Golden Buddha (37 page)

T
HE
Zil limousine slid to a stop in front of the Gulfstream G550. Cabrillo climbed out, clutching a folder containing the documents, and made his way up the ramp without hesitating. The copilot immediately retracted the ramp and fastened the door. Then he shouted toward the cockpit.

“We're good to go.”

Instantly, the pilot engaged the igniters, and a few seconds later the jet engines began to spool up. Cabrillo made his way to a seat and fastened the belt as the copilot started for the cockpit.

“We received your telephone call, sir,” the copilot said over his shoulder as he slid into his seat. “The course is all plotted and we've received preliminary clearance.”

“What's the distance?” Cabrillo asked.

“Straight through, it's about thirty-four hundred miles,” the copilot said. “The winds are favorable, so we estimate six hours' flight time.”

The Gulfstream started taxiing toward the runway.

“Easter morning, seven
A
.
M
.,” Cabrillo said.

“That's the plan, sir,” the copilot said.

 

S
OMETIMES
it all comes down to a few. A few minutes, a few strokes of luck, a few people.

At this instant, it was two. Murphy and Gurt. Two men, one helicopter with extra fuel pods and a load of explosives would form the advance team for the liberation of Tibet.

They lifted off just after 4
A.M.
under the waning light of a quarter moon.

Once Gurt had the Bell 212 at an altitude of one thousand feet above ground level and in a steady forward flight, he spoke into the headset.

“Our mission,” he said, “seems fairly impossible.”

“Is it the altitude of the pass?” Murphy asked. “Or the lack of fuel for the return flight that concerns you the most?”

“Neither,” Gurt said. “It's missing Sunday service and the chicken dinner afterward.”

Murphy reached behind his seat and retrieved a small pack. Unzipping it, he removed a single can and a small blue-covered book. “Spam and a Bible,” he said.

“Excellent,” Gurt noted. “I can proceed, then.”

“Will there be anything else?” Murphy asked.

“Only one more thing,” Gurt said.

“What's that?”

“Keep your eyes on the road,” Gurt said. “I don't want to get lost.”

“Not to worry,” Murphy said. “The
Oregon
is running the command and control. This operation will run like a well-oiled sewing machine.”

“I would have felt better,” Gurt said, pointing out a herd of deer underneath that were lit by the moon, “had you said
like a computer
.”

Murphy was staring at the instruments. “We're a little hot,” he said. “Take it down a notch.”

Gurt made the adjustment. They continued north.

 

A
T
about the same instant that the Bell 212 carrying Murphy and Gurt crossed into Tibetan airspace, Briktin Gampo was steering the two-and-a-half-ton truck along a rutted dirt road. Locating the spot his
Dungkar
cell leader had marked, he slowed and pulled to a stop.

Gampo was on the flats just below Basatongwula Shan in an open meadow ringed by stunted trees. Climbing from the truck, he walked around to the rear and removed several metal tubes and felt them. They were cold to the touch. Remembering what he had been told, Gampo pulled a small fuel oil stove from the rear, moved a distance away, then erected the legs. Once the stove was assembled, he removed some tent poles and slid them inside an off-white canvas tent and hoisted the apparatus into the air. Once the tent was secure, he lit the stove, brought the tubes inside to keep them warm, then went back to the rear of the truck and removed a radio, a folding chair and a fur to cover himself while he waited.

Then he switched on the radio and began to listen.

Outside the tent, thousands of stars flickered against the black sea of deep space. A cold wind blew down from the mountain. Gampo pulled the fur closer around his neck until the tent warmed. Then he patiently waited for the hours to pass.

 

O
N
the
Oregon
, Hanley was staring at the wall of flat-screen monitors. Suddenly, the satellite feed of the Russian troop concentration near Novosibirsk began to display a thermal image of tanks being started. At the same instant, the secure telephone began to ring.

“We're a go,” Cabrillo said.

“I have confirmation over the satellite,” Hanley told him. “The Russian tanks are warming.”

“Link my computer to the
Oregon
's data banks,” Cabrillo ordered. “I want to monitor the situation from here until I arrive.”

Hanley nodded to Stone, who typed in commands on his computer keyboard.

“Signal's going out,” Stone said a minute later.

In the Gulfstream G550, Cabrillo stared at his laptop. Suddenly the screen erupted with a burst of light, then went dark, then slowly began to glow again. The screen split into six separate blocks, each duplicating what Hanley was seeing.

“I've got it,” Cabrillo said.

“Mr. Chairman,” Hanley said, “call the ball.”

“Proceed as planned,” Cabrillo said, “and link me up with Seng.”

“You got it,” Hanley said.

 

E
DDIE
Seng was pacing back and forth inside the hangar in Thimbu, Bhutan. Occasionally he would return to the table where the computer screen showed the pulsing red dot that marked the progress of the helicopter carrying Murphy and Gurt. Then he would walk around the hangar again like a caged lion.

He answered his telephone before the second ring.

“Eddie,” Cabrillo said, “we're a go.”

“Yes, sir,” Seng said. “We have a team already flying north—I took the liberty, knowing we could call them back if necessary.”

“Good job,” Cabrillo said. “Max?”

“I'm on the three-way,” Hanley said from the
Oregon
.

