Golden Buddha (31 page)

That gave Overholt and the Corporation twenty-four hours to make a miracle happen.

 

C
ARL
Gannon had been earning his keep the last several days. After procuring the truck in Thimbu, Bhutan, and plotting a route into Tibet, he had received a shopping list of tasks from the control room on the
Oregon
. As the Corporation's head scrounger, Gannon was used to accomplishing the impossible. To obtain what was required, Gannon would have to use the vast network of contacts he had carefully nurtured over the years.

The funding would come from the Corporation's bank on the island of Vanuatu in the South Pacific Ocean, and the
Oregon
had made it clear that time, not cost, was the object. Gannon loved it when he received directives like this. Using a laptop computer linked to a cell phone, he began typing in a stack of telephone numbers, codes and passwords from memory at seventy words a minute.

Eighty Stinger missiles were bought from a friendly Middle Eastern nation, with delivery arranged to Bhutan using a South African company that had never failed to comply. Eight Bell 212 helicopters with extra fuel pods from an Indonesian company that specialized in offshore oil work arrived to deliver the load of missiles and small arms. Eighteen mercenary pilots from throughout the Far East were recruited, sixteen to fly, two extras in case someone got sick. Fuel pods, food for all the participants, and a series of hangars manned by Philippine Special Forces guards were secretly arranged.

Gannon's last item was the strangest. The
Oregon
wanted to know if he could procure a large but slow-moving plane in Vietnam. That, and a winch with a hundred feet of thin but strong steel cable that could be mounted on the floor of the plane. It took Gannon a couple of telephone calls, but he found a 1985 Russian-built Antonov AN-2 Colt owned by a Laotian company that had a logging contract with the Vietnamese government. The big biplane, with a wingspan of fifty-eight feet, a cruise speed of only 120 miles an hour and a stall speed of 58, could best be described as a flying pickup truck. The large interior was mainly cargo space and she could carry nearly five thousand pounds of payload.

The winch he bought new from a dealer in Ho Chi Minh City on a company credit card.

After finishing the arrangements for the plane and winch, Gannon slurped the last drop from a bottle of Coca-Cola and dialed the
Oregon
on the satellite telephone. He waited as the number beeped and popped while the signal was scrambled.

“Go ahead, Carl,” Hanley said a minute later.

“I've got the plane, Max,” he said, “but you didn't ask for a pilot.”

“One of our guys will be flying,” Hanley said.

“It's a Russian Antonov,” Gannon noted. “I doubt we have someone typed in this model.”

“We'll download some manuals off the Internet,” Hanley said. “That's about all we can do.”

“She's fueled and waiting at the airport in old Saigon,” Gannon said. “The mechanic should be finished bolting the winch in place in the next hour. I'm faxing a picture.”

“We'll be seeing you soon,” Hanley said. “Everything okay in the meantime?”

“Smooth as a baby's bottom,” Gannon said easily.

 

O
N
the Zapata Petroleum rig off Vietnam, Delbert Chiglack took the sheet that had just printed out of the fax machine, then called once more to the incoming helicopter. When finished, he returned to the lunchroom on the rig and handed the sheet to Gunderson.

“This just came for you.”

“Thanks,” Gunderson said quickly, staring at the picture of the biplane the
Oregon
had sent, then folding it and placing it in his flight-suit pocket.

Just then, a siren on the rig sounded twice.

“Your ride's here,” Chiglack said.

Walking the trio out to just below the helicopter pad, Chiglack waited until the helicopter touched down, then shouted over the noise.

“Up the ladder, heads down, the door should be open,” he said.

“Thanks for the hospitality,” Michaels shouted.

“Watch your hair, ladies,” Chiglack called as they started up the stairs.

Four minutes later the helicopter was airborne again, heading back toward land. Chiglack shook his head as the helicopter retreated in the distance. Then he walked back to his office to report his guests had left the rig.

