Treasure of Khan

Prologue

Arik Temur peered into the darkness and tilted his head toward the side rail as the sound of oars dipping through the water grew louder. When the noise closed to within a few feet, he slouched back into the shadows, pulling his head down low. This time the intruders would be welcomed aboard warmly, he thought with grim anticipation.

The slapping of the oars ceased, but a wooden clunk told him the small boat had pulled alongside the larger vessel's stern. The midnight moon was a slim crescent, but crystal clear skies amplified the starlight, bathing the ship in a cottony luminance. Temur knelt quietly as he watched a dark figure climb over the stern rail, followed by another, then another, until nearly a dozen men stood on the deck. The intruders wore brightly colored silk garments under tunics of layered leather armor that rustled as they moved. But it was the glint of their razor-sharp katanas, single-edged dueling swords, that caught his eye as they assembled.

With the trap set and the bait taken, the Mongol commander turned to a boy at his side and nodded.

The boy immediately began ringing a heavy bronze bell he cradled in his arms, the metallic clang shattering the still night air. The invaders froze in their tracks, startled by the sudden alarm. Then a hidden mass of thirty armed soldiers sprang silently from the shadows. Armed with iron-tipped spears, they flung themselves at the invaders, thrusting their weapons with deadly fury. Half of the boarders were killed instantly, struck by multiple spear tips that skewered their body armor. The remaining invaders wielded their swords and tried to fight back but were quickly overpowered by the mass of defenders. Within seconds, all of the boarders lay dead or dying on the ship's deck. All, that is, except a lone, standing dervish.

Clad in an embroidered red silk robe with baggy trousers tucked into bearskin boots, he was clearly no peasant soldier. With devastating speed and accuracy, he surprised the attacking defenders by turning and running right into them, deflecting spear thrusts with quick waves of his sword. In an instant, he closed on a group of three of the ship's defenders and quickly dropped them all to the deck with a flash of his sword, nearly cutting one man in two with a single swipe of the blade.

Watching the whirlwind decimate his soldiers, Temur jumped to his feet and unsheathed his own sword, then leaped forward. The swordsman saw Temur charge at him and deftly parried a spear thrust aside before whirling around and plunging his bloodied sword in the path of the oncoming warrior. The Mongol commander had killed more than twenty men in his lifetime and calmly sidestepped the swinging blade.

The sword tip whisked by his chest, missing the skin by millimeters. As his opponent's sword passed, Temur raised his own blade and thrust it tip first into the attacker's side. The invader stiffened as the blade tore through his rib cage and bisected his heart. He bowed weakly at the Mongol as his eyes rolled back, then he fell over dead.

The defenders let out a cheer that echoed across the harbor, letting the rest of the assembled Mongol invasion fleet know that the guerrilla attack this night had failed.

"You fought bravely," Temur complimented his soldiers, mostly Chinese, who gathered around him.

"Throw the bodies of the Japanese into the sea and let us wash their blood from our decks. We may sleep well and proud tonight." Amid another cheer, Temur knelt next to the samurai and pried away the bloodstained sword clasped in the dead man's hands. In the dim light of the ship's lanterns, he carefully studied the Japanese weapon, admiring its fine craftsmanship and razor-sharp edge, before sliding it into his own waist scabbard with a nod of satisfaction.

As the dead were unceremoniously dumped over the side, Temur was approached by the ship's captain, a stern Korean named Yon.

"A fine battle," Yon said without empathy, "but how many more attacks on my ship must I endure?"

"The land offensive will regain momentum once the South of the Yangtze Fleet arrives. The enemy will soon be crushed and these raiding attacks will cease. Perhaps our entrapment of the enemy tonight will prove to be a deterrent."

Yon grunted in skepticism. "My ship and crew were to have been back in Pusan by now. The invasion is turning into a debacle."

"While the arrival of the two fleets should have been better coordinated, there is no question as to the ultimate outcome. Conquest shall be ours," Temur replied testily.

As the captain walked away shaking his head, Temur cursed under his breath. Reliant on a Korean ship and crew and an army of Chinese foot soldiers with which to do battle was like having his hands tied behind his back. Land a division of Mongol cavalry, he knew, and the island nation would be subdued in a week.

Wishing would not make it so, and he begrudgingly considered the validity of the captain's words. The invasion had in fact started off on a shaky footing, and, if he was superstitious, he might even think there was a curse on them. When Kublai, emperor of China and khan of khan's of the Mongol Empire, had requested tribute from Japan and been rebuffed, it was only natural to send an invasion fleet to subdue their insolence. But the invasion fleet sent in 1274 was much too small. Before a secure beachhead could be established, a severe gale battered the Mongol fleet, decimating the warships as they stood out at sea.

Now, seven years later, the same mistake would not be made. Kublai Khan called for a massive invasion force, combining elements of the Korean Eastern Fleet with the main battle group from China, the South of the Yangtze Fleet. Over one hundred fifty thousand Chinese and Mongol soldiers would converge on the southern Japanese island of Kyushu to overrun the ragtag warlords defending the country. But the invasion force had yet to be consolidated. The Eastern Fleet sailing from Korea had arrived first. Pining for glory, they tried landing forces north of Hakata Bay but quickly ground down. In the face of a spirited Japanese defense, they were forced to pull back and wait for the second fleet to arrive.

With growing confidence, the Japanese warriors began taking the fight to the Mongol Fleet. Brazen raiding parties on small boats would sneak into the harbor at night and assault the Mongol ships at anchor. The gruesome discovery of decapitated bodies told the story of yet another attack by samurai warriors, who took the heads of their slain victims home as war trophies. After several guerrilla strikes, the invasion fleet began tying their ships together for protective safety. Temur's entrapment ploy of mooring his ship alone at the edge of the bay had worked as anticipated, enticing a Japanese boarding party to their death.

Though the late-night attacks caused little strategic harm, they dampened the fading morale of the invading forces. The soldiers were still stationed aboard the cramped Korean ships nearly three months after departing Pusan. Provisions were low, the ships were rotting, and dysentery outbreaks were cropping up across the fleet. But Temur knew that the arrival of the South of the Yangtze ships would turn the tables. The experienced and disciplined force from China would easily defeat the lightly organized samurai warriors, once they were landed in mass. If only they would arrive.

The next morning broke sunny and clear, with a stiff breeze blowing from the south. On the stern of his mugun support ship, Captain Yon surveyed the crowded confines of Hakata Bay. The fleet of Korean ships was an impressive sight in its own right. Nearly nine hundred vessels stretched across the bay in an assortment of shapes and sizes. Most were wide and sturdy junks, some as small as twenty feet, others like Yon's stretching nearly eighty feet long. Almost all had been constructed purposely for the invasion.

But the Eastern Fleet, as it was known, would be dwarfed by the forces to come.

At half past three in the afternoon, a call rang out from a lookout, and soon excited cries and the sound of banging drums thundered across the harbor. Out to sea, the first dots of the southern invasion force appeared on the horizon crawling toward the Japanese coast. Hour by hour, the dots multiplied and grew larger until the entire sea seemed to be a mass of dark wooden ships with blood red sails. More than three thousand ships carrying one hundred thousand additional soldiers emerged from the Korea Strait, comprising an invasion fleet the likes of which would not be seen again until the invasion of Normandy almost seven hundred years later.

The red silk sails of the war fleet flapped across the horizon like a crimson squall. All night and well into the following day, squadron after squadron of Chinese junks approached the coast, assembling in and around Hakata Bay as the military commanders calculated a landing strike. Signal flags rose high on the flagship, where Mongol and Chinese generals planned a renewed invasion.

Behind the defenses of their stone seawall, the Japanese looked on in horror at the massive fleet. The overwhelming odds seemed to heighten the determination in some of the defenders. Others looked on in despair and desperately prayed for the gods to help through heavenly intervention. Even the most fearless samurai recognized that there was little likelihood they would survive the assault.

But a thousand miles to the south, another force was at work, more powerful even than the invasion fleet of Kublai Khan. A percolating mix of wind and sea and rain was brewing together, welding into a wicked mass of energy. The storm had formed as most typhoons do, in the warm waters of the western Pacific near the Philippines. An isolated thunderstorm set off its birth, upsetting the surrounding high-pressure front by causing warm air to converge with cold. Funneling warm air off the ocean's surface, the churning winds gradually blew into a tempest. Moving unabated across the sea, the storm grew in intensity, exuding a devastating force of wind. Surface winds raged higher and higher, until exceeding one hundred sixty miles per hour. The "super typhoon," as they are now branded, crept almost straight north before curiously shifting directions to the northeast. Directly in its path were the southern islands of Japan and the Mongol Fleet.

Standing off Kyushu, the assembled invasion force was focused only on conquest. Oblivious to the approaching tempest, the joint fleets assembled for a combined invasion.

"We are ordered to join the deployments to the south," Captain Yon reported to Temur after signal flags were exchanged within his squadron. "Preliminary ground forces have landed and secured a harbor for unloading the troops. We are to follow portions of the Yangtze Fleet out of Hakata Bay and prepare to land our soldiers as reinforcements."

