"What's a pair of Yanks doing way out here?" Hunt mused.
"Beats working in the shipyard back home in Erie, Pennsylvania," grinned Dave Schodt, an affable man like his brother who was quick with a joke.
"Been flying for the Chinese Ministry of Railroads, supporting rail extensions on the Peking—Shanghai line. Though work has come to a sudden halt with this unpleasantness by these Japanese folks," Randy Schodt explained with a smirk.
"I have a slight change in destination," Hunt said, sidestepping the banter. "I need you to fly me to Ulaanbaatar."
"Mongolia?" Schodt asked, scratching his head. "Well, as long as we're headed away from the neighborhood of the Nippon Army, I guess it's okay with me."
"I'll plot it out, see if we have the range to get there," Dave said, walking back to the plane. "Hopefully, they'll have a gas station when we arrive," he laughed.
With Schodt's help, Hunt supervised the loading of the more important artifacts and tools into the fuselage of the Fokker. When the wooden crates had nearly filled the interior, Hunt took the satchel with the lacquered box and carefully placed it on the front passenger's seat.
"That will be a hundred fifty miles less than the flight to Nanking. But we'll need return mileage, which exceeds what your British Museum people contracted me to fly," Schodt explained, spreading a map of the region across a stack of crates. Ulaanbaatar, the capital of Mongolia, was marked with a star in the north-central region of the country, over four hundred miles from the Chinese border.
"You have my authorization," Hunt replied, handing the pilot a handwritten request for the change in route. "I assure you, the museum will honor the additional expense."
"Sure they will, they don't want your artifacts to end up in the Tokyo Museum," Schodt laughed. Sticking the note in his pocket, he added, "Dave has the route to Ulaanbaatar laid in and promises we can make it in one hop. Since we'll be flying over the Gobi Desert, you're lucky the Blessed Betty has extra fuel tanks.
Whenever you're ready."
Hunt walked over and surveyed the two remaining mule carts still packed with equipment and artifacts.
Tsendyn stood holding the reins of the lead mule, stroking the animal's ears.
"Tsendyn, we have had a difficult but fruitful summer. You have been invaluable in the success of the expedition."
"It has been my honor. You have done a great service to my country and heritage. My heirs shall be particularly grateful."
"Take the remaining equipment and artifacts to Shijiazhuang, where you can catch the rail to Nanking. A representative from the British Museum will meet and arrange shipment of the items to London. I will wait for you in Ulaanbaatar, where we will investigate our latest find."
"I look forward to the next search with great anticipation," Tsendyn replied, shaking the archaeologist's hand.
"Farewell, my friend."
Hunt climbed aboard the loaded Fokker as the plane's three 220-horsepower Wright Whirlwind radial engines roared to life. Tsendyn stood and watched as Schodt turned the plane into the wind, then shoved the throttles to their stops. With a deafening roar, the aircraft jostled across the meadow, bouncing up and down several times before slowly lumbering into the air. Turning in a graceful arc low above the field, Schodt swung the big plane northwest toward the Mongolian border as it gradually gained altitude.
Tsendyn stood in the meadow and watched as the plane grew smaller on the horizon and the throbbing of the motors dissolved from his ears. Not until the aircraft had completely vanished from sight did he reach into the vest pocket of his coat for a reassuring touch. The bolt of silk was still there, as it had been since the early hours of the night before.
***
It was two hours into the flight when Hunt reached for the satchel and pulled out the lacquered box. The boredom of the flight mixed with the excitement of the find was too much to bear and he was drawn to run the silk painting through his fingers one more time. With the box in his hands, he felt the familiar weight of the bronze tube rolling around inside in a reassuring manner. Yet something didn't feel right.
Prying off the lid, he found the cheetah skin tightly rolled up and stuffed to one side, as it had been before. The bronze tube sat next to it, appearing secure. But picking the tube up, he noticed it felt heavier than he remembered. With a shaking hand, he quickly pulled off the cap, releasing an outpouring of sand that dribbled onto his lap. As the last grain tumbled out, he peered in and saw that the silk scroll had vanished.
