Golden Buddha

“I’m a go

Pryor wiped his forehead with a handkerchief before bending down to lift another crate to carry to the elevator. “Shoot, Murph,” he said, “you packing enough C-6?”

“You can’t have too much,” Murphy said, smiling, “at least in my opinion. Heck, it doesn’t spoil and you never know what might come up.”

“You got enough here to blow up an Egyptian pyramid,” Hornsby said, walking into the room after placing his crate in the elevator, “and enough mines to register shock waves on a seismograph.”

“Those are for the airport,” Murphy said. “You don’t want the Chinese to be able to land troops, do you?”

“Land?” Pryor said. “You use all these, there won’t be an airport.”

“I have other plans for some of them,” Murphy said.

“I’ve got the feeling you’re looking forward to this,” Hornsby said.

Murphy started singing again as he walked over to crates of Stinger missiles and began to attach the red tags. Letting loose a long whistle, he finished with the sound of a blast.

Hornsby and Pryor carried crates out the door and headed for the elevator.

“I’d sure hate to have him mad at me,” Pryor said.

37

THE Antonov was less than a hundred miles from Da Nang, heading due west. At its current speed, the plane would touch down in about forty minutes, or just around 4:30 P.M. local time. The biplane, although slow, had performed flawlessly. Gunderson balanced the yoke with his knees and reached into the air and stretched.

“This baby’s a peach,” he said to Cabrillo.

“After this mission is completed, you can check into buying one for the company, if you think we’ll use it enough,” Cabrillo said.

“Take the wings off and we could probably fit it into a forty-foot shipping container,” Gunderson said. “If we had Murphy mount a fire ca

For the last hour Cabrillo had been checking arrangements with the Oregonover his secure telephone. The last call from Hanley had placed the Gulfstream G550 on final approach to Da Nang airfield. Cabrillo was nodding at Gunderson’s comment when his telephone buzzed again.

“The Gulfstream’s on the ground and refueled,” Hanley told him. “The pilot is setting the course now. I contacted General Siphondon in Laos and received permission for you to cross through their airspace.”

“How is the general?” Cabrillo asked.

“His usual self,” Hanley said. “Dropping hints about a classic car he’d like.”

“At least he’s upfront about his wants,” Cabrillo said. “And an old-car fetish I can understand. What is it he’s after?”

“Hemi Roadru

“Any around?”

“I’ve got Keith Lowden in Colorado checking out the market,” Hanley said. “He’ll get back to us when he knows what’s available.”

“Excellent,” Cabrillo said. “Now what about Thailand and Myanmar?”

“All cleared,” Hanley said, “so it’ll be a straight shot to India.”

“C-130?”

“She’s due to leave Bhutan and touch down in Da Nang just after eight P.M.”

“Do you have the team ready?” Cabrillo asked.

“They’ll be ready by the time the Oregonreaches port,” Hanley said.

“This is a tight timetable,” Cabrillo said, “and we only have one shot at this.”

“No do-overs,” Hanley said quietly.

“No do-overs,” Cabrillo agreed.

IN northern India at Little Lhasa, the oracle was deep in a trance. The Dalai Lama sat to one side as the man spun and danced. From time to time the oracle would race over to a sheet of rice paper and scribble notes furiously, then return to his ritualistic motions. A strange animal-like sound seeped from his vocal cords and drops of sweat flew through the air.

At last he collapsed in a heap on the floor and his helpers removed the headpiece and robes.

The Dalai Lama picked up a wooden bowl filled with water, dampened a sheep’s skin, then stepped over, bent down, and began to wash the sweat from the aging man.

“You did well,” he said in a soothing voice. “There is much information written on the sheets.”

The oracle allowed the Dalai Lama to drip some water into his mouth. He swished it around and spit it to the side. “I saw bloodshed and fighting,” he said quietly. “Much bloodshed.”

“Let us pray not,” the Dalai Lama said.

“But there was a second way,” the oracle said. “I think that is what I wrote.”

“Bring some tea and tsampa,” the Dalai Lama ordered an aide, who rushed out of the room.

Twelve minutes later, the oracle and the Dalai Lama were sitting around a table in the great room. The Tibetan tea, flavored with salt and butter, as well as the tsampa, roasted barley flour usually mixed with milk or yogurt, had brought the color back to the oracle’s cheeks. Where only moments before he had seemed aged and weak, he now appeared animated and in control.

“Your Holiness,” he said eagerly, “shall we see what I received?”

“Please,” the Dalai Lama said.

The oracle stared at the sheets of rice paper. The letters were in an ancient script only he and a few others could read. He read them through twice, then smiled at the Dalai Lama.

“Is someone from the west coming to see you?” the oracle asked.

“Yes,” the Dalai Lama said, “later this evening.”

“Here is what you tell him,” the oracle said.

Thirty minutes later, the Dalai Lama nodded and smiled at the oracle.

“I will have my aides prepare notes to buttress our argument,” he said, “and thank you.”

Rising from the chair, the oracle walked unsteadily from the room.

LANGSTON Overholt was using a borrowed office in a far corner of the compound at Little Lhasa. He was speaking on a secure line to the director of Central Intelligence in hushed tones.

“I didn’t order that,” he said. “I simply don’t have the apparatus in China to pull it off.”

“The estimates from our people on the ground place the number at five hundred and growing,” the DCI noted.

“I’ll ask the contractor,” Overholt said, “but it may just be a lucky break.”

“Whatever the case,” the DCI said, “reports say the Chinese are paying close attention to the protests.”

“What about the Mongolians?” Overholt asked.

“I had a secret meeting with their ambassador,” the DCI said. “They’ll play it either way.”

“What did that cost?” Overholt asked.

“Don’t ask,” the DCI said, “but suffice it to say the United States’ strategic reserves of tungsten and molybdenum won’t need replenishing for some time.”

“That gives us choices for the contractor to offer to the Russians,” Overholt said.

“As soon as he meets with them, I need to know what they have decided,” the DCI told him.

“No matter what the time,” Overholt said.

“Day or night,” the DCI said before disco

GUNDERSON could not believe the lift the pair of wings gave the Antonov. Though he and the others had been flying the plane for nearly eight hours, this was the first time he had needed to land. Lining up to land, he floated the Antonov down to the runway like a feather fluttering to the floor. Halfway down the length of the runway, Gunderson realized he’d need to force the plane to the ground. Moving the yoke forward, he felt the wheels finally touch.

“Sorry about that, boss,” he said, pointing out the window at the Gulfstream on the far end of the runway. “She floats like a butterfly. I’ll taxi us back over to the Gulfstream.”