Golden Buddha (42 page)

T
HE
Oregon
was surging into the Bay of Bengal in preparation for the team's extraction. Word of the street fighting in Lhasa had reached the news media. Television crews, newspaper and magazine reporters, and radio teams were making final preparations to enter the country. To maintain the veil of secrecy necessary for the Corporation to conduct business, they needed to be away from Tibet before the reporters appeared.

So far the plan had worked like clockwork, but there was still a wild card to contend with.

The Russian ruse had successfully tied up the Chinese army far to the north, but the risk now was from the Chinese air force. If Beijing ordered squadrons of bombers and fighter planes to attack the country, the results would be catastrophic. The
Dungkar
forces had limited means to wage ground-to-air warfare. Carpet bombing of Lhasa would result in heavy losses.

The only hope was if the news media could shine the beacon of truth on China.

If the world could be shown via television that the Tibetans had overthrown their oppressors on their own and that the control of Tibet was in the hands of the people and their divine leader the Dalai Lama, then any bombing by China would be taken for what it was—a senseless act of brutality. The ensuing worldwide condemnation would be a burden even China could not bear.

Hanley placed a call to Bhutan and ordered the C-130 to prepare to evacuate his team.

 

“C
LIMBER
one,” Murphy said, “to Rescue.”

Gurt was steering the Bell 212 above a mountain plain with jagged peaks to each side. Several miles in the distance, the rescue helicopter was visible on the ground. As Murphy watched through his binoculars, the rotor blade started to spin, then gain speed until it was just a blur.

“Rescue One,” the radio squawked. “We have visual and will follow along.”

Murphy watched as the helicopter lifted into a high hover, then slowly began to move forward. Passing to one side, Murphy craned his head to the rear and confirmed they were in formation behind and to one side.

“How are you feeling?” he said over the intercom to Gurt.

“My shoulder feels like I've been kicked by a mule,” he noted, “but all in all, I'm not doing too bad.”

“I'd like to know what Gampo gave you,” Murphy said.

“Some ancient Tibetan potion,” Gurt said, staring at the gauges. “I just hope it lasts.”

“I spoke to the
Oregon
,” Murphy said. “One of the backup pilots will fly you back to Bhutan.”

“Heck of a deal,” Gurt said. “I thought I was a goner.”

“Me too, old buddy,” Murphy said quietly. “Me too.”

 

F
OR
the Chinese, the battle for Lhasa was all but over. They had lost the initiative when King stopped the movement of the armored column. From that point on, the
Dungkar
forces had been seized by a rage that showed no boundaries.

Teams under the leadership of General Rimpoche had spread out through Lhasa, rounding up Chinese troops in their barracks and elsewhere. The war for the motor pool was bloody, but after forty minutes of fierce fighting, the
Dungkar
had taken control.

“This was all the red paint available in town,” a
Dungkar
warrior said as he slid to a stop inside the fenced yard of the motor pool.

General Rimpoche was sitting in the passenger seat of a Chinese jeep with a bloody bandage wrapped around his lower leg. A red-hot chunk of shrapnel from a fragmentary grenade had hit him as he was leading the last charge in the battle.

“Mark the captured armored personnel carriers and the three remaining tanks with the Dalai Lama's symbol,” he said, coughing, “then alert our forces that these vehicles are under our control.”

The man scurried off to fulfill the request while at the same time his aide approached.

“I've found a dozen men with at least basic knowledge of how to drive,” the aide said. “We can have the vehicles on the streets of the city as soon as they are painted.”

“Good,” Rimpoche said. “We need to show we're in control.”

Right at that instant, he heard a helicopter approaching from Gonggar. He watched as it passed overhead and headed for Potala.

 

D
ETECTIVE
Po and his Tibetan underlings had just escaped a mob of Tibetans intent on capturing them. Po was now on the outskirts of Lhasa at the east end of the city. More and more he was considering his mission a failure. Either there was no one answering the description of the people he sought, or the Tibetans he and his men had questioned were lying. But the situation went deeper than that. In the last half hour, Po had felt the tide turn.

More and more he was feeling like the hunted, not the hunter.

His last call to the Public Security Bureau had gone unanswered, and although it might be a figment of his imagination, he was thinking the Tibetans assigned to help him had begun eyeing him differently.

Right then, a helicopter flew overhead and slowed to touch down on the flats below Potala.

“Stop the truck,” Po ordered.

The driver slowed and stopped. The helicopter was only two hundred yards away and the skids had just touched the ground. Straining to watch with his binoculars, Po waited until the dust from the rotor wash had cleared and the occupants climbed out. The leader of the group was wearing a helmet, and he was pointing out a spot on the palace grounds to the other men who had climbed out. At that instant, Po saw the man remove a portable telephone from his belt. Then he removed the helmet to hear.

Po stared through the binoculars. The man's hair was worn in a short blond crew cut, but his face was familiar. Po watched.

 

“Y
OU'RE
sure, Max?” Cabrillo asked.

“I just received confirmation,” said Hanley, a thousand miles away on the
Oregon
.

“Good, I'm going in,” Cabrillo said.

“The media is on their way,” Hanley said, “and the Dalai Lama has already left India. Both are due to arrive in Lhasa in just over an hour. We need you all out of there posthaste. I've dispatched the C-130 from Thimbu, and Seng is rounding everyone up. Just get this done—and get out of there.”

