Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

A man stepped from behind a pillar. “I’m Captain Smith,” he said. “Welcome aboard.”

The captain was dressed in a tattered yellow rain slicker spotted with grease and dirt. His face had a full beard, stained around the mouth by nicotine, and when Smith cracked a smile, he showed a forest of yellow stubs.

“I’m ready to guide you out,” the pilot said, staying a safe distance away from the man’s odor.

“This way,” the captain said, turning.

The pilot followed the captain as he wove his way around the tangled mess on the decks to the rusted metal stair leading to the pilothouse. Halfway up the stair, the pilot gripped for a handrail and it came off in his hand.

“Captain,” he said.

Smith turned, then walked a few steps to where the pilot was stopped. Then he took the length of rusted pipe in his hand and tossed it over his shoulder onto the cluttered deck.

“I’ll make a note of that,” he said, swiveling around again and climbing the last few steps to the pilothouse.

The pilot shook his head. The sooner he was off the ship, the happier he’d be.

Six minutes later, the Oregon was turned and partway out of the port. The pilot ordered the line from the tug removed and the Oregon headed away from land under her own power.

To the rear of the Oregon, now growing dimmer in the distance, the mountain peak on Macau began to recede in the rain and fog. Only a few lights from the airport remained in sight.

“How long until you can be picked up?” Cabrillo asked the pilot.

The pilot pointed to a channel marker thirty yards ahead. The high-powered light was penetrating the gloom. A few more mi

nutes and he could be off this beast of a ship.

“LIGHT at the end of the tunnel,” Murphy shouted.

The Zodiac was racing toward the bay just ahead of the shock wave that would fill the pipe to the top. Hornsby was holding tight to his raft and the top of the Golden Buddha, while Meadows gripped the side of the Zodiac and glanced down at Jones, who was clutching his side in the bottom of the raft.

“A few more seconds, Jonesy,” he shouted, “and we’ll be in the clear.”

Jones nodded but did not speak.

The exit from the pipe was like riding over a waterfall on a class IV rapid. The water was spewing out of the pipe with tremendous force. The plume cascaded through the air twenty feet, then dropped seven feet down to the water of the bay. Murphy held to the wheel as the Zodiac was propelled through the air. As soon as he felt the boat leave the water, he pulled back on the throttle so he wouldn’t over-rev the engine, then braced himself for the splashdown.

“Let go,” he screamed to Hornsby and Meadows.

The lines on the two towed rafts were released and they separated a few feet from the Zodiac at the same instant the wall of water filled the pipe, then burst through the air with tremendous force.

“Wow,” Seng shouted at the sight of the rafts squirting through the air.

“Hold on,” Meadows shouted to Jones as the raft flew through the air, then slapped on the surface of the water before slowing almost to a stop.

“Are you okay?” Meadows said a few seconds later. “Do you need anything?”

Jones wiped the water from his face, then shifted his body to ease the pain of his cracked ribs as the raft stopped in the water and bobbed.

“I’ve been better,” Jones said. “I think it would help if you would hum a few bars of ‘Suwannee River.’”

PO was inside the conference room with Rhee, Ho and Marcus Friday. A police sergeant entered and whispered in his ear.

“What the hell do you mean?” he asked.

“A few of our people heard what sounded like a helicopter,” the sergeant said. “Now all the waters around Macau are a bright pink color.”

“Those bastards,” Po said. “They’re covering their tracks.”