Golden Buddha of-1

by Clive Cussler

  Gunderson had the windows in the cockpit and the cargo area cracked open to vent the gasoline fumes as they cruised along. The Antonov normally carried 312 gallons of fuel, but since this plane was used for remote logging operations, two more tanks of 300 gallons each had been fitted along the center of the cargo bay. That was a good thing. Without the additional fuel capacity, there was no way they could make it out to the Oregon and back to Vietnam, a distance far beyond that of a helicopter. The problem was, the inside of the plane smelled like an Exxon station after a big spill. Gunderson stared at his portable GPS receiver.

  “How’s it look, Tiny?” Michaels asked.

  “So far so good,” Gunderson answered, “but this unit burns through batteries like a kid with a video game. Did they by chance load any spare batteries on board?”

  Pilston, who was crouched between the pilot’s and copilot’s seat, rooted around in a pair of paper bags but came up empty. “Sorry, Chuck,” she said, “no luck.”

  “What did we get?” he asked.

  Pilston did a quick inventory. “Some MREs, two thermoses of what I assume is coffee, some Hershey bars and M&M’s, bottled water, maps, and some mouthwash.”

  “What about towels and soap?”

  Pilston dug around in the bottom of one of the bags. “Yep.”

  “Gannon’s pretty good about that,” Gunderson said, yawning.

  Michaels stared at the speed indicator. “We have five more hours until we reach the Oregon,” she said. “Tracy and I got some sleep last night. Why don’t you clean up a little and try to get some rest. We’ll wake you when we get close.”

  “Think you can fill the copilot’s duties?” he asked Pilston.

  “I received my private pilot’s certificate last year,” Pilston told him. “I don’t have many hours, but I think I’m qualified to watch the needles quiver.”

  Gunderson nodded wearily. “Off the controls,” he said.

  As soon as he was sure Michaels had the plane, he stood up, slid out of his seat, and slid past Pilston, who quickly climbed into the pilot’s station. The Antonov could be flown from either the left or right seat, so there was no reason for Michaels to move across the cockpit. Once Pilston was situated, she turned around to Gunderson.

  “There’s a cot that folds out of the wall,” she said, “and a toilet that basically dumps out the side of the plane. You want anything to eat first?”

  “No, ladies,” Gunderson said. “Just wake me if you need me.”

  Then he walked back to the cot, removed his shirt and crumpled it up as a pillow, stretched out and was asleep within minutes. The Antonov droned north for the rendezvous.

  OVER the years of its existence the Corporation had invested in a variety of legitimate businesses. The company was either owner or part owner of mining concerns, a coconut plantation, a specialty firearms manufacturer, hotels, resorts, a machine tool company, even a charter jet service with divisions in North America, South America, Europe and Asia.

  None of the employees of these concerns had any idea of the source of the parent company’s funding and true purpose. They only knew they were highly paid and treated well and never subject to cutbacks or layoffs. For the most part, the actual operations end of the Corporation—the specialized army and intelligence apparatus that formed the nucleus of the growing fortune—left these companies alone to operate on their own. Sometimes, however, they came in handy.

  Right now was just such a time.

  Max Hanley returned to the Oregon’s control room and slid into his chair.

  “Pull up the flight operations center of Pegasus Air,” he asked Stone.

  Stone punched commands into the computer, and a few seconds later a worldwide map filled one of the large monitors. “What’s the fastest way to fly the chairman to his meeting?”

  Stone punched in commands and the route filled the screen. “It’s a long flight,” he said, “and I assume you want it nonstop?”

  “Absolutely,” Hanley said.

  “That pretty much ensures that we’ll need to use the G550, then.”

  “Where are they now?” Hanley asked.

  Stone punched in commands and flight records over-laid the map.

  “The Asian G550 is in route to Hawaii, so that’s out,” Stone noted. “Paris on one—no, hold on—the South American G550 just landed in Dubai. She’s due to leave again tomorrow.”

  “How long for her to reach Da Nang?”

  “It’s thirty-six hundred miles, so roughly six and a half hours.”

