Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

“That’s what I was thinking,” Ross said. “If he flies high, he can scan the entire city, plus keep the bird out of sight of riflemen.”

“Makes sense,” Kasim said.

“What do you find for radio and television transmitters?”

“There is one television,” Kasim said, “and a pair of radios. We need quickly to gain control of both so we can keep the Tibetan people alerted.”

“What’s the report say?” Ross said. “Will they rally against the Chinese when the time comes?”

“We think so,” Kasim said, “and God help the Chinese when they do.”

“The Dungkar?” Ross said.

“Tibetan for blackbirds with red beaks,” Kasim said. “The fighting arm of the Tibetan underground.”

Ross glanced at the sheet holding the assembled intelligence. “When it is time, we will feed on the carcasses of the oppressors and the beaks will be red with blood and the day will be black with death.”

“Brings a chill to my spine,” Kasim said.

“And I thought,” Ross said, “we had the air conditioning too cold.”

ONE floor below where Ross and Kasim were planning, Mark Murphy was in the armory. Munitions and crates were piled to one side, and Sam Pryor and Cliff Hornsby were slowly moving them toward the elevator to be taken to an upper storage area where they would be off-loaded in Da Nang. On each crate to be used, Murphy attached a red-taped sticker. Then the contents were labeled with a felt-tipped pen. He was singing a ditty while he worked.

“I’m a gonna blow some stuff up tomorrow,” he said. “Gonna blow me up some stuff.”

Pryor wiped his forehead with a handkerchief before bending down to lift another crate to carry to the elevator. “Shoot, Murph,” he said, “you packing enough C-6?”

“You can’t have too much,” Murphy said, smiling, “at least in my opinion. Heck, it doesn’t spoil and you never know what might come up.”

“You got enough here to blow up an Egyptian pyramid,” Hornsby said, walking into the room after placing his crate in the elevator, “and enough mines to register shock waves on a seismograph.”

“Those are for the airport,” Murphy said. “You don’t want the Chinese to be able to land troops, do you?”

“Land?” Pryor said. “You use all these, there won’t be an airport.”

“I have other plans for some of them,” Murphy said.

“I’ve got the feeling you’re looking forward to this,” Hornsby said.

Murphy started singing again as he walked over to crates of Stinger missiles and began to attach the red tags. Letting loose a long whistle, he finished with the sound of a blast.

Hornsby and Pryor carried crates out the door and headed for the elevator.

“I’d sure hate to have him mad at me,” Pryor said.

37

THE Antonov was less than a hundred miles from Da Nang, heading due west. At its current speed, the plane would touch down in about forty minutes, or just around 4:30 P.M. local time. The biplane, although slow, had performed flawlessly. Gunderson balanced the yoke with his knees and reached into the air and stretched.

“This baby’s a peach,” he said to Cabrillo.

“After this mission is completed, you can check into buying one for the company, if you think we’ll use it enough,” Cabrillo said.

“Take the wings off and we could probably fit it into a forty-foot shipping container,” Gunderson said. “If we had Murphy mount a fire cannon out the door, we’d have a hell of a gunship.”

For the last hour Cabrillo had been checking arrangements with the Oregon over his secure telephone. The last call from Hanley had placed the Gulfstream G550 on final approach to Da Nang airfield. Cabrillo was nodding at Gunderson’s comment when his telephone buzzed again.

“The Gulfstream’s on the ground and refueled,” Hanley told him. “The pilot is setting the course now. I contacted General Siphondon in Laos and received permission for you to cross through their airspace.”