"It will be a relief to have my soldiers on dry land again," Temur replied. Like all Mongols, Temur was a land warrior used to fighting on horseback. Attacking from the sea was a relatively novel concept for the Mongols, adopted only in recent years by the emperor as a necessary means of subjugating Korea and South China.

"You shall have your chance to land and fight soon enough," Yon replied as he oversaw the retrieval of his ship's stone anchor.

Following the main body of the fleet out of Hakata Bay and along the coastline to the south, Yon looked uncomfortably at the skies as they blackened on the horizon. A single cloud seemed to grow larger and larger until it shaded the entire sky. As darkness fell, the wind and seas began to seethe, while sprays of rain slapped hard against the ship's surface. Many of the Korean captains recognized the signs of an approaching squall and repositioned their ships farther offshore. The Chinese sailors, not as experienced in open-water conditions, foolishly held their positions close to the landing site.

Unable to sleep in his rollicking bunk, Temur climbed above deck to find eight of his men clinging to the rail, seasick from the turbulence. The pitch-black night was broken by dozens of tiny lights that danced above the waves, small candlelit lanterns that marked other vessels of the fleet. Many of the ships were still tied together, and Temur watched as small clusters of candlelight rose and fell as one on the rolling swells.

"I will be unable to land your troops ashore," Yon shouted to Temur over the howling winds. "The storm is still building. We must move out to sea in order to avoid being crushed on the rocks."

Temur made no effort to protest and simply nodded his head. Though he wanted nothing more than to get his soldiers and himself off the pitching ship, he knew an attempt to do so would be foolhardy. Yon was right. As miserable as the prospect sounded, there was nothing to do but ride out the storm.

Yon ordered the lugsail on the foremast raised and maneuvered the ship's bow to the west. Tossing roughly through the growing waves, the sturdy vessel slowly began fighting its way away from the coastline.

Around Yon's vessel, confusion reigned with the rest of the fleet. Several of the Chinese ships attempted to put troops ashore in the maelstrom, though most remained at anchor a short distance away. A scattering of vessels, mostly from the Eastern Fleet, followed Yon's lead and began repositioning themselves offshore. Few seemed to believe that yet another typhoon could strike and damage the fleet as in 1274. But the doubters were soon to be proven wrong.

The super typhoon gathered force and rolled closer, bringing with it a torrent of wind and rain. Soon after dawn the sky turned black and the storm reared up with its full might. Torrential rains blew horizontally, the water pellets bursting with enough force to shred the sails of the bobbing fleet. Waves crashed to shore in thunderous blows that could be heard miles away. With screeching winds that exceeded a Category 4 hurricane, the super typhoon finally crashed into Kyushu.

On shore, the Japanese defenders were subject to a ten-foot wall of storm surge that pounded over the shoreline, inundating homes, villages, and defense works while drowning hundreds. Ravaging winds uprooted ancient trees and sent loose debris flying through the air like missiles. A continuous deluge of rain dumped a foot of water an hour on inland areas, flooding valleys and overflowing rivers in a deadly barrage. Flash floods and mud slides killed untold more, burying whole towns and villages in seconds.

But the maelstrom on shore paled in comparison to the fury felt by the Mongol Fleet at sea. In addition to the explosive winds and piercing rains came mammoth waves, blown high by the storm's wrath. Rolling mountains of water belted the invasion fleet, capsizing many vessels while smashing others to bits. Ships anchored close to shore were swiftly blown into the rocky shoals, where they were battered into small pieces. Timbers buckled and beams splintered from the force of the waves, causing dozens of ships to simply disintegrate in the boiling seas. In Hakata Bay, groups of ships still lashed together were battered mercilessly. As one vessel foundered, it would pull the other ships to the bottom like a string of dominoes. Trapped inside the fast-sinking ships, the crew and soldiers died a quick death. Those escaping to the violent surface waters drowned a short time later, as few knew how to swim.

Aboard the Korean mugun, Temur and his men clung desperately to the ship as it was tossed like a cork in a washing machine. Yon expertly guided the vessel through the teeth of the storm, fighting to keep his bow to the waves. Several times, the wooden ship heeled so far over that Temur thought she would capsize. Yet there was Yon standing tall at the rudder as the ship righted itself, a determined grin on his face as he did battle with the elements. It wasn't until a monster forty-foot wave suddenly appeared out of the gloom that the salty captain turned pale.

The huge wall of water bore down on them with a thunderous roar. The cresting wave swept onto the ship like an avalanche, burying the vessel in a froth of sea and foam. For several seconds, the Korean ship disappeared completely under the raging sea. Men belowdecks felt their stomachs drop from the force of the plunge and oddly noted the howl of the wind vanish as everything went black. By all rights, the wooden ship should have broken to pieces by the wave's pounding. But the tough little vessel held together. As the giant wave rolled past, the ship rose like an apparition from the deep and regained her position on the frenzied sea.

Temur was tossed across the deck during the submersion and barely clung to a ladder rung as the ship flooded. He gasped for air as the vessel resurfaced and was distraught to see that the masts had been torn off the ship. Behind him, a sharp cry rang out in the water off the stern. Glancing about the deck, he realized with horror that Yon and five Korean seamen, along with a handful of his own men, had been swept off the ship. A chorus of panicked cries pierced the air momentarily before it was washed out by the howl of the wind. Temur caught sight of the captain and men struggling nearby in the water. He could only watch helplessly as a large wave carried them from his sight.

Without masts and crew, the ship was now at the complete mercy of the storm. Pitching and wallowing feebly in the seas, pounded and flooded by the high waves, the ship had a thousand opportunities to founder. But the simple yet robust construction of the Korean ship kept her afloat while around her scores of Chinese ships vanished into the depths.

After several intense, buffeting hours, the winds slowly died down and the pelting rains ceased. For a brief moment, the sun broke clear, and Temur thought the storm had ended. But it was just the eye of the typhoon passing over, offering a brief reprieve before the assault would continue again. Belowdecks, Temur found two Korean sailors still aboard and forced them to help man the ship. As the winds picked up and the rains returned, Temur and the sailors took turns tying themselves to the rudder and battling the deadly waves.

Lost as to position or even the direction they sailed, the men bravely focused on keeping the ship afloat.

Unaware that they were now absorbing the counterclockwise winds that swirled from the north, they were pushed rapidly through open water to the south. The brunt of the typhoon's energy had been expended as it struck Kyushu, so the battering was less intense than before. But gusts over ninety miles per hour still buffeted the vessel, blasting it roughly through the seas. Blinded by the pelting rain, Temur had little clue to their path. Several times the ship nearly approached landfall, inching by islands, rocks, and shoals that went unseen in the gloom of the storm. Miraculously, the ship blew clear, the men aboard never realizing how close they came to death.

The typhoon raged day and night before gradually losing its power, the rain and winds fading to a light squall. The Korean mugun, battered and leaky, held fast and clung to the surface with gritty pride.

Though the captain and crew were lost and the ship was a crippled mess, they had survived all that the killer storm could throw at them. A quiet sense of luck and destiny settled over them as the seas began to calm.

No such luck befell the rest of the Mongol invasion force, which was brutally decimated by the killer typhoon. Nearly the entire Yangtze Fleet was destroyed, smashed to bits against the rocky shoreline or sunk by the vicious seas. A jumbled array of broken timber from huge Chinese junks, Korean warships, and oar-driven barges littered the shoreline. In the water, the cries of the dying had long since echoed over the shrieks of the wind. Many of the soldiers, clothed in heavy leather body armor, sank immediately to the bottom upon being cast in the waves. Others fought through the throes of panic to stay afloat, only to be pummeled by the endless onslaught of massive waves. The lucky few who crawled ashore alive were quickly cut up by marauding bands of samurai roving the shoreline. After the storm, the dead littered the beaches like stacked cords of wood. Half-sunken wrecks lined the horizon off Kyushu in such numbers that it was said a man could walk across the Imari Gulf without getting wet.

The remnants of the invasion fleet limped back to Korea and China with the unthinkable news that Mother Nature had again spoiled the Mongol plans of conquest. It was a crushing defeat for Kublai Khan. The disaster represented the worst defeat suffered by the Mongols since the reign of Genghis Khan, and showed the rest of the world that the forces of the great empire were far from invincible.

For the Japanese, the arrival of the killer typhoon was nothing less than a miracle. Despite the destruction incurred on Kyushu, the island had been spared conquest and the invading forces defeated.

Most believed it could only have come as a result of the eleventh-hour prayers to the Sun Goddess at the Shrine of Ise. Divine intervention had prevailed, a sure sign that Japan was blessed with heavenly protection to ward off foreign invaders. So strong was the belief in the Kami-Kaze, or "divine wind" as it was called, that it permeated Japanese history for centuries, reappearing as the appellation for the suicide pilots of World War II.

***

Aboard the Korean troopship, Temur and the surviving crew had no idea as to the devastation suffered by the invasion fleet. Blown out to sea, they could only assume that the invading force would regroup after the storm passed and continue the assault.

"We must rejoin the fleet," Temur told the men. "The emperor is expecting victory and we must fulfill our duty."

There was only one problem. After three days and nights of severe weather, tossed about without mast and sails, there was no telling where they were. The weather cleared, but there were no other ships in sight. Worse for Temur, there was nobody aboard capable of navigating a vessel at sea. The two Korean sailors who survived the storm were a cook and an aged ship's carpenter, neither possessing navigation skills.

