Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

“Shock wave approaching,” he shouted as the Zodiac with the rafts in tow entered the pipe leading to the bay.

31

ON board the Oregon, preparations for departure were moving at lightning speed.

Juan Cabrillo reached for the telephone and placed a call to the acting harbormaster.

“Don’t worry,” he said, after lying that his parent company had ordered him to leave immediately, “we have another ship lined up in Manila to take the load of fireworks to the United States. She’ll be here day after tomorrow.”

The harbormaster seemed to accept this as fact. Because it was late and little was happening, he was talkative.

“Singapore,” Cabrillo said in answer to his question, “but they haven’t told me the cargo, only that we need to be there seventy-two hours from now.”

Singapore was fifteen hundred miles as a crow flies, and from what the harbormaster had heard, the Oregon would be hard-pressed to make twenty knots an hour. The man had no way to know that if the ship made it into open water by sunrise, it could be in Singapore by lunch the next day. Nor did he know the Oregon was not going to Singapore at all.

“Yes,” Cabrillo said, “it’s pushing for sure, but orders are orders. Is the pilot on his way here?”

The harbormaster answered in the affirmative, and Cabrillo hurried to get off the telephone.

“We’ll keep an eye out for him,” Cabrillo finished, “and thank you.”

Hanging up the telephone, Cabrillo turned to Hanley. The time was 4:41 A.M.

“Sounds like he bought it,” Cabrillo said. “Order the lookout to watch for the approaching pilot boat.”

Hanley nodded. “The helicopter with Adams and Reyes is back, and I’ve ordered all the hatches battened down. Which means we need to retrieve the Zodiacs in open water.”

“What do you hear from them?” Cabrillo asked.

“Seng and Huxley report they are still waiting outside,” Hanley said, staring at his watch. “Murphy was ordered to blow up an inner cavern any time about now to seal off the flow of paint and at least allow the four rescuers to escape. As of the last communication a few minutes ago, Hornsby, Jones and Meadows had not shown up with the Golden Buddha.”

“I don’t like it,” Cabrillo said.

“I had to make a decision when you were dealing with the art dealer,” Hanley said quietly. “If the helicopter salting the water didn’t throw off the Chinese, not only would we lose the men in the tunnel, but the rescue crew as well.”

“I know, Max,” Cabrillo said. “You’re just following the book.”

The two men stared at one another for a moment. Then Eric Stone spoke.

“Sirs,” Stone said, pointing at a screen, “we just detected a shock wave from an explosion.”

MURPHY had the throttle on the Zodiac as far forward as she would go. The trio of boats was rocketing down the tunnel leading out to the bay. They were only ten feet ahead of the approaching wave from the explosion, but now that they were at full speed, the margin was remaining constant.

“Try to reach Seng on the radio,” Murphy shouted over the noise, “and tell him what’s happening.”

Kasim nodded and reached for the microphone.

“Eddie,” he shouted into the microphone, “we have the target with us. Clear away from the opening—we’re coming out hot.”

“Got it,” Seng shouted from just outside the pipe.

A few minutes before, Seng and Huxley had heard the rumble from the explosion and had climbed aboard the second Zodiac. They were just backing away from shore when Kasim radioed. Seng turned the Zodiac and then accelerated away into the bay. Once they reached the edge of the fog and rain band, he turned toward land and pointed a spotlight at the outflow pipe.

“Call the Oregon,” he said to Huxley, “and report team two is on their way out.”

THE pilot boat pulled alongside the Oregon. A single tugboat hovered nearby, awaiting instructions from the pilot. The pilot climbed off his boat at a boarding ladder, made his way on deck, and then stared around. The upper deck was a tangled mess of rusting equipment and cables. He stared above, where the smokestack was polluting the air around the slip with smoky, oily fumes. This was a ship begging to be put out of her misery at a scrapyard.

“What a pile of junk,” the pilot muttered to himself.