Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

“Thank you, Your Holiness,” Cabrillo said.

“Good luck, Mr. Cabrillo,” the Dalai Lama said. “May Buddha bless your mission.”

After a short meeting with Overholt, Cabrillo collected the translated pages and maps, then climbed back in the helicopter and was flown back to Amritsar. President Putin had been promised the meeting would be worth the effort. Cabrillo would not fail to deliver.

JUST after midnight, the C-130 carrying the members from the Corporation landed in Thimbu, Bhutan, and the plane was surrounded by a dozen Philippine Special Forces soldiers. Off to the side, the eight Bell 212 helicopters were aligned in a row, with ten feet separating each ship.

A large domed hangar was nearby, with the door open and light spilling out onto the runway. Carl Gannon walked from inside and extended his hand to Eddie Seng. “They tell me you’re in charge until the chairman arrives,” he said. “Let me show you around.”

The others followed Seng and Gannon inside the hangar. “I’ve managed to scrounge up radios and have established a link with the Oregon,” he said, pointing to a wooden table with a computer and a stack of papers. “The latest data is on top.”

Alongside the table were several corkboards displaying maps of Tibet, satellite weather images and other documents. A chalkboard was erected on an easel, where Seng could make notes and draw the plans, as well as a large plastic-covered map showing the city of Lhasa that was taped to a piece of plywood and sat atop another table.

Off to the side, milling around an area with a large coffeepot, small refrigerator, and cardboard boxes containing food, were the eighteen mercenary pilots. Murphy made his way to the coffee, poured a cup and greeted an old friend. “Gurt,” he said, “you old dog.”

Gurt, a mid-fifties blond-haired man with a crew cut and a gold tooth in front, smiled.

“Murphy,” he said, flashing the tooth, “I thought this might be something you’d be involved in. It had the smell of a Corporation operation.”

The men continued visiting while Seng flipped through the information Gannon had amassed. Five minutes later, he called everyone to sit in the rows of folding wooden chairs arranged in front of the boards. The pilots ambled over and took seats behind the Corporation crew. Seng glanced at the assembled group before speaking.

“For those of you who don’t know me,” he said easily, “my name is Eddie Seng. Please call me Seng and not Eddie so there is no confusion. I will be commander in charge of this operation until the time that our chairman, Juan Cabrillo, arrives in the theater.”

The group nodded.

“The breakdown of flight operation will be as follows. Six of the helicopters will be tasked with offensive operations, one for the chairman when he arrives, one for medical. We will draw the assignments out of a hat on who is assigned to what, to be fair. Each of the helicopters will carry one member of our team, and the pilots will be required to fly this person anywhere he requests. Gentlemen, we will potentially be under fire and in harm’s way for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. If this is not what you signed up for, let me know now so you can be replaced. If not, I want you to understand that as pilots you will be answering to the team member aboard. If you hesitate or refuse to comply with a request, you will be replaced by one of our team that is qualified in helicopter operations, and you will forfeit your second half payment. Any questions?”

Gurt raised his hand. “When do we receive our first half?”

“Ah…a real pilot,” Seng said. “The answer is, as soon as we are finished here. Everyone okay with that?”

Heads nodded.

“If you have personal property or letters to loved ones or wish us to transfer the funds to another party if something happens to you,” Seng noted, “please see either Gannon or Crabtree.”

Gannon and Crabtree raised their hands.

“Now, are there any other business matters before I explain the operation?”

The hangar was silent.

“Good, then,” Seng said. “Here’s the plan.”

THE Gulfstream G550 was at forty-one thousand feet racing toward Moscow as Cabrillo talked over a secure satellite telephone to the Oregon. “Go over them again,” he said as he scrawled notes on a yellow pad. “Okay, I’ve got them.”

The line was silent as Cabrillo studied the list.

“And Halpert set up the main corporate entity in Andorra.”

“Correct,” Hanley said.

“Lucky break,” Cabrillo said, “but then, by looking at this list, the Dalai Lama is a lucky one too. If this had been scheduled last year, I don’t know if we could have pulled it off.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Hanley said.

“Here’s how I see it,” Cabrillo said. “Of the fifteen members of the United Nations Security Council, we hav

e three of the five permanent members: the United States, the United Kingdom and Russia. China is obviously not going to vote our way, and France is currently trying to sell whatever they can to the Chinese, so they’ll probably vote with them so as not to upset any deals they have in progress. The remaining ten will be tricky—we need to pull six out of the ten to give us the nine we need for the resolution. Let me go over it with you. Afghanistan we’re not going to get—even with the U.S. involvement a few years ago, there are still too many pockets of anti-Buddhist revolutionaries for their leaders to risk voting with us. Sweden is and will always be pacifistic, at least at the start, as will Canada. Cuba receives too much aid from China to risk voting our way, not to mention they almost always vote the opposite of the U.S.”