Golden Buddha

by Clive Cussler

  “Shock wave approaching,” he shouted as the Zodiac with the rafts in tow entered the pipe leading to the bay.

  31

  ON board the Oregon, preparations for departure were moving at lightning speed.

  Juan Cabrillo reached for the telephone and placed a call to the acting harbormaster.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, after lying that his parent company had ordered him to leave immediately, “we have another ship lined up in Manila to take the load of fireworks to the United States. She’ll be here day after tomorrow.”

  The harbormaster seemed to accept this as fact. Because it was late and little was happening, he was talkative.

  “Singapore,” Cabrillo said in answer to his question, “but they haven’t told me the cargo, only that we need to be there seventy-two hours from now.”

  Singapore was fifteen hundred miles as a crow flies, and from what the harbormaster had heard, the Oregon would be hard-pressed to make twenty knots an hour. The man had no way to know that if the ship made it into open water by sunrise, it could be in Singapore by lunch the next day. Nor did he know the Oregon was not going to Singapore at all.

  “Yes,” Cabrillo said, “it’s pushing for sure, but orders are orders. Is the pilot on his way here?”

  The harbormaster answered in the affirmative, and Cabrillo hurried to get off the telephone.

  “We’ll keep an eye out for him,” Cabrillo finished, “and thank you.”

  Hanging up the telephone, Cabrillo turned to Hanley. The time was 4:41 A.M.

  “Sounds like he bought it,” Cabrillo said. “Order the lookout to watch for the approaching pilot boat.”

  Hanley nodded. “The helicopter with Adams and Reyes is back, and I’ve ordered all the hatches battened down. Which means we need to retrieve the Zodiacs in open water.”

  “What do you hear from them?” Cabrillo asked.

  “Seng and Huxley report they are still waiting outside,” Hanley said, staring at his watch. “Murphy was ordered to blow up an inner cavern any time about now to seal off the flow of paint and at least allow the four rescuers to escape. As of the last communication a few minutes ago, Hornsby, Jones and Meadows had not shown up with the Golden Buddha.”

  “I don’t like it,” Cabrillo said.

  “I had to make a decision when you were dealing with the art dealer,” Hanley said quietly. “If the helicopter salting the water didn’t throw off the Chinese, not only would we lose the men in the tunnel, but the rescue crew as well.”

  “I know, Max,” Cabrillo said. “You’re just following the book.”

  The two men stared at one another for a moment. Then Eric Stone spoke.

  “Sirs,” Stone said, pointing at a screen, “we just detected a shock wave from an explosion.”

  MURPHY had the throttle on the Zodiac as far forward as she would go. The trio of boats was rocketing down the tunnel leading out to the bay. They were only ten feet ahead of the approaching wave from the explosion, but now that they were at full speed, the margin was remaining constant.

  “Try to reach Seng on the radio,” Murphy shouted over the noise, “and tell him what’s happening.”

  Kasim nodded and reached for the microphone.

  “Eddie,” he shouted into the microphone, “we have the target with us. Clear away from the opening—we’re coming out hot.”

  “Got it,” Seng shouted from just outside the pipe.

  A few minutes before, Seng and Huxley had heard the rumble from the explosion and had climbed aboard the second Zodiac. They were just backing away from shore when Kasim radioed. Seng turned the Zodiac and then accelerated away into the bay. Once they reached the edge of the fog and rain band, he turned toward land and pointed a spotlight at the outflow pipe.

  “Call the Oregon,” he said to Huxley, “and report team two is on their way out.”

  THE pilot boat pulled alongside the Oregon. A single tugboat hovered nearby, awaiting instructions from the pilot. The pilot climbed off his boat at a boarding ladder, made his way on deck, and then stared around. The upper deck was a tangled mess of rusting equipment and cables. He stared above, where the smokestack was polluting the air around the slip with smoky, oily fumes. This was a ship begging to be put out of her misery at a scrapyard.

  “What a pile of junk,” the pilot muttered to himself.

