Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

“Now all I have to do is collect on our side deal,” Cabrillo said, “and we can be on our way.”

“Good luck, Mr. Chairman,” Hanley said.

“Cabrillo out.”

MEADOWS, Jones and Hornsby looked like three tourists on an Arizona mine tour.

They were wearing silver hard hats made from pressed metal, with small battery-operated lamps that spewed beams of light from the front. Hornsby was holding a blueprint that showed the underground drainage systems. The map looked like the tentacles of an octopus. Jones stared overhead as the first drops of water from the rain above filtered down through an aged tile drainpipe in the wall.

“Did the operations plans factor in possible rain?” he asked.

“As long as there isn’t a prolonged shower,” Hornsby noted, “we should be okay.”

“What if there is?” Jones asked.

“That’s not good,” Hornsby admitted.

“So we should get moving,” Meadows said.

“Exactly,” Hornsby said. “But let’s not worry too much—the plan states we can have six hours or so of continuous rain before the drains reach chest-high level.”

“We can be out of here by then,” Jones said.

“That’s the plan,” Hornsby agreed.

The Golden Buddha was resting on the wooden ramp. When Hornsby had entered the storm drain through a side tunnel earlier that evening, he had brought along a bag that contained four rubber-tired wheels that attached to the ramp. It was a crude arrangement, but it would allow the three men to wheel the heavy object along the tunnels. A pair of olive drab ditty bags was atop the crate containing the Golden Buddha; these contained emergency supplies and weapons. The entire affair stood at nearly chest height.

“Here’s where I came in,” Hornsby said. “It’s a shame we can’t leave the same way—it’s only about two hundred yards to the grate. The problem is, when we emerge, we’re right in the middle of town and the police should be everywhere by now.”

Meadows looked to where Hornsby’s finger was pointing. “So which way did the control room r

oute us?”

Hornsby traced the route with his finger.

“That’s a long way,” Jones noted.

“A couple of miles,” Hornsby agreed. “But we come out in a secluded spot alongside the Inner Port, where we can be extracted.”

Meadows wiped the edge of his hard hat to dispel a few drops of water, then walked around behind the Golden Buddha. “You’ve got the map, Horn Dog,” he said. “Why don’t you pull the front strap and navigate. Me and Jonesy will push from the rear.”

Slowly, the three men began trudging along the storm sewer. Outside, the rain grew in intensity. Within the hour, it was a full-fledged monsoon.

LINDA Ross walked into the Oregon’s control room. Max Hanley was pouring a cup of coffee from a pot on a side table. His face was lined with tension and Ross could see he was stressed.

“Reinholt’s rebounding,” she said quietly. “It looked worse than it was. If we keep any infections at bay, he should pull through.”

“Will there be any lasting damage?” Hanley asked as he motioned to the coffee and Ross walked over and poured a cup.

“The top of his ear is gone,” Ross said. “He’ll need plastic surgery to make that right.”

“How’s his attitude?”

“He came out of the stupor once and asked where he was,” Ross said. “When I told him he was on the Oregon, he seemed happy.”

“Propulsion engineers always seem more comfortable on board ship,” Hanley said.

“How’s the rest of the operation going?” Ross asked.