Golden Buddha

42

THE pilot of the Gulfstream stared at his navigation screen carefully. The route he was taking did not allow much margin for error. He was flying above a small corridor of Indian airspace that jutted between Bangladesh and Nepal. The surface area was but twenty miles in width at the smallest point. The land below was hotly contested by all three countries.

Slowly he steered the Gulfstream in a sweeping turn to the left.

“Sir,” he shouted to the rear cabin, “we’re through the worst of it.”

The Gulfstream was now above the wider strip of land between Nepal and Bhutan.

“How long until we reach Tibetan airspace?” Cabrillo asked.

The pilot stared at the GPS screen. “Less than five minutes.”

Juan Cabrillo should have been bone-tired, but he was not. He stared out the window at the mountainous terrain below. The rising sun was blanketed in a glow of pinks and yellows. Tibet was directly ahead. He reached for the secure telephone and dialed.

IN Beijing, Hu Jintao was awakened early. The actions in Barkhor Square had not gone unnoticed. Jintao quickly rose from his bed, washed his face, and went downstairs, still dressed in his nightclothes.

“What’s the situation?” he asked a general without preamble.

“It’s all fluid, Mr. President,” the general admitted, “but the Russian tank column has started moving into Mongolia. Their ambassador assures us the movement is just an exercise between their country and Russia. However, at the speed they are moving, they could enter China across the Altai Mountains into the Tarim Basin anytime in the next few hours.”

“What about aircraft?” Jintao asked.

“They have several paratroop units at the staging area inside Russia,” the general said. “Our satellites have detected transport planes moving on the tarmac. As of right now, nothing has left the ground.”

Jintao turned to the head of foreign relations. “We don’t currently have any dispute with Russia,” he said. “What possible reason would they have to launch an attack on our border?”

“At the moment, our relations are peaceful.”

“Most odd,” Jintao said.

“The Russian ambassador has asked for a meeting at ten A.M. this morning,” the man added. “The request came overnight through a priority channel.”

“Did he disclose the nature of his request?” Jintao asked.

“No,” the foreign relations head said.

Jintao stood quietly for a moment, thinking.

“Mr. President,” the general said, “there’s more. We just received reports from the capital of Tibet that a protest has formed in one of the main squares inside the city.”

“What’s the chairman of the region say?” Jintao asked.

There was a pause before the general answered. “Well, Mr. President, that’s the problem. We have been unable to reach Chairman Zhuren.”

“DAMN, Gurt,” Murphy said. “That was close.”

“I think one of the rounds hit a hydraulic line that controls our forward pitch. As for me, I was hit in my left shoulder.”

“How bad is it?” Murphy said quickly.

“She’ll fly,” Gurt noted, “but it’ll be a little hairy.”

“I mean you, Gurt,” Murphy thundered. “How bad are you hit?”

Gurt was steering the Bell down the slope leading off the pass through a thick cloud cover. The helicopter’s nose was pointed down and both men’s bodies were tight against the seat harnesses.

“Hang on,” Gurt said. “I’ll lean forward so you can check.”

Gurt moved his upper torso away from the seat back and Murphy leaned over and looked. Then he reached over with his hand and felt around. A second later he pulled a flattened slug from inside the foam of the seat.

“The round passed clean through and was stopped by the metal back plate on the seat,” Murphy noted, “but you’re losing blood.”

“It wasn’t hurting until now,” Gurt disclosed. “I think I was on such an adrenaline high I didn’t really notice it much.”

“I’m going to need to bind the wound,” Murphy said. “Hold on a minute—let me make a call.”

He reached for his portable radio and called the Oregon.

“WEDGE it in there,” Gunderson said, “but make sure the spent cartridges have a way to blow out the side door. I don’t want any live rounds cooking off inside the cargo area.”

The Dungkar soldier assisting Gunderson nodded. Ten minutes earlier, they had yanked a rapid-firing antiaircraft gun from its mount on the border of Gonggar Airport. Now they were fitting it to the cargo plane to make a crude gunship. The soldiers worked quickly, as did those at the other end of the hangar.

George Adams watched as the Dungkar troops filled the fuel tank on the attack helicopter. For the last ten minutes, he had climbed around inside the ship in an effort to determine the controls and weapons systems. At this instant, he was convinced that he could probably fly the bird—making the weapons perform as desired was a little iffier.

“Welcome to the Dungkar Air Force,” Gunderson said, walking over. “We fly, you die.”

“How’s it going over there?” Adams said, smiling.

“I’m not sure,” Gunderson admitted. “We have the weapon lodged in the rear and supported with enough planks to build a barn—if it doesn’t fly out the opposite side the first time we light it up, we should be okay. How about you?”

“My Chinese is a little rusty,” Adams said. “About as rusty as an iron ship on the bottom of the ocean. But I think I can pilot this beast.”

Gunderson nodded. “Let’s make a pact, old buddy,” he said, smiling.

“What’s that?” Adams asked.

“When we get up there,” Gunderson said, “let’s not shoot each other down.”

He turned and started to walk back to the cargo plane. “Good luck,” he said over his shoulder.

