Golden Buddha (38 page)

“Hali,” Seng shouted, “take these men and wire the other hangars to blow if we need to.”

Kasim motioned to the troops and raced back to the helicopter.

The Bell that had carried Seng and King to the airfield was now unloaded. King motioned for it to lift off. The pilot ascended to one thousand feet over the field and then began to fly in large lazy circles. Two more touched down, and Crabtree and Gannon climbed out.

“What's your name?” Seng shouted to the leader of the
Dungkar
.

“Rimpoche, Pache Rimpoche.”

Gannon and Crabtree raced over.

“Carl,” Seng said, “this is General Rimpoche. Tell him what you need.”

Gannon walked a few feet away to where they could hear better and explained. Rimpoche summoned a sergeant and a dozen men raced off.

“I need the supplies unloaded and taken inside,” Crabtree said to Seng, who pointed to Rimpoche.

“General Rimpoche,” he said, motioning to the man, “will take care of it.”

Seng unclipped a portable radio from his belt and switched it on, then spoke.

“Airport is under our control,” he said to Hanley on the
Oregon
. “What do you see?”

Hanley studied the satellite image on the screen before answering. “No troop movement yet—but if they do come, it will be from the road that enters from the east. There is what looks like a bridge about three-quarters of a mile toward Lhasa. Control that, and you'll be able to make a stand if necessary.”

“No planes or helicopter activity?” Seng asked.

“None,” Hanley said. “Anything not on the ground there is far to the north. Even if they called them back now, you have an hour or so.”

“Good,” Seng said as Meadows walked up. “Reach me by portable if the situation changes.”

“We're on full alert,” Hanley said. “It all comes down to the next few hours.”

Seng clipped the radio back on his belt and turned to Meadows. “Bob, take fifty troops and your weaponry down that road,” he said, pointing. “There's a bridge we need to control.”

“Who's in charge from their side?” Meadows asked.

“General Rimpoche,” Seng said, pointing to the man.

At that instant, three trucks slowly drove in front of the terminal and were motioned to stop by Gannon. At the same time, Tom Reyes walked over.

“General?” Seng shouted.

Rimpoche approached. “Yes?”

“I need four of your best men, crack shots and fearless.”

Rimpoche turned and shouted out names to the cluster of troops. Four men emerged from the crowd. Not one of the men was over five feet six. Dripping wet, not one of them could have weighed over 150 pounds.

“Do any of them speak English?” Seng asked.

“All of them do a little,” Rimpoche said.

“Tell them this,” Seng said. “They will be going into Lhasa with two of my men to capture a very important man. They need to do
exactly
what my men tell them—without hesitation.”

Rimpoche translated.

As soon as he had finished, the four men shouted “Huh” and stomped one foot on the tarmac.

“You have your file?” Seng asked Reyes.

“Yes, sir,” Reyes said.

King was a short distance away, removing a long black case from a crate. “Okay, Larry,” Seng shouted, “you and Tom can go do your thing.”

Holding a set of night-vision goggles, King walked over. “Let's do it,” he said.

Reyes motioned to the four Tibetans, who were eagerly waiting. “We're going to grab someone, and we're going to do it with a minimum of shooting—do you men understand?”

“I speak fair English,” one of the soldiers said. “I'll translate.”

He reiterated what Reyes had said, then turned. “Which helicopter?”

“This way,” Reyes said, leading them back to the helicopter he had just climbed off. King followed the four Tibetans, and once they were seated inside, the helicopter lifted off and headed into the center of town.

“Who are they after?” Rimpoche asked.

“The chairman of the Tibet Autonomous Region, Legchog Zhuren.”

The last helicopter was on the ground, and Huxley walked over.

“This is our medical officer,” Seng said to Rimpoche. “Poll your troops and see if any of your men have any experience as doctors or nurses—if so, we need them to work with Julia here. Right now, however, we need that helicopter unloaded and the contents carried inside the terminal. Ms. Huxley will be setting up a field hospital immediately. If any of your men were injured or wounded, she'll treat them shortly.”

Rimpoche shouted orders and men raced to the helicopter to unload. Adams and Gunderson were standing to the side, waiting for Seng to finish. He turned and smiled.

“You two go see what the Chinese have that we can use,” Seng said. “I need to interrogate a prisoner.”

The two pilots ambled off toward the hangars. Seng walked inside to where a Chinese air force lieutenant was sitting in a chair in the middle of the terminal with four fierce-looking Tibetan soldiers surrounding him.

“D
AMN
nice scenery,” Murphy noted, glancing out the window. “Like Alaska on steroids.”

Gurt was watching the altitude gauge as they climbed higher toward the imposing ridge of mountains just ahead. The sun had yet to peek over the horizon, but her coming was heralded by the pink glow being cast over the rugged terrain.

“We could probably claim the helicopter altitude record,” Gurt said.

“I don't think so,” Murphy said. “Some guy went to twenty-four thousand feet a couple of years ago to perform a Himalayan rescue.”

“I read about that,” Gurt said, “but that was in a Bell 206. And it had special rotor blades.”

