Golden Buddha

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 ma

Ga

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, Ga

“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,” Ga

“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,” Ga

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

“Smooth as a baby’s bottom,” Ga

ON 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 Oregonhad 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.

GUNDERSON 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.”

35

INSIDE 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.”

THE 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 Oregonand 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.