by Tom Grace
“A Tibetan name,” Tao explained. “It means the presence. They’re talking about Tenzin Gyaltso. In the West, he is known as the Dalai Lama.”
“A fair analogy,” Kilkenny said.
The Tibetans greeted Yin’s response warmly and drew close around, questioning him further. All but ignored, Kilkenny stepped back and left Yin with his enthralled audience.
“Seems the natives have taken a liking to our holy man,” Gates opined.
“He definitely has a way with people,” Kilkenny observed.
“What are we going to do about them? You know the Chinese are going to come for that,” Tao said, nodding her head toward the burning helicopter.
“You can bet they reported sighting us before starting their attack,” Han added.
“And what about the bodies of our people?” Gates asked. “We can’t let the ChiComs get ’em.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Kilkenny replied, “and I have no intention of leaving our buddies behind.”
“How can we take them with us?” Han asked. “We have more passengers than seats.”
“One problem at a time. First, I think we need to offer a hecatomb to our fallen warriors.”
“A heck of what?” Han asked.
“He’s going Greek on us.” Gates rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen this before. It’s what happens when you read too much.”
“Would our Tibetan friends be offended if we cremated the remains of our dead?” Kilkenny asked Yin. “We don’t want their bodies desecrated by the Chinese military.”
Yin posed Kilkenny’s question to the group. After a brief discussion, he had an answer.
“Tibetan Buddhists bury their dead in earth or water, or in the sky.”
“The sky?” Kilkenny asked. “You mean cremation?”
“No. Sky burial is an old and honored tradition in Tibet. After the spirit has departed, the body is dismembered into small pieces and fed to a gathering of vultures. The bones are ground into powder and mixed with flour to make bread, which is also fed to the birds. It is the birds that take the body into the sky.”
“Not exactly a proper Christian burial,” Gates groused, disgusted by the idea.
“No, but the symbolism of the ceremony is quite moving. It reinforces the belief of oneness. I have attended sky burials and find them most poetic.”
“But what about cremation?” Kilkenny asked.
“Burning the remains of the dead is an accepted practice, but rarely done in this region as it requires a fuel, which is scarce.”
“At the moment, we have plenty of fuel.” Kilkenny turned to Han. “You want to give me a hand?”
Kilkenny and Han approached the body of Bob Shen. With the greatest care they moved it to the burning helicopter and cast it into the center of the flames. Next they added the remains of Gene Chun and Jim Chow. Finally, they cast into the fire the helmets of the fallen men and the dismantled wreckage of BAT-2 to prevent the technology from falling into Chinese hands.
Yin joined the Tibetans in a Buddhist prayer for the dead. Kilkenny did not understand the words but was moved nonetheless.
“We honor the sacrifice of our fallen comrades,” Kilkenny said in conclusion, “and offer them to the winds that they, too, may find their way home.”
“Nice hecatomb, Nolan,” Gates offered seriously.
“Just what is a hecatomb?” Han asked.
“Originally, it referred to the practice among ancient Greeks and Romans of sacrificing a hundred cows or oxen to commemorate a significant event and curry favor with the gods,” Kilkenny explained. “It also refers to the slaughter or sacrifice of many victims.”
“I’d say our guys are worth a lot more than a hundred head of cattle,” Gates added.
“After their victory at Troy,” Kilkenny continued, “many of the Achaeans, impatient to return to their homeland, failed to offer a proper sacrifice. Their gods were displeased, and the Achaeans never made it home.”
Gates leaned close to Han. “As I said, he’s going Greek on us.”
“Keep talking that way and I might go medieval on you instead,” Kilkenny offered.
“Hey!” Gates said excitedly. “I know that movie.”
“I thought you might. Now, to deal with our other problems.”
Kilkenny joined Yin and the Tibetans who were deep in conversation. “Bishop Yin, I have several requests for our new friends.”
“Yes?” Yin asked.