"The land of Japan must be to the east of us," he conferred with the Korean carpenter. "Construct a new mast and sails, and we shall use the sun and stars to guide us east until we reach landfall and relocate the invasion fleet."

The old carpenter argued that the ship was not seaworthy. "She is battered and leaking. We must sail northwest, to Korea, to save ourselves," he cried.

But Temur would have none of it. A temporary mast was hastily constructed and makeshift sails raised.

With a fresh determination, the Mongol soldier-turned-sailor guided the waylaid ship toward the eastern horizon, anxious to put ashore again and rejoin the battle.

***

Two days passed, and all Temur and his men could see was blue water. The Japanese mainland never materialized. Thoughts of changing course were dispelled when yet another storm crept up on them from the southwest. Though less intense than the earlier typhoon, the tropical storm was widespread and slow moving. For five days, the troopship battled the throes of high winds and heavy rains that pitched them wildly about the ocean. The beaten ship seemed to be reaching its limits. The temporary mast and sails were again lost overboard to the gales, while leaks below the waterline kept the carpenter working around the clock. More disconcerting, the entire rudder broke free of the ship, taking with it two of Temur's soldiers, who clung to it for dear life.

When it seemed that the ship could bear no more, the second storm quietly passed. But as the weather eased, the men aboard became more anxious than ever. Land had not been sighted in over a week and food supplies were beginning to dwindle. Men openly pleaded with Temur to sail the ship to China, but the prevailing winds and current, as well as the lack of a ship's rudder, made that impossible. The lone ship was adrift in the ocean with no bearings, no navigation aids, and little means to guide the way.

Temur lost track of time, as the hours drifted into days, and the days into weeks. With their provisions depleted, the feeble crew resorted to catching fish for food and collecting rainwater for drinking. The gray stormy weather was gradually replaced by clear skies and sunny weather. As the winds tapered, the temperature warmed. The ship seemed to grow stagnant along with the crew, drifting aimlessly under light winds over a flat sea. Soon a death cloud began to hover over the vessel. Each sunrise brought the discovery of a new corpse as the starving crewmen began to perish in the night. Temur looked over his emaciated soldiers with a feeling of dishonor. Rather than die in battle, their fate was to starve on an empty ocean far from home.

As the men around him dozed in the midday sun, a sudden clamor erupted on the port side deck of the ship.

"It's a bird!" someone cried. "Try to kill it."

Temur lurched to his feet to see a trio of men attempting to surround a large, dark-billed seagull. The bird hopped around spastically, eyeing the hungry men with a wary look. One of the men grabbed a wooden mallet with a gnarled sunburned hand and flung it swiftly at the bird, hoping to stun or kill it. The gull deftly sidestepped the flying mallet and, with a loud squawk of indignation, flapped its wings and rose lazily into the sky. While the disgruntled men cursed, Temur quietly studied the gull, his eyes following the white bird as it flew south and gradually melted into the horizon. Squinting at the far line of blue where the water met the sky, he suddenly arched a brow. Blinking forcefully, he looked again, tensing slightly when his eyes registered a small green lump on the horizon. Then his nose joined in on the fantasy. Temur could smell a difference in the air. The damp salt air that his lungs had become used to now had a different aroma. A sweet, slightly flowery fragrance wafted through his nostrils. Taking a deep breath, he cleared his throat and grumbled to the men on the deck.

"There is land before us," he said in a parched voice, pointing toward the path of the gull. "Let every man who is able help guide us to it."

The exhausted and emaciated crew staggered to life at the words. After straining their eyes at the distant speck on the horizon, the men gathered their wits and went to work. A large deck-support beam was sawed loose and manhandled over the stern, where, secured with ropes, it would act as a crude rudder.

While three men wrestled the beam about to steer the ship, the remaining men attacked the water.

Brooms, boards, and even sabers were used as makeshift oars by the desperate men in a struggle to row the battered vessel to land.

Slowly the distant spot grew larger, until a shimmering emerald island materialized, complete with a broad, towering mountain peak. Approaching the shoreline, they found heaving waves battering a rocky coastline, which rose up vertically. In a panicked moment, the ship became caught in a crosscurrent that drove them toward an inlet surrounded by jagged boulders.

"Rocks ahead!" the old ship's carpenter cried, eyeing the protrusions off the bow.

"Every man to the left side of the ship," Temur bellowed as they bore down on a dark wall of rock. The half-dozen men on the starboard railing ran, scampered, and crawled to the port side and frantically slapped the water with their makeshift oars. Their last-second surge nosed the bow away from the rocks, and the men held their breath as the port hull scraped against a line of submerged boulders. The grinding ceased, and the men realized that the ship's timbers had held together once more.

"There is no place to put ashore here," the carpenter shouted. "We must turn and go back to sea."

Temur peered at the sheer rock cliff rising above the shore. Porous black and gray rock stretched in a high jagged wall in front of them, broken only by the small black oval of a cave, cut off their port bow at the waterline.

"Bring the bow around. Row again, men, at a steady pace."

Clawing at the water, the drained men propelled the boat away from the rocks and back into the offshore current. Drifting along the landmass, they saw that the towering shoreline eventually softened.

Finally, the carpenter spat out the words the crew waited to hear.

"We can land her there," he said, pointing to a large crescent-shaped cove cut into the shoreline.

Temur nodded, and the men guided the vessel toward shore, a final gust of energy flowing from their limbs. Paddling into the cove, the exhausted men drove the ship toward a sandy beach, until its barnacle-encrusted hull ground to a halt a few feet from shore.

The weary men were nearly too spent to climb off the ship. Grabbing his sword, Temur painfully staggered ashore with five men to search for food and fresh water. Following the sound of rushing water, they cut through a thicket of tall ferns and found a freshwater lagoon, fed by a waterfall that rushed down a rocky ledge. In jubilance, Temur and his men plunged into the lagoon and happily gulped down mouthfuls of the cool water.

Their enjoyment was short-lived when a sudden pounding broke the air. It was the boom of the signal drum aboard the Korean ship, thumping out a cry to battle. Temur sprung to his feet in a single motion and called immediately to his men.

"Back to the ship. At once."

He didn't wait for his men to assemble but vaulted ahead in the direction of the ship. Whatever pain and weakness his legs had felt before vanished under the replenishment of fresh water and the surge of adrenaline rushing through his body. Bounding through the jungle, he could hear the drumbeat's decibels rise in his ears as he moved closer until he finally burst past a cluster of palm trees and onto the sandy beach.

The veteran soldier's eyes quickly scanned the surrounding waters and immediately spotted the source of the alarm. Midway across the cove, a narrow canoe sailed toward the grounded ship. Seated inside, a half dozen shirtless men rhythmically muscled spade-shaped wooden paddles through the water, driving the canoe swiftly toward shore. Temur noted the men's skin was colored a deep bronze, and most had curly black hair kept shorter than his own. Several of the men wore necklaces with a hook-shaped bone dangling across their chests.

"Your orders, sir?" asked a frail soldier who had been banging the drum, finally ceasing the alarm.

Temur hesitated before answering, knowing that a harem of old maids could defeat his emaciated crew in their present state.

"Arm with spears," he ordered calmly. "Defensive line behind me on the beach."

The surviving remnants of his command staggered off the boat and out of the jungle, lining up behind Temur with the few remaining spears still aboard. The ragged force had little strength left, but Temur knew they would die fighting for him if necessary. He felt for the grip of the Japanese samurai sword he now wore at his belt and wondered if he would die with its blade in his hand.

The canoe made its way directly toward the men on the beach, its rowers silent as they propelled the boat to shore. When the bow scraped the sand at the water's edge, the occupants jumped out and quickly dragged the canoe onto the beach, then stood solemnly alongside the craft. For several seconds, the two parties eyed each other suspiciously. Finally, one of the men from the canoe crossed the sand and stood before Temur. He was short, barely five foot tall, and older than the rest, with long white hair wrapped with a bark strip into a ponytail. He wore a string of shark's teeth around his neck and gripped a wooden staff made from twisted driftwood. His brown eyes sparkled with luster, and he smiled broadly at the Mongol, displaying a crooked row of bright white teeth. In a melodic language, he spoke rapidly, offering what seemed to be a nonthreatening greeting. Temur simply nodded slightly, keeping a sharp eye on the other men by the canoe. The old man jabbered for several minutes, then abruptly returned to the canoe and reached inside.

Temur tightened his grip on the Japanese sword and gave his men a knowing look of caution. But he relaxed when the old man stood and held up a fat thirty-pound yellowfin tuna. The other natives reached into the canoe and retrieved other fish and shellfish carried in reed baskets, which they placed at the feet of Temur's men. The famished soldiers anxiously waited for approval from the Mongol leader, then voraciously attacked the food, smiling thanks to the native hosts. The old man strode up to Temur and offered him a drink of water from a pigskin bag.

Having gained mutual trust, the natives pointed into the jungle and motioned for the shipwrecked men to follow. Hesitantly leaving their ship, Temur and his men followed the natives through the jungle, hiking for a mile or two before entering a small clearing. Several dozen small thatch-covered huts surrounded a fenced corral where small children were playing with a herd of pigs. On the opposite side of the clearing, an even larger hut with a high roof served as the home of the village chief, who Temur was surprised to learn was none other than the old white-haired man.