  A man stepped from behind a pillar. “I’m Captain Smith,” he said. “Welcome aboard.”

  The captain was dressed in a tattered yellow rain slicker spotted with grease and dirt. His face had a full beard, stained around the mouth by nicotine, and when Smith cracked a smile, he showed a forest of yellow stubs.

  “I’m ready to guide you out,” the pilot said, staying a safe distance away from the man’s odor.

  “This way,” the captain said, turning.

  The pilot followed the captain as he wove his way around the tangled mess on the decks to the rusted metal stair leading to the pilothouse. Halfway up the stair, the pilot gripped for a handrail and it came off in his hand.

  “Captain,” he said.

  Smith turned, then walked a few steps to where the pilot was stopped. Then he took the length of rusted pipe in his hand and tossed it over his shoulder onto the cluttered deck.

  “I’ll make a note of that,” he said, swiveling around again and climbing the last few steps to the pilothouse.

  The pilot shook his head. The sooner he was off the ship, the happier he’d be.

  Six minutes later, the Oregon was turned and partway out of the port. The pilot ordered the line from the tug removed and the Oregon headed away from land under her own power.

  To the rear of the Oregon, now growing dimmer in the distance, the mountain peak on Macau began to recede in the rain and fog. Only a few lights from the airport remained in sight.

  “How long until you can be picked up?” Cabrillo asked the pilot.

  The pilot pointed to a channel marker thirty yards ahead. The high-powered light was penetrating the gloom. A few more minutes and he could be off this beast of a ship.

  “LIGHT at the end of the tunnel,” Murphy shouted.

  The Zodiac was racing toward the bay just ahead of the shock wave that would fill the pipe to the top. Hornsby was holding tight to his raft and the top of the Golden Buddha, while Meadows gripped the side of the Zodiac and glanced down at Jones, who was clutching his side in the bottom of the raft.

  “A few more seconds, Jonesy,” he shouted, “and we’ll be in the clear.”

  Jones nodded but did not speak.

  The exit from the pipe was like riding over a waterfall on a class IV rapid. The water was spewing out of the pipe with tremendous force. The plume cascaded through the air twenty feet, then dropped seven feet down to the water of the bay. Murphy held to the wheel as the Zodiac was propelled through the air. As soon as he felt the boat leave the water, he pulled back on the throttle so he wouldn’t over-rev the engine, then braced himself for the splashdown.

  “Let go,” he screamed to Hornsby and Meadows.

  The lines on the two towed rafts were released and they separated a few feet from the Zodiac at the same instant the wall of water filled the pipe, then burst through the air with tremendous force.

  “Wow,” Seng shouted at the sight of the rafts squirting through the air.

  “Hold on,” Meadows shouted to Jones as the raft flew through the air, then slapped on the surface of the water before slowing almost to a stop.

  “Are you okay?” Meadows said a few seconds later. “Do you need anything?”

  Jones wiped the water from his face, then shifted his body to ease the pain of his cracked ribs as the raft stopped in the water and bobbed.

  “I’ve been better,” Jones said. “I think it would help if you would hum a few bars of ‘Suwannee River.’”

  PO was inside the conference room with Rhee, Ho and Marcus Friday. A police sergeant entered and whispered in his ear.

  “What the hell do you mean?” he asked.

>   “A few of our people heard what sounded like a helicopter,” the sergeant said. “Now all the waters around Macau are a bright pink color.”

  “Those bastards,” Po said. “They’re covering their tracks.”

  “Who?” the sergeant asked.

  “I don’t know who,” Po said, “but I intend to find out.”

  Po waved the sergeant away, then walked over to Rhee and motioned for him to move a few feet away so they could talk in private. Once he explained what the sergeant had told him, Rhee had only one thing to say.

  “Seal the port,” Rhee said. “No one in or out.”

