Golden Buddha

by Clive Cussler

  The Predator had found her prey.

  IN the hangar in Bhutan, Lincoln stared at the image from the Predator’s onboard cameras. Steering the Predator into another arcing turn, he lined up in front of the helicopters and flicked the trigger. Then he made another turn to see the results.

  The cargo planes were ablaze. The helicopters would join them in a second.

  At the same instant, 160 yards from the edge of the field, nearly one hundred Dungkar troops slid out from under white tarps that blended with the snow on the ground. Screaming a war cry, they raced toward the terminal. Dressed in black robes with ceremonial knives in their belts and handguns and rifles that had been smuggled into the country only days before, they swarmed like locusts into predetermined positions. From the south came the thumping sound of seven helicopters approaching. As the helicopter carrying Seng popped up to the plateau, he could see the fires from the Predator’s attack burning bright in the early morning.

  Then, as if a divine light was making its way to earth, a series of red light sticks began to flicker on the tarmac. The Dungkar were sending the message it was safe to land.

  “Land inside the box,” Seng said to the pilot.

  “Will do,” the pilot said, starting his descent.

  Seconds after the helicopter landed, Seng climbed from the front while King made his way from the rear. Seng quickly walked to the terminal, where he met up with the leader of the Dungkar. At the same time, King motioned to the troops for help, and then began to unload crates of rifles and ammunition from the cargo area.

  “What have you got?” Seng asked the man, who was no more than thirty.

  “The hangars over there,” the man said, pointing, “contain one fighter plane, one cargo plane and a pair of attack helicopters. The hangar next door must be for repairs—there is a helicopter disassembled and the fuselage of an observation plane with the engine removed.”

  Cabrillo had asked the Dalai Lama to make sure the Dungkar officers he picked were able to speak English. There was no time for his team to learn Tibetan and less time for misunderstanding.

  “Where did you go to school?” Seng asked.

  “Arizona State, sir,” the man said eagerly. “Go, Sun Devils.”

  “Good,” Seng said. “I’m sure you’re glad to be home—now, let’s see if we can keep it that way. First, I want a couple of your men to work with the guy coming in on that helicopter.” He pointed to another Bell, just touching down twenty yards away. “We need to rig these buildings with charges to burn them if necessary.”

  “I’ll put a dozen of my best men on it,” the man said eagerly.

  “How many Chinese have you captured?” Seng asked.

  “Less than a dozen, sir,” the man said. “One of mine dead—two of theirs.”

  The airport was a bedlam of activity. The fires burned at the far end of the field against the tapestry of the early morning, and the sound of the landing helicopters added a surreal element to the quiet air. All at once, solitude had become a salvo.

  “Listen carefully,” Seng said to the leader of the Dungkar forces, “this comes from the Dalai Lama himself. There will be no brutality or mistreatment of the prisoners—make sure your men know this clearly. Once this is all said and done, we’re returning whatever prisoners we capture to China—my company doesn’t want to hear of any atrocities whatsoever. This is a coup d’etat, not an ethnic cleansing. Are we clear on that?”

  “Company, sir?” the man asked. “Aren’t you United States troops?”

  “We’re from the States,” Seng said, “at least most of us, but we are a private firm now working under the direction of your leader. If you and the other Dungkar do what we order, in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, there will be a free Tibet once again.”

  “You’ve done this sort of thing before?” the man asked in amazement.

  “There’s no time for chitchat,” Seng snapped. “You all do exactly what you’re ordered and this will go as smoothly as possible.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” Seng said. “Bring the highest-ranking prisoner to the main terminal and have him seated in a chair and guarded. We’ll be setting up operations there in the next several minutes—then I want to speak to him.”

  The man shouted orders in Tibetan. The Dungkar soldiers lined up in rows. He explained what Seng had relayed, then ordered six sergeants to the forefront. Then one group led by a sergeant went off to round up the prisoners. Another split off to the helicopter Kasim had left.

  “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 o
ver. “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.

  41

  “DAMN 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.

  THE 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 slamm
ing into the door burst the lock.

  The door swung open and the Dungkar raced inside.

  AROUND 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.