 

G
UNDERSON
handed the photo of the biplane to the copilot. “She's on the north side of the airport,” he said as the copilot clipped the photo to a strap around his knee. “If you can land nearby, we'd sure appreciate it.”

The copilot replaced his headset over his ears, then relayed the information to the pilot, who made an okay sign with his fingers. The copilot smiled at Gunderson, nodded yes, then motioned for him to sit back in his seat.

Twenty minutes later, the coast of southern Vietnam came into view. As they passed over shallow water, he caught sight of a wrecked ship below the surface of the water. In the bushes nearby was what looked like the remains of a bombed-out tank from the war some thirty years before.

Pilston tapped on Gunderson's arm as the helicopter approached the airport and located the Antonov from the air. Slowing his speed, the pilot neared the large biplane, then hovered in the air above the tarmac. After touching down smoothly some fifty feet away, the copilot unbuckled his belt, then slipped back and unlatched the door to the Bell.

“Later, alligators,” he shouted.

Gunderson, Pilston and Michaels bowed their heads and sprinted away from the helicopter.

Once they were clear, the pilot throttled up, pulled up on the collective and moved the cyclic so the Bell rose in the air and made a sweeping turn. The helicopter disappeared into the haze as it flew off to the south.

The trio was ten feet from the biplane when Michaels spoke.

“What are we going to do with this beast?” she asked.

“The plan is,” Gunderson said as he approached the open door and stared inside, “to fly out to the
Oregon
.”

“What on earth for?” Pilston asked.

“Our chairman has a meeting to attend.”

I
NSIDE
the
Oregon
's Magic Shop, Kevin Nixon was loosening the top off a long wooden crate with a pry bar. The crate was stamped U.S. Air Force, Special Operations. The second line read: (1) ea. Fulton Aerial Recovery System, checked 02-11-90, and then the initials of the airman who had rendered the verdict that the system was operational. Setting the top aside, Nixon peered inside. Then he began to remove the contents.

First was a harness made out of nylon webbing similar to that on a parachute. On the front of the harness was a swivel hook. Next was a length of high-tension strength line. Last, a deflated balloon and the fittings to hook the system together. Nixon checked each piece carefully as he removed them from the box. Everything looked fine.

Just then, the door to the Magic Shop opened.

“How's it look?” Hanley inquired.

“Good,” Nixon answered.

Hanley pointed to a strange forged-metal three-pronged hook on the ground. “What's that?”

Nixon nodded at the bottom of the crate's lid, where a set of directions had been stenciled on the surface. “That's the hook that grabs the line at the end of the balloon.”

“Doesn't it have to be aboard the pickup plane?”

“Ideally,” Nixon admitted.

“So?” Hanley asked.

Nixon pointed across the room. “Good thing we have rules around here,” he said.

“Always have a backup,” Hanley said, smiling, reading the sign.

“But of course,” Nixon said.

“I'll notify the plane,” Hanley said. “We have a few hours yet.”

“Mr. Hanley,” Nixon said, “you just tell me when.”

 

T
HE
single engine on the Antonov Colt droned with a monotonous sound as Gunderson, Michaels and Pilston headed out into the South China Sea. The skies were clear, the wall of the south-moving storm still hundreds of miles ahead. Gunderson just hoped that the
Oregon
, which was cruising at full speed, made it out of the leading edge of the storm before he reached the ship. He was a great pilot, but even in clear skies what they were about to attempt was akin to trying to hit a bull's eye on a dartboard at ten paces while blindfolded.

Gunderson had the windows in the cockpit and the cargo area cracked open to vent the gasoline fumes as they cruised along. The Antonov normally carried 312 gallons of fuel, but since this plane was used for remote logging operations, two more tanks of 300 gallons each had been fitted along the center of the cargo bay. That was a good thing. Without the additional fuel capacity, there was no way they could make it out to the
Oregon
and back to Vietnam, a distance far beyond that of a helicopter. The problem was, the inside of the plane smelled like an Exxon station after a big spill. Gunderson stared at his portable GPS receiver.