His eyes bulged at the sudden realization that he'd been duped and he struggled to catch his breath. The shock quickly turned to anger and regaining his voice, he began screaming at the pilots.
"Turn back! Turn the airplane around! We must return at once," he cried.
But his plea fell on deaf ears. In the cockpit, the two pilots suddenly had something more troubling of their own to contend with.
***
The Mitsubishi G3M bomber, known in the west as a Nell, was not on a bombing mission at all. Flying casually alone at an altitude of nine thousand feet, the twin-engine aircraft was flying reconnaissance, probing the aerial resources of Russia that were rumored to have surfaced in Mongolia.
With its easy conquest of Manchuria and successful advance into northern China, the Japanese had sharpened their sights on the important seaports and coal mines of Siberia to the north. Leery of the Japanese intent, the Russians had already bolstered their defensive forces in Siberia, and recently signed a defense pact with Mongolia that allowed for the deployment of troops and aircraft in that mostly barren country. Already the Japanese were busy gathering intelligence, testing and probing the defensive lines in preparation for an outright northern offensive that would be launched from Manchuria in mid-1939.
The Nell had come up empty on its foray into eastern Mongolia, finding no sign of troop deployments or runway construction on behalf of Russian aircraft. If there was any Russian military activity in Mongolia, it would be much farther north, the Japanese pilot concluded. Below him was nothing but the occasional nomadic tribe, wandering the empty expanse of the Gobi Desert with their herd of camels.
"Nothing but sand out here," the Nell's copilot, a youthful lieutenant named Miyabe, said with a yawn. "I don't know why the wing commander is excited over this real estate."
"As a buffer to the more valuable territory to the north, I suspect," Captain Nobuji Negishi replied. "I just hope we get repositioned to the front when the northern invasion occurs. We're missing all the fun in Shanghai and Peking."
As Miyabe stared at the flat ground beneath the plane, a bright glint of sunlight briefly flashed out of the corner of his eye. Scanning across the horizon, he tracked the source of the light, squinting at what he saw.
"Sir, an aircraft ahead and slightly below us," he said, pointing a gloved hand toward the object.
Negishi peered ahead and quickly spotted the plane. It was the silver Fokker trimotor, flying northwest toward Ulaanbaatar.
"She's crossing our path," the Japanese pilot noted with a rise in his voice. "At last, a chance for battle."
"But sir, that's not a combat plane. I don't think it is even a Chinese airplane," Miyabe said, observing the markings on the Fokker. "Our orders are to engage only Chinese military aircraft."
"The flight poses a risk," Negishi explained away. "Besides, it will be good target practice, Lieutenant."
No one in the Japanese military was getting reprimanded for aggressive behavior in the Chinese theater, he well knew. As a bomber pilot, he would be afforded few opportunities to engage and destroy other aircraft in the skies. It was a rare chance for an easy kill and he wasn't about to pass it by.
"Gunners at your stations," he barked over the intercom. "Prepare for air-to-air action."
The five-man crew of the attack bomber were immediately energized as they manned their battle positions. Rather than play the quarry of smaller and quicker fighter aircraft, as was their lot in life, the bomber crew suddenly became the hunte
r. Captain Negishi mentally computed a dead-reckoning line of the trimotor's path, then eased back on the throttles and banked the bomber in a wide slow turn to the right. The Fokker slipped by beneath them until Negishi eased out of the turn, which brought the bomber around and behind the silver trimotor.
Negishi eased the throttles forward again as the Fokker loomed ahead. With a top speed of two hundred sixteen miles per hour, the Mitsubishi was nearly twice as fast as the Fokker and easily closed the gap.
"Ready with the forward guns," Negishi ordered as the unarmed plane grew larger in the gunsights.
But the trimotor was not going to pose like a sitting duck. Randy Schodt had seen the bomber first and tracked it as it curled around on to his tail. His hopes that the Japanese plane was just making a harmless flyby vanished when the Mitsubishi took up position squarely behind him and hung on his tail, rather than fly alongside. Unable to outrun the faster military aircraft, he did the next best thing.