“First, after the fire dies down, would they please grind the bones of our people to dust? Second, we need to leave soon. Is there a boat we can use? Sadly, we will be unable to return it.”
Yin nodded.
“I don’t want them to be harmed for helping us, so when the Chinese arrive, I would like them to be truthful when questioned, but not too truthful.”
Yin relayed Kilkenny’s questions, and the Tibetans took a few moments to discuss the matter before responding.
“Norbu, the elder, says they would be honored to scatter the remains of our friends. He also says there is a boat we can use, something that was left by a tourist this past summer. His sons will show you where it is.”
“That’s very kind.”
“Relations between the Chinese and Tibetans are not always good,” Yin explained. “Norbu says he and his brothers will tell whoever comes as little as possible.”
“Perfect. They can say that the bodies of the dead were burned in the fire by the survivors, and that they saw only two people in the aircraft when it left, you and me.”
“And the others?”
“I was hoping they would just ‘forget’ to mention them.”
Yin relayed Kilkenny’s comments, starting another round of conversation that ended with Norbu posing another question to Yin.
“They will do as you ask, but they also have a request.”
“I’ll do whatever I can,” Kilkenny promised.
“The request is for me. They ask that when we reach the West, I convey their respects to Kundun.”
Kilkenny thought a moment. “I think we can arrange that.”
Kilkenny left Yin with the Tibetans and rejoined the rest of his team by the fire.
“What’s the plan?” Gates asked.
“You three and Yin are taking a boat to India, and I’m going to play decoy in the BAT.”
“You can’t be serious,” Tao said.
“It’s a bad move,” Gates agreed. “Anytime a guy splits off from the group in a horror movie, he ends up dead.”
“The Chinese know we’re trying to fly out. And since we downed their helo, they have to assume we’re still flying. We can’t all fit in BAT-1, and if we leave it here they’ll know we’re trying to get out some other way. If I give them something to chase, you’ll have a better chance of making it across the border.”
“I’m the pilot,” Han countered. “I should be taking the BAT.”
“You have a wife and kids, right?” Kilkenny asked.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t, and this expedition has created enough widows and orphans.”
“If being a family man is your criteria, then let me fly,” Gates said. “There’s still hope for you.”
“I appreciate that, Max, but I’d still rather have you in the boat. Look, this isn’t a kamikaze run—I fully intend to get out of China alive. We just need a distraction to cover your escape.”
“But why you?” Han asked.
“Peace of mind. If things go bad, I would rather it be me than any of you. Since I’m the boss, my order stands. Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I have a nuke to stow and a message to send.”
Kilkenny strapped BAT-2’s RITEG into the back of BAT-1 and pulled on his helmet.
“Satellite uplink on.”
SATELLITE UPLINK ACTIVATED
“Message encrypt, five words: One born every minute initially.”
CONFIRM: ONE BORN EVERY MINUTE INITIALLY
“Message confirmed.”
SEND TO?
“Bombadil.”
MESSAGE TRANSMITTED TO BOMBADIL
Kilkenny pulled off the helmet and scratched his head. He looked over at Yin. The Tibetans were treating the bishop with as much reverence as if he were a high lama of their faith.
“Gather ’round, everybody,” Kilkenny called out.
Everyone, including the Tibetans, joined Kilkenny beside the BAT.
“I just sent word to Rome, so with luck you won’t have too much trouble on the other side of the lake. You should get moving and take advantage of this fog for as long as it lasts. Judging by the flow out of these mountains, you’ll be moving with the current, so that should help.” Kilkenny turned to Yin. “Would you please express my deepest thanks to our Tibetan friends for all their help?”
As Yin spoke, Kilkenny bowed deeply to each of the men, who were pleased by the gesture. He turned to his comrades.
“No mushy goodbyes,” Kilkenny said. “I’ll meet up with you on the other side. Take care and get across that border.”
Yin stepped in front of Kilkenny, hands folded and head bowed. He lifted his head, slipped his thumbs inside the collar of his suit, and carefully drew out the hand-carved cross. He held it up for a moment of veneration before lowering it to his chest.
