Golden Buddha (43 page)

“Open up,” Gunderson shouted to the rear.

The Tibetan gunner let loose with a volley that stitched the side of the fighter like a shotgun blast to the gut of a duck. The man kept firing even after the plane passed from view.

“I think you got him,” Gunderson shouted back. “Hold off.”

Gunderson made a sweeping turn and caught a glimpse as the flaming wreckage spun into a mountain. There was no ejection, no salvation.

As soon as the third fighter realized they were being fired upon, he made a steep climb straight up in the air. The Predator was hot on his tail.

“Fire four,” Lincoln said over the radio as he blew off all his remaining missiles at once.

The jet raced into the heavens, but the lighter and smaller missiles were faster.

The Tibetans on the ground watched as the white contrail from the jet made a straight line up into the sky. Two sets of twin tendrils of steam followed. Then, high over Lhasa, a fireball erupted. The three fighters would fight no more.

 

“G
O
see what that was,” Po ordered one of the Tibetans.

The man walked out and stared down at the city, then walked back inside. “Planes attacking,” was all he said when he returned.

“That's the Chinese retaking the city,” Po said. “In a few minutes—”

Just then Cabrillo's telephone rang. So he answered it.

“Excuse me,” he said to Po, holding his hand over the receiver.

“Right,” Cabrillo said. “Okay, good. No, not yet, there has been a slight snag. There is a Macau policeman here that's—”

Po slid his pistol in his holster and batted the telephone to the floor.

“You shouldn't have done that,” Cabrillo said. “I didn't buy the extended warranty.”

Po was enraged. His control was slipping and he needed it back now.

On the
Oregon
, Hanley was still listening to the open line.

“Against the wall,” Po said, dragging Cabrillo against a stone wall, then stepping back.

Cabrillo stood there, the realization of what was happening slowly dawning.

“What do you think, Po” he spat. “That you're judge, jury and executioner?”

“Men,” Po said, “line up.”

The Tibetans formed a firing line, their rifles at their shoulders.

On the
Oregon
, Eric Stone was next to Hanley, listening in. “Sir,” he said, “what can we do?”

Hanley raised his hand to quiet him.

“On behalf of the Macau authorities,” Po said, “I have heard your admission of guilt and find you guilty of murder. Your sentence is death by firing squad, at this time and place.”

Stone looked in horror at Hanley, whose face remained impassive.

“Do you have any last words or pleas?” Po asked.

“Yes,” Cabrillo said. “I ask that you stop this nonsense immediately—there is a deadly gas somewhere in this palace, and if I don't find it soon, we all will die.”

“Enough of your lies,” Po thundered. “Men, prepare to fire.”

Cabrillo brushed his hand along his crew-cut hair, then smiled and winked.

“Fire,” Po shouted.

A volley of shots rang out and the prayer room was filled with the scent of gunpowder.

 

“T
HERE
they are,” the leader of the
Dungkar
detail said.

Three stainless-steel canisters were marked with Chinese symbols. The
Dungkar
erected the apparatus to burn off the gas, then started to dress in gas masks and rubber gloves. The gas had been right where Zhuren had said.

“Has anyone seen the American?” the
Dungkar
leader asked.

The answer came back negative.

“Slowly and carefully start to destroy the gas,” the leader said. “I'm going downstairs to report.”

 

T
HE
smoke cleared and Cabrillo was still standing. One of the Public Security Bureau officers reached over and took Po's handgun from his holster. Then he did a quick pat-down search to look for other weapons.

“You missed,” Cabrillo said, wiping a fleck of blood off his cheek from where a chip of stone had struck.

Stone looked over at Hanley, who smiled. “The Tibetans are with us,” he explained. “They have been all along.”

Stone raised his arms in the air in exasperation. “No one tells me anything,” he said.

Cabrillo was walking over to pick up his telephone when the
Dungkar
leader burst into the room. He stared at the scene in shock. Against the far wall was a large outline of a man that had been made by the bullets striking the stone. Five PSB officers were standing with rifles, while a lone PSB officer was placing another man in handcuffs.