The residents of the village gawked at the strangers as a feast was hastily prepared and the Asian warriors were welcomed into the community with great honor. The ship, clothes, and weapons of the strangers were evidence of great knowledge, and the men were prized surreptitiously as new allies against potential enemy combatants. The Chinese and Korean warriors were simply glad to be alive and welcomed the generous offers of food, housing, and female companionship that the friendly villagers extended. Only Temur accepted the hospitality with reservation. As he chewed on a slab of grilled abalone with the village chief, his men around him enjoying themselves for the first time in weeks, he silently wondered if he would ever see Mongolia again.

***

Over the next few weeks, the men of the Mongol invasion force took up residence in the village, gradually assimilating into the community. Initially, Temur refused to settle in the camp, sleeping in the rotting ship each night. Only when the storm-ravaged hull timbers finally gave way and the battered remains of the ship slid to the bottom of the cove did he reluctantly move to the village.

Thoughts of his wife and four children played in his mind, but, with the ship ruined, Temur began to give up hope of returning home. His crew had gladly accepted their new lives on the tropical outpost, viewing their station as far preferable to the bleak life in China as soldiers of the Mongol emperor. It was an attitude Temur could never accept. The scrappy Mongol commander was a loyal servant to the khan and knew it was his duty to return to service at the first opportunity. But with his ship in pieces at the bottom of the cove, there was no viable means of returning home. With a bitter reluctance, Temur gradually resigned himself to a castaway's life on the large island.

***

The years trickled by and gradually softened the resolve of the old warrior. Over time, Temur and his men had learned the lyrical native tongue of the island community, and the Mongol commander enjoyed swapping adventure tales with the white-haired chief. Mahu, as he was called, bantered on about how his ancestors had sailed an epic voyage across the great sea just a few generations before in mammoth sailing ships. The island had called to them, he said, with a rumble and a billow of smoke from the mountaintop, a sign of welcome from the gods to come and prosper. The gods had smiled on them ever since, providing a land of temperate weather and abundant food and water.

Temur chuckled at the description, wondering how the primitive natives who barely traversed to neighboring islands in small canoes could find their way to crossing the ocean itself.

"I would like to see one of these majestic sailing ships," he chided the old man.

"I will take you to one," Mahu replied indignantly. "You will see for yourself."

The amused Temur saw that the old chief was serious and took him up on the offer. After a two-day trek across the island, he was beginning to regret his curiosity when the weathered jungle path they followed suddenly opened onto a small sandy beach. Temur stopped when his feet touched the sand, and the old man silently pointed toward the far end of the beach.

Temur didn't recognize it at first. Gazing across the beach, he saw only a pair of large tree trunks lying perpendicular to the shore. The rest of the beach appeared barren. As his eyes fell back to the fallen trees, he suddenly realized that they were more than just dead wood; they were the support frames for a massive raft that lay half buried in the sand.

The Mongol warrior ran toward the object, not believing his eyes. With each step, he became more mesmerized. Though obviously sitting on the beach for years, perhaps even decades, the ancient sailing craft was still intact. Temur could see it was a double-hulled design, with a single flat deck supported by the two large logs. The vessel stretched over sixty feet but carried only a large single mast, which had rotted away. Though the plank deck had disintegrated, Temur could see that the massive support timbers looked as sturdy as when they were felled. There was no doubt in Temur's mind that the boat had been an oceangoing vessel. Mahu's fanciful tale was true after all. Temur excitedly gazed at the remains of the vessel, eyeing a means to escape the island.

"You shall return me to my home and emperor," he muttered wistfully to the wooden mass.

With a native work crew under the direction of the Korean ship's carpenter put to the task, Temur set about refitting the old sailing vessel. Deck planking was cut and fit from nearby hardwood trees. Coconut husk fibers were braided into sennit cord and tied to the hull timbers and supports. A large reed sail was woven and fitted to the replacement mast, cut from a young tree near the beach. In just a few short weeks, the nearly forgotten ocean voyager was reclaimed from the sands and made ready to ply the waves again.

To sail the craft, Temur could have ordered his old crew aboard, but he knew that most were afraid to risk their lives again in a daring sea voyage. Many of the men now had wives and children on the island.

When he asked for volunteers, just three men stepped forward, along with old Mahu. Temur could ask for no more. It would be barely enough to sail the old craft, but the Mongol commander accepted without question the decision of those who elected to stay.

Provisions were stocked, and then the men waited until Mahu declared that the time was right.

"The goddess Hina will offer us safe passage to the west now," he finally told Temur a week later, when the winds shifted direction. "Let us be away."

"I shall report to the emperor of his new colony in this distant land," he shouted to the men assembled on the beach as the twin canoe hull broke through the surf and an offshore breeze launched them briskly out to sea. Loaded with plenty of water, dried fish, and fruit from the local landscape, the ship set sail with enough stores for the crew to survive for weeks at sea.

As the lush verdant island disappeared in the waves behind them, the men aboard the catamaran felt a moment of insecurity and foolishness. Their deadly struggles on the sea more than a decade earlier came flooding back and they all wondered whether the forces of nature would allow them to survive again.

Yet Temur was confident. His trust lay in the old man, Mahu. Though the native chief had little sailing experience, he had read the stars with ease and tracked the sun's movements by day while studying the clouds and sea swells. It was Mahu who knew that the winds to the south of the island turned west in the fall months, which would fill their sails with a steady breeze in the direction home. It was Mahu who also knew how to catch tuna with a line and bone hook using flying fish for bait, which would supplement their diet during the long voyage.

After landfall disappeared from sight, the sailing came surprisingly easy for the inexperienced crew. Fair skies and calm seas greeted the men each day for a fortnight as they sailed with the wind. Only an occasional squall tested the boat's sturdiness, and it also gave the crew a chance to collect fresh rainwater. All the while, Mahu calmly issued the sailing orders while constantly tracking the sun and stars.

Studying the clouds on the horizon several days later, he noticed an unusual clustering to the southwest.

"Land to the south, two days' sailing," he proclaimed.

Relief and excitement flowed through the crew at the prospect of reaching land again. But where were they, and what lands were they approaching?

The next morning, a dot appeared on the horizon, which grew larger with each passing hour. It was not land, however, but another sailing vessel crossing their path. As the ship drew near, Temur could see it sported a low stern and captured the wind with triangular white sails. She was not a Chinese vessel, he knew, but looked to be an Arab merchant ship. The trader drew alongside the island catamaran and dropped its sails as a thin dark-skinned man in a brightly colored robe shouted a greeting from the rail.

Temur studied the man for a moment, then, reading no threat, climbed aboard the small sailing ship.

The trading vessel was from Zanzibar, its captain a jovial Muslim merchantman with considerable experience trading goods with the royal court of the Great Khan. The ship was bound for Shanghai with a cargo of ivory, gold, and spices, to be traded for fine Chinese porcelain and silk. Temur's tiny crew was welcomed aboard and sadly watched as their sturdy double-hulled canoe was cut loose, left to drift the Pacific alone.

The Muslim captain shrewdly guessed that saving the life of a Mongol commander would result in a more favored trading status and he wasn't disappointed. Landing at the port city of Shanghai, the vessel ignited an immediate uproar. News of the soldiers' appearance thirteen years after the aborted invasion of Japan spread across the city like wildfire. Representatives from the government met Temur and his men and whisked them up to the Imperial City at Ta-tu for a briefing with the emperor. Along the way, Temur quizzed his escorts about news of war and politics during his absence.

Much of the news was dispiriting. The invasion of Japan had been an unmitigated disaster, he learned, the typhoon having wiped out over two thousand ships and nearly one hundred thousand men. Temur was saddened to learn that his commander and many of his comrades had not returned with the remnants of the surviving fleet. Equally disturbing was the revelation that the islands of Japan still lay unconquered.

Though Kublai Khan wished to attempt a third invasion, his advisers had wisely quelled the notion.

In a little over a decade, the dominance of the entire empire had been shattered. After defeat in Japan, an expedition to suppress unrest in Vietnam had also met with failure, while the expense of expanding the Grand Canal to Chung-tu had nearly caused the economy to collapse. Questions about the emperor's health created apprehension about his successor. A simmering resentment already resided in the people over the fact that a Mongol ruled the Yuan Empire. There seemed to be little dispute. Since defeating the Song Dynasty in 1279 and uniting China under a single rule, Kublai Khan's empire was now withering in a slow decline.

Arriving in the capital city of Ta-tu, Temur and his men were led to the Imperial City and escorted into the private chambers of the emperor. Though Temur had seen Kublai Khan many times in earlier years, he was shocked at the sight of the man before him now. Stretched out on a padded chaise lounge and clad in yards of silk robing was a fat haggard man who stared through sullen black eyes. Despondent over the recent death of his favorite wife and the loss of his second son, Kublai had turned to food and drink for solace, consuming both in excess. Though he'd reached the startling age of eighty, the dietary excesses were now wreaking havoc on the revered leader's health. Temur noted that the overweight Khan rested a gout-inflamed foot on a pillow, while jugs of fermented mare's milk stood at arm's length.