  AS soon as Kasim helped Meadows and Jones aboard the Zodiac, Murphy slit the rubber raft with a knife. The raft drifted away and began to sink. At the same time, Seng and Huxley helped Hornsby aboard and the three of them wrestled the Golden Buddha aboard their Zodiac. Murphy idled his boat close just as they had finished stowing the golden icon amidships.

  “I just spoke to Hanley,” he said to Seng. “The Oregon is almost to the outer buoy. We are supposed to rendezvous with them in open water.”

  Kasim raised his hand for quiet as the radio barked. He listened intently over his earpiece.

  “Got it,” he said.

  “That was the Oregon again,” he said. “They just intercepted a transmission from the police to the port authorities. They have ordered the port sealed—no one in or out. The police and port authority boats have been given orders to fire on any craft that refuses to comply.”

  “Shh…,” Seng said.

  The sound of a ship under power came across the water.

  “They’re coming,” Seng said.

  CAPTAIN Smith walked the pilot to the ladder leading down and bid him farewell. The pilot climbed down the ladder, then stepped across to the pilot boat, which quickly backed away from the Oregon. Smith watched the pilot boat accelerate away into the rain.

  The pilot boat was still visible when it began to slow and turn.

  Cabrillo reached for a tiny radio at his belt and flicked it on. “Max,” he said quickly, “what’s happening?”

  “The authorities have ordered the port sealed,” Hanley said. “The pilot’s been ordered to bring us back to port.”

  Cabrillo sprinted across the deck as he spoke. “Full steam ahead,” he shouted. “I’ll be in the control room in a few minutes.”

  RHEE was in his office. The port’s night manager was on the other end of the phone line.

  “They won’t stop?” he asked.

  “The pilot boat can’t reach them,” the port manager noted. “The pilot that guided them out mentioned that the vessel was in terrible shape—maybe their radios are faulty.”

  “Have the pilot boat outrun them and deliver the message in person.”

  “I already ordered that,” the manager said in exasperation. “But the ship keeps gaining speed—the pilot boat can’t seem to catch up with her.”

  “I thought you said the ship was a rust bucket,” Rhee said.

  “She’s a fast rust bucket,” the manager noted. “Our pilot boats can do over thirty knots.”

  “Damn,” Rhee said. “How long until the ship reaches international waters?”

  “Not long,” the manager admitted.

  “Get me the navy,” Rhee shouted to Po, who reached for another telephone.

  “What do you want us to do?” the port manager asked.

  “Nothing,” Rhee said. “You’ve already done enough.”

  He slammed down the telephone and took the one in Po’s hand. The second in command of the Chinese navy detachment in Macau was on the line.

  “This is the chief of the Macau police. We need you to stop a ship heading out into the South China Sea,” he said quickly.

  “We have a hydrofoil that can run at sixty-five knots,” the Chinese navy officer told him, “but it isn’t very heavily armed.”

  “This is an old cargo ship,” Rhee said loudly. “I doubt she’ll put up much of a fight.”

  Rhee had no way of knowing it, but he’d just made the biggest error of his life.

  CABRILLO burst into the control room, shedding his grimy rain suit while at the same time removing the dental appliance that made his teeth appear as stubs. He tossed both to the side and tugged at his fake beard as he spoke. “Okay, what’s the situation?”

  “We just intercepted a communiqué from the Chinese navy to their high-speed hydrofoil. They’ve been ordered to intercept us—a naval frigate and a fast-attack corvette are following.”

  “Any other ships?”

  “No,” Hanley said. “That’s the only Chinese navy fire-power currently in Macau.”

  “Where’s our team with the Golden Buddha?” Cabrillo asked as he tossed the beard aside, then spit out a sliver of latex left over from the false teeth mold.

  “They are driving at full speed out of port,” Stone said, pointing to a screen. “But it looks like they have picked up a tail.”

  “Get me Adams,” Cabrillo said. “While he’s making his way here, have the deckhands drop the walls on the helicopter pad and start raising the Robinson from the lower hangar.”

  “Got it,” Stone said.

  “Max,” Cabrillo said, “get me Langston Overholt on a secure line.”

