Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

Leaving his suite, he walked along the gangways toward the control room, then stopped and opened the door. Max Hanley was asleep in his chair, but he sat upright as soon as Cabrillo

entered. Hanley rose and walked over to the coffeepot and poured two cups.

Handing one to Cabrillo, he asked, “Feel better?”

“Amazing what a little rest will do,” Cabrillo said, taking the cup.

“Richard?” Hanley asked.

Truitt turned from the screen he was studying. “I’m okay,” he said.

“What’s the score?” Cabrillo asked without further preamble.

Hanley walked back to his chair and motioned for Cabrillo to sit. Then he pointed at a screen that showed a red line from Ho Chi Minh City directly toward the Oregon. “That line is Gunderson and his team. They will be arriving in about a half hour to pick you up.”

“They aboard the amphibian?”

“Nope,” Hanley said. “It was still too far south to get here in time.”

“So we secured another seaplane?” Cabrillo asked.

“Gannon pulled out all the stops,” Hanley told him, “but there were none available.”

Cabrillo sipped his coffee while Truitt swiveled his head and stared back at him.

“You’re yanking me off?” Cabrillo said.

“Sorry, Mr. Chairman,” Hanley said. “It was the only way you could make your flight out of Vietnam on time.”

“And the Buddha?”

“He’ll go first,” Hanley noted.

“Why,” Cabrillo said, “do I always end up in these situations?”

“The money?” Truitt said, smiling.

“Or the thrill of victory?” said Hanley.

ON board the Antonov, Gunderson was brushing his teeth and washing his face. Spitting out the window, he rubbed the washcloth across the stubble on his cheeks. Once he had finished, he walked forward and motioned to Pilston. “Why don’t you let me take over.”

Pilston slid out of the pilot’s seat and Gunderson climbed aboard.

“How’d our rookie do?” he asked Michaels.

“She’s not a bad pilot,” Michaels noted. “I had her do most of the flying while I napped.”

Gunderson smiled and turned back to stare at Pilston. “Be sure and log the hours,” he told her. “When you have two hundred you can apply for a commercial license. Our last operative who certified got a five-thousand-dollar bonus from Cabrillo.”

“This old beast is a smooth flying plane,” Pilston said. “Slow as a slug but as stable as a table.”

“How far out are we?” Gunderson asked Michaels.

Michaels stared at the GPS and examined her marks in the charts, then did a couple of calculations in the flight computer. “Twenty-four minutes, give or take.”

“Have you maintained radio silence?”

“As we planned,” Michaels replied.