"Commander Temur, you have returned from a considerable absence to resume your duty," the Khan stated in a raspy voice.

"As the emperor commands," Temur replied, bowing deeply.

"Tell of your voyages, Temur, and the mysterious land on which you were shipwrecked."

Carved chairs were brought for Temur and his men to sit, as the Mongol commander described the fierce typhoon that blew his ship away from the Japanese mainland and their subsequent plight adrift at sea. As cups of the alcoholic liquid were passed around, he described their luck at landing on the lush island and being welcomed by the local inhabitants. Introducing Mahu, he told of the old man's aid in sailing the large double-hulled vessel across the sea before they met up with the Muslim merchant.

"A remarkable journey," Kublai lauded. "The lands you fell upon, they were rich and fertile?"

"Exceedingly. The soil is bountiful, and, with a temperate climate subject to much rainfall, an abundance of wild and cultivated plants flourish there."

"Congratulations, my emperor," said a wrinkled man with a long white beard standing at the Khan's side.

The Confucian adviser to the throne was clearly unimpressed with the tale or the audience before him.

"You have once again added new lands to the empire."

"It is true you have left a garrison behind?" Kublai asked. "The lands are now under Mongol rule?"

Temur silently cursed the Confucian adviser's ploy to fabricate glory for the emperor. He knew that the men he left behind had long ago ground their swords for domestic life. Their loyalty to the khan had been a question well before they even shipwrecked.

"Yes," Temur lied. "A small contingent rules the land in your name." He looked at the old village chief Mahu with shame, but the old man simply nodded back, understanding the politics of the empire.

Kublai gazed past the men across the room, his eyes seeing an image far beyond the walls of the palace.

Temur wondered if the Mongol ruler was intoxicated from the drink.

"I should like to see this wondrous place, this land where the sun first shines on my empire," Kublai finally whispered dreamily.

"Yes, it is a near paradise on earth. As beautiful as any lands under the reign."

"You know the route back, Temur?"

"I do not know the ways of navigation at sea, but Mahu can read the sun and the stars. He could find the way back to his home in a stout ship, I believe."

"You have served the empire well, Temur. Your loyalty to the empire shall be well rewarded," Kublai gasped, coughing up a mouthful of liquid that sprayed over his silk tunic.

"Thank you, my emperor," he replied, bowing again. A pair of palace guards suddenly materialized and escorted Temur and his men out of the Khan's chamber.

The Mongol commander felt remorse as he left the palace. The great Kublai Khan was but a tired and ancient shell of the old leader who ruled one of the largest empires in world history. Much more than a bloodthirsty conqueror like his grandfather, Kublai had ruled with an enlightenment not seen before. He welcomed traders and explorers from distant lands, imposed laws that fostered religious tolerance, and promoted scientific research into geography, astronomy, and medicine. He was now near death, and the empire couldn't help but become a less inspired land without his visionary leadership.

As Temur exited the grand palace grounds, he suddenly noticed than Mahu was not by his side. Oddly, he realized that the old villager had remained behind in the emperor's chamber. Temur waited for him to emerge, but after several hours gave up and proceeded out of the capital city to his home village and family. He never again saw the old man who had led him home and often wondered of the fate of his foreign friend.

***

Just two months later, the somber news was announced of the death of the great emperor. Kublai Khan had finally succumbed to the ravages of age and alcoholism. An elaborate farewell ceremony to honor the emperor's life was held in Ta-tu, the city he had selected to be his primary capital. An altar would later be constructed in his honor south of the city, now known as Beijing, which still stands today. After the public services, a funeral caravan left the city toting the coffin of the Great Khan in an ornate carriage. Followed by a thousand horses and soldiers, the solemn procession marched slowly north into Mongolia and the homeland of Kublai. At a secret spot in the Khentii Mountains, the tomb of Kublai Khan was laid to rest with a cortege of animals, concubines, and valued riches from the across the empire. To ensure a peaceful afterlife, the burial region was trampled with horses to disguise the site. Construction laborers tasked with digging the tomb were executed outright and the procession commanders sworn to secrecy under penalty of death. In a few short years, the burial site of the Mongol leader was lost to history, and the memory of Kublai Khan cast to the winds that whip tirelessly down the slopes of the green-forested mountain range.

***

A thousand miles to the south, a large Chinese junk slipped out of its dock at Shanghai before dawn and silently drifted down the Yellow River toward the Pacific Ocean. One of just a handful of oceangoing trade ships in the emperor's fleet, the massive junk stood over two hundred feet long, carrying a dozen sails on four tall masts. With the Yuan Empire still in mourning, the vessel didn't fly its usual state banners, and, in fact, carried no identifying flags at all.

Few people on shore wondered much about the early departure of the large ship, which normally set sail with great fanfare. Only a handful of onlookers noted that the vessel was manned with half its normal crew. And fewer still noticed the odd sight at the ship's helm. An old dark-skinned man with flowing white hair stood next to the captain pointing to the clouds and rising sun. In a strange tongue, he directed the path of the majestic vessel as it departed civilization and entered the waters of the vast blue ocean for a distant and uncharted destination.

The muffled booms in the distance echoed with the pall of a tribal war drum. First a subtle pop would waft through the air, followed by an inevitable jarring thud a few seconds later. The lazy pause between each beat led to a false hope that the acoustic barrage had finally come to an end. Then another quiet pop would ring through the air, unnerving all within earshot as they waited for the impact to follow.

Leigh Hunt stood up from a freshly dug earthen trench and stretched his arms skyward before carefully setting a hand trowel atop a nearby mud-brick wall. The Oxford-educated field archaeologist for the British Museum was dressed for the part, clad in long khaki pants and matching dual-pocket shirt, both of which were coated in a fine layer of dust and sweat. Instead of the classic pith helmet, he wore a battered fedora to shield his head from the rays of the summer sun. Through tired hazel eyes, he peered east down a wide valley toward the source of the thundering noise. For the first time, small puffs of smoke could be seen on the horizon through the shimmering heat of the morning sun.

"Tsendyn, it would appear that the artillery is moving closer," he spoke nonchalantly in the direction of the trench.

A short man wearing a thin woolen shirt with a red sash tied around his waist climbed quietly out of the pit. Beyond him in the trench, a crew of Chinese laborers continued digging through the dry soil with heavy spades and hand trowels. Unlike the Chinese workers, the small but broad-shouldered man had slightly rounded eyes, which were imbedded in a face of dark leathery skin. They were features that the local Chinese knew at a glance belonged to a Mongolian.

"Peking is falling. Already the refugees are fleeing," he said, pointing toward a small dirt road a mile away. Rolling through the dust, a half dozen ox-drawn carts toted the life possessions of several Chinese families escaping to the west. "We must abandon the excavation, sir, before the Japanese are upon us."

Hunt instinctively felt for the .455 caliber Webley Fosbery automatic revolver holstered at his hip. Two nights before, he had shot at a small gang of marauding bandits that attempted to steal a crate of excavated artifacts. In the environment of China's collapsing infrastructure, bands of thieves seemed to roam everywhere, but most were unarmed and unsophisticated. Fighting his way past the Japanese Imperial Army would be an entirely different matter.

China was rapidly imploding under the juggernaut of the Japanese military might. Ever since the renegade Japanese Kwantung Army had seized Manchuria in 1931, Japan's military leaders had set their sights on colonizing China in the manner of Korea. Six years of thrusts and parries and staged incidents finally erupted in the summer of 1937 when the Japanese Imperial Army invaded northern China, in fear that the Nationalist forces of Chiang Kai-shek were growing too strong.

Though the Chinese forces vastly outnumbered the Japanese Army, they were no match for the superior equipment, training, and discipline that the Japanese forces brought to the field. Utilizing his resources as best he could, Chiang Kai-shek battled the Japanese by day, then retreated at night, in an attempt to slow the Japanese advance in a war of attrition.

Hunt listened to the crack of the approaching Japanese artillery that now signaled the loss of Peking and he knew that the Chinese were in trouble. The capital city of Nanking would be next, resulting in yet a further pullback to the west of Chiang Kai-shek's army. With an impending sense of his own defeat, he glanced at his wristwatch then spoke to Tsendyn.

"Have the coolies cease all excavations at noon. We'll secure the artifacts and complete final documentation of the site this afternoon, then join in the growing caravan heading west." Glancing at the road, he noted a ragtag band of Chinese Nationalist soldiers filtering into the evacuation route.

"You will be leaving on the aircraft to Nanking tomorrow?" Tsendyn asked.

"Assuming the plane shows up. But there's no sense in flying to Nanking under these hostile conditions. I intend to take the most important artifacts and fly north to Ulaanbaatar. You'll have to manage the remaining items, equipment, and supplies with the packtrain, I'm afraid. You should be able to catch up with me in Ulaanbaatar in a few weeks. I'll wait for you there before catching the Trans-Siberian railway west."

"A wise move. It is evident that the local resistance is failing."

"Inner Mongolia offers little strategic value to the Japanese. They are likely just chasing the remnants of the defensive forces out of Peking," he said, waving an arm toward the distant artillery barrage. "I suspect they will pull back shortly and enjoy a few days or even weeks pillaging Peking before renewing the offensive. Plenty of time for us to be on our way."