  Hanley took a pad of paper and a pencil and began writing numbers. “It’ll be tight,” he said finally. “We’re bucking time zones, refueling and getting fast clearances to land, but it’s doable.”

  “Want me to book the jet?” Stone asked.

  Hanley handed him a sheet of paper. “This is the flight plan.”

  “What else?”

  “Make sure our man in the Vietnamese air force is greased so we don’t have any problems getting in and out of Da Nang for a quick refuel,” Hanley said.

  “What else?”

  “Set up a secure link to Karamozov,” Hanley said. “I need to confirm.”

  “Anything else?” Stone said as he made notes on a pad.

  “When all that’s done,” Hanley said, “call Truitt to relieve you and go get some sleep.”

  “What about you, sir?” Stone asked.

  “I’ll catnap here,” Hanley said, “right where I like to be.”

  THE Dalai Lama was praying in front of a statue of Buddha when Overholt walked into the room. He stood quietly until he rose.

  “I sensed you come into the room,” the Dalai Lama said, “and you seem happy.”

  Overholt asked, “Are you ready to return?”

  “Yes,” the Dalai Lama said, “very much so.”

  “Good,” Overholt said, “it will be tomorrow.”

  “Did your people recover the Golden Buddha?”

  “They did,” Overholt said, nodding.

  “And have they found the compartment yet?”

  “They’re still working on it, Your Holiness.”

  The Dalai Lama nodded and smiled. “They’ll figure it out. And then they’ll know what to do with what they find.” He paused. “Hard to believe,” the Dalai Lama said, “that something my people have owned all along shall be our salvation.”

  “We’re not home free yet, Your Holiness,” Overholt said.

  The Dalai Lama smiled and considered this for a few moments. “No, Mr. Overholt, we’re not—but we will be. Greed is what brought the Chinese to my country. And greed again will set us free.”

  Overholt nodded silently.

  “Life is a circle,” the Dalai Lama said, “and someday you will see that.”

  Overholt smiled as the Dalai Lama began to walk toward the door.

  “Now,” he said kindly, “let my people feed you. You must be hungry from your long journey.”

  The two men walked out of the room toward a destiny determined by an obscure ship manned by mercenaries.

  AT 11 A.M. local time, the Oregon exited the fog bank. In front of the advancing storm, the weather was perfect, a calm before the storm. The sky was azure blue and the seas were as flat and reflective as a mirror. In the hours since leaving Macau, the Oregon had made good time. The ship was off Hainan Island in international waters. At the current rate of speed, the vessel would pass along Singapore tomorrow at noon local time. After turning and traveling through the Strait of Malacca and heading north, she was due to arrive high in the Bay of Bengal off Bangladesh sometime around 2 P.M. Sunday.

  By then, if all went according to plan, the Dalai Lama would be in power again, and the Corporation would make its exit with no one ever the wiser.

  Juan Cabrillo woke in his stateroom, then showered and dressed.

  Leaving his suite, he walked along the gangways toward the control room, then stopped and opened the door. Max Hanley was asleep in his chair, but he sat upright as soon as Cabrillo
entered. Hanley rose and walked over to the coffeepot and poured two cups.

  Handing one to Cabrillo, he asked, “Feel better?”

  “Amazing what a little rest will do,” Cabrillo said, taking the cup.

  “Richard?” Hanley asked.

  Truitt turned from the screen he was studying. “I’m okay,” he said.

  “What’s the score?” Cabrillo asked without further preamble.

  Hanley walked back to his chair and motioned for Cabrillo to sit. Then he pointed at a screen that showed a red line from Ho Chi Minh City directly toward the Oregon. “That line is Gunderson and his team. They will be arriving in about a half hour to pick you up.”

  “They aboard the amphibian?”

  “Nope,” Hanley said. “It was still too far south to get here in time.”

  “So we secured another seaplane?” Cabrillo asked.

  “Gannon pulled out all the stops,” Hanley told him, “but there were none available.”

  Cabrillo sipped his coffee while Truitt swiveled his head and stared back at him.

