Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

ON board the 737, the final clearance was approved at the same time as the Chevrolet SUV passed in front of the main airport terminal. In the distance, the billionaire could see a line of police cars blocking the road. Turning his head, he could see through the rain the flashing lights on the wings and fuselage of his burgundy 737 as it lifted from the runway and headed out over the bay.

“Destination?” Judy asked.

“Singapore,” Gunderson answered. “Now tell me—how was it for you and Tracy?”

“We took a couple for the team,” Judy said. “Then he got tired.”

28

THE full fury of the storm descended on Macau only a few minutes after Gunderson and the 737 cut a wide arc out over the South China Sea to head south. Inside the storm sewer, the waters were rising faster now, and the rafts holding the Golden Buddha and his three liberators hurtled faster toward salvation or destruction.

Prior to reaching each junction, one of the men would climb off the raft and drag the rear rope to slow the raft with the Golden Buddha. Then he would push the side of the raft toward the proper channel and let the current do the rest. The randomly spaced overhead pipes that drained into the main sewer were running full now, and each time the rafts passed under the spray some of the water made it into the floors of the rafts. The men were using their hats to bail out the buildup, but as each mile passed the effort was becoming harder and harder.

Hornsby stared at the blueprint carefully. “We’ve passed the halfway point,” he said, “but if we make the same rate of progress and the water continues to rise at the current pace, by the time we reach the exit to the Inner Harbor the water will be almost at the top of the pipe.”

“The Oregon will have sent help by now,” Jones said, “and they will have a copy of the blueprints.”

Meadows wiped some water from his forehead before speaking. “That doesn’t change the problems we face. It just places more people in harm’s way.”

Hornsby was standing in water up to his waist, pushing the raft with the Buddha to the left with his hip. Once the raft entered the other stream and started to move, he rolled back inside the following raft. “Not only that,” he said, “if the pace continues when we do reach the Inner Harbor—if we do—it will be at first light and then we risk detection.”

Hornsby turned his head. He could see Jones grinning in the dim light from his faltering hard-hat lamp. Then he spoke.

“We’re the Corporation,” Jones said quietly. “We’re always one step ahead.”

The trio of men nodded as the pair of rafts hurtled faster in the growing current toward a rendezvous with a rescuing force that was fighting problems of their own.

THE four-stroke outboard on the Zodiac being driven by Mark Murphy was blasting water out of its jet drive. The current was running stronger every few feet, but the powerful engine was propelling the craft forward in spite of the strong stream running against the bow. To the middle of the inflatable, Hali Kasim was unscrewing the tubular metal top that supported a canvas sun awning and the electronics sensors to gain a few feet of needed clearance. Finishing the job, he stacked the last of the pipes inside the Zodiac and turned to Murphy.

“Maximum headroom,” he said. “Now hit the gas. If we don’t meet up with the other team and tow them out of here soon, we’re all going to be swimming.”

Murphy advanced the throttle and steered around a bend. For lights he used a handheld spotlight; for navigation, a portable GPS unit held between his knees. “Find the air horn,” Murphy said to Kasim. “I have a feeling we’ll need it soon.”

SHEETS of rain washed from east to west as Rick Barrett steered the Scarab close to the southernmost strip of man-made land that comprised the Macau airport. Barrett was wearing a bright yellow rain suit that should have made him stand out, but in the dark of night and the pouring rain, he and the Scarab were virtually invisible. He listened for a sound in his earpiece but heard only static.

Scanning the shoreline with a pair of night-vision binoculars, he began to fear the worst.

“WHAT do you mean?” Po shouted in anger.

The head of the Macau Public Works Department was far from happy himself. He’d been awakened from a sound sleep and ordered to make his way to his office to locate the blueprints of the storm sewer system. Once there, he had been unable to find the documents.

“I mean that they are gone,” the man told Po. “Deleted from the computers, and the hard copies removed from the office.”

“Are you certain?” Po asked.

“I have had the entire night shift searching,” the man said. “Nothing is left.”

“So we have no way to know for certain where the water exits into the bay?” Po asked.

“We don’t have a map of it,” the man agreed, “but there is one way to tell.”

“Well,” Po said, “how?”

“Pour some dye into a drain,” the man said. “Then see where it goes.”

Po turned to one of the patrolmen nearby. “Find a hardware store,” he said quickly, “and buy me a dozen gallons of paint.”

Then he stared down the manhole. There was no use entering the maze; the rats would be flushed from the hole by the water, and, when they were, Po would be waiting. He smiled at the thought, but failed to notice a man standing some ten feet distant in the entryway of an all-night café. The man touched his ear to adjust his earpiece, then walked inside the restaurant.