“You too,” Adams answered.

Right then the door started to rise, and sunlight and cold air swept into the hangar. A minute later the attack helicopter was wheeled onto the tarmac and a motorized cart was attached to the front of the cargo plane to pull it onto the runway.

BARKHOR Square was rapidly filling with Tibetans. The crude human telegraph system that operates in time of crisis was working overtime. Four blocks away, a platoon of Chinese soldiers were attempting to make their way by armored personnel carrier from their barracks to the square after receiving a call that there was action at the chairman’s home.

Tibetans clogged the streets and the going was slow.

“Piper, Piper, this is Masquerade.”

“Masquerade, this is Piper, we read.”

“Request immediate extraction,” Reyes said. “We have the target.”

“State point of extraction, Masquerade.”

“Spot one, one, primary, Piper. Spot one three, secondary HH.”

“Acknowledge extraction coordinates, Masquerade, they are inbound in three.”

Upon receiving the order, the helicopter that had delivered them to the river lifted from the ground at a spot ten miles between Lhasa and Gonggar Airport, where the pilot had been waiting. Once he had the helicopter in forward flight, the pilot stared at a map listing the extraction points they had arranged, and glanced at the note he had scribbled on a pad attached to the clip on his knee. He flew fast and low toward Barkhor Square.

IN Little Lhasa, the Dalai Lama waited inside the communications room near a bank of radios. In the last few minutes, his network of spies inside Tibet had begun to report the progress. So far, at least, the operation appeared to be going flawlessly.

He turned to an aide-de-camp. “Are the preparations completed for our trip home?” he asked.

“As soon as word comes from Mr. Cabrillo, Your Holiness,” he said. “We can have you there in two hours by jet.”

The Dalai Lama thought for a moment. “Once we take off,” he asked, “how long will it be until we are over Tibet?”

“Half an hour,” the man noted, “give or take.”

“I am going to the temple now to pray,” the Dalai Lama said, rising. “Keep watch on the situation.”

“Yes, Your Holiness,” the aide said.

CHUCK Gunderson was helping George Adams strap himself into the attack helicopter. None of the Chinese helmets inside the hangar were large enough to fit his head, so he was using his own personal headset, plugged into the radio for communications. He was squeezed into the seat like a fat girl in spandex.

“They don’t make these for big guys like us,” Adams joked.

“You should see mine,” Gunderson said. “The Chinese still believe in quantity over quality. My cockpit looks like I’m back in World War Two. I keep expecting Glenn Miller music to start playing over the radio.”

“Look at this dashboard,” Adams said as Gunderson finished and stood upright on the ladder. “It’s got more metal that a fifty-seven Chevy.”

Just then, Eddie Seng walked over quickly. “You need to get airborne and clear the runway. Cabrillo just called. He’s five minutes out.”

Gunderson pushed down on the Plexiglas shield over Adams’s head and held it as he fastened it in place. Then he thumped the top and gave Adams a thumbs-up sign. Climbing back down the ladder, he motioned for the Tibetan helpers to wheel it out of the way. He began walking with Seng toward the cargo plane as he heard the igniters in the turbine engine of the attack helicopter begin to wind up.

“Mr. Seng,” Gunderson said, “what’s the latest?”

“I interrogated the Chinese lieutenant that was the ranking officer here,” Seng said. “He was not able to get word to Beijing before we captured his forces.”

“So for now,” Gunderson said, reaching the door of the cargo plane, “we don’t need to worry about an attack from Chinese fighters from outside the country?”

“If the Russians do their job and keep the Chinese on their toes,” Seng said, “your role right now seems to be to provide close air support for the Dungkar forces.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Gunderson said, climbing into the side door of the cargo plane.

“Good,” Seng said, patting the side of the plane. “Now get to work—the boss is coming.”

At just that second, Adams pulled the collective and the Chinese helicopter lifted from the ground. The helicopter wobbled a little as Adams fought to get the feel, then it moved forward, broke through the ground effect, and headed in the direction of Lhasa.

Gunderson walked up the slope to the cockpit, slid into his seat, then began the engine-starting procedure. Once the pair of engines were running smoothly, he glanced back to the four Dungkar soldiers manning the gun in the rear.

“Okay, men,” he shouted over the noise of the engines, “I’ll tell you when and where to direct the fire. For right now, we’re just taking a little flight.”

That sounded simple enough—but not one of the Tibetans had ever been inside a plane before.

ON board the Oregon, Hanley stood above the microphone and talked in a clear voice.

“I just sent word to your contact,” he said. “Watch for red strobes as your signal.”

“Same spot as we had first planned?” Murphy asked.

“Yes,” Hanley said. “Now as far as Gurt is concerned, we talked to Huxley. You need to apply direct pressure to the wound as soon as possible.”

“Do you have us on satellite surveillance?” Murphy asked.

“Yes,” Hanley said, staring at the screen. “You’re about five minutes from the rendezvous point.”

“We’ll report back once we land,” Murphy said.

The radio went dead. Hanley dialed Seng and waited while it rang.