“Send Seng the latest data showing the airport near Lhasa.”

“It's being transmitted now.”

Seng walked over to the printer. A few seconds later, it began to spit out documents.

“It's coming across now,” Seng noted.

“Okay,” Cabrillo said, “you have your playbook and the latest intelligence.”

“Yes, sir,” Seng said.

“Now go take Gonggar Airport,” Cabrillo said.

“You got it, boss,” Seng said eagerly.

 

F
IVE
A.M.
the early-morning hours when drunks sweat and nightmares grow ugly.

A cold wind was blowing across the runway at Gonggar Airport, located fifty-nine miles from Lhasa. A pair of Chinese transport planes sat on the far end of the runway along with three helicopters. The other Chinese aircraft inside Tibet had been called north in support of the tank column.

Gonggar Airport was as deserted as a cemetery on a weekday.

A single janitor swept the chipped concrete floor in the crude main terminal. Taking a break to smoke a hand-rolled cigarette, he stepped outside and stood where a wall shielded him from the wind. The limited troops on duty at the airport were sleeping. They were not due to rise for another hour.

A sound came up the valley. It was a whoosh, like a well-thrown football. Then a stark white-colored craft raced past at thirty feet above the tarmac. The strange object sped to the end of the airport, then made an arcing turn and lined up for a pass. Suddenly, twin streams of fire erupted from the sides and a pair of missiles streaked toward the parked transport planes.

The Predator had found her prey.

 

I
N
the hangar in Bhutan, Lincoln stared at the image from the Predator's onboard cameras. Steering the Predator into another arcing turn, he lined up in front of the helicopters and flicked the trigger. Then he made another turn to see the results.

The cargo planes were ablaze. The helicopters would join them in a second.

At the same instant, 160 yards from the edge of the field, nearly one hundred
Dungkar
troops slid out from under white tarps that blended with the snow on the ground. Screaming a war cry, they raced toward the terminal. Dressed in black robes with ceremonial knives in their belts and handguns and rifles that had been smuggled into the country only days before, they swarmed like locusts into predetermined positions. From the south came the thumping sound of seven helicopters approaching. As the helicopter carrying Seng popped up to the plateau, he could see the fires from the Predator's attack burning bright in the early morning.

Then, as if a divine light was making its way to earth, a series of red light sticks began to flicker on the tarmac. The
Dungkar
were sending the message it was safe to land.

“Land inside the box,” Seng said to the pilot.

“Will do,” the pilot said, starting his descent.

Seconds after the helicopter landed, Seng climbed from the front while King made his way from the rear. Seng quickly walked to the terminal, where he met up with the leader of the
Dungkar
. At the same time, King motioned to the troops for help, and then began to unload crates of rifles and ammunition from the cargo area.

“What have you got?” Seng asked the man, who was no more than thirty.

“The hangars over there,” the man said, pointing, “contain one fighter plane, one cargo plane and a pair of attack helicopters. The hangar next door must be for repairs—there is a helicopter disassembled and the fuselage of an observation plane with the engine removed.”

Cabrillo had asked the Dalai Lama to make sure the
Dungkar
officers he picked were able to speak English. There was no time for his team to learn Tibetan and less time for misunderstanding.

“Where did you go to school?” Seng asked.

“Arizona State, sir,” the man said eagerly. “Go, Sun Devils.”

“Good,” Seng said. “I'm sure you're glad to be home—now, let's see if we can keep it that way. First, I want a couple of your men to work with the guy coming in on that helicopter.” He pointed to another Bell, just touching down twenty yards away. “We need to rig these buildings with charges to burn them if necessary.”

“I'll put a dozen of my best men on it,” the man said eagerly.

“How many Chinese have you captured?” Seng asked.

“Less than a dozen, sir,” the man said. “One of mine dead—two of theirs.”

The airport was a bedlam of activity. The fires burned at the far end of the field against the tapestry of the early morning, and the sound of the landing helicopters added a surreal element to the quiet air. All at once, solitude had become a salvo.

“Listen carefully,” Seng said to the leader of the
Dungkar
forces, “this comes from the Dalai Lama himself. There will be no brutality or mistreatment of the prisoners—make sure your men know this clearly. Once this is all said and done, we're returning whatever prisoners we capture to China—my company doesn't want to hear of any atrocities whatsoever. This is a coup d'etat, not an ethnic cleansing. Are we clear on that?”

“Company, sir?” the man asked. “Aren't you United States troops?”

“We're from the States,” Seng said, “at least most of us, but we are a private firm now working under the direction of your leader. If you and the other
Dungkar
do what we order, in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, there will be a free Tibet once again.”

“You've done this sort of thing before?” the man asked in amazement.

“There's no time for chitchat,” Seng snapped. “You all do exactly what you're ordered and this will go as smoothly as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Seng said. “Bring the highest-ranking prisoner to the main terminal and have him seated in a chair and guarded. We'll be setting up operations there in the next several minutes—then I want to speak to him.”

The man shouted orders in Tibetan. The
Dungkar
soldiers lined up in rows. He explained what Seng had relayed, then ordered six sergeants to the forefront. Then one group led by a sergeant went off to round up the prisoners. Another split off to the helicopter Kasim had left.