down onto the turf in a quick motion. Hunt was relieved to see the plane was a Fokker F. VIIb trimotor, a safe and able aircraft aptly suited to flying over remote stretches of barren landscape. He noted with curiosity that the name
The motors barely gurgled to a stop when the fuselage door burst open and out jumped two men in worn leather jackets.
'Hunt? I'm Randy Schodt,' greeted the pilot, a tall man with a rugged yet friendly face who spoke with an American accent. 'My brother Dave and I are here to fly you to Nanking, or so the contract says, he added, patting a folded paper in his jacket pocket.
'What's a pair of Yanks doing way out here?' Hunt mused.
'Beats working in the shipyard back home in Erie, Pennsylvania,' grinned Dave Schodt, an affable man like his brother who was quick with a joke.
'Been flying for the Chinese Ministry of Railroads, supporting rail extensions on the Peking—Shanghai line. Though work has come to a sudden halt with this unpleasantness by these Japanese folks,' Randy Schodt explained with a smirk.
'I have a slight change in destination,' Hunt said, sidestepping the banter. 'I need you to fly me to Ulaanbaatar.'
'Mongolia?' Schodt asked, scratching his head. 'Well, as long as we're headed away from the neighborhood of the Nippon Army, I guess it's okay with me.'
'I'll plot it out, see if we have the range to get there,' Dave said, walking back to the plane. 'Hopefully, they'll have a gas station when we arrive,' he laughed.
With Schodt's help, Hunt supervised the loading of the more important artifacts and tools into the fuselage of the Fokker. When the wooden crates had nearly filled the interior, Hunt took the satchel with the lacquered box and carefully placed it on the front passenger's seat.
'That will be a hundred fifty miles less than the flight to Nanking. But we'll need return mileage, which exceeds what your British Museum people contracted me to fly,' Schodt explained, spreading a map of the region across a stack of crates. Ulaanbaatar, the capital of Mongolia, was marked with a star in the north-central region of the country, over four hundred miles from the Chinese border.
'You have my authorization,' Hunt replied, handing the pilot a handwritten request for the change in route. 'I assure you, the museum will honor the additional expense.'
'Sure they will, they don't want your artifacts to end up in the Tokyo Museum,' Schodt laughed. Sticking the note in his pocket, he added, 'Dave has the route to Ulaanbaatar laid in and promises we can make it in one hop. Since we'll be flying over the Gobi Desert, you're lucky the
Whenever you're ready.'
Hunt walked over and surveyed the two remaining mule carts still packed with equipment and artifacts.
Tsendyn stood holding the reins of the lead mule, stroking the animal's ears.
'Tsendyn, we have had a difficult but fruitful summer. You have been invaluable in the success of the expedition.'
'It has been my honor. You have done a great service to my country and heritage. My heirs shall be particularly grateful.'
'Take the remaining equipment and artifacts to Shijiazhuang, where you can catch the rail to Nanking. A representative from the British Museum will meet and arrange shipment of the items to London. I will wait for you in Ulaanbaatar, where we will investigate our latest find.'
'I look forward to the next search with great anticipation,' Tsendyn replied, shaking the archaeologist's hand.
'Farewell, my friend.'
Hunt climbed aboard the loaded Fokker as the plane's three 220-horsepower Wright Whirlwind radial engines roared to life. Tsendyn stood and watched as Schodt turned the plane into the wind, then shoved the throttles to their stops. With a deafening roar, the aircraft jostled across the meadow, bouncing up and down several times before slowly lumbering into the air. Turning in a graceful arc low above the field, Schodt swung the big plane northwest toward the Mongolian border as it gradually gained altitude.
Tsendyn stood in the meadow and watched as the plane grew smaller on the horizon and the throbbing of the motors dissolved from his ears. Not until the aircraft had completely vanished from sight did he reach into the vest pocket of his coat for a reassuring touch. The bolt of silk was still there, as it had been since the early hours of the night before.
***
It was two hours into the flight when Hunt reached for the satchel and pulled out the lacquered box. The boredom of the flight mixed with the excitement of the find was too much to bear and he was drawn to run the silk painting through his fingers one more time. With the box in his hands, he felt the familiar weight of the bronze tube rolling around inside in a reassuring manner. Yet something didn't feel right.
Prying off the lid, he found the cheetah skin tightly rolled up and stuffed to one side, as it had been before. The bronze tube sat next to it, appearing secure. But picking the tube up, he noticed it felt heavier than he remembered. With a shaking hand, he quickly pulled off the cap, releasing an outpouring of sand that dribbled onto his lap. As the last grain tumbled out, he peered in and saw that the silk scroll had vanished.
His eyes bulged at the sudden realization that he'd been duped and he struggled to catch his breath. The shock quickly turned to anger and regaining his voice, he began screaming at the pilots.
'Turn back! Turn the airplane around! We must return at once,' he cried.
But his plea fell on deaf ears. In the cockpit, the two pilots suddenly had something more troubling of their own to contend with.
***
The Mitsubishi G3M bomber, known in the west as a Nell, was not on a bombing mission at all. Flying casually alone at an altitude of nine thousand feet, the twin-engine aircraft was flying reconnaissance, probing the aerial resources of Russia that were rumored to have surfaced in Mongolia.
With its easy conquest of Manchuria and successful advance into northern China, the Japanese had sharpened their sights on the important seaports and coal mines of Siberia to the north. Leery of the Japanese intent, the Russians had already bolstered their defensive forces in Siberia, and recently signed a defense pact with Mongolia that allowed for the deployment of troops and aircraft in that mostly barren country. Already the Japanese were busy gathering intelligence, testing and probing the defensive lines in preparation for an outright northern offensive that would be launched from Manchuria in mid-1939.
The Nell had come up empty on its foray into eastern Mongolia, finding no sign of troop deployments or runway construction on behalf of Russian aircraft. If there was any Russian military activity in Mongolia, it would be much farther north, the Japanese pilot concluded. Below him was nothing but the occasional nomadic tribe, wandering the empty expanse of the Gobi Desert with their herd of camels.
'Nothing but sand out here,' the Nell's copilot, a youthful lieutenant named Miyabe, said with a yawn. 'I don't know why the wing commander is excited over this real estate.'
'As a buffer to the more valuable territory to the north, I suspect,' Captain Nobuji Negishi replied. 'I just hope we get repositioned to the front when the northern invasion occurs. We're missing all the fun in Shanghai and Peking.'
As Miyabe stared at the flat ground beneath the plane, a bright glint of sunlight briefly flashed out of the corner of his eye. Scanning across the horizon, he tracked the source of the light, squinting at what he saw.
'Sir, an aircraft ahead and slightly below us,' he said, pointing a gloved hand toward the object.
Negishi peered ahead and quickly spotted the plane. It was the silver Fokker trimotor, flying northwest toward Ulaanbaatar.
'She's crossing our path,' the Japanese pilot noted with a rise in his voice. 'At last, a chance for battle.'
'But sir, that's not a combat plane. I don't think it is even a Chinese airplane,' Miyabe said, observing the markings on the Fokker. 'Our orders are to engage only Chinese military aircraft.'
'The flight poses a risk,' Negishi explained away. 'Besides, it will be good target practice, Lieutenant.'
No one in the Japanese military was getting reprimanded for aggressive behavior in the Chinese theater, he well knew. As a bomber pilot, he would be afforded few opportunities to engage and destroy other aircraft in the