“You sound a little worried,” Murphy said.

“Not worried,” Gurt said, “just apprehensive.”

He pointed out the front windshield at the wall approaching. The trees were petering out as they drew nearer. Now there was only the black and gray of rocks streaked with tendrils of snow and ice that dripped down the sides of the imposing mountain like rivulets of ice cream on a child's hand. A gust of wind buffeted the helicopter, blowing it sideways. Clouds started to appear around the Bell. Gurt stared at the gauge again.

It read eighteen thousand feet and climbing.

 

T
HE
helicopter carrying Reyes, King and the
Dungkar
forces came in twenty feet above the ground and approached Lhasa from the south. The sound from the Lhasa River helped cover the noise as the pilot landed on a small spit of sand in the river just east of what the Chinese referred to as Dream Island, formerly an idyllic picnic spot now replaced by tacky Chinese shops and karaoke bars.

“Unload the crates,” Reyes shouted to the
Dungkar
.

As soon as the crates were unloaded and King had exited, they all raced a short distance away and crouched down to avoid the blast of sand from the rotor wash as the helicopter quickly lifted off and raced downriver. Once the helicopter was out of sound and sight, Reyes opened a small satchel and removed a parabolic dish for listening. Quickly switching it on, he listened for the sound of alarms in the city. He heard only the sound of the river.

Nodding, he whispered to one of the Tibetans, “Look.”

Prying a crate open, he pointed. It was a box of Tibetan flags, which had long ago been banned by the Chinese oppressors. The flags featured a snow lion with red and blue rays. The man bent down and touched the pile gingerly, and when he rose to look at Reyes, his eyes were filled with tears.

“We need to carry all these crates across the river,” Reyes said to the Tibetan, “and stash them. Then you and the others need to follow me and King to Zhuren's house.”

“Yes,” the Tibetan said eagerly.

“We'll need one of you to guard the flags and one man to go with Mr. King. The other two of you,” Reyes said quietly, “will enter the house with me.”

The Tibetan nodded, then began to whisper orders to his men.

Five minutes later, they were all safely across the river and walking toward the Barkhor area of Lhasa. King and his Tibetan helper peeled away from the group and made their way to the tallest building near the home of the Chinese government official. The streets were empty except for a few Tibetan merchants who were sweeping the square in preparation of setting up shop. Taking the steps two at a time, King and his helper made their way to the rooftop, where they took up position. Once he was in place, King reached into his bag, removed a small bottle of oxygen, and then took a few deep breaths. He then offered the bottle to the Tibetan, who smiled but shook his head no. Then he scanned the area through his scope.

The home of Legchog Zhuren was an ornate affair whose front faced south onto Barkhor Square. Just to the east of the house lay the Jokhang, a temple built sometime in the seventh century. The Jokhang, the most revered religious building in Lhasa, featured dozens of statues, a variety of gold artwork and some thirty chapels.

King watched as Reyes passed in front of the Jokhang. He stopped for a second and raised a closed fist into the air. Then Reyes, followed by two Tibetans, made his way down an alley between the temple and the chairman's house and passed out of view.

King pushed the button on a silver-plated stopwatch, set the time for one minute, and watched.

When the stopwatch read fifteen seconds, King reached into his satchel and removed a hollowed-out ram's horn and handed it to the Tibetan.

“When I say,” he told him, “start blowing, and don't stop until I tell you to, or we're dead.”

The man nodded eagerly and took the horn. King took another breath of oxygen and checked the stopwatch. Five seconds. He glanced at the guards patrolling the walkway outside Zhuren's house. There were two outside the wrought-iron gate, two more just outside the front door sitting on chairs. He lined up his shots.

“Now,” he said loudly.

The horn erupted with the sound of a cat under a vacuum cleaner.

Like wraiths appearing above a graveyard, the square was suddenly filled with four dozen
Dungkar
warriors. They had posed as shopkeepers and early-morning walkers, and had hidden inside drums containing spices and seeds. They screamed war cries and raced toward the gate leading up to the chairman's home. On the front porch, one of the guards was rousted from a half sleep by the sound of the horn and the approaching horde. He stood up and reached for a bell near the front door. But before he could reach it to sound the alarm, he heard a sharp crack. As if in a dream, he stared in amazement as his hand and arm from the elbow dropped onto the porch.

Then he screamed as blood erupted from the stump like a geyser.

At the same time, the
Dungkar
reached the pair of guards outside the gate; they were dead before they could comprehend what was happening, their throats slit like pigs at slaughter.

Swiveling around, the front-door guard stared in horror at the advancing
Dungkar
. His partner started to speak, but a second later his head was blown off his shoulders. It landed on the porch with a thud, the lips still straining to answer a signal from an impulse now dead. The first
Dungkar
raced up the steps with his sword held in front. The guard tried to reach for his handgun, but with no hand he had no chance.

The sword ran through his middle and pinned him to the wooden door like some macabre Christmas wreath. He mouthed a few words before dying, but only blood seeped from inside. The force of the guard slamming into the door burst the lock.

