Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

Meadows looked forward. In the dimming light from the miner’s hard hat he could just see the torrent ahead, a cascade of white water that would make the rafts uncontrollable.

“Ready with the paddles,” he shouted. “The horse has to lead the cart.”

Digging into the water on the left side of the raft, they swung the stern of their raft to the right. The nose of the lead raft, which was carrying the Golden Buddha, pulled hard left but made the turn into the proper channel. The turn was not as smooth for the raft carrying the trio of men. It slammed amidships into the junction, and the corner struck Jones hard in his right side. He hung there for a minute pressed against a concrete arch until the rope holding them to the lead raft went taut and yanked them down the channel.

“Jonesy’s been hurt,” Meadows shouted above the din.

Pete Jones was clutching the side of his chest and wheezing to catch his breath. Turning his head, in the dim light Hornsby could just make out his shredded shirt and anguished expression.

“My ribs,” Jones managed to groan.

“We need to cut the raft loose,” Hornsby shouted. “There’s no way we’ll make the next turn.”

“Maybe we should slit the side and sink the Buddha,” Meadows shouted. “Then we can return when the water recedes and pull it out of here.”

Jones gritted his teeth and stared at his watch. “The Oregon,” he said painfully, “is due to sail this morning. If we don’t get this out now, we never will.”

Hornsby thought for a second, then decided. The next junction would be coming up in a few minutes. Taking a pen from his shirt pocket, he stared at the GPS, then drew the rest of their intended course on the back of his hand.

“Bob,” he said, “I’m going onto the lead raft. My weight will place it low in the water, but it should still remain afloat. As soon as I’m on top of the case holding the Buddha, cut me loose.”

He handed Meadows the GPS.

“You sure, Horny?”

Hornsby threw his paddle onto the top of the Buddha, pulled the rope to bring the rear raft closer, then turned.

“Ready your knife,” he said.

Unclipping a folding knife from his belt, Meadows opened the blade and nodded.

Hornsby crouched and hopped the short distance to the lead raft. As soon as he was clear, Meadows sliced through the tether, then dug his paddle into the side to slow down his raft. Hornsby squirted ahead. In the dim light, Meadows could see the Buddha was awash, and only a portion of Hornsby’s head and torso were above the waterline.

“Going right,” Hornsby shouted as he pulled ahead, “then left.”

AS the storm sewer pipes came closer to the water, they increased in diameter so the storm water would not become pressurized and blow apart the tiles. At six places under Macau were large square pondlike storage facilities where the water could pool and lose some speed before spilling out into the last series of pipes and eventually the bay.

Murphy and Kasim were motoring around in circles in one of them.

“Five more minutes,” Murphy shouted. “Then we go in and find them.”

Kasim gave three more blasts on the air horn. “They should be here by now,” he agreed.

At just that instant, Murphy’s digital pager beeped and he pushed the button to light the screen. Scrolling through the message, he nodded his head.

“They poured paint into the sewers to follow the flow,” he said as he steered the Zodiac into another tight circle. “If it makes it down our escape channel, we’re screwed.”

“What do you mean?” Kasim asked.

“The paint will bring the Chinese to the area, as well as marking the sides of the Zodiac,” Murphy said. “Then they’ll grab us and take us in for questioning.”

“What’s the Oregon recommend?”

Murphy was quiet for a moment before answering. “They want us to blow up the tunnel leading into here and seal off the tainted water.”

“How long do we have?”

“Six minutes and forty-seven seconds,” Murphy said, removing a satchel charge from one of the bags in the bottom of the boat.