The Japanese plane's turret gunner just squeezed the first round from his 7.7mm machine gun when the trimotor banked sharply left and seemed to stall in the air. The gunner's bullets sprayed harmlessly into the sky as the bomber quickly overshot the Fokker.
Negishi was caught completely off guard by the sudden maneuver and cursed as he tried to muscle the bomber back toward the smaller plane. The rattle of machine-gun fire echoed through the fuselage as a side gunner tracked the sudden juke by the Fokker and sprayed a long burst in its direction.
Inside the Fokker, Hunt swore louder at the pilots as crates of artifacts began tumbling around the interior of the plane. A loud crash told him that a crate of porcelain bowls was suddenly smashed by the plane's violent turns. It wasn't until the Fokker banked sharply right and Hunt caught a glimpse out the side window at the Japanese bomber that he realized what was happening.
In the cockpit, Schodt tried every trick in the book to shake the Mitsubishi, hoping that the bomber would abandon the pursuit. But the Japanese pilot was angered by the earlier rebuff and pursued the Fokker relentlessly. Time and again, Schodt would stunt and stall his aircraft to throw the bomber off his tail, causing the Japanese plane to circle around and reacquire the trimotor in its gunsights. The hunter would not give up the chase, and Schodt would soon find the Mitsubishi back on his tail again, until finally one of the gunners found his mark.
The Fokker's rear stabilizer was the first to go, shredded in a hail of lead. Negishi licked his chops, knowing the plane could no longer turn left or right without the control from the stabilizer. Grinning like a wolf, he brought the bomber in close for the kill. As the gunner fired again, he was shocked to see the Fokker once again juke to the right, then pull up in a stall.
Schodt wasn't through yet. With Dave jockeying the throttles on the two wing-mounted engines, Randy was still able to duck and weave away from the Mitsubishi. Once again, the gunfire burst harmlessly into the fuselage, Hunt grimacing as another crate of artifacts was decimated.
Wise to his opponent's tactics, Negishi finally swung the bomber around in a wide arc and approached the Fokker from the side. This time, there was no escaping the gunfire and the Fokker's right wing engine disintegrated under a fury of bullets. A plume of smoke burst from the engine as Schodt shut down the fuel line before the motor caught fire. Jockeying the remaining two engines, he continued to fight with all his skills to keep the Fokker airborne and out of harm's way, but his hourglass finally ran out. A well-placed shot by the Mitsubishi's topside gunner severed the Fokker's elevator controls and effectively ended the flight of the Blessed Betty.
Without the ability to control altitude, the wounded trimotor began a flat descent toward the ground.
Schodt watched helplessly as the Fokker plunged toward the dusty ground with its wings ajar.
Amazingly, the airplane held its balance, gliding downward, with its nose bent just a fraction forward.
Shutting down the remaining engines just before impact, he felt the left wingtip clip the ground first, throwing the plane into a clumsy cartwheel.
The crew of the Japanese plane watched with minor disappointment as the Fokker rolled across the ground, failing to explode or burst into flames. Instead, the silver trimotor simply flipped twice, then slid inverted into a sandy ravine.
Despite the difficulty in downing the civilian plane, a cheer rang out aboard the Mitsubishi.
"Well done, men, but next time we must do better," Negishi lauded then banked the bomber back toward its base in Manchuria.
On board the Fokker, Schodt and his brother were killed instantly when the cockpit was crushed on the first roll of the aircraft. Hunt survived the crash, but his back was broken and his left leg nearly severed.
He painfully clung to life for nearly two days before perishing in the jumbled wreckage of the fuselage.
With his last gasp of energy, he pulled the lacquered box close to his chest and cursed his sudden turn of luck. As his last breath left him, he had no idea that still clutched within his arms, he held the clue to the most magnificent treasure the world would ever see.
Part One
Seiche
-1-
Lake Baikal, Siberia
June 2, 2007
The still waters of the world's deepest lake radiate the deep translucent blue of a polished sapphire. Fed by cold ancient streams that are free of silt and sediments, Lake Baikal possesses remarkably crystalline clear waters. A tiny crustacean, Baikal epishura, aids the cause by devouring algae and plankton growths that degrade most freshwater lakes. The combination produces such a stunning clarity to the water that on a calm day, a silver coin can be seen from the surface at a one-hundred-foot depth.