BRIKTIN Gampo checked to make sure the strobes were flashing, then stared up at the sky. The clouds were low, almost a fog, but from second to second they would shift, revealing patches of open air. In the distance he could hear a helicopter approaching. He walked back inside, stirred a pot of tea on the stove, then went back out to await the arrival.

“I see one,” Murphy said, pointing.

In the last few minutes, Gurt’s face had turned ashen. Murphy could see beads of sweat on his forehead, and his hand controlling the helicopter was shaking.

“Hold on,” Murphy said, “we’re almost there.”

“I’m starting to see black on the edges of my eyes,” Gurt said. “You might need to guide me on where to land.”

THE sound of the cargo plane lifting off was loud. Eddie Seng was forced to yell into the telephone. “How bad is it?” he asked Hanley.

“We don’t know,” Hanley said, “but we should dispatch someone now—the flight north takes a couple of hours. If the support is not needed, we can call it back.”

“Got it,” Seng said.

Then he walked toward the makeshift clinic to see if Huxley had found anyone trained in nursing to fly along. Five minutes later, he had a helicopter refueled, a Tibetan soldier with a limited nursing background, and supplies in the air.

“YOU’RE close enough, Gurt,” Murphy said, “and you’re about twelve feet above the ground.”

Gurt started to descend, then vomited across the dashboard of the Bell. “In case I can’t, when that gauge reads green,” he said, wiping the sleeve of his flight suit across his mouth, “flick these three switches down. That will shut down the turbines.”

Six feet above the ground in a slow descent, Gurt paused and hovered for a second, then took her the rest of the way to the ground. As soon as the helicopter settled on the skids, he slumped over in the harness and sat unmoving.

Murphy started to unsnap him from the belt as he waited for the helicopter to cool, then turned the engines off and waited for the rotor to stop spinning. Then he quickly climbed from his seat and raced around to the pilot’s door. With Gampo’s help, they carried Gurt inside the tent.

Then Murphy began to cut off his flight suit with a knife.

The cloth was saturated by blood and the wound was still leaking.

“SIR,” the pilot of the Gulfstream said, “we’re on final approach.”

Cabrillo stared out the window. Smoke was still rising from the burning wreckage at the far end of Gonggar Airport. The sun was over the horizon and he could just catch sight of Lhasa sixty miles distant. Staring up the aisle, through the open cockpit door and out the windshield, he could see a lumbering silver plane some seventy feet above the runway climbing out and away. On the ground were several trucks driving down the road away from the airfield.

They were a hundred feet above the runway and two hundred yards downwind. Two minutes later, the tires touched the tarmac with a squeal. The pilot taxied off the runway near the terminal and stopped. The turbines were still spinning when Cabrillo climbed out.

CHAIRMAN Zhuren had tape across his eyes and his wrists were taped behind his back. The dark-haired man that had burst into his bedroom was pulling him quickly along. Zhuren could hear a noisy crowd of people nearby. Then distant gunfire rang out from a few blocks away.

The thumping of a distant helicopter grew louder.

King watched through the scope as Reyes led Zhuren through the crowd. He could see Reyes ordering the Dungkar soldiers with him to clear the people away from the landing zone. Turning, he glanced from his perch a few blocks away to where the armored personnel carriers were approaching. Crowds of Tibetans were trying to stop them but they were being felled by bursts of machine-gun fire. The lead APC was coming down a narrow street, with Tibetans fleeing from the front. He watched as it ran over the fallen body of a Tibetan freedom fighter. It flattened the body like a frog on a train track.

Reaching into his bag, he removed a belt of ammunition containing armor-piercing rounds and slid them into the .50. The helicopter was just about to touch down when he started firing.

Ten shots in seven seconds. Ten more for good measure.

The lead APC ground to a halt. The ones to the rear stopped also.

The sound of the helicopter was loud in Zhuren’s ears. He felt himself being pulled from inside and pushed from outside into a seat, then he felt someone slide in next to him. He sniffed the air. It was the dark-haired man, the man who had yanked him from safety into the unknown.

The helicopter lifted off.

“They will hover above us and we’ll climb inside,” King said to his Dungkar assistant.

“Mr. Sir,” the Tibetan said, “can I stay?”

“What’s your plan?” King asked.

The Tibetan pointed to where his countrymen were swarming over the disabled APC.

The helicopter was almost to the rooftop. King reached into his satchel and removed a black cloth bag. “These are hand grenades,” he said. “Do you know how they work?”

“Pull the metal thing and run?” the Dungkar said, smiling.

“You got it,” King said, “but keep your people back when you use them—these will shred a human like cheese in a grater.”

The helicopter was above the rooftop and lowering down. The Tibetan grabbed the bag and started for the ladder down.

“Thank you, sir,” the Dungkar soldier shouted.

“Good luck,” King shouted as a pair of hands from inside the helicopter reached for him and he stepped up onto the skid, then ducked down and climbed inside.

“How’s things?” Reyes shouted after the door was closed and the helicopter had turned back toward Gonggar Airport.

“You know what they say,” King said wearily. “We do more before lunch than most people do all day.”