“What’s the chairman of the region say?” Jintao asked.
There was a pause before the general answered. “Well, Mr. President, that’s the problem. We have been unable to reach Chairman Zhuren.”
“DAMN, Gurt,” Murphy said. “That was close.”
“I think one of the rounds hit a hydraulic line that controls our forward pitch. As for me, I was hit in my left shoulder.”
“How bad is it?” Murphy said quickly.
“She’ll fly,” Gurt noted, “but it’ll be a little hairy.”
“I mean you, Gurt,” Murphy thundered. “How bad are you hit?”
Gurt was steering the Bell down the slope leading off the pass through a thick cloud cover. The helicopter’s nose was pointed down and both men’s bodies were tight against the seat harnesses.
“Hang on,” Gurt said. “I’ll lean forward so you can check.”
Gurt moved his upper torso away from the seat back and Murphy leaned over and looked. Then he reached over with his hand and felt around. A second later he pulled a flattened slug from inside the foam of the seat.
“The round passed clean through and was stopped by the metal back plate on the seat,” Murphy noted, “but you’re losing blood.”
“It wasn’t hurting until now,” Gurt disclosed. “I think I was on such an adrenaline high I didn’t really notice it much.”
“I’m going to need to bind the wound,” Murphy said. “Hold on a minute—let me make a call.”
He reached for his portable radio and called the Oregon.
“WEDGE it in there,” Gunderson said, “but make sure the spent cartridges have a way to blow out the side door. I don’t want any live rounds cooking off inside the cargo area.”
The Dungkar soldier assisting Gunderson nodded. Ten minutes earlier, they had yanked a rapid-firing antiaircraft gun from its mount on the border of Gonggar Airport. Now they were fitting it to the cargo plane to make a crude gunship. The soldiers worked quickly, as did those at the other end of the hangar.
George Adams watched as the Dungkar troops filled the fuel tank on the attack helicopter. For the last ten minutes, he had climbed around inside the ship in an effort to determine the controls and weapons systems. At this instant, he was convinced that he could probably fly the bird—making the weapons perform as desired was a little iffier.
“Welcome to the Dungkar Air Force,” Gunderson said, walking over. “We fly, you die.”
“How’s it going over there?” Adams said, smiling.
“I’m not sure,” Gunderson admitted. “We have the weapon lodged in the rear and supported with enough planks to build a barn—if it doesn’t fly out the opposite side the first time we light it up, we should be okay. How about you?”
“My Chinese is a little rusty,” Adams said. “About as rusty as an iron ship on the bottom of the ocean. But I think I can pilot this beast.”
Gunderson nodded. “Let’s make a pact, old buddy,” he said, smiling.
“What’s that?” Adams asked.
“When we get up there,” Gunderson said, “let’s not shoot each other down.”
He turned and started to walk back to the cargo plane. “Good luck,” he said over his shoulder.
“You too,” Adams answered.
Right then the door started to rise, and sunlight and cold air swept into the hangar. A minute later the attack helicopter was wheeled onto the tarmac and a motorized cart was attached to the front of the cargo plane to pull it onto the runway.
BARKHOR Square was rapidly filling with Tibetans. The crude human telegraph system that operates in time of crisis was working overtime. Four blocks away, a platoon of Chinese soldiers were attempting to make their way by armored personnel carrier from their barracks to the square after receiving a call that there was action at the chairman’s home.
Tibetans clogged the streets and the going was slow.
“Piper, Piper, this is Masquerade.”