“Bow your head for a blessing,” Yin said softly.
Kilkenny clasped his hands together and lowered his head.
“O Lord Jesus, please watch over this man as he has watched over me. Protect him from harm and guide his journey home. Amen.”
“Amen,” Kilkenny answered.
Kilkenny lifted his head, and Yin extended a hand toward him. He grasped the small, slender hand and discovered warm steel within the grip. And in Yin’s gaze Kilkenny found an intensity and clarity reminiscent of the late Pope Leo.
“Only God knows what lies ahead for you and me,” Yin said, “and if the future differs from our hopes, I wish now to express my gratitude.”
“You’re welcome,” Kilkenny replied. “And Godspeed.”
58
VATICAN CITY
Grin awoke with a start as the riffs of “Gimme Shelter” poured from the computer’s speakers. He adjusted his glasses and clicked on the center of the logo to retrieve Kilkenny’s message.
ONE BORN EVERY MINUTE INITIALLY
“Not a story problem,” Grin howled. “I hate story problems.”
He dismissed this thought as quickly as it came, writing it off to his body’s natural desire for an undisturbed sleep cycle—something he had missed over the past two weeks.
Then he thought about the original quote: There’s a sucker born every minute. It was a cynical expression, to be sure, but it perfectly expressed the view of the master showman who coined it. Grin wondered what message Kilkenny was trying to send with it.
If there’s one born every minute initially, Grin thought, what happens afterward?
He wondered how time figured into this, and what was causing the initial minute to change. He quickly filled a clean page on his legal pad with every random thought that flashed into his sleep-deprived brain. His mind finally went blank, the well empty.
“Initial minute, initial time,” he said aloud, hoping the sound of his own voice might reignite his synapses.
“Initial,” Grin said again, the word becoming almost a mantra.
Then he saw the first line he’d written on the page.
There’s a sucker born every minute—P.T. Barnum
If it isn’t time, Grin mused, maybe it is initials.
He circled Barnum’s first and middle initials and brought up the map of the region where he believed Kilkenny was located. In the middle of one of the valleys that ran from Tibet in Ladakh, he saw a long thin lake shaped like a flattened letter N. On the Tibetan side, the lake was called Bangong Co, but across the border it became Pangong Tso.
P.T. Ah, Pangong Tso! He had it.
Grin picked up the phone and dialed Donoher. The camerlengo answered before the second ring.
“You’ve heard from Nolan?” Donoher asked.
“Yeah, and something’s happened. I got a very specific message pointing to a lake that straddles the border between China and India. It’s right through one of the valleys I thought he’d use.”
“Then you were right.”
“About the valley, yeah, but Nolan’s pointing us to the lake, or specifically the Indian side of the lake. I don’t think they’re in the air anymore—they’re traveling by water.
“Which means they’ll be on foot once they reach India. I’ll pass the word to our people there,” Donoher said. “Let me know if you hear anything else.”
59
TIBET
The black plume rising against the vivid blue sky provided an unmistakable visual marker of the Harbin’s crash site. Liu squirmed impatiently in the rear seat behind the weapons operator, irritable about how the scale of the terrain made distances deceptive.
“How much longer?” he fussed.
“Just a few minutes, sir,” the pilot replied calmly. He had carried VIPs before.
As they neared the site, the plume grew from a thin reed of smoke into a thick black column. Flames licked furiously at the skeletal frame of the helicopter, liquefying soft metals and devouring anything that would burn.
Three Tibetans sat on the ground upwind of the blaze. They watched the helicopter circle, looking for a level place to land, but made no move to flee or welcome the new arrivals.
The Harbin hovered over a relatively level patch of earth, extended its landing gear, and touched down. The pilot kept the blades running in case the ground proved unstable, and Liu and Peng exited from the rear doors. Both were dressed in flight suits and helmets, and they crouched as they ran beneath the nearly invisible main rotor.