“We found the gas,” the
Dungkar
blurted out. “We're burning it off now.”

Cabrillo bent down and retrieved the telephone. “Max,” he said, “did you hear that?”

“I did, Juan,” Hanley said. “Now get the hell out of there.”

Cabrillo folded the telephone in half and slid it in his pocket. “Norquay, I assume?” he asked the leader of the PSB officers.

“Yes, sir,” the officer answered.

“Assist the
Dungkar
with the destruction of the gas,” Cabrillo said. “Then secure Potala. General Rimpoche will be in contact with you soon—thanks for your help.”

Norquay nodded.

“To a Free Tibet,” Cabrillo shouted.

“To a Free Tibet,” the men answered.

Cabrillo began walking toward the door.

“Sir?” Norquay said, “there's just one more thing.”

Cabrillo paused.

“What do you want us to do with him?” Norquay said, motioning to Po.

Cabrillo smiled. “Let him go.”

Cabrillo reached for the door handle. “But take his uniform and papers. He's just too emotional to be a policeman.”

Then Cabrillo walked out the door, climbed down the steps and boarded the helicopter. Five minutes later he was back at Gonggar Airport. Ten minutes later he and his team were airborne in the C-130. They passed the fleet of leased helicopters in the air, headed for Bhutan, and the pilot of the C-130 wagged his wings. The helicopters returned the good-bye by flicking on their landing lights.

Then the team settled in for the short flight. Soon they'd be back on the
Oregon
.

I
N
Beijing, news of the events in Tibet was filtering in, and a hurried meeting was held.

President Jintao was direct. “What are our options?” he asked.

“We could send bombers to hit Lhasa,” the head of the Chinese air force said. “Then ready paratroopers for a later assault.”

“But that leaves us short on the Mongolian border,” Jintao noted. “What's the latest intelligence on the Russian movements?”

The head of Chinese intelligence was a short man with a pronounced belly. He adjusted his glasses before speaking. “The Russian forces are enough for them to sweep down and flank our troops that are currently still headed down the pass into Qinghai Province. If they supported their efforts with air power, we could lose both Qinghai and Xinjiang Provinces, basically the entire western frontier.”

“That would give them control of our secret advanced weapons facilities at Lop Nur, plus a good portion of our space program,” Jintao said wearily.

“I'm afraid so, sir,” the head of intelligence noted.

“Okay—” Jintao started to say before his aide rushed into the room and walked over and whispered in his ear.

“Gentlemen,” President Jintao said, “continue discussions—I have an emergency meeting. The Russian ambassador is insisting we talk and has arrived ahead of his scheduled meeting.”

The Russian ambassador was waiting in an outer office. He rose as Jintao walked into the room. “Mr. President,” he said solicitously, “I apologize for moving up the time of our meeting, but the president of my country insisted I see you immediately.”

“Do you come bringing a declaration of war?” Jintao asked directly, motioning the Russian to take a seat on a couch near a window with a view of the outer gardens.

The Russian ambassador sat on the left end of the couch, Jintao farther down on the right.

“No, Mr. President,” the Russian ambassador said, straightening his suit pants. “I come with a business offer that can put an end to the tension between our countries, as well as placing your economy on solid footing again.”

Jintao stared at his watch before answering. “You have five minutes.”

The Russian ambassador explained it all in four.

“So you are convinced you can pull a UN Security Council vote?” Jintao said after he was through.

“We can,” the Russian said.

“What do we get if we go along with the vote?” Jintao asked. “If China votes to go along.”

The Russian ambassador smiled. “World peace?”

“I was thinking of a larger percentage of the field.”

Two minutes later, the Russian had his offer.

“Mr. President,” he said, “allow me to make a telephone call.”

“Tell them I want your armored column stopped immediately,” Jintao said, “confirmed by satellite reconnaissance.”