"It is unfortunate that we must leave now. We are nearly finished with the excavation of the Pavilion of Great Harmony," Tsendyn said, surveying a maze of excavated trenches that stretched around them like a World War I battlefield.

"It's a bloody shame," Hunt said, shaking his head in anger, "though we've proven that the site has already been well-ransacked."

Hunt kicked at some excavated fragments of marble and stone piled near his feet and watched as the dust settled over the remnants that had once constituted an imposing imperial structure. While most of his archaeological contemporaries in China were chasing prehistoric burial tombs loaded with bronze artifacts, Hunt's focus was on the more recent Yuan Dynasty. This was his third summer on the grounds of Shang-tu, excavating the remains of the royal summer palace built in 1260. Staring at a barren hillside dotted with mounds of fresh dirt, it was difficult to imagine the former grandeur of the palace and grounds that would have stood before him nearly eight hundred years earlier.

Though surviving Chinese historical records provide scant detail, Marco Polo, the Venetian adventurer who vividly documented thirteenth-century China and the Silk Road in his book The Travels, provided a striking description of Shang-tu at its zenith. Built on a huge mound at the center of a walled city, the original palace was surrounded by a forest of transplanted trees and lapis lazuli stone paths, which lent a magical blue hue to the estate. Exquisite gardens and fountains weaved through a series of government buildings and residences that encircled the Ta-an Ko, or "Pavilion of Great Harmony," which stood as the imperial palace. Constructed of green marble and stone and gilded with gold, the great structure was inlaid with glazed tiles and decorated with breathtaking paintings and sculptures from China's most skilled artisans. Used primarily as a summer residence by the emperor to escape the heat of Peking, Shang-tu quickly developed into a scientific and cultural hub. A medical center and astronomical observatory were constructed, and the city became a haven for scholars both foreign and domestic. A constant breeze across the hilltop cooled the emperor and his guests, as he administered over an empire that stretched from the Mediterranean to Korea.

But it was the emperor's adjacent hunting ground that perhaps gave the summer palace its most renown.

It was a vast enclosed park of trees, streams, and thick grass, encompassing sixteen square miles. The park was stocked with deer, boar, and other game for the hunting pleasure of the emperor and his guests. Elevated paths circled through the preserve, to keep the hunters' feet dry. Surviving tapestries show the emperor hunting in the park on a favorite horse, with a trained hunting cheetah at his side.

Centuries of abandonment, neglect, and looting had reduced the palace to little more than scattered rubble. It was nearly impossible for Hunt to picture the lush grounds of gardens, fountains, springs, and trees as they existed centuries ago. The landscape was now barren. A wide, grassy plain stretched empty to the distant brown hills. The area was void of life, the city's past glory just a whisper on the wind that ruffled through the tall grass. Xanadu, the romantic name of Shang-tu popularized by the Samuel Taylor Coleridge poem, existed now only in the imagination.

With approval from the Nationalist government, Hunt had begun excavations three years before. Trowel by trowel, he had been able to piece together the boundaries of the Palace of Great Harmony, identifying a grand hall, a kitchen, and a dining hall. An assortment of bronze and porcelain artifacts recovered from the earth told the tale of daily life at the palace. But, to Hunt's disappointment, there were no dazzling artifacts uncovered, no terra-cotta armies or Ming vases that would make a name for himself. The dig was nearly completed, just the remains of the royal bedroom chamber remained to be excavated.

Already, most of his colleagues had fled the eastern regions of China, not wanting to get caught up in a civil war or foreign invasion. Hunt seemed to perversely enjoy the turmoil and pending danger from the site in Northwest China, not far from Manchuria. With a love of antiquity and drama, he knew that he was standing thick in the middle of history in the making.

Hunt also knew that the British Museum would be pleased with whatever artifacts he would provide them for their planned exhibit of Xanadu. The chaos and danger created by the Japanese invasion was actually a benefit. Not only did it add to the allure of the artifacts that he transported west, it actually made the process easier. Local authorities had already fled the nearby villages, and the government antiquities officials had not been seen in weeks. He would have an easy time removing the artifacts from the country. That is, assuming he could extricate himself as well.

"I guess I've kept you from your family long enough, Tsendyn. I doubt the Russians will allow the Japanese to pussyfoot around in Mongolia, so you should be safe from this craziness."

"My wife shall welcome my return." The Mongol smiled through a yellowing set of sharply pointed teeth.

The faint drone of a nearby aircraft halted their conversation. To the south of them, a small gray speck grew larger in the sky before banking to the east.

"Japanese reconnaissance aircraft," Hunt mused. "Not a good sign for the Nationalist chaps if the Japanese own the skies." The archaeologist pulled out a pack of Red Lion cigarettes and lit one of the unfiltered smokes as Tsendyn peered at the fading aircraft with a nervous look.

"The sooner we are away, the better, I think," he said.

Behind them, a sudden commotion erupted from one of the excavation trenches. One of the Chinese laborer's heads popped up over the edge, his grimy jaws jabbering at a rapid clip.

"What is it?" Hunt said, setting down his tea.

"He says he's found some lacquered wood," Tsendyn replied, stepping toward the trench.

Both men walked to the edge and peered down. The chattering laborer excitedly pointed his trowel toward the ground as the other laborers crowded around. Barely exposed through the dirt at his feet was a flat square yellow object the size of a serving platter.

"Tsendyn, you handle the excavation," Hunt barked, waving away the other laborers. As the Mongolian jumped into the trench and carefully began scraping the dirt away with a trowel and brush, Hunt retrieved a notebook and pencil. Thumbing to a hand-drafted sketch of the localized area and trench, he neatly outlined the object in its discovered location. Flipping to a blank sheet, he then began sketching the artifact while Tsendyn gently dug around it.

As the dirt and dust fell away, Hunt could see that the object was in fact a yellow lacquered wooden box. Every square inch was painted with delicate images of animals and trees in elaborate detail, trimmed with inlaid mother-of-pearl. Hunt noted with curiosity that an elephant was depicted on the lid. Carefully scraping the dirt away to its base, Tsendyn gently lifted the box out of the sediment and placed it on a flat stone outside the trench.

The Chinese laborers all stopped their digging and crowded around the ornate box. Most of their discoveries to date consisted of little more than broken shards of porcelain and the occasional jade carving. This was easily the most impressive item uncovered in their three years of digging.

Hunt studied the box deliberately before taking it in his hands and lifting it. Something heavy was inside, which shifted as he moved the box. With his thumbs, he could feel a seam midway around the shallow sides and gently tried to separate the lid. The box, sealed for nearly eight hundred years, protested at first and then slowly opened. Hunt set the box down and gingerly worked his fingers around the entire edge, then pulled on the lid until it creaked off. Tsendyn and the laborers all leaned in as if in a football huddle, peering to see what was inside.

Two objects were nestled in the box and Hunt removed them for all to see. A spotted animal skin, colored black and yellow in the camouflage pattern of a leopard or cheetah, was rolled up like a scroll, the ends tied together with leather straps. The other item was a patinated bronze tube, sealed at one end, but with a removable cap at the other end. The Chinese workers all grinned and chuckled at the sight of the objects, not knowing what significance they held, but assuming correctly that they had some importance.

Hunt set down the cheetah skin and examined the heavy bronze tube. It had aged a deep green color, which only enhanced the elaborate image of a dragon that stretched along its length, the tail of the imaginary beast curled around the capped end of the tube like a coil of rope.

"Go ahead, open it up," Tsendyn urged with excited impatience.

Hunt easily pried off the end cap, then held the tube up to his eye, peering in. He then turned the open end toward the ground and carefully shook the tube, catching with his open left palm the contents as it slid out.

It was a rolled-up bolt of silk, dyed a pale blue. Tsendyn shook clean a nearby blanket and spread it across the ground at Hunt's feet. The archaeologist waited for the dust to clear, then knelt down over the blanket and carefully unfurled the silk roll to its full length of nearly five feet. Tsendyn noticed the normally unflappable archaeologist's hands trembled slightly as he smoothed out the creases in the silk.

A picturesque landscape scene was painted on the silk, portraying a mountaintop with deep valleys, gorges, and streams depicted in beautiful detail. But the silk was obviously much more than an ornamental work of art. Along the left border was a sizeable section of text that Hunt recognized as Uighur script, the earliest Mongolian written language adopted from early Turkish settlers to the Asian Steppes. On the right margin was a sequence of smaller images, depicting a harem of women, herds of horses, camels, and other animals, and a contingent of armed soldiers surrounding several wooden chests. The landscape portion of the painting was bare of life except for a lone figure at the very center of the silk roll. Standing on a small mountain rise was a Bactrian camel draped with a saddlecloth inscribed with two words. Oddly, the camel was painted weeping, shedding oversized tears that fell to the ground.

As he studied the silk painting, a band of sweat formed across Hunt's forehead. He suddenly felt his heart thumping loudly in his chest and he had to force himself to take a deep breath of air. It just couldn't be, he thought.

"Tsendyn ... Tsendyn," he muttered, nearly afraid to ask. "It is Uighur script. Can you read what it says?"