“How's it look, Tiny?” Michaels asked.

“So far so good,” Gunderson answered, “but this unit burns through batteries like a kid with a video game. Did they by chance load any spare batteries on board?”

Pilston, who was crouched between the pilot's and copilot's seat, rooted around in a pair of paper bags but came up empty. “Sorry, Chuck,” she said, “no luck.”

“What did we get?” he asked.

Pilston did a quick inventory. “Some MREs, two thermoses of what I assume is coffee, some Hershey bars and M&M's, bottled water, maps, and some mouthwash.”

“What about towels and soap?”

Pilston dug around in the bottom of one of the bags. “Yep.”

“Gannon's pretty good about that,” Gunderson said, yawning.

Michaels stared at the speed indicator. “We have five more hours until we reach the
Oregon
,” she said. “Tracy and I got some sleep last night. Why don't you clean up a little and try to get some rest. We'll wake you when we get close.”

“Think you can fill the copilot's duties?” he asked Pilston.

“I received my private pilot's certificate last year,” Pilston told him. “I don't have many hours, but I think I'm qualified to watch the needles quiver.”

Gunderson nodded wearily. “Off the controls,” he said.

As soon as he was sure Michaels had the plane, he stood up, slid out of his seat, and slid past Pilston, who quickly climbed into the pilot's station. The Antonov could be flown from either the left or right seat, so there was no reason for Michaels to move across the cockpit. Once Pilston was situated, she turned around to Gunderson.

“There's a cot that folds out of the wall,” she said, “and a toilet that basically dumps out the side of the plane. You want anything to eat first?”

“No, ladies,” Gunderson said. “Just wake me if you need me.”

Then he walked back to the cot, removed his shirt and crumpled it up as a pillow, stretched out and was asleep within minutes. The Antonov droned north for the rendezvous.

 

O
VER
the years of its existence the Corporation had invested in a variety of legitimate businesses. The company was either owner or part owner of mining concerns, a coconut plantation, a specialty firearms manufacturer, hotels, resorts, a machine tool company, even a charter jet service with divisions in North America, South America, Europe and Asia.

None of the employees of these concerns had any idea of the source of the parent company's funding and true purpose. They only knew they were highly paid and treated well and never subject to cutbacks or layoffs. For the most part, the actual operations end of the Corporation—the specialized army and intelligence apparatus that formed the nucleus of the growing fortune—left these companies alone to operate on their own. Sometimes, however, they came in handy.

Right now was just such a time.

Max Hanley returned to the
Oregon
's control room and slid into his chair.

“Pull up the flight operations center of Pegasus Air,” he asked Stone.

Stone punched commands into the computer, and a few seconds later a worldwide map filled one of the large monitors. “What's the fastest way to fly the chairman to his meeting?”

Stone punched in commands and the route filled the screen. “It's a long flight,” he said, “and I assume you want it nonstop?”

“Absolutely,” Hanley said.

“That pretty much ensures that we'll need to use the G550, then.”

“Where are they now?” Hanley asked.

Stone punched in commands and flight records over-laid the map.

“The Asian G550 is in route to Hawaii, so that's out,” Stone noted. “Paris on one—no, hold on—the South American G550 just landed in Dubai. She's due to leave again tomorrow.”

“How long for her to reach Da Nang?”

“It's thirty-six hundred miles, so roughly six and a half hours.”

Hanley took a pad of paper and a pencil and began writing numbers. “It'll be tight,” he said finally. “We're bucking time zones, refueling and getting fast clearances to land, but it's doable.”

“Want me to book the jet?” Stone asked.

Hanley handed him a sheet of paper. “This is the flight plan.”

“What else?”

“Make sure our man in the Vietnamese air force is greased so we don't have any problems getting in and out of Da Nang for a quick refuel,” Hanley said.

“What else?”

“Set up a secure link to Karamozov,” Hanley said. “I need to confirm.”

“Anything else?” Stone said as he made notes on a pad.

