Golden Buddha

“That would put it in the top twenty of all known fields,” Putin noted.

“Exactly, sir,” Cabrillo said.

“However, right now, the Chinese have control of the field and they don’t even know of its existence,” Putin said, “so you want us to remove them from Tibet.”

“Not exactly, sir,” Cabrillo said. “What we are proposing is that Russia join in a consortium to develop the field. Fifty percent to Tibet, forty percent to your country.”

“And the other ten percent?”

“The other ten percent will be owned by my company,” Cabrillo said, “for putting it all together.”

“Nice tip,” Putin said, smiling, “but you are asking me to commit my forces for a profit. As soon as the casualties start pouring in, my citizens will smell a rat.”

Cabrillo nodded slowly. Then he set the hook.

“Then we make a deal with China,” he said easily. “Jintao wants out anyway—his economy is tanking and his increasing oil imports are accelerating his problems. You make a diplomatic mission to China and offer him half of the production at a cost of fifteen dollars a barrel for the next ten years, and I think he’ll take it and back down.”

Putin laughed. “Brilliant.”

“There’s one more thing,” Cabrillo said slowly.

“Yes?”

“We need your UN vote in the Security Council meeting Monday,” Cabrillo said.

“You’re going to legitimize the coup?” Putin asked.

“We think we can pull the votes,” Cabrillo agreed.

“A lot could go wrong,” Putin said, “but it could work. What exactly would Russia need to do to participate?”

“First we need your troops to enter Mongolia,” Cabrillo said. “I understand the Mongolian government would okay the incursion. That draws the Chinese farther from Tibet. Second, I would need as many crack paratroops as you can field to enter the country as soon as the Dalai Lama returns and we stabilize the situation. The Dalai Lama has agreed to invite Russia to provide security until the situation stabilizes. The invitation will be a

“I have spoken to your president,” Putin said. “He mentioned the need for secrecy.”

“Good,” Cabrillo said. “Next, I need that vote in the UN. If we can hold off the Chinese until the vote comes in and the peacekeepers arrive, then the Russian troops will be relieved.”

Putin rose from the chair and stoked the fire. “So Russia invests no money, only muscle.”

“The company that will develop the oilfield has already been formed,” Cabrillo said. “All I need is your signature on this document that has already been signed by the Dalai Lama, and your word you will do what we have discussed, and we can proceed.”

Makelikov entered the room just as Putin placed the stoker back in the rack. He stepped over to Cabrillo, took the document and read it quickly.

“Sergei,” he said, “bring me a pen.”

“I’LL swap you,” Gurt said to one of the other mercenary pilots, “if you don’t mind.”

“What did you draw?” the other pilot asked.

“Medevac,” Gurt said.

“I’ll gladly switch,” the pilot said. “Mine looks to be the most dangerous mission.”

“I’ve worked with Murphy before,” Gurt said. “Plus I have more high-altitude flying time than you. I don’t mind.”

“Be my guest,” the pilot said. “Flying a load of explosives north is not my idea of a good time.”

“I’ll make sure it’s okay with Seng,” Gurt said, walking off.

“THE fastest way to get you there,” Hanley said, “is to drop you in Singapore, then have you flown by jet to Vanuatu. From there we’ll switch you to a turboprop STOL that can land at the smaller airfields on Kiribati and Tuvalu.”

Truitt nodded.

“We need those votes,” Hanley said quietly. “Do whatever it takes to make that happen.”

“Not to worry,” Truitt said. “Even if it takes a river of grease, by Monday vote time they will be ours.”

Later that night, the Oregonpassed the breakwater and entered the port, and Truitt boarded the waiting jet for the nine-hour flight to the South Pacific. He would arrive on Easter morning.

40

THE 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.

SOMETIMES 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 di

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 Oregonis ru

“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.

AT 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 Dungkarcell 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.