  Hanley started to assemble the satellite link.

  Cabrillo stared at the screen showing the progress of the Zodiacs and the ship pursuing them. Then he glanced over at another screen that showed the Oregon’s location and the path of the Chinese navy vessels giving chase. The screens were filled with blinking lights and estimated paths.

  “Adams will be here in a second,” Stone said.

  “Sound battle stations,” Cabrillo said quietly.

  Stone pushed a button and a loud whooping noise filled the Oregon.

  Belowdecks in the sick bay, Gunther Reinholt heard the sound and sat up in bed. Swiveling to one side, he slid his feet into a pair of carpet slippers. Rising to his full height, he reached around and tightened his hospital gown around his body. Then with one hand on his IV drip, which was hanging from a stainless-steel rack with a wheeled base, he began to shuffle from the sick bay to the engine room.

  Reinholt knew that if the Oregon went to war, they would need every hand on station.

  32

  THE captain of the Chinese navy hydrofoil Gale Force, Deng Ching, stared through the square floor-to-ceiling windows of the control room with a pair of high-powered binoculars. His craft had risen up to her full height of twelve feet above the water a few moments before. The hydrofoil was now reaching speeds of nearly fifty knots. Ching turned and glanced at the radar screen. The cargo ship was still a distance away, but the gap was closing.

  “Are the sailors on the forward guns locked and loaded?” he asked his second in command.

  “Yes, sir,” the officer replied.

  “Once we draw closer, I’ll want to send a volley over their heads,” Ching said.

  “That should be enough,” the second in command agreed.

  LANGSTON Overholt sat in his office in Langley, Virginia. On his left ear was the secure telephone connected to Cabrillo on the Oregon. His right ear was occupied by a telephone connected to the admiral in command of the Pacific theater.

  “Presidential directive four twenty-one,” he said to the admiral. “Now, what do you have nearby?”

  “We’re checking now,” the admiral said. “I’ll know in a few minutes.”

  “Can you bring some force to bear on the Chinese without it being tied to the U.S.?”

  “Understood, Mr. Overholt,” the admiral said. “Force from afar.”

  “That’s it exactly, Admiral.”

  “Leave it to the navy,” the admiral said. “We’ll come up with something.”

  The telephone went dead. Overholt replaced the receiver and spoke to Cabrillo.

  “Hold tight, Juan,” he said quietly. “Help’s a coming.”

  “Fair enough,” Cabrillo said before disconnecting.

  IN the
movies, when a submarine goes to battle stations, it does so with much whooping from sirens and gongs. Men scurry down narrow passageways as they race to their stations and the tension that comes over the big screen is palpable and thick.

  Reality is somewhat different.

  Noise inside or outside a submarine is the enemy—it can lead to detection and death. On board the United States Navy Los Angeles–class attack submarine Santa Fe, the motions for battle were more like a roadie setting up a rock concert than the chaos of someone yelling “fire” in a crowded theater. A red light signaling action pulsed from numerous fixtures mounted in all the rooms and passageways. The crew moved with purpose, but not haste. The action they would take had been rehearsed a thousand times. They were as natural to the crew as shaving and showering. The commander of the Santa Fe, Captain Steven Farragut, stood on the command deck and received the condition reports from his crew with practiced ease.

  “Electric check completed on packages one and two,” an officer reported.

  “Acknowledged,” Farragut said.

  “Boat rising to optimal firing depth,” the driver reported.

  “Excellent,” Farragut said easily.

  “Countermeasures and detection at one hundred percent,” another officer reported.

  “Perfect,” Farragut said.

  “Sensors report clear, sir,” the chief of boat said. “We appear to be alone out here. We can commence operation inside of eight, repeat eight, minutes.”

  “Acknowledged,” Farragut said.

  The great beast was rising from the depths and preparing to bite if necessary.

  ADAMS burst into the control room of the Oregon. He was dressed in a tan flight suit that he was zipping up as he approached.