“When all that's done,” Hanley said, “call Truitt to relieve you and go get some sleep.”

“What about you, sir?” Stone asked.

“I'll catnap here,” Hanley said, “right where I like to be.”

 

T
HE
Dalai Lama was praying in front of a statue of Buddha when Overholt walked into the room. He stood quietly until he rose.

“I sensed you come into the room,” the Dalai Lama said, “and you seem happy.”

Overholt asked, “Are you ready to return?”

“Yes,” the Dalai Lama said, “very much so.”

“Good,” Overholt said, “it will be tomorrow.”

“Did your people recover the Golden Buddha?”

“They did,” Overholt said, nodding.

“And have they found the compartment yet?”

“They're still working on it, Your Holiness.”

The Dalai Lama nodded and smiled. “They'll figure it out. And then they'll know what to do with what they find.” He paused. “Hard to believe,” the Dalai Lama said, “that something my people have owned all along shall be our salvation.”

“We're not home free yet, Your Holiness,” Overholt said.

The Dalai Lama smiled and considered this for a few moments. “No, Mr. Overholt, we're not—but we will be. Greed is what brought the Chinese to my country. And greed again will set us free.”

Overholt nodded silently.

“Life is a circle,” the Dalai Lama said, “and someday you will see that.”

Overholt smiled as the Dalai Lama began to walk toward the door.

“Now,” he said kindly, “let my people feed you. You must be hungry from your long journey.”

The two men walked out of the room toward a destiny determined by an obscure ship manned by mercenaries.

 

A
T
11
A.M.
local time, the
Oregon
exited the fog bank. In front of the advancing storm, the weather was perfect, a calm before the storm. The sky was azure blue and the seas were as flat and reflective as a mirror. In the hours since leaving Macau, the
Oregon
had made good time. The ship was off Hainan Island in international waters. At the current rate of speed, the vessel would pass along Singapore tomorrow at noon local time. After turning and traveling through the Strait of Malacca and heading north, she was due to arrive high in the Bay of Bengal off Bangladesh sometime around 2
P.M.
Sunday.

By then, if all went according to plan, the Dalai Lama would be in power again, and the Corporation would make its exit with no one ever the wiser.

Juan Cabrillo woke in his stateroom, then showered and dressed.

Leaving his suite, he walked along the gangways toward the control room, then stopped and opened the door. Max Hanley was asleep in his chair, but he sat upright as soon as Cabrillo entered. Hanley rose and walked over to the coffeepot and poured two cups.

Handing one to Cabrillo, he asked, “Feel better?”

“Amazing what a little rest will do,” Cabrillo said, taking the cup.

“Richard?” Hanley asked.

Truitt turned from the screen he was studying. “I'm okay,” he said.

“What's the score?” Cabrillo asked without further preamble.

Hanley walked back to his chair and motioned for Cabrillo to sit. Then he pointed at a screen that showed a red line from Ho Chi Minh City directly toward the
Oregon
. “That line is Gunderson and his team. They will be arriving in about a half hour to pick you up.”

“They aboard the amphibian?”

“Nope,” Hanley said. “It was still too far south to get here in time.”

“So we secured another seaplane?” Cabrillo asked.

“Gannon pulled out all the stops,” Hanley told him, “but there were none available.”

Cabrillo sipped his coffee while Truitt swiveled his head and stared back at him.

“You're
yanking
me off?” Cabrillo said.

“Sorry, Mr. Chairman,” Hanley said. “It was the only way you could make your flight out of Vietnam on time.”

“And the Buddha?”

“He'll go first,” Hanley noted.

“Why,” Cabrillo said, “do I always end up in these situations?”

“The money?” Truitt said, smiling.

“Or the thrill of victory?” said Hanley.

 

O
N
board the Antonov, Gunderson was brushing his teeth and washing his face. Spitting out the window, he rubbed the washcloth across the stubble on his cheeks. Once he had finished, he walked forward and motioned to Pilston. “Why don't you let me take over.”