  “You’re yanking me off?” Cabrillo said.

  “Sorry, Mr. Chairman,” Hanley said. “It was the only way you could make your flight out of Vietnam on time.”

  “And the Buddha?”

  “He’ll go first,” Hanley noted.

  “Why,” Cabrillo said, “do I always end up in these situations?”

  “The money?” Truitt said, smiling.

  “Or the thrill of victory?” said Hanley.

  ON board the Antonov, Gunderson was brushing his teeth and washing his face. Spitting out the window, he rubbed the washcloth across the stubble on his cheeks. Once he had finished, he walked forward and motioned to Pilston. “Why don’t you let me take over.”

  Pilston slid out of the pilot’s seat and Gunderson climbed aboard.

  “How’d our rookie do?” he asked Michaels.

  “She’s not a bad pilot,” Michaels noted. “I had her do most of the flying while I napped.”

  Gunderson smiled and turned back to stare at Pilston. “Be sure and log the hours,” he told her. “When you have two hundred you can apply for a commercial license. Our last operative who certified got a five-thousand-dollar bonus from Cabrillo.”

  “This old beast is a smooth flying plane,” Pilston said. “Slow as a slug but as stable as a table.”

  “How far out are we?” Gunderson asked Michaels.

  Michaels stared at the GPS and examined her marks in the charts, then did a couple of calculations in the flight computer. “Twenty-four minutes, give or take.”

  “Have you maintained radio silence?”

  “As we planned,” Michaels replied.

  Gunderson adjusted the mixture to the engine and watched the gauges a few seconds. Satisfied all was okay, he spoke again. “Tracy, can you pour me a cup of coffee? It’s time to call the mother ship.”

  Pilston unscrewed the cup off the thermos, put a piece of folded duct tape on the bottom, then poured a cup and handed it to Gunderson. He sipped the hot liquid, then set the cup down on a flat surface, where it stuck. Then he reached for the radio, adjusted the frequency, and spoke.

  “Tiny calling the chairman of the board, you out there?”

  A few seconds passed before an answer came. “This is control, go ahead.”

  “The ladies and I,” Tiny said, “will be there in a few minutes to hook you on board.”

  “We have you on the scope,” Cabrillo said. “You should be seeing us shortly.”

  “What’s the drill?” Gunderson asked.

  “You’ll have two yanks,” Cabrillo said. “The first is the object—remember it’s heavy.”

  “We have a cargo slide with a belt, but the door to this old bird is on the side,” Gunderson said. “My plan was to winch whatever we were taking aboard close, then do some fancy flying to get the load aboard.”

  Back on the Oregon, Cabrillo shook his head in amazement. “Don’t try that on the second load.”

  “Why’s that, boss?”

  “Because the second load is me.”

  Michaels was staring out the window. A speck that was the Oregon came into view.

  “I have a visual,” she said.

  “We have you in sight,” Gunderson said, “and we’ll take it easy bringing you aboard, Mr. Chairman, don’t you worry.”

  “I’m going topside to strap up,” Cabrillo said. “Is there anything else you need?”

  Gunderson looked at Pilston and Michaels, who shook their heads no.

  “Maybe just some ham-and-cheese sandwiches,” Gunderson said.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Cabrillo said.

  “We’re descending now,” Gunderson said. “See you in a few.”

  CABRILLO opened the door and walked into the Magic Shop. Nixon had the Golden Buddha on a small table and was waving a small electronic radar device across the belly. He stared at a monitor and shook his head.

  “There’s a space there, boss,” Nixon said to Cabrillo, “but I’ll be damned if I can figure out the access.”

  Cabrillo stood thinking for a moment, then turned to Nixon. “Hand me a heat gun,” he said.

  Nixon walked over to the tool bench and removed a heat gun from a peg, attached an extension cord, then dragged it over to the Golden Buddha. Cabrillo flicked the switch on and started to heat the Buddha’s belly.

  “What are you thinking, boss?” Nixon asked over the roar of the heat gun.

  “People always want to rub Buddha’s belly for good luck,” Cabrillo said. “Rub something enough and you make heat.”

