In all that time, Overholt had never seen a situation quite this ominous. This was not a king or a queen in peril, not a pontiff or dictator. This was the head of a religion. A man who was a God-king, a deity, a leader that traced his lineage back to A.D. 1351. If something did not happen quickly, the communist scourge would soon be taking him prisoner. Then the human chess match would be over.
IN Mandalay, Burma, Overholt’s message was received and forwarded to Saigon where it was transferred to Manila, then over a secure underwater cable to Long Beach, California, then on to Washington, D.C.
As the situation in Tibet continued to deteriorate, the CIA started to assemble a force in Burma. The group was not large enough to defeat the Chinese, just large enough to slow them down until more heavily armed ground troops could be brought to bear.
Disguised as a front company named Himalayan Air Services, the armada consisted of fourteen C-47s: ten that could drop supplies and four that had just been converted to first-generation gunships. This force was augmented with six F-86 fighters and a lone, fresh-off-the-assembly-line Boeing B-52 heavy bomber.
ALAN Dulles sat in the Oval Office, puffing on his pipe and pointing out the situation to President Eisenhower. Then the CIA director sat back and let the president think for a moment. Several minutes passed in silence.
“Mr. President,” he said at last, “the CIA took the liberty of arranging a first-strike force in Burma. If you say the word, they’ll be airborne in an hour.”
Since his election in 1952, Eisenhower had faced the McCarthy hearings, the first advisors into Vietnam and a heart attack. He’d had to order ten thousand troops to Little Rock, Arkansas, to enforce integration; witness the Soviets take the lead in space; and have his vice president stoned by hostile crowds in Latin America. Now Cuba had a communist leader only ninety miles from U.S. soil. He was weary.
“No, Alan,” he said quietly, after a pause. “I learned as a general that you have to know how to pick your fights. We need to stay clear of this Tibet situation right now.”
Dulles rose and shook Eisenhower’s hand. “I’ll notify my men,” he said.
In Overholt’s command post in Lhasa, the ashtray on the table near the radio was filled with the stubs of unfiltered cigarettes. Hours passed, with only the confirmation that the radio transmission had been received. Every half hour, Tibetan messengers delivered intelligence. Visual reconnaissance reported that the crowds outside the palaces near Lhasa were growing minute by minute, but the messengers were unable to take an accurate count. Tibetans continued to stream down from the mountains, armed with sticks, rocks and knives. The milling mass would be cannon fodder for the well-armed Chinese.
So far the Chinese had taken no action, but the reports mentioned troop buildups on the roads leading into the fabled city. Overholt had seen this same scenario unfold five years ago in Guatemala, when a crowd supporting the anticommunist rebels under Carlos Armas had suddenly sparked. Chaos had ensued. Forces under President Jacobo Arbenz had begun to fire into the crowd to restore order, and before dawn broke, the hospitals and morgues had been filled to capacity. Overholt had organized the demonstration and the knowledge clouded his mind like a shroud.
Just then the radio crackled.
“Top Hat negative, over.”
Overholt’s heart skipped a beat. The planes he sought were not coming.
“Papa Bear will okay sweeping the path if critically necessary during extraction. Advise on departure and subsequent travel, over.”
Eisenhower said not to attack Lhasa, Overholt thought, but Dulles has agreed to cover the escape out of Tibet on his own, if it came to that. If he worked things right, Overholt thought, he wouldn’t need to put his boss’s ass on the line.
“Sir?” the radio operator asked.
Overholt was jarred from his thoughts.
“They’re expecting a reply,” the operator said quietly.
Overholt reached for the microphone. “Acknowledged and agreed,” Overholt said, “and thank Papa Bear for the gesture. We’ll call from the road. Closing office, over.”
The radio operator stared up at Overholt. “Guess that’s that.”
“Break it all down,” Overholt said quietly, “we’ll be leaving soon.”
INSIDE the yellow wall, preparations for the Dalai Lama’s escape into exile were moving at a blistering pace. Overholt was cleared past the guards and waited to be seen. Five minutes later, the Dalai Lama, wearing his black-framed prescription glasses and yellow robes, entered the office in the administration room. The spiritual leader of Tibet looked weary but resigned.
“I can tell by your face,” he said quietly, “no help is coming.”
“I’m sorry, Your Holiness,” Overholt replied. “I did all that I could.”
“Yes, Langston, I am certain you did. However, the situation is as it is,” the Dalai Lama noted, “so I have decided to go into exile. I cannot risk the chance of my people being slaughtered.”
Overholt had arrived expecting to use all his powers of persuasion to convince the Dalai Lama to flee—instead he found the decision had already been made. He should have expected as much—over the years he had grown to know the Dalai Lama, and he had never seen anything that made him doubt the leader’s commitment to his people.
“My men and I would like to accompany you,” Overholt offered. “We have detailed maps, radios and some supplies.”
“We’d be glad to have you come along,” the Dalai Lama said. “We leave shortly.”
The Dalai Lama turned to leave.