The door swung open and the
Dungkar
raced inside.

 

A
ROUND
the rear of the house the scene was less violent. The single guard at the door off the kitchen had been asleep. His dereliction of duty would save his life. Reyes crept up, hit him with a stun gun, then had one of the Tibetans bind his mouth, wrists and legs with duct tape before he had a chance to do anything. Then Reyes popped open the lock with a pick and made his way inside. He and the Tibetans were halfway up the stairs leading to Zhuren's bedroom before the horn sounded.

Then Reyes saw them.

There were three unarmed men at the top of the landing. He reached for his holstered .40 handgun, but before he could snap off a round, a Tibetan houseboy appeared from behind and lopped a leather garrote over the men's heads and pulled tight. Their heads slammed together, then their legs began to kick as the houseboy tightened the cord. Reyes motioned for one of the men following to help, then raced past to Zhuren's door. Stopping for a second to line himself up, he slammed his polished black boot at a point just above the doorknob. The door burst open and he stepped inside. The man in the bed slowly started to rise while rubbing his eyes, then he reached toward the nightstand. Reyes fired a round into the headboard above the man's head and the room filled with the smell of spent gunpowder.

“I wouldn't,” Reyes said, “if I were you.”

 

“I
can't see much,” Gurt admitted.

The clouds had closed in as they neared the top of the pass. Snow and sleet raked across the windshield of the Bell. The 212 was slowly ascending, but barely making any forward movement at all. They were flying blind on the edge of the helicopter's performance envelope.

“I've got a road,” Murphy suddenly shouted, “on the port side.”

Gurt spotted the black stripe against the white background. A movement of vehicles across the terrain had displaced most of the snow, leaving only dirt and rock.

“What's that?” Gurt said, straining to see.

“I think it's a column of tanks,” Murphy said.

“I'll go to one side,” Gurt said, “and stay in the cloud cover.”

Along the side of the road, a Chinese tank commander was watching several of his soldiers repair a tread that had come loose. He heard the helicopter in the distance, so he climbed inside and called his superior on the radio.

“No idea,” his superior reported, “but you'd better find out what it is.”

Popping his head out of the hatch, the tank commander shouted down to his men, then he began to pass rifles out of the hatch. Two minutes later, the soldiers were hiking up the road away from their disabled tank.

 

“T
HERE'S
the crest,” Murphy shouted. “Find a spot to touch down.”

Gurt played with the collective, but at this altitude he had little control. “Hold on,” he shouted.

The landing was more a controlled crash than a touchdown. The 212 came down hard on the skids, but they held. Murphy was already unsnapping his safety harness.

“Driver,” he said, smiling, “just keep her running—I'll only be a minute.”

Opening the door, he stepped out and a few feet back and opened the cargo door. Then he removed a pair of snowshoes, which he attached to his feet. Pulling another coat over the one he was already wearing, he began to dig in a crate, placing the items he needed into a backpack.

“Hold down the fort,” he shouted to the front of the helicopter. “I'm going to set the charges.”

Gurt nodded, then watched as Murphy disappeared into the blowing snow. Then he began to play with his radio. He found little to hear, so he switched back to the regular frequency.

 

“S
HERPA,
Sherpa, Sherpa, this is the
Oregon
, over.” In the control room, Eric Stone looked at Hanley with worry.

“That's the fifth time, nothing.”

“Sherpa, Sherpa, Sherpa, this is the
Oregon
, over.”

“
Oregon
, this is Sherpa,” Gurt answered. “Read you eight by eight.”

There was a two-second delay as the signal bounced off the ionosphere and down to the ship.

“Where are you?” Hanley said, taking the microphone.

“We're on site,” Gurt reported. “Your man just left for the appointment.”

“We just intercepted a communication from the bad guys,” Hanley said. “Someone heard you go over and they've been asked to investigate.”

“This is not good,
Oregon
,” Gurt said quickly. “I have no way to reach Murphy and warn him. Plus, it's going to take us some time to lift off.”

“Okay,” Hanley said, “we can send a signal to Murph's beeper—we'll tell him to return to where you are. In the meantime, keep a close eye for anyone approaching. If they do, you take to the air.”

“Send a message to Murphy to withdraw,” Hanley said to Stone, who quickly punched the commands into his keyboard.

“My visibility is around thirty to forty feet,” Gurt said, “and I'm not leaving Murph—no way.”

“No, we don't want you to—” Hanley started to say.

“Oregon,”
Gurt shouted over the radio. “There are Chinese troops coming through the snow.”

Murphy was bent over, placing the charges in the snow, when his beeper chirped. He finished attaching the detonation cord, then rose up and removed the beeper from his pocket.

“Damn,” he said, flipping the switch open so the charge could be remotely detonated. Then he pulled his M-16 around from his back on its sling and began heading back in the direction of the helicopter.

Gurt reached behind his seat and felt for a handgun in a rack. The Chinese troops were struggling through the thick snow, making slow but steady progress toward the Bell. They were holding rifles, but they had yet to take a shot.