Eight minutes later, the new percentages would be confirmed and the Russian armored column would grind to a halt. Further negotiations would continue right up until the UN vote.

 

A
T
the same instant the Russian ambassador was calling Moscow, the C-130 containing the Corporation team was crossing into India. Off the right wing the jet carrying the Dalai Lama home passed. The pilot of the jet wagged his wings and the pilot of the C-130 reciprocated.

Less than an hour later, the team reached Calcutta, India, and was met by the Corporation's amphibious airplane. Within minutes of the C-130 touching down, the crew was being flown out to the ship.

By sundown on March 31, the
Oregon
was steaming south in the Bay of Bengal.

On the deck, Hanley and Cabrillo watched the setting sun.

“I got a call from Overholt after you left Calcutta,” Hanley said.

“I'm sure it was the usual,” Cabrillo said. “Rah, rah, good job. The check is in the mail.”

“He did mention that, and a wire transfer that Halpert has already confirmed.”

“What else?” Cabrillo asked.

“He has another job for us,” Hanley said.

“Where?” Cabrillo asked.

“The land of the midnight sun, Mr. Chairman,” Hanley said. “The Arctic Circle.”

Cabrillo sniffed the salt air, then began walking for the hatch inside. “Come on, you can explain over dinner.”

“It had better be dinner and drinks,” Hanley said. “I haven't had a cocktail since Cuba.”

“Cuba,” Cabrillo said wearily. “Seems like years ago.”

T
HERE
exist snippets of history etched into the fabric of time and so perfectly formed that they may never be duplicated. Seemingly scripted by a power with perfect timing and blessed with scenes that know no bounds, these moments exist to be captured on film, to be remembered and cherished for centuries to come.

These snippets do not happen often. They are as rare as the perfect turn on skis, as delightful as homemade ice cream in the hot sun. They exist to remind man there is hope. They exist to show promise. They exist for generations yet unborn.

The Dalai Lama's return to Lhasa was one of these events.

April 1, 2005, dawned with clear skies and no wind. The snowcapped mountains surrounding the city appeared to be close enough that one could run his fingertip across the sharp crests. The very air in Lhasa seemed alive with energy. It filled the lungs of the faithful with a hope silent for decades and soothed and cooled the fires of war.

“Unbelievable,” a reporter for a Los Angeles newspaper said quietly.

It was an image from Shangri-la. Potala Palace was glistening like a mirage in the mind of a complicated man. The hillside surrounding the palace was covered with a flowing field of red and blue blooming flowers that spilled down the hill in a waterfall of color. One thousand Buddhist monks in yellow robes filled the steps from top to bottom like a colored strip of DNA molecules. On the lower buildings, parts of the green roofs were visible, adding contrast, while the white rocks of the structure seemed to have been scrubbed clean of dirt as a result of the cloak of oppression being lifted. High overhead a hawk circled lazily on the warming air.

The chosen one was coming home.

Nearly a mile away, on the large flat meadow below Potala, a monk stepped over to a six-foot-tall gong suspended from a dark, carved wooden frame. He glanced at the Dalai Lama, who was sitting atop a gold gilded throne chair. The throne chair was topped with a fringed silk awning, supported by wooden poles at the corners and held aloft by six stout monks who walked in unison with the throne chair.

The six monks chanted a single-word chant and the wood-and-leather hammer struck the gong.

The sound of the gong filled the air. One, two, until it sounded three times. And then the procession started forward. The Ngagpa, carrying the symbolic wheel of life, led the column. Directly behind the Ngagpa were Tibetan horsemen, their steeds decorated with ceremonial blankets whose intricate needlepoint depicted scenes from Tibetan history. The horsemen wove their mounts back and forth in a choreographed display of precision. In their hands were triangular flags attached to long bronze staffs that were capped with fluted tops. To the rear of the horsemen were two dozen archers with bows at parade rest against their shoulders. They marched in perfect harmony. Next came a dozen porters carrying cages filled with songbirds that chirped a song of freedom and happiness. The porters were followed by fifty-five monks from the Dalai Lama's home monastery at Namgyal. They chanted in a single voice and carried in their hands the sacred texts.