“You there!” Liu shouted as he approached the Tibetans. “What are you doing here?”
“Watching the fire,” Norbu replied in halting Chinese.
“Did you see what happened?” Peng asked calmly.
“We saw smoke and came to see what was burning. It is a very large fire.”
“Did you see anything else, any other aircraft?”
“We saw two. One was damaged and one was not. The men in gray put the damaged one in the fire. They did not want you to find it. They also put their dead in the fire.”
“Please describe the men,” Peng asked. “How many and what did they look like?”
“There were two men. An elder, Chinese like you, and a tall foreigner.”
“No others?” Liu demanded.
“They are dead.”
“What happened after they burned their dead?” Peng asked.
“The two men flew away on a strange machine.”
“Where did they go?”
Norbu and the others pointed west, in the direction of the village of Rutog.
“Why didn’t you stop them?” Liu said angrily.
“The old one was a holy man,” Norbu explained.
“You spoke with these men?”
“Yes.”
Liu stepped away in a rage, trying to gather his thoughts. He pointed at the burning wreckage. “That was a military helicopter. Its job is to defend China against foreign aggression. When you discovered a foreigner here, in China, next to a destroyed Chinese helicopter, did you not think this foreigner might have been the cause?”
“We did not see what happened,” Norbu replied calmly. “We do not know the cause of the accident.”
“Thick-headed fools!” Liu shouted. “The foreigner shot it down!”
Liu pulled out his pistol and shot Norbu in the head. Norbu’s brothers tried to flee but were shot before they could scramble to their feet.
“Why did you do that?” Peng asked, stunned by Liu’s brutality.
“They were criminals,” Liu replied as he replaced the spent rounds in his pistol.
“These men had done nothing.”
“They abetted foreign invaders and a fugitive enemy of the state. Their inaction was both criminal and unpatriotic.�
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“But that’s a matter for the courts to decide.”
“And I have just saved the Ministry of Justice a considerable amount of time and money in reaching the same conclusion,” Liu replied confidently. “Come, there’s still hope we can catch Yin.”
Liu and Peng climbed back into the helicopter and plugged their helmets back into the communications system.
“Sir,” the pilot said, “there’s been a report of an unusual aircraft flying low over the outskirts of Rutog about twenty-five minutes ago.”
“How far is Rutog?”
“Under five minutes.”
“Get us there.”
60
“Not much of a beach,” Gates said as they walked along the rocky shore of the lake following Norbu’s sons, Rinzen and Tashi.
Han dipped his fingers into the cold water, tasted it, and winced. “Fishing can’t be much either. Too salty.”
A helicopter roared overhead, though with the fog they could neither see it nor be seen by it.
“I hope Nolan has a good head start,” Tao said.
“My prayers are with him as well,” Yin added.
Rinzen and Tashi raced forward excitedly, urging the others to follow. Through the mist, they saw a number of large and small shapes on the shore. As they drew close, the shapes took form as boats.
“This must be the marina here in Lake Woebegone,” Gates opined.
Gates walked up to one of the boats. It had a flat wooden top and several large inflated bladders as pontoons underneath. On closer inspection, he noticed stubs sticking out of the bladders and tightly woven seams.
“What is this?”
“Goat, of course,” Yin replied. “When sealed properly, it makes a good vessel for air.”
“And I thought I’d seen everything.”
“The hide on those boats is yak stretched over a wooden frame,” Yin pointed out. “Flexible and watertight.”
“Is this what we’re taking all the way to India?” Han said skeptically.
“Naw,” Gates replied. “To carry the four of us, we’d need something bigger, maybe made out of a yeti.”
Norbu’s Tibetan sons passed the traditional Tibetan boats and finally stopped at the one they were looking for. Unlike the other boats, this one was slender with a hard finish; to Gates’s eyes, it was recognizable. He ran his hand over the smooth granite-gray hulls and found the name molded into the polyethylene: Windrider Rave.