“Link my computer to the Oregon’s data banks,” Cabrillo ordered. “I want to monitor the situation from here until I arrive.”
Hanley nodded to Stone, who typed in commands on his computer keyboard.
“Signal’s going out,” Stone said a minute later.
In the Gulfstream G550, Cabrillo stared at his laptop. Suddenly the screen erupted with a burst of light, then went dark, then slowly began to glow again. The screen split into six separate blocks, each duplicating what Hanley was seeing.
“I’ve got it,” Cabrillo said.
“Mr. Chairman,” Hanley said, “call the ball.”
“Proceed as planned,” Cabrillo said, “and link me up with Seng.”
“You got it,” Hanley said.
EDDIE Seng was pacing back and forth inside the hangar in Thimbu, Bhutan. Occasionally he would return to the table where the computer screen showed the pulsing red dot that marked the progress of the helicopter carrying Murphy and Gurt. Then he would walk around the hangar again like a caged lion.
He answered his telephone before the second ring.
“Eddie,” Cabrillo said, “we’re a go.”
“Yes, sir,” Seng said. “We have a team already flying north—I took the liberty, knowing we could call them back if necessary.”
“Good job,” Cabrillo said. “Max?”
“I’m on the three-way,” Hanley said from the Oregon.
“Send Seng the latest data showing the airport near Lhasa.”
“It’s being transmitted now.”
Seng walked over to the printer. A few seconds later, it began to spit out documents.
“It’s coming across now,” Seng noted.
“Okay,” Cabrillo said, “you have your playbook and the latest intelligence.”
“Yes, sir,” Seng said.
“Now go take Gonggar Airport,” Cabrillo said.
“You got it, boss,” Seng said eagerly.
FIVEA.M. the early-morning hours when drunks sweat and nightmares grow ugly.
A cold wind was blowing across the runway at Gonggar Airport, located fifty-nine miles from Lhasa. A pair of Chinese transport planes sat on the far end of the runway along with three helicopters. The other Chinese aircraft inside Tibet had been called north in support of the tank column.
Gonggar Airport was as deserted as a cemetery on a weekday.
A single janitor swept the chipped concrete floor in the crude main terminal. Taking a break to smoke a hand-rolled cigarette, he stepped outside and stood where a wall shielded him from the wind. The limited troops on duty at the airport were sleeping. They were not due to rise for another hour.
A sound came up the valley. It was a whoosh, like a well-thrown football. Then a stark white-colored craft raced past at thirty feet above the tarmac. The strange object sped to the end of the airport, then made an arcing turn and lined up for a pass. Suddenly, twin streams of fire erupted from the sides and a pair of missiles streaked toward the parked transport planes.
The Predator had found her prey.
IN the hangar in Bhutan, Lincoln stared at the image from the Predator’s onboard cameras. Steering the Predator into another arcing turn, he lined up in front of the helicopters and flicked the trigger. Then he made another turn to see the results.
The cargo planes were ablaze. The helicopters would join them in a second.