Golden Buddha of-1

by Clive Cussler

“For now,” Jintao said, “until we figure out what is happening.”

  “WHERE are we at on this thing?” the president of the United States asked.

  “Off the record, sir?” the Director of Central Intelligence asked.

  “I did not sneak you into the White House through the underground tunnel so that I could discuss it tonight on Larry King, Director. Yes, completely off the record.”

  “It’s progressing perfectly,” the DCI noted. “And we are shielded behind an armor of deniability that couldn’t be penetrated with an antitank round.”

  “How soon before you need me to do my thing?” the president asked.

  “Tomorrow,” the DCI said, “if all goes according to plan.”

  “Then,” the president said, rising, “you make sure it does.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” the DCI said as the president walked through the door and down the hall to a state dinner that was already in progress.

  THEOregon was flying across the water. The schedule called for the ship to stop in Ho Chi Minh City. Once there, the operatives that would be needed in Tibet would be off-loaded and flown in a C-130 northwest to Bhutan. Then the Oregon would continue on, passing Singapore. Traversing the Strait of Malacca, the vessel would race north into the Bay of Bengal, arriving off Bangladesh on Easter Day.

  That was the closest to Tibet that the Oregon would ever be.

  No one in the Corporation enjoyed it when the Oregon and her battery of electronics and firepower were far from the operation. The ship was the lifeline to the crew, their home away from home, their anchor in the stormy sea of intrigue where they operated.

  Ross and Kasim were doing their best to smooth the difficulty.

  “I’ve tested the satellite uplink,” Kasim said. “The Oregon will have command-and-control capability. Everyone will be reachable either by radio or secure telephone.”

  Ross glanced up from her computer screen. “I’m programming the drones. We have two. That’s less than I would like, but they’re just so damn expensive.”

  “Who will fly them?” Kasim asked.

  “They will need to be operated from within three hundred miles,” she noted. “Thimbu or inside Tibet itself.”

  Kasim nodded.

  She scanned a sheet of paper that listed crew qualifications. “Four of us are trained in the operation. You, me, Lincoln and Jones.”

  “Lincoln would stand out in Tibet like a debutante at a tractor pull,” Kasim noted. “If he operates the drone, at least he’ll be hidden inside a tent. If I were you, I’d recommend to Hanley he get the job.”

  Ross nodded her head in agreement. “He’s good,” she said, “and the drones are critical—they will be our only eyes in the sky. If Lincoln can keep them over station above Lhasa Airport, the control room here can watch the action unfolding.”

  “What have the Chinese got in Tibet to shoot them down?” Kasim asked.

  Ross glanced at the sheet listing Chinese defenses that had been recently smuggled out of Tibet by the underground freedom movement. “Some old antiaircraft guns and one ten-year-old missile defense battery. Around Gonggar Airport near Lhasa there’s not much,” she said. “Looks like a couple of cargo planes, some helicopters, and rifles carried by the troops.”

  “I’d make a note to Hanley to target the antiaircraft guns for early destruction,” Kasim said, “then have Lincoln fly only one drone at a time.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Ross said. “If he flies high, he can scan the entire city, plus keep the bird out of sight of riflemen.”

  “Makes sense,” Kasim said.

  “What do you find for radio and television transmitters?”

  “There is one television,” Kasim said, “and a pair of radios. We need quickly to gain control of both so we can keep the Tibetan people alerted.”

  “What’s the report say?” Ross said. “Will they rally against the Chinese when the time comes?”

  “We think so,” Kasim said, “and God help the Chinese when they do.”

  “The Dungkar?” Ross said.

  “Tibetan for blackbirds with red beaks,” Kasim said. “The fighting arm of the Tibetan underground.”

  Ross glanced at the sheet holding the assembled intelligence. “When it is time, we will feed on the carcasses of the oppressors and the beaks will be red with blood and the day will be black with death.”

  “Brings a chill to my spine,” Kasim said.

  “And I thought,” Ross said, “we had the air conditioning too cold.”

