shaken by her encounter with you and had a difficult time discussing it."

"Dreadful scene," I volunteered, "and all my fault."

"Then you remember what happened here last week with the doctor?"

"Every ugly moment," I admitted.

"And you understand why you're now in restraints?"

"Absolutely," I said, rattling some iron for emphasis.

"But you haven't remembered anything about your life as Buck Langley?"

"No. I have no recollection of life other than the one I knew as Sun Tzu--Sunny, if you prefer."

He withdrew a large photograph and held it up; a pretty lady on one side, a handsome young man on the other . . . and yours truly smack dab in the middle.

"That is you, isn't it, Sunny?"

"So it would appear," I answered somberly.

"And that's your wife, Daisey, and your son, Brett. Do you recognize them?"

"No, I do not," I said flatly.

"That's too bad. This man, Buck Langley, has caused his family much pain and sorrow--"

"That's unfortunate, but I am not responsible," I insisted.

He put the picture away and produced a small black box.

"This is a tape recorder, Sunny. Do you know what it does?"

"It plays music, that much I know."

"And it also records music and conversations like the one we're having now." Arnie beamed me a toothy smile. "I was never much good at taking notes," he added, still holding that Cheshire cat grin.

"What a fascinating invention," I commented, as if in awe.

"Do you object to my using it?"

I frowned at the box, then at Arnie. It was evident he wanted my chronicle on tape and I suspected there was more to it than what he said. I sensed an advantage.

"How about a trade, Arnie?"

"A trade?"

"Yes. I want cigarettes and coffee. And I want these handcuffs and manacles removed. You do that for me and I'll gladly talk to your machine."

"And how do I know you won't attack me, Sunny?"

"You have my word that I will not."

"Did you give Doctor Blake your word?"

"That's the bargain," I said, ignoring his question. "Take it or leave it, Arnie . . ."

Then I shut up and waited for this game of cat and mouse to play itself out.

Chapter 4

"Your money first," Howard Choy offered and I wasn't about to say no. He counted out ten one hundred dollar bills, each one just as crisp as a leaf of frozen lettuce. I folded the cash and slipped it into the vest pocket of my blue blazer. My fingers brushed over the small microphone discreetly clipped to the lapel, and then the thin wire connected to the micro-recorder snuggled neatly at the bottom.

I wasn't about to miss a word.

"May I get you something; coffee, tea, a drink?"

"Nothing, thank you." I wasn't about to get spiked by this guy either.

"Well then, down to business," he said.

"As you wish," I replied, wondering if the money was real.

"Three years ago, my father, Milton Choy, was injured in a car accident. He was in a coma for ten months and then came out of it, but not as Milton Choy. Instead, he returned to this world as Sun Tzu."

"Sun Tzu . . . just who is Sun Tzu?" I asked.

"An excellent question, Mr. Langley. As it turns out, Sun Tzu was a general and military strategist in ancient China, some two and a half thousand years ago. And now Sun Tzu has been reincarnated in the mind of my father. Does that sound absurd to you, Mr. Langley?" He gave me a curious look and raised an eyebrow in my direction.

"Yes, it does."

Howard Choy got up and paced the length of his ninth floor hotel room, framed by a huge window overlooking the Mississippi and a bright orange sun sinking slowly in the west.

I said nothing whatsoever, but thanked my lucky stars I'd remembered to switch the recorder to voice-activated. Howard Choy could take his sweet time, but the machine would wait him out.

He returned to his seat and took a deep breath. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he seemed determined to carry on.

He produced a silk handkerchief from the inside pocket of his three-piece seersucker suit--Brooks Brothers I imagined--and wiped away a few random drops.

"I have not allowed myself the luxury of self-pity since this all began," he said, clearly embarrassed. "I'm sorry it came about in your presence. I have dishonored myself and my family--"

"A man who cares deeply for his father dishonors no one," I interjected.

"Yes, I suppose that's true enough," he replied with seeming relief. "Thank you for understanding."

"Now then, you were saying that your father was in an automobile crash, stayed in a coma for almost a year and then woke up as somebody who lived twenty-five centuries ago?"

"Exactly, Mr. Langley."

"Well, you gotta admit, that does sound absurd, but I suppose stranger things have happened."

"Not much stranger," he said, having regained his composure.

"He remembers nothing of us--not my mother or brothers or sisters or even me, his eldest son and most trusted aide. But he recollects all of his life as Sun Tzu. This was a complete mystery to us because my father never made mention of Sun Tzu before. We were at a loss for an explanation, until we hired a private investigator to research my father's past, especially his alliance with the Red Army."

"The Red Army?"

"Yes. Are you familiar with the Red Army?"

"I think so. Wasn't that Mao Tse-Tung's bunch, the ones who gained control of China in the early fifties?"

"1949, to be exact. It came as quite a shock to us that my father had been one of them--a high-ranking official upon whose counsel Mao came to rely . . . and that's how my father learned of Sun Tzu."

"I'm afraid I don't follow you."

"It turns out that Mao used Sun Tzu's tactics as a blueprint for his revolutionary uprising, dating back to the 1920's, when the future chairman of communism had but a handful of soldiers, few weapons and little hope for victory over all of China."

"And your father?"

"He joined Mao's forces in 1944 and, despite his youth, rose quickly through the ranks. In '47 he became a member of the Red Army's Inner Circle, an elite staff of advisers who paved the final road to victory for Mao's communist rebels. As one of them, my father had to acquaint himself with Sun Tzu and his book, THE ART OF WAR."

"Never heard of it," I said.

"Few westerners ever have, Mr. Langley. Sun Tzu and his teachings are well kept secrets in your world, but all that will change now."

"It will?"

"Yes . . . My father fled to Hawaii in the spring of '51, very disenchanted with the outcome of Mao Tse-Tung's dream and, as best we can surmise, very ashamed of the role he played in bringing it about. That's why he never spoke of his days in the Red Army, or Sun Tzu for that matter. But then came the accident; whatever brain damage occurred, it resulted in triggering my father's hidden knowledge of Sun Tzu and, of course, his book, THE ART OF WAR."

Howard Choy sipped from a small cup of tea and then continued: "Two months ago, the doctors informed us my father was dying of prostate cancer. For better or worse, I chose to be honest with him about the diagnosis--he will be dead in three months, perhaps sooner. And that's where you come in, Mr. Langley."

"Me?"

"Yes. My father has accepted his fate with serenity, but not his destiny. He has a final wish, only one, and I hope you'll see to it that wish is granted. I want you to ghostwrite my father's autobiography, but not as Milton Choy, the man who arrived in Honolulu without a penny to his name, the man who built a small printing shop into a publishing empire--"

"But rather the man who believes he is Sun Tzu?"

"Precisely, Mr. Langley. If we can agree to terms, you will be commissioned to write his life story and a new version of THE ART OF WAR, which differs from the many interpretations he has read. If the manuscript can be completed before his death, my father passes in peace. If not, he's convinced his soul will be sent to limbo for eternity, somewhere between the blessings of heaven and the condemnations of hell."

Howard Choy sipped once more at his tea while I toyed with the idea of asking him which classmate had recommended me for the job and why, but instinct told me Choy was about ready to bid on my services and I could hardly afford to distract him with worthless curiosity.

"Here are the terms, Mr. Langley: $100,000 in advance and $900,000 upon completion; all cash, no checks, no IRS. But time is of the essence; do we have a deal or not?"

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e-mail to: thereturnofsuntzu@yahoo.com

All rights reserved. Copyright 2001 by Jason B. Bucklin

Revised 2004

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