Golden Buddha

Adams reached up and turned off the key.

Suddenly, without the noise from the engine, it was strangely quiet, the only sounds the whooshing of the wind racing past the fuselage and the sound from Adams’s lips as he whistled Bobby Darrin’s “Mack the Knife.” The R-44 was making a steeper descent than normal, but Adams was in complete control.

Only when all the lights on the Oregonwent dark in the fog did he give it a second thought.

“ONE away,” the chief of boat said quietly. “Now two.”

The cruise missiles left the launch tubes and streaked skyward, then turned and dived down to wave level. Programmed to the target by a sophisticated computer, the missiles raced toward the Chinese corvette and the frigate at 450 kilometers an hour. Once the cruise missiles were close to the two ships, they sent out a concentrated burst of electronic friction similar to that emitted after an atomic bomb blast.

The electronic circuits throughout both ships shorted as cleanly as if a switch had been thrown. The engines ceased to function and the electronics in the wheelhouse and below went black. Both ships slowed in the water just as a burst of wind and rain raked across the sea.

“YEE-HA!” Adams SHOUTED as the wind hit the R-44.

He was eighty feet back of the stern and twenty feet in the air when he initiated his flare. Pulling up on the cyclic, he pitched the nose up using the drag on the powerless rotor to bleed off forward speed. He was four feet above the pad when the forward speed ceased and the Robinson dropped down on the deck with a thud. The foam reached halfway up the fuselage as Adams pulled on the rotor brake to stop the blades from spi

Richard Truitt waded through the dissolving foam to the door as soon as the rotor stopped.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Shaken but not stirred.” Adams smiled. “What’s new?”

At just that instant the Oregonstarted moving again.

Truitt shrugged. “We’re heading out.”

“Open seas,” Adams said, climbing from the cockpit, “here we come.”

“Fill out a repair order,” Truitt said, “then meet me in the cafeteria. We need to do a little pla

The two men reached the edge of the foam just as a deckhand began to hose the foam over the side with a stream of seawater. They brushed flecks off their pants as they made their way to the door leading inside.

“Do I need to bring anything special?” Adams asked.

“High-altitude performance charts,” Truitt answered.

34

THE Oregonsteamed south just inside the edge of the storm. The time was 6 A.M. and the cafeteria aboard smelled of bacon, sausage, eggs and ci

“Now that,” he said to Cabrillo, “was exciting.”

“Never a dull moment around here,” Cabrillo agreed.

“How are Reinholt and Jones?” Hanley asked Huxley.

“Minor injuries,” Huxley reported. “Jonesy has a couple of cracked ribs—I gave him pain medication and he’s sleeping in sick bay. Reinholt claims he’s better, but I have him resting in his cabin just to be sure.”

“Did you check on repairs to the R-44?” Cabrillo asked.

“Yes, Mr. Chairman,” Hanley said as an attendant walked over and set a plate containing a ci

“Good,” Cabrillo said. “Once the Oregonsteams closer to the mainland, I’ll need Adams to drop me off at the airport.”

“Just like we pla

“Now all we need to do is find the secret compartment inside the Golden Buddha,” Cabrillo said, “and see if its contents are still intact.”

SUNG Rhee caught sight through the window of the four men approaching his office. They did not look happy, and the aide did not bother to knock before swinging the door open. Rhee rose from his desk as the aide stood aside and allowed the admiral to enter.

“We managed to get air bags under the hydrofoil to keep her afloat until a salvage ship can tow her back,” the admiral said without preamble, “but my men tell me repairs will require close to six months.”

“Sir—” Rhee started to say.

“Enough,” the admiral thundered. “I have one ship out of commission and our only frigate and fast-attack corvette disabled and dead in the water. You set me up—and you will pay.”

“Sir,” Rhee said quickly, “we had no idea…the ship to all appearances was merely a decrepit cargo vessel.”

“The ship was far from that,” the admiral said loudly. “She shot the side out from under the hydrofoil as if it was a routine exercise. We still don’t know what happened to the other two ships.”

Just outside the door, the admiral’s aide was whispering into a satellite telephone. He poked his head into Rhee’s office.

“Admiral,” he said quietly, “Beijing’s on the line.”

CHUCK “Tiny” Gunderson smiled at Rhonda Rosselli and held out one of the bearer bonds. “So,” he said, “here’s the deal. Tracy, Judy and I need to make an unscheduled midair exit. Once we are safely out, you can untie the pilots.”

“You’re abandoning me?” Rosselli asked pointedly. “All that talk about me joining your team was a lie?”

Gunderson pulled a thick cigar from his flight-suit pocket and slid it under his nose. Then he bit off the end and lit it with a solid gold lighter. He puffed the stogie to life. “I never lie to a pretty girl,” he said, smiling, “and I’m always right.”

“Then what’s the deal?”

Gunderson slipped the bearer bond into a plastic envelope and sealed it inside with the others. “The bond I showed you will be mailed to your home address once I reach land. That’s your payment for a job well executed.”

“What do I say when we land?” Rosselli asked.

“I’d tell them everything,” Gunderson said, “except about the bond. That should remain our little secret.”

“Just tell them?” Rosselli said incredulously.

“Why not?” Gunderson said. “I was careful not to relay any information that can incriminate my group. My team will make sure that the United States embassy is notified in whatever country the plane lands. Just spill your guts and they’ll let you go in a few days. Once you get back to California, someone that works with me will make contact in due time.”

“So I won’t see you again?” she asked.

“You never know,” Gunderson said as red-haired Tracy Pilston walked over.

“Our ride is only a few miles ahead,” Pilston noted, “and we’re both ready to fly the coop.”

“Did you take her down?” Gunderson asked.

Pilston nodded. “We’re to receive a signal, so we can time the jump.”

Gunderson removed two parachutes from a storage compartment where a Corporation team member had hidden them when the 737 was in her hangar in California. He helped strap one on Pilston’s back, then strapped on the other. Removing a sack containing goggles, he handed one over to Pilston.

“We’ll alert Judy,” he said quietly, “and exit from the rear.”

“Go forward,” Gunderson said to Rosselli. “Tell Judy it’s time, then stay in the cockpit.”

“Won’t everything be sucked out the rear?” Rosselli asked.

“We’re not pressurized,” Gunderson said, “so it won’t be that bad—I wouldn’t try walking around, however. Just stay in the cockpit, and after the egg timer goes off, raise the rear door and untie the pilots.”