  ONE floor below where Ross and Kasim were planning, Mark Murphy was in the armory. Munitions and crates were piled to one side, and Sam Pryor and Cliff Hornsby were slowly moving them toward the elevator to be taken to an upper storage area where they would be off-loaded in Da Nang. On each crate to be used, Murphy attached a red-taped sticker. Then the contents were labeled with a felt-tipped pen. He was singing a ditty while he worked.

  “I’m a gonna blow some stuff up tomorrow,” he said. “Gonna blow me up some stuff.”

  Pryor wiped his forehead with a handkerchief before bending down to lift another crate to carry to the elevator. “Shoot, Murph,” he said, “you packing enough C-6?”

  “You can’t have too much,” Murphy said, smiling, “at least in my opinion. Heck, it doesn’t spoil and you never know what might come up.”

  “You got enough here to blow up an Egyptian pyramid,” Hornsby said, walking into the room after placing his crate in the elevator, “and enough mines to register shock waves on a seismograph.”

  “Those are for the airport,” Murphy said. “You don’t want the Chinese to be able to land troops, do you?”

  “Land?” Pryor said. “You use all these, there won’t be an airport.”

  “I have other plans for some of them,” Murphy said.

  “I’ve got the feeling you’re looking forward to this,” Hornsby said.

  Murphy started singing again as he walked over to crates of Stinger missiles and began to attach the red tags. Letting loose a long whistle, he finished with the sound of a blast.

  Hornsby and Pryor carried crates out the door and headed for the elevator.

  “I’d sure hate to have him mad at me,” Pryor said.

  37

  THE Antonov was less than a hundred miles from Da Nang, heading due west. At its current speed, the plane would touch down in about forty minutes, or just around 4:30 P.M. local time. The biplane, although slow, had performed flawlessly. Gunderson balanced the yoke with his knees and reached into the air and stretched.

  “This baby’s a peach,” he said to Cabrillo.

  “After this mission is completed, you can check into buying one for the company, if you think we’ll use it enough,” Cabrillo said.

  “Take the wings off and we could probably fit it into a forty-foot shipping container,” Gunderson said. “If we had Murphy mount a fire cannon out the door, we’d have a hell of a gunship.”

  For the last hour Cabrillo had been checking arrangements with the Oregon over his secure telephone. The last call from Hanley had placed the Gulfstream G550 on final approach to Da Nang airfield. Cabrillo was nodding at Gunderson’s comment when his telephone buzzed again.

  “The Gulfstream’s on the ground and refueled,” Hanley told him. “The pilot is setting the course now. I contacted General Siphondon in Laos and received permission for you to cross through their airspace.”

  “How is the general?” Cabrillo asked.

  “His usual self,” Hanley said. “Dropping hints about a classic car he’d like.”

  “At least he’s upfront about his wants,” Cabrillo said. “And an old-car fetish I can understand. What is it he’s after?”

  “Hemi Roadrunner convertible,” Hanley said. “Apparently some Air America pilot had one shipped over to use during the war. The general was only a kid then, but it stuck in his mind.”

  “Any around?”

  “I’ve got Keith Lowden in Colorado checking out the market,�
� Hanley said. “He’ll get back to us when he knows what’s available.”

  “Excellent,” Cabrillo said. “Now what about Thailand and Myanmar?”

  “All cleared,” Hanley said, “so it’ll be a straight shot to India.”

  “C-130?”

  “She’s due to leave Bhutan and touch down in Da Nang just after eight P.M.”

  “Do you have the team ready?” Cabrillo asked.

  “They’ll be ready by the time the Oregon reaches port,” Hanley said.

  “This is a tight timetable,” Cabrillo said, “and we only have one shot at this.”

  “No do-overs,” Hanley said quietly.

  “No do-overs,” Cabrillo agreed.

  IN northern India at Little Lhasa, the oracle was deep in a trance. The Dalai Lama sat to one side as the man spun and danced. From time to time the oracle would race over to a sheet of rice paper and scribble notes furiously, then return to his ritualistic motions. A strange animal-like sound seeped from his vocal cords and drops of sweat flew through the air.

