Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

“So far so good,” Gunderson answered, “but this unit burns through batteries like a kid with a video game. Did they by chance load any spare batteries on board?”

Pilston, who was crouched between the pilot’s and copilot’s seat, rooted around in a pair of paper bags but came up empty. “Sorry, Chuck,” she said, “no luck.”

“What did we get?” he asked.

Pilston did a quick inventory. “Some MREs, two thermoses of what I assume is coffee, some Hershey bars and M&M’s, bottled water, maps, and some mouthwash.”

“What about towels and soap?”

Pilston dug around in the bottom of one of the bags. “Yep.”

“Gannon’s pretty good about that,” Gunderson said, yawning.

Michaels stared at the speed indicator. “We have five more hours until we reach the Oregon,” she said. “Tracy and I got some sleep last night. Why don’t you clean up a little and try to get some rest. We’ll wake you when we get close.”

“Think you can fill the copilot’s duties?” he asked Pilston.

“I received my private pilot’s certificate last year,” Pilston told him. “I don’t have many hours, but I think I’m qualified to watch the needles quiver.”

Gunderson nodded wearily. “Off the controls,” he said.

As soon as he was sure Michaels had the plane, he stood up, slid out of his seat, and slid past Pilston, who quickly climbed into the pilot’s station. The Antonov could be flown from either the left or right seat, so there was no reason for Michaels to move across the cockpit. Once Pilston was situated, she turned around to Gunderson.

“There’s a cot that folds out of the wall,” she said, “and a toilet that basically dumps out the side of the plane. You want anything to eat first?”

“No, ladies,” Gunderson said. “Just wake me if you need me.”

Then he walked back to the cot, removed his shirt and crumpled it up as a pillow, stretched out and was asleep within minutes. The Antonov droned north for the rendezvous.

OVER the years of its existence the Corporation had invested in a variety of legitimate businesses. The company was either owner or part owner of mining concerns, a coconut plantation, a specialty firearms manufacturer, hotels, resorts, a machine tool company, even a charter jet service with divisions in North America, South America, Europe and Asia.

None of the employees of these concerns had any idea of the source of the parent company’s funding and true purpose. They only knew they were highly paid and treated well and never subject to cutbacks or layoffs. For the most part, the actual operations end of the Corporation—the specialized army and intelligence apparatus that formed the nucleus of the growing fortune—left these companies alone to operate on their own. Sometimes, however, they came in handy.

Right now was just such a time.

Max Hanley returned to the Oregon’s control room and slid into his chair.

“Pull up the flight operations center of Pegasus Air,” he asked Stone.

Stone punched commands into the computer, and a few seconds later a worldwide map filled one of the large monitors. “What’s the fastest way to fly the chairman to his meeting?”

Stone punched in commands and the route filled the screen. “It’s a long flight,” he said, “and I assume you want it nonstop?”

“Absolutely,” Hanley said.

“That pretty much ensures that we’ll need to use the G550, then.”

“Where are they now?” Hanley asked.

Stone punched in commands and flight records over-laid the map.

“The Asian G550 is in route to Hawaii, so that’s out,” Stone noted. “Paris on one—no, hold on—the South American G550 just landed in Dubai. She’s due to leave again tomorrow.”

“How long for her to reach Da Nang?”

“It’s thirty-six hundred miles, so roughly six and a half hours.”

Hanley took a pad of paper and a pencil and began writing numbers. “It’ll be tight,” he said finally. “We’re bucking time zones, refueling and getting fast clearances to land, but it’s doable.”