Golden Buddha

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.”

“Masquerade, this is Piper, we read.”

“Request immediate extraction,” Reyes said. “We have the target.”

“State point of extraction, Masquerade.”

“Spot one, one, primary, Piper. Spot one three, secondary HH.”

“Acknowledge extraction coordinates, Masquerade, they are inbound in three.”

Upon receiving the order, the helicopter that had delivered them to the river lifted from the ground at a spot ten miles between Lhasa and Gonggar Airport, where the pilot had been waiting. Once he had the helicopter in forward flight, the pilot stared at a map listing the extraction points they had arranged, and glanced at the note he had scribbled on a pad attached to the clip on his knee. He flew fast and low toward Barkhor Square.

IN Little Lhasa, the Dalai Lama waited inside the communications room near a bank of radios. In the last few minutes, his network of spies inside Tibet had begun to report the progress. So far, at least, the operation appeared to be going flawlessly.

He turned to an aide-de-camp. “Are the preparations completed for our trip home?” he asked.

“As soon as word comes from Mr. Cabrillo, Your Holiness,” he said. “We can have you there in two hours by jet.”

The Dalai Lama thought for a moment. “Once we take off,” he asked, “how long will it be until we are over Tibet?”

“Half an hour,” the man noted, “give or take.”

“I am going to the temple now to pray,” the Dalai Lama said, rising. “Keep watch on the situation.”

“Yes, Your Holiness,” the aide said.

CHUCK Gunderson was helping George Adams strap himself into the attack helicopter. None of the Chinese helmets inside the hangar were large enough to fit his head, so he was using his own personal headset, plugged into the radio for communications. He was squeezed into the seat like a fat girl in spandex.

“They don’t make these for big guys like us,” Adams joked.

“You should see mine,” Gunderson said. “The Chinese still believe in quantity over quality. My cockpit looks like I’m back in World War Two. I keep expecting Glenn Miller music to start playing over the radio.”

“Look at this dashboard,” Adams said as Gunderson finished and stood upright on the ladder. “It’s got more metal that a fifty-seven Chevy.”