The Mongol assistant's eyes grew to the size of silver dollars as he, too, grasped the meaning of the image. He stuttered and stumbled as he tried to translate for Hunt.

"The wording on the left is a physical description of the mountainous region in the painting. 'At home atop Mount Burkhan Khaldun, nestled in the Khentii Mountains, our emperor sleeps. The Onon River quenches his thirst, between the valleys of the doomed.' "

"And the inscription on the camel?" Hunt whispered, pointing a shaky finger at the center of the painting.

"Temujin khagan," Tsendyn replied, choking the words out in a hushed tone of reverence.

"Temujin." Hunt repeated the word as if in a trance. Though the Chinese laborers failed to comprehend, Hunt and Tsendyn realized with shock that they had made a discovery of astounding proportions. A wave of emotion surged over Hunt as he digested the enormity of the silk painting. Though he tried to mentally question its content, the power of the description was just too overwhelming. The weeping camel, the offerings depicted on the side, the locale description. Then there was the name on the camel's back. Temujin. It was the birth name of a tribal boy who became the world's greatest conqueror. History would remember him by his royally appointed moniker: Genghis Khan. The ancient silk painting before them could be nothing other than a diagram of the hidden burial site of Genghis Khan.

Hunt collapsed to his knees as the realization of the find sunk in. The grave of Genghis Khan was one of the most sought-after archaeological sites in history. In an amazing tale of conquest, Genghis Khan had united the Mongol tribes of the Asian Steppes and expanded on a march of conquest the likes of which have never been matched since. Between 1206 and 1223 A.D., he and his nomadic horde captured lands as far west as Egypt and as far north as Lithuania. Genghis died in 1227 A.D. at the height of his power, and was known to have been secretly buried in the Khentii Mountains of Mongolia, not far from his birthplace. In the Mongol tradition, he was buried secretly with forty concubines and untold riches, the grave site carefully concealed by his subjects after interment. Ordinary foot soldiers who accompanied the cortege were put to death, while their commanders were sworn to silence upon threat of similar punishment.

Any hint as to the location of the grave site vanished as those in the know expired, keeping their loyal vow of silence to the very end. Only a camel, or so the legend went, tipped off the location a decade or so later. A Bactrian pack camel, known to be the mother of a camel interred with the great leader, was found weeping at a spot in the Khentii Mountains. The camel's owner realized it was crying for its lost son buried beneath its feet, in the same location where Genghis Khan must be entombed. Yet the fable ended there, the secret kept with the herder, and the grave of Genghis Khan left undisturbed in the Mongolian mountains of his birth.

Now the legend was whisked to life in the silk painting before Hunt's eyes.

"This is a most sacred find," Tsendyn whispered. "It will lead us to the tomb of the Great Khan."

Tsendyn spoke with a reverence that bordered on fright.

"Yes," Hunt gasped, imagining the fame that would sweep his way if he led the discovery of Genghis Khan's grave.

Suddenly fearful of exposing the significance of the silk to the Chinese laborers, one of whom might have an eager bandit in the family, Hunt hastily rerolled the fabric into the tube and replaced it in the lacquered box with the cheetah skin. He then wrapped the box in a cloth and secured it in a large leather satchel, which stayed clasped in his left hand for the rest of the day.

After riddling the earth where the box was recovered and finding no other artifacts, Hunt reluctantly ordered a halt to the dig. The laborers quietly stowed their picks, shovels, and brushes into a wooden cart then stood in line for their meager salary. Though paid just pennies a day, several of the men had actually fought over the physically demanding jobs, which were a rare commodity in the poverty-stricken Chinese provinces.

With the equipment and artifacts secured in a trio of wooden carts and the Chinese laborers dismissed, Hunt retired to his canvas tent after dinner with Tsendyn and packed up his belongings. For the first time, an uneasiness fell over him as he documented the day's events in his personal journal. With the last minute discovery of the valued artifact, he suddenly became more cognizant of the dangers around him. Looters and bandits had wantonly robbed other excavations in Shaanxi Province, and a fellow archaeologist had been beaten and pistol-whipped by marauders seeking three-thousand-year-old bronze artifacts. Then there was the Japanese Army. Though they might not harm a British citizen, they could very well appropriate his work and artifacts. And who knows? Would the discovery of Genghis Khan's grave prove to be a curse for him, as many claimed it was for Lord Carnarvon and the crew that discovered the grave of King Tut?

With the satchel containing the wooden box safe under his cot, he slept fitfully, the myriad of thoughts banging around his head like a blacksmith's hammer. The night was made more ominous by the howl of a shrieking wind that rocked the tent till dawn. Rising groggily at daybreak, he was relieved to find the satchel safe and sound under his cot, while, outside, there were no Japanese militants to be seen.

Tsendyn was standing nearby, cooking some goat meat over an open fire with a pair of Chinese orphan boys who assisted the Mongol.

"Good morning, sir. Hot tea is at the ready." Tsendyn smiled, handing Hunt a cup of steaming brew. "All of the equipment is packed, and the mules are hitched to the carts. We can depart at your desire."

"Jolly good. Stow my tent, if you would, and take a good mind of the satchel under the cot," he said, taking a seat on a wooden crate and watching the sunrise as he enjoyed his tea.

The first distant artillery shell sounded an hour later as the remaining excavation party rolled away from the Shang-tu site aboard three mule-drawn wagons. Across the windswept plains stood the tiny village of Lanqui, just over a mile away. The caravan continued past the dusty town, joining a small trail of refugees headed west. Near noon, the mules clopped into the aged town of Duolun, where they stopped at a roadside hovel for lunch. Downing a tasteless bowl of noodles and broth that was sprinkled with dead bugs, they made their way to a large flat meadow at the edge of town. Sitting atop one of the wagons, Hunt peered overhead into a partly cloudy sky. Almost like clockwork, a faint buzz broke the air, and the archaeologist watched as a tiny silver speck grew larger against the clouds as it approached the makeshift airfield. As the airplane neared, Hunt pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it to a stick, thrusting it into the ground as a primitive wind sock for the pilot to gauge the breeze.

With a gentle touch, the pilot circled the metal-sided aircraft in a wide, low turn, then set the noisy plane down onto the turf in a quick motion. Hunt was relieved to see the plane was a Fokker F. VIIb trimotor, a safe and able aircraft aptly suited to flying over remote stretches of barren landscape. He noted with curiosity that the name Blessed Betty was painted beneath the pilot's cockpit window.

The motors barely gurgled to a stop when the fuselage door burst open and out jumped two men in worn leather jackets.

"Hunt? I'm Randy Schodt," greeted the pilot, a tall man with a rugged yet friendly face who spoke with an American accent. "My brother Dave and I are here to fly you to Nanking, or so the contract says, he added, patting a folded paper in his jacket pocket.

"What's a pair of Yanks doing way out here?" Hunt mused.

"Beats working in the shipyard back home in Erie, Pennsylvania," grinned Dave Schodt, an affable man like his brother who was quick with a joke.

"Been flying for the Chinese Ministry of Railroads, supporting rail extensions on the Peking—Shanghai line. Though work has come to a sudden halt with this unpleasantness by these Japanese folks," Randy Schodt explained with a smirk.

"I have a slight change in destination," Hunt said, sidestepping the banter. "I need you to fly me to Ulaanbaatar."

"Mongolia?" Schodt asked, scratching his head. "Well, as long as we're headed away from the neighborhood of the Nippon Army, I guess it's okay with me."

"I'll plot it out, see if we have the range to get there," Dave said, walking back to the plane. "Hopefully, they'll have a gas station when we arrive," he laughed.

With Schodt's help, Hunt supervised the loading of the more important artifacts and tools into the fuselage of the Fokker. When the wooden crates had nearly filled the interior, Hunt took the satchel with the lacquered box and carefully placed it on the front passenger's seat.

"That will be a hundred fifty miles less than the flight to Nanking. But we'll need return mileage, which exceeds what your British Museum people contracted me to fly," Schodt explained, spreading a map of the region across a stack of crates. Ulaanbaatar, the capital of Mongolia, was marked with a star in the north-central region of the country, over four hundred miles from the Chinese border.

"You have my authorization," Hunt replied, handing the pilot a handwritten request for the change in route. "I assure you, the museum will honor the additional expense."

"Sure they will, they don't want your artifacts to end up in the Tokyo Museum," Schodt laughed. Sticking the note in his pocket, he added, "Dave has the route to Ulaanbaatar laid in and promises we can make it in one hop. Since we'll be flying over the Gobi Desert, you're lucky the Blessed Betty has extra fuel tanks.

Whenever you're ready."

Hunt walked over and surveyed the two remaining mule carts still packed with equipment and artifacts.

Tsendyn stood holding the reins of the lead mule, stroking the animal's ears.

"Tsendyn, we have had a difficult but fruitful summer. You have been invaluable in the success of the expedition."

"It has been my honor. You have done a great service to my country and heritage. My heirs shall be particularly grateful."

"Take the remaining equipment and artifacts to Shijiazhuang, where you can catch the rail to Nanking. A representative from the British Museum will meet and arrange shipment of the items to London. I will wait for you in Ulaanbaatar, where we will investigate our latest find."

"I look forward to the next search with great anticipation," Tsendyn replied, shaking the archaeologist's hand.

