Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

“Not much they can do,” Gunderson said as he adjusted his goggles and helped Michaels into position to jump.

“I think she’s sweet on you,” Pilston said as she moved into place next to Michaels.

“There’s something about,” Gunderson said, “an Aqua Velva man.”

At that instant, the signal was received from the satellite to his alphanumeric pager. The pager began to vibrate. Gunderson took one lady under each arm. Then he ran off the end of the ramp and, once he was clear, pushed them away.

PLODDING through the South China Sea, the helmsman on the Kalia Challenger noticed the sky was finally clearing. He noticed it because the sky overhead was suddenly filled with a pair of Chinese antisubmarine aircraft as well as a single long-range heavy-lift helicopter. The Kalia Challenger had originally been built in 1962 for the United States Line as one of an eleven-ship class of express cargo cruisers. Later sold to a Greek shipping concern, she plied the seas on a regular schedule from Asia to the west coast of the United States.

At just over five hundred feet with a seventy-foot beam, the vessel featured derricks on the upper deck for loading and unloading of cargo. Her lower hull was a rusty red with a black band along the gunwales. She was a work ship who had served a long and useful life, and the wear and tear showed. Still functional, though dated, she was possessed of one major flaw.

From a distance, to an untrained eye, she resembled the Oregon.

She was far out in international waters when the antisubmarine aircraft dropped the first depth charge. It landed a hundred yards ahead of the bow and exploded with a cascade of water that reached eighty feet into the air.

“Heave to!” the captain shouted.

The alert reached the engine room, and the Kalia Challenger slowed, then stopped in the water.

It would be nearly an hour before a Chinese boarding party climbed across her decks.

The illegal stop was never explained.

DELBERT Chiglack stared up at the sky in amazement. He had seen some incredible things in the fourteen years he had worked on offshore oil rigs: strange sea creatures that defied explanation, unidentified flying objects, weird weather phenomena. But in all the years he had drilled offshore, he had yet to see a trio of parachutists come from nowhere and attempt to land on his rig. Gunderson, Michaels and Pilston had leapt from the 737 at an altitude of fifteen thousand feet, just above a cloud layer that hid the airplane from view. Sucking on oxygen bottles as they made their descent, they had floated around near the target before directing their parachutes in arcing corkscrews until they lined up above the helicopter pad on the offshore rig.

The rig was twenty miles off the coast of Vietnam, eight hundred miles from Macau, and owned by Zapata Petroleum of Houston, Texas. George Herbert Walker Bush owned the company—and someone from Virginia had asked him for a favor.

Tracy Pilston landed nearly dead center on the X in the center of the pad, Judy Michaels only six feet away. It was Chuck Gunderson who had the worst landing. He alit on the side of the elevated pad. The breeze tugged at his parachute before he could cut it away, and had Del Chiglack not grabbed him, he might have gone over the side.

Once his chute was free and Chiglack had yanked him back from the edge, Gunderson smiled and spoke.

“My friends called,” he said. “I believe we have a reservation for three.”

Chiglack spit some snuff juice into the wind. “Welcome aboard,” he said. “Your ride will be here soon.”

“Thanks,” Gunderson said.

“Now,” Chiglack said, “if you and the ladies will come inside, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

BACK in the control room, Hanley turned to Cabrillo. “We just received word from Tiny,” he said. “They arrived safe and sound with the bonds. They’re awaiting a ride home.”

Cabrillo nodded.

“You look beat,” Hanley said. “Why don’t you catch a few

hours’ sleep and let me hold down the fort.”

Cabrillo was too tired to argue. He rose and started for the door. “Wake me if you need me.”

“Don’t I always?” Hanley said.

Once Cabrillo was walking down the hall to his stateroom, Hanley turned to Stone. “Truitt will be here in a few minutes to relieve you. Take four hours and get some sleep.”

“Yes, sir,” Stone said.

Then Hanley accessed the computer next to his seat and began to read the plan again.

LANGSTON Overholt slept all the way to Paris. The Challenger jet he was riding inside was registered to a company named Strontium Holding PLC, which was allegedly based in Basel, Switzerland. In reality, the jet’s tires had never touched Swiss soil.