  At last he collapsed in a heap on the floor and his helpers removed the headpiece and robes.

  The Dalai Lama picked up a wooden bowl filled with water, dampened a sheep’s skin, then stepped over, bent down, and began to wash the sweat from the aging man.

  “You did well,” he said in a soothing voice. “There is much information written on the sheets.”

  The oracle allowed the Dalai Lama to drip some water into his mouth. He swished it around and spit it to the side. “I saw bloodshed and fighting,” he said quietly. “Much bloodshed.”

  “Let us pray not,” the Dalai Lama said.

  “But there was a second way,” the oracle said. “I think that is what I wrote.”

  “Bring some tea and tsampa,” the Dalai Lama ordered an aide, who rushed out of the room.

  Twelve minutes later, the oracle and the Dalai Lama were sitting around a table in the great room. The Tibetan tea, flavored with salt and butter, as well as the tsampa, roasted barley flour usually mixed with milk or yogurt, had brought the color back to the oracle’s cheeks. Where only moments before he had seemed aged and weak, he now appeared animated and in control.

  “Your Holiness,” he said eagerly, “shall we see what I received?”

  “Please,” the Dalai Lama said.

  The oracle stared at the sheets of rice paper. The letters were in an ancient script only he and a few others could read. He read them through twice, then smiled at the Dalai Lama.

  “Is someone from the west coming to see you?” the oracle asked.

  “Yes,” the Dalai Lama said, “later this evening.”

  “Here is what you tell him,” the oracle said.

  Thirty minutes later, the Dalai Lama nodded and smiled at the oracle.

  “I will have my aides prepare notes to buttress our argument,” he said, “and thank you.”

  Rising from the chair, the oracle walked unsteadily from the room.

  LANGSTON Overholt was using a borrowed office in a far corner of the compound at Little Lhasa. He was speaking on a secure line to the director of Central Intelligence in hushed tones.

  “I didn’t order that,” he said. “I simply don’t have the apparatus in China to pull it off.”

  “The estimates from our people on the ground place the number at five hundred and growing,” the DCI noted.

  “I’ll ask the contractor,” Overholt said, “but it may just be a lucky break.”

  “Whatever the case,” the DCI said, “reports say the Chinese are paying close attention to the protests.”

  “What about the Mongolians?” Overholt asked.

  “I had a secret meeting with their ambassador,” the DCI said. “They’ll play it either way.”

  “What did that cost?” Overholt asked.

  “Don’t ask,” the DCI said, “but suffice it to say the United States’ strategic reserves of tungsten and molybdenum won’t need replenishing for some time.”

  “That gives us choices for the contractor to offer to the Russians,” Overholt said.

  “As soon as he meets with them, I need to know what they have decided,” the DCI told him.

  “No matter what the time,” Overholt said.

  “Day or night,” the DCI said before disconnecting.

  GUNDERSON could not believe the lift the pair of wings gave the Antonov. Though he and the others had been flying the plane for nearly eight hours, this was the first time he had needed to land. Lining up to land, he floated the Antonov down to the runway like a feather fluttering to the floor. Halfway down the length of the runway, Gunderson realized he’d need to force the plane to the ground. Moving the yoke forward, he felt the wheels finally touch.

  “Sorry about that, boss,” he said, pointing out the window at the Gulfstream on the far end of the runway. “She floats like a butterfly. I’ll taxi us back over to the Gulfstream.”

  Cabrillo nodded and unsnapped the seat belt. Walking into the cargo area, he began to collect his things. Lifting the stack of bearer bonds, he placed them all in his bag, then thought better of that. He turned his head toward the cockpit.

  “Do you have to take the plane back south again?” he asked Gunderson.

  “No, sir,” Gunderson said, slowing as he approached the Gulfstream. “Gannon worked it out—the company will pick it up here. The ladies are boarding the Oregon, and I’m flying north on the C-130 as soon as it arrives.”

  Cabrillo began to count the pile. When he finished, he spoke again.