"Farewell, my friend."

Hunt climbed aboard the loaded Fokker as the plane's three 220-horsepower Wright Whirlwind radial engines roared to life. Tsendyn stood and watched as Schodt turned the plane into the wind, then shoved the throttles to their stops. With a deafening roar, the aircraft jostled across the meadow, bouncing up and down several times before slowly lumbering into the air. Turning in a graceful arc low above the field, Schodt swung the big plane northwest toward the Mongolian border as it gradually gained altitude.

Tsendyn stood in the meadow and watched as the plane grew smaller on the horizon and the throbbing of the motors dissolved from his ears. Not until the aircraft had completely vanished from sight did he reach into the vest pocket of his coat for a reassuring touch. The bolt of silk was still there, as it had been since the early hours of the night before.

***

It was two hours into the flight when Hunt reached for the satchel and pulled out the lacquered box. The boredom of the flight mixed with the excitement of the find was too much to bear and he was drawn to run the silk painting through his fingers one more time. With the box in his hands, he felt the familiar weight of the bronze tube rolling around inside in a reassuring manner. Yet something didn't feel right.

Prying off the lid, he found the cheetah skin tightly rolled up and stuffed to one side, as it had been before. The bronze tube sat next to it, appearing secure. But picking the tube up, he noticed it felt heavier than he remembered. With a shaking hand, he quickly pulled off the cap, releasing an outpouring of sand that dribbled onto his lap. As the last grain tumbled out, he peered in and saw that the silk scroll had vanished.

His eyes bulged at the sudden realization that he'd been duped and he struggled to catch his breath. The shock quickly turned to anger and regaining his voice, he began screaming at the pilots.

"Turn back! Turn the airplane around! We must return at once," he cried.

But his plea fell on deaf ears. In the cockpit, the two pilots suddenly had something more troubling of their own to contend with.

***

The Mitsubishi G3M bomber, known in the west as a Nell, was not on a bombing mission at all. Flying casually alone at an altitude of nine thousand feet, the twin-engine aircraft was flying reconnaissance, probing the aerial resources of Russia that were rumored to have surfaced in Mongolia.

With its easy conquest of Manchuria and successful advance into northern China, the Japanese had sharpened their sights on the important seaports and coal mines of Siberia to the north. Leery of the Japanese intent, the Russians had already bolstered their defensive forces in Siberia, and recently signed a defense pact with Mongolia that allowed for the deployment of troops and aircraft in that mostly barren country. Already the Japanese were busy gathering intelligence, testing and probing the defensive lines in preparation for an outright northern offensive that would be launched from Manchuria in mid-1939.

The Nell had come up empty on its foray into eastern Mongolia, finding no sign of troop deployments or runway construction on behalf of Russian aircraft. If there was any Russian military activity in Mongolia, it would be much farther north, the Japanese pilot concluded. Below him was nothing but the occasional nomadic tribe, wandering the empty expanse of the Gobi Desert with their herd of camels.

"Nothing but sand out here," the Nell's copilot, a youthful lieutenant named Miyabe, said with a yawn. "I don't know why the wing commander is excited over this real estate."

"As a buffer to the more valuable territory to the north, I suspect," Captain Nobuji Negishi replied. "I just hope we get repositioned to the front when the northern invasion occurs. We're missing all the fun in Shanghai and Peking."

As Miyabe stared at the flat ground beneath the plane, a bright glint of sunlight briefly flashed out of the corner of his eye. Scanning across the horizon, he tracked the source of the light, squinting at what he saw.

"Sir, an aircraft ahead and slightly below us," he said, pointing a gloved hand toward the object.

Negishi peered ahead and quickly spotted the plane. It was the silver Fokker trimotor, flying northwest toward Ulaanbaatar.

"She's crossing our path," the Japanese pilot noted with a rise in his voice. "At last, a chance for battle."

"But sir, that's not a combat plane. I don't think it is even a Chinese airplane," Miyabe said, observing the markings on the Fokker. "Our orders are to engage only Chinese military aircraft."

"The flight poses a risk," Negishi explained away. "Besides, it will be good target practice, Lieutenant."

No one in the Japanese military was getting reprimanded for aggressive behavior in the Chinese theater, he well knew. As a bomber pilot, he would be afforded few opportunities to engage and destroy other aircraft in the skies. It was a rare chance for an easy kill and he wasn't about to pass it by.

"Gunners at your stations," he barked over the intercom. "Prepare for air-to-air action."

The five-man crew of the attack bomber were immediately energized as they manned their battle positions. Rather than play the quarry of smaller and quicker fighter aircraft, as was their lot in life, the bomber crew suddenly became the hunter. Captain Negishi mentally computed a dead-reckoning line of the trimotor's path, then eased back on the throttles and banked the bomber in a wide slow turn to the right. The Fokker slipped by beneath them until Negishi eased out of the turn, which brought the bomber around and behind the silver trimotor.

Negishi eased the throttles forward again as the Fokker loomed ahead. With a top speed of two hundred sixteen miles per hour, the Mitsubishi was nearly twice as fast as the Fokker and easily closed the gap.

"Ready with the forward guns," Negishi ordered as the unarmed plane grew larger in the gunsights.

But the trimotor was not going to pose like a sitting duck. Randy Schodt had seen the bomber first and tracked it as it curled around on to his tail. His hopes that the Japanese plane was just making a harmless flyby vanished when the Mitsubishi took up position squarely behind him and hung on his tail, rather than fly alongside. Unable to outrun the faster military aircraft, he did the next best thing.

The Japanese plane's turret gunner just squeezed the first round from his 7.7mm machine gun when the trimotor banked sharply left and seemed to stall in the air. The gunner's bullets sprayed harmlessly into the sky as the bomber quickly overshot the Fokker.

Negishi was caught completely off guard by the sudden maneuver and cursed as he tried to muscle the bomber back toward the smaller plane. The rattle of machine-gun fire echoed through the fuselage as a side gunner tracked the sudden juke by the Fokker and sprayed a long burst in its direction.

Inside the Fokker, Hunt swore louder at the pilots as crates of artifacts began tumbling around the interior of the plane. A loud crash told him that a crate of porcelain bowls was suddenly smashed by the plane's violent turns. It wasn't until the Fokker banked sharply right and Hunt caught a glimpse out the side window at the Japanese bomber that he realized what was happening.

In the cockpit, Schodt tried every trick in the book to shake the Mitsubishi, hoping that the bomber would abandon the pursuit. But the Japanese pilot was angered by the earlier rebuff and pursued the Fokker relentlessly. Time and again, Schodt would stunt and stall his aircraft to throw the bomber off his tail, causing the Japanese plane to circle around and reacquire the trimotor in its gunsights. The hunter would not give up the chase, and Schodt would soon find the Mitsubishi back on his tail again, until finally one of the gunners found his mark.

The Fokker's rear stabilizer was the first to go, shredded in a hail of lead. Negishi licked his chops, knowing the plane could no longer turn left or right without the control from the stabilizer. Grinning like a wolf, he brought the bomber in close for the kill. As the gunner fired again, he was shocked to see the Fokker once again juke to the right, then pull up in a stall.

Schodt wasn't through yet. With Dave jockeying the throttles on the two wing-mounted engines, Randy was still able to duck and weave away from the Mitsubishi. Once again, the gunfire burst harmlessly into the fuselage, Hunt grimacing as another crate of artifacts was decimated.

Wise to his opponent's tactics, Negishi finally swung the bomber around in a wide arc and approached the Fokker from the side. This time, there was no escaping the gunfire and the Fokker's right wing engine disintegrated under a fury of bullets. A plume of smoke burst from the engine as Schodt shut down the fuel line before the motor caught fire. Jockeying the remaining two engines, he continued to fight with all his skills to keep the Fokker airborne and out of harm's way, but his hourglass finally ran out. A well-placed shot by the Mitsubishi's topside gunner severed the Fokker's elevator controls and effectively ended the flight of the Blessed Betty.

Without the ability to control altitude, the wounded trimotor began a flat descent toward the ground.

Schodt watched helplessly as the Fokker plunged toward the dusty ground with its wings ajar.

Amazingly, the airplane held its balance, gliding downward, with its nose bent just a fraction forward.

Shutting down the remaining engines just before impact, he felt the left wingtip clip the ground first, throwing the plane into a clumsy cartwheel.

The crew of the Japanese plane watched with minor disappointment as the Fokker rolled across the ground, failing to explode or burst into flames. Instead, the silver trimotor simply flipped twice, then slid inverted into a sandy ravine.

Despite the difficulty in downing the civilian plane, a cheer rang out aboard the Mitsubishi.

"Well done, men, but next time we must do better," Negishi lauded then banked the bomber back toward its base in Manchuria.

On board the Fokker, Schodt and his brother were killed instantly when the cockpit was crushed on the first roll of the aircraft. Hunt survived the crash, but his back was broken and his left leg nearly severed.

He painfully clung to life for nearly two days before perishing in the jumbled wreckage of the fuselage.

With his last gasp of energy, he pulled the lacquered box close to his chest and cursed his sudden turn of luck. As his last breath left him, he had no idea that still clutched within his arms, he held the clue to the most magnificent treasure the world would ever see.