Surrounded by craggy snowcapped peaks to the north and dense taiga forests of birch, larch, and pine to the south, the "Blue Pearl of Siberia" stretches as a beacon of beauty across an otherwise hostile landscape. Situated in the dead center of lower Siberia, the four-hundred-mile-long crescent-shaped lake curves south to north just above the border with Mongolia. A massive body of water, Lake Baikal is nearly a mile deep in some spots and holds one-fifth of all the fresh water on the planet, more than all of North America's Great Lakes combined. Just a few small fishing villages dot the lake's shore, leaving the enormous lake a nearly vacant sea of tranquility. Only at its southern end does the lake sprawl toward any significant population centers. Irkutsk, a modestly hip city to a half million Siberian residents, sits forty-five miles west, while the ancient city of Ulan-Ude lies a short distance from its eastern shoreline.
Theresa Hollema glanced up from a laptop computer and briefly admired the purple mountains at the edge of the lake, crowned by cotton-ball clouds that grazed their peaks. The Dutch geophysicist delighted in the clear blue skies that so seldom graced her home outside of Amsterdam. Drawing a deep breath of the crisp air, she subconsciously tried to absorb the scenery through all her senses.
"It is an agreeable day on the lake, no?" asked Tatiana Borjin. She spoke with a deep voice in the emotionless manner endemic to Russians speaking English. Yet the gruff tone and a businesslike personality didn't match her appearance. Although she resembled the local ethnic Buryats, she was, in fact, Mongolian. With long black hair, bronze skin, and almond-shaped eyes, she possessed a natural and robust beauty. But there was a deep intensity behind her dark eyes that seemed to take everything in life with harsh seriousness.
"I had no idea that Siberia was so beautiful," Theresa replied. "The lake is breathtaking. So calm and peaceful."
"She is a calm jewel at the moment but can turn wicked in an instant. The Sarma, sudden winds from the northwest, can burst onto the lake with the force of a hurricane. The local graveyards are filled with fishermen who failed to respect the forces of Baikal."
A slight chill ran up Theresa's spine. The locals seemed to constantly speak of the spirit of the lake.
Baikal's pristine waters were a proud cultural resource to the Siberians, and protecting the lake from industrial pollutants had fostered an enviro
nmental movement that had grown globally. Even the Russian government was surprised at the widespread outcry when it had first decided to build a wood-cellulose-processing plant on its southern shores fifty years earlier. Theresa just hoped that a Greenpeace rubber boat armada would not appear to assail their presence on the lake.
At least her involvement was relatively harmless, she convinced herself. Her employer, Royal Dutch Shell, had been contracted to survey a section of the lake for reported oil seeps. Nobody said anything about drilling or exploratory wells, and she was confident that would never happen on the lake anyway.
The company was just trying to cozy up to the owners of some exploratory Siberian oil fields in hope of landing more significant business.
Theresa had never heard of the Avarga Oil Consortium before traveling to Siberia but knew there were a variety of oil companies clamoring in the Russian marketplace. A few of the government-sponsored companies, like Yukos and Gazprom, grabbed all the headlines, but, like anywhere in the world, there were always some little wildcatters owning a smaller piece of the pie. From the looks of what she'd seen so far, the Avarga Oil Consortium didn't even have a piece of the crust.
"They're obviously not pumping their revenues into R & D," she joked to the two Shell technicians that accompanied her as they climbed aboard the leased survey boat.
"Clever how they designed her to resemble a decrepit fishing boat," cracked Jim Wofford, a tall, friendly geophysicist from Arkansas who wore a thick mustache and a ready smile.
The high-prowed black fishing boat looked like it should have been scuttled years earlier. The exterior paint was peeling everywhere and the whole vessel reeked of wood rot and dead fish. It had been decades since the brightwork had been polished, and only the occasional rainstorm accounted for any washing of the decks. Theresa noted with unease that the bilge pump ran continuously.
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