  “I’m leaving you a pile,” he said to everyone. “Give them to Hanley when he arrives. Tell him I took the rest north—I may need them to grease some wheels.”

  Gunderson stopped the Antonov, then reached for the checklist for postflight. “Okay, boss,” he said as he started through the steps to shut down the engine. Michaels was unlatching the door while Pilston stood off to the side.

  “You have some time to kill until the Oregon arrives,” Cabrillo said. “You’ll have guards from the Vietnamese air force, but I’d stay close. Hanley will make payment to their general when he arrives, so you shouldn’t have to deal with much.”

  “Will they take us to a bathroom?” Michaels asked.

  “I’m sure they will,” Cabrillo said as he walked for the door, “but one at a time, please. And whatever you do, don’t let anyone know you have that stack of bonds.”

  “You got it, boss,” Gunderson said.

  Cabrillo stopped at the door for a second. “Ladies, Tiny,” he said, smiling, “I’ll see you soon.”

  Then he stepped off the Antonov and began walking to the Gulfstream. The pilot and copilot were standing next to the open door. The pilot smiled at Cabrillo and motioned for the step.

  “We’re ready for you, sir,” he said. “Welcome aboard.”

  “There’s a box on the biplane,” Cabrillo said. “Get some help and haul it aboard.”

  Cabrillo walked up the ramp, made his way to a seat, and then waited while the pilots got the crate loaded inside, shut the door, and started the engines. Two minutes later, they were airborne. The Gulfstream was still climbing to cruising altitude when they crossed over the mountains of Laos.

  IN Novosibirsk, Russia, General Alexander Kernetsikov was staring at a large chalkboard inside a hangar at the airport. Troops and material continued to pour into the area at a rate of deployment seldom seen in times of peace. There were thousands of details to attend to, but there was one that bothered Kernetsikov the most.

  “Have we received an answer yet?” he said to his aide. “If this is a go, I need to know which fork to take at Barnaul. We either violate Kazakhstan and enter China near Tacheng, or we need to move the troops into Mongolia, take the road toward Altaj and cross over the mountains there, then sweep quickly across the plains and pass Lop Nur.”

  The aide stared at the general. Lop Nur was the home of the Chinese nuclear test base and he imagined it would be heavily defended. The other route featured mountains that we
re still covered in snow. It was like choosing between a root canal and ripping off a toenail.

  “There’s been no communication, General,” the aide said, “including whether this is not merely an exercise in fast deployment and war planning.”

  “It’s just a feeling,” the general said quietly, “but I think that before this is over, we’ll be crossing the mountains like Hannibal.”

  The aide nodded. Every good officer under whom he had served had a strong sense of history. He just hoped the general was wrong—facing off with the Chinese, even with the firepower they had amassed, was not a welcome thought.

  IN Beijing, General Tudeng Quing was offering President Jintao a possible solution.

  “If we pull all but two thousand troops out of Tibet, concentrating those left only in Lhasa, we could divert the rest to U¨ rümqi in the Xinjiang Province. They could be in place starting tomorrow.”

  “How many?” Jintao asked.

  “Say a thousand by plane in the next few hours,” Quing said. “The tanks and armored carriers have a nine-hundred-mile journey. Running them full out at forty miles an hour with refueling and such, they could be in place tomorrow this time.”

  “We don’t have any troops closer?” Jintao asked.

  “Airborne, we can bring them in from anywhere,” Quing noted. “It’s the armor we need—other than Tibet, the closest armored division we require is almost twice that distance away, and the trip is over rougher terrain. My aides have calculated three or four days minimum.”

  Jintao sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Then he turned to Legchog Raidi Zhuren, the chairman of the Tibet Autonomous Region, who had so far remained quiet.

  “Will two thousand troops give you a sufficient level of security until we can replace your armor in four or five days?” Jintao asked.

  “Mr. President,” Zhuren said. “Tibet has been quiet for years—I don’t see that changing any time soon. Now, if I may be excused, I should be leaving for my return to Tibet.”

  Jintao turned to General Quing. “Order it done.”