Next were more horsemen, four dozen in total, who were also musicians. They played their flutes and stringed instruments while they steered their mounts with their knees. The horse-mounted musicians were followed by monks from the Tsedrung Order, who represented the government of Tibet, followed by children waving thin, pointed, ornately colored flags that danced through the air like kites without tails.

To the rear of the children was another group of horsemen with serious faces, dressed in Tibetan army uniforms of green cloaks and red hats. They steered their horses a few feet forward, then stopped. A few more feet, then a pause again. These soldiers carried the Tibetan Seals of State. Just to the rear of the soldiers carrying the Seals of State were ten simple monks, barefoot and dressed in yellow robes. The ten monks were humming loudly.

The Golden Buddha came next. It sat on a plain wagon pulled by a single horse.

Only a few feet behind the Golden Buddha was the throne chair containing the Dalai Lama.

Two hundred thousand Tibetans lined the procession route leading to Potala. They massed on both sides of the cleared path through the meadow. The day they had prayed and hoped for over these last decades was finally here—and they allowed their joy to wash across the land. As soon as the Golden Buddha appeared, the crowd went wild.

A roar erupted, and the faithful prostrated themselves onto the hard soil, then began to chant as one.

The Dalai Lama began passing through the crowd and witnessed the tears of joy on the cheeks of the faithful. The sight filled him with happiness, duty and honor, and it caused him to smile.

Following the throne chair were members of the Dalai Lama's inner cabinet, the Kasag. Next came the Kusun Depon, the Dalai Lama's bodyguards, dressed in their black padded suits and carrying their curved swords. Following the bodyguards was the commander in chief of the Tibetan army, the Mak-chi, and a platoon of soldiers.

The Mak-chi and the soldiers were dressed in their ceremonial uniforms consisting of blue trousers and yellow tunics covered in gold braid. They marched in slow and perfect cadence, with their boots making a timed thumping sound as they struck the soil. Next were the Dalai Lama's religious tutors and teachers, as well as family and friends.

At the rear of the procession came a wagon with a tiger in a cage, followed by a single horseman holding a thirty-foot-tall staff flying the formerly outlawed Tibetan flag. The parade was both magisterial and magnificent. It was based on two thousand years of tradition and strengthened by fifty-five years of exile.

The procession continued toward Potala.

 

A
T
the base of the eighty-foot-tall foundation wall of Potala, four hundred laborers had worked eight hours the night before to build a series of stone steps leading from the edge of the meadow to the top of the wall. As soon as the first of the procession reached the lowest step, they parted to each side, like the flow of water in a stream being split by a boulder, then took their positions alongside the temporary stairway.

Once the Golden Buddha reached the base of the steps, the ten monks walked over, formed a ladder with their arms, then carried the Buddha up the steps and placed it on the top of the wall. Then they descended the stairway as the throne chair containing the Dalai Lama slowed and stopped at the base. On a signal from the Dalai Lama, the monks carrying the throne chair bowed down on their knees, then swiveled to the side. Holding the throne chair only inches above the ground, they waited until the Dalai Lama climbed off the chair onto the thick woven carpet that lay upon the ground. Breathing a sigh of relief as the weight was removed from the chair, the monks waited until the Dalai Lama started up the stairs, then they set the throne chair upon the ground and rose to their feet.

With a soul seeped in tradition and divinely inspired, the Dalai Lama ascended the stairway.

Reaching the top, he slowly turned and stared out at the crowd. The mass of humanity stretched across the meadow and onto the surrounding hillsides. He bowed his head, then closed his eyes for a moment. Then he spoke.

“I have missed you,” he said simply.

The crowd, so subdued only seconds before, once again erupted into cheers.

Twenty minutes would pass before it quieted down enough for the Dalai Lama to speak again.