Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

“What’s the distance?” Cabrillo asked.

“Straight through, it’s about thirty-four hundred miles,” the copilot said. “The winds are favorable, so we estimate six hours’ flight time.”

The Gulfstream started taxiing toward the runway.

“Easter morning, seven A.M.,” Cabrillo said.

“That’s the plan, sir,” the copilot said.

SOMETIMES it all comes down to a few. A few minutes, a few strokes of luck, a few people.

At this instant, it was two. Murphy and Gurt. Two men, one helicopter with extra fuel pods and a load of explosives would form the advance team for the liberation of Tibet.

They lifted off just after 4 A.M. under the waning light of a quarter moon.

Once Gurt had the Bell 212 at an altitude of one thousand feet above ground level and in a steady forward flight, he spoke into the headset.

“Our mission,” he said, “seems fairly impossible.”

“Is it the altitude of the pass?” Murphy asked. “Or the lack of fuel for the return flight that concerns you the most?”

“Neither,” Gurt said. “It’s missing Sunday service and the chicken dinner afterward.”

Murphy reached behind his seat and retrieved a small pack. Unzipping it, he removed a single can and a small blue-covered book. “Spam and a Bible,” he said.

“Excellent,” Gurt noted. “I can proceed, then.”

“Will there be anything else?” Murphy asked.

“Only one more thing,” Gurt said.

“What’s that?”

“Keep your eyes on the road,” Gurt said. “I don’t want to get lost.”

“Not to worry,” Murphy said. “The Oregon is running the command and control. This operation will run like a well-oiled sewing machine.”

“I would have felt better,” Gurt said, pointing out a herd of deer underneath that were lit by the moon, “had you said like a computer.”

Murphy was staring at the instruments. “We’re a little hot,” he said. “Take it down a notch.”

Gurt made the adjustment. They continued north.

AT about the same instant that the Bell 212 carrying Murphy and Gurt crossed into Tibetan airspace, Briktin Gampo was steering the two-and-a-half-ton truck along a rutted dirt road. Locating the spot his Dungkar cell leader had marked, he slowed and pulled to a stop.

Gampo was on the flats just below Basatongwula Shan in an open meadow ringed by stunted trees. Climbing from the truck, he walked around to the rear and removed several metal tubes and felt them. They were cold to the touch. Remembering what he had been told, Gampo pulled a sm

all fuel oil stove from the rear, moved a distance away, then erected the legs. Once the stove was assembled, he removed some tent poles and slid them inside an off-white canvas tent and hoisted the apparatus into the air. Once the tent was secure, he lit the stove, brought the tubes inside to keep them warm, then went back to the rear of the truck and removed a radio, a folding chair and a fur to cover himself while he waited.

Then he switched on the radio and began to listen.

Outside the tent, thousands of stars flickered against the black sea of deep space. A cold wind blew down from the mountain. Gampo pulled the fur closer around his neck until the tent warmed. Then he patiently waited for the hours to pass.

ON the Oregon, Hanley was staring at the wall of flat-screen monitors. Suddenly, the satellite feed of the Russian troop concentration near Novosibirsk began to display a thermal image of tanks being started. At the same instant, the secure telephone began to ring.

“We’re a go,” Cabrillo said.

“I have confirmation over the satellite,” Hanley told him. “The Russian tanks are warming.”