  Nixon reached over and touched the golden belly. It was becoming warm, like human skin.

  Cabrillo stared at the icon, then turned to Nixon. “Get me a single-edge razor blade,” he said.

  Nixon walked to the workbench, found a box of razor blades, grabbed them, then walked back, peeling the paper off one of the blades.

  “There,” Cabrillo said. “There’s a crack forming.”

  Nixon slid the blade into the tiny gap.

  “Slide in another,” Cabrillo said, “and begin to wedge off the belly plate.”

  Minutes passed as the gap widened. As it did, Cabrillo diverted the heat under the plate, which heated the glue applied centuries before. At last the crack was large enough that a hand could fit inside. Cabrillo handed Nixon the heat gun, slid his fingers inside the crack, then gently pried back the plate while Nixon continued heating the yak’s-hoof glue.

  Slowly the plate peeled back. Then, all at once, it came off in Cabrillo’s hand.

  He stared through the opening into an inner compartment. Inside lay ancient parchments rolled into a tube and secured with a decomposing strip of rawhide. Cabrillo reached in and carefully removed the bundle.

  Nixon looked at Cabrillo and smiled. “What now, boss?”

  “We copy them,” Cabrillo said quietly, “and put them back.”

  SUNG Rhee was in the center of a maelstrom of angry people. The admiral from the Chinese navy had called Beijing to report the damage to his ships, the two billion aires had both returned with teams of attorneys, and his assistant had just called to report that the mayor of Macau was downstairs and on his way up.

  And then his telephone rang.

  “I told you,” he told his receptionist, “no interruptions.”

  “President Hu Jintao’s office is calling.”

  “Put him through,” Rhee said, motioning with his hand to clear his office. “Put him through.”

  A few seconds later, a voice said, “President Jintao is on the line.”

  “Good morning, Mr. President,” Rhee said.

  “Good morning, Mr. Rhee,” Jintao said quietly. “I understand you had a bit of trouble last night.”

  Rhee began to sweat. “A…a minor theft,” he stammered. “Nothing we can’t handle, Mr. President.”

  “Mr. Rhee. We’ve received calls this morning from the United States embassy, the head of the Chinese navy, and the vice p
resident of Greece wanting to know why one of his ships was illegally stopped and boarded on your orders. That does not sound like a minor theft to me.”

  “There…has been some trouble here,” Rhee admitted.

  The telephone was silent for a few seconds. “Mr. Rhee,” Jintao said coldly, “I want you to tell me everything that happened. Right now, from the start.”

  Slowly, Rhee began speaking.

  GUNDERSON started a long lumbering turn around the Oregon. As he stared out the cockpit window, he could see a large balloon do a fast inflate, then head up in the air, towing a line.

  On the stern deck of the Oregon, Kevin Nixon checked the straps around the crate containing the Golden Buddha again. The three-pronged hook was duct-taped to the crate and would be used to yank Cabrillo aboard if they were successful getting the icon aboard the Antonov. Hanley stood off to the side, checking the fit on the harness that wrapped around Cabrillo’s chest and upper thighs. Satisfied it was properly attached, he snapped a smaller bag containing the sandwiches to one side of the harness.

  “The old Fulton Recovery System,” Cabrillo said. “You’d think with all our funds we’d have found a replacement by now.”

  “It’s so rare we’re this far offshore,” Hanley said. “Past the point our amphibian or a helicopter can reach us.”

  “You ever ridden one of these?” Cabrillo asked.

  “Never had the pleasure,” Hanley said, smiling.

  “It feels like a mule kicked you in the ass,” Cabrillo said.

  “That’s the least of your worries, the way I see it.”

  “How do you figure?” Cabrillo asked.

  “The only winch we could find was designed for light trucks,” Hanley noted. “I just hope they can reel you in fast enough before you strike the rear stabilizer.”

  “You make it all sound so appealing,” Cabrillo said wryly.

  The sound of the Antonov was growing louder.

  “Clear the decks,” Nixon shouted, “for the first approach.”