“All I can say is that you'd better have some beer on board that plane,” Cabrillo said, laughing.

“Bet on it,” Hanley said.

 

T
HE
smile. the smile was the same as that of the man on the tape. Po slid the binoculars back in the case and turned to the driver. “To Potala.”

 

“F
LY
the cargo to that level and unload it,” Cabrillo said, pointing to a stark white center section of the palace, “then start searching. I'll meet you on the courtyard that abuts the taller section.”

The
Dungkar
in charge of the detail nodded.

“I'm going to take the stair and search the lower levels,” Cabrillo said, removing a small portable oxygen tank from inside the helicopter and strapping it on his back. He attached a nose clip, turned on the flow of oxygen, then started up the stairs.

A few minutes later, the helicopter lifted off the flats and dropped off the
Dungkar
and cargo. Four minutes later, the truck carrying Po and the Public Security Bureau members slid to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. Po unholstered his pistol and, followed by the others, started up the stairs. Cabrillo disappeared out of sight in the first structure bordering the stairs.

The helicopter, now empty, parked on the flats near the truck.

The pilot noticed the truck and radioed the
Oregon
.

“It has markings from the Public Security Bureau,” he said.

“I'll call Cabrillo,” Hanley said, “but I wouldn't worry about it right now. We're receiving sporadic radar returns here. We have yet to determine the source. Watch overhead.”

 

G
EORGE
Adams had stopped and refueled the Chinese attack helicopter twice. Chuck Gunderson still had half a tank. For the most part, their mission so far had been quiet. Gunderson had been called in to monitor the fighting at the motor pool, but the
Dungkar
had gained control fast enough that they never needed his makeshift gunship. Adams had yet to locate a clear target to fire upon. In the last twenty minutes, the situation had changed—other than a few pockets of small-arms fire in the city, it appeared that Lhasa was now firmly under
Dungkar
control. Both men could see the transformation clearly from the air—the war was almost over.

“Gorgeous George, this is Tiny,” Gunderson said over the radio.

“Hey, Chuckie,” George said, “you as bored as I am?”

“I'm telling you—” Gunderson started to say.

“This is Climber One,” Murphy said. “A trio, meaning three, Chinese fighters just blew past me and Rescue One. We are fifty miles out of Lhasa inbound for Gonggar.”

“All Corporation members, this is the
Oregon
,” Hanley said. “We have detected three Chinese fighters inbound from the northern theater. Assume them as unfriendly. Prepare to take cover. All offensive forces report in now.”

“Predator, ready,” Lincoln said from his remote station in Bhutan.

“Attack One, ready,” Adams said.

“Gunship One, ready,” Gunderson said.

“I'm sorry, people,” Hanley said. “They must have slipped in low under the radar. We now have intermittent returns and expect arrival in minutes.”

The three fighters roared down the canyon from the north toward Lhasa.

 

C
ABRILLO
was in a large prayer room with small rooms to each side. He was searching each room one at a time, but the going was slow. Po and his team had made it up the stairs. Po paused outside the door with his pistol in the air and peered inside. Then, seeing no one, he crept inside. Cabrillo was searching through a large stack of wooden crates in a storeroom. His attention was focused on locating the poison gas, so he was unaware that Po and his men were outside. The crates contained scrolls, old textbooks and documents. Wiping his hands, he walked out.

Po was standing outside the door with his pistol trained on Cabrillo's chest. The six members of the Public Security Bureau carried rifles, which they pointed at him as well.

Cabrillo smiled. “Morning, men,” he said easily. “Just changing the filters in the furnace. This old palace can get a mite drafty when it snows.”

“I'm Detective Ling Po from the Macau Constabulatory, and you're under arrest for theft and murder.”

“Murder?” Cabrillo said quietly. “I didn't kill anyone.”

“Your little Buddha theft and the subsequent escape left three Chinese citizens dead.”

“Do you mean when the Chinese navy attacked my boat?” Cabrillo said. “They started it.”

Right at that instant, the first fighter plane passed over Lhasa, and all hell broke out.

 

M
URPHY'S
warning gave Adams and Gunderson just enough time to prepare. Adams clung to the side of a mountain west of Lhasa, pointing his tail boom toward the fighters. Gunderson clung to the mountains on the east side with the mini-gun ready to fire. The Predator was in a slow orbit over Gonggar, ready to protect the area.

The fighters passed over Lhasa and unleashed their chain guns, killing scores of Tibetans, then they continued toward the airport. A minute or so later, the fighters neared Gonggar and the antiaircraft guns opened fire. Flying through flak, the lead fighter pilot passed over the airport, then made a sweeping left turn back toward Lhasa. Slowly a helicopter appeared against the mountain. Then a puff of smoke and a flaming spear emerged from under the fuselage.

Adams watched the video camera and made adjustments as the missile streaked toward the fighter. He'd aimed for the main fuselage. What he hit was a wing. The pilot ejected and Adams saw a chute open.

In a textbook maneuver, the second fighter pilot had broken right. He was racing back toward Lhasa when a target showed on his radar scope off his left wing. Before he could react, a Chinese cargo plane appeared. Confused for a second by the appearance of a seemingly friendly force, the pilot hesitated firing.