Golden Buddha

to intercept was an aging cargo ship named the Oregon. From the description given by the pilot, the vessel was little more than a bucket of rust. Somehow, Ching was beginning to doubt that— Gale Force was steaming at fifty knots, and if the radar on the computer screen was correct, the cargo ship was doing forty-five. At the current speeds, the Oregon would be safely in international waters in less than five minutes. Then there would be the risk of a major incident if the sailors on Gale Force attempted a boarding.

“Give me full speed,” Ching ordered the engine room.

“THE hydrofoil is accelerating,” Hanley noted. “At the increased speed, they will intercept us a minute or two before we reach the demarcation line.”

Cabrillo glanced at the screen showing the water in front of the Oregon. The clouds were finally clearing and soon they would be free of the fog bank.

“Let’s raise them on the radio,” Cabrillo said, “and explain the situation.”

Stone started tuning the radio while Cabrillo reached for a different microphone.

“Engine room,” he said.

“Sir,” a voice said, “this is Reinholt.”

Cabrillo didn’t bother to ask why the ailing engineer was not in sick bay as he had been ordered. The man had obviously felt well enough to help.

“Reinholt,” Cabrillo said quickly, “is there any way to coax out a few more knots?”

“We’re on it, sir,” Reinholt answered.

DOWN belowdecks, the weapons pods had already been attached to both sides of the R-44. While the elevator lifted the helicopter up to launch height, Adams slid a pair of Nomex flight gloves over his hands, then slid a pair of yellow-tinted sunglasses over his eyes. He stepped from foot to foot in anticipation, and as soon as the elevator stopped and locked in place, he raced over, did a quick preflight and checked the underneath harness, then stepped to the pilot’s door of the Robinson and cracked it open. He was sliding into the seat as a deckhand raced over.

“Do you want me to pull the pins?” the deckhand asked.

“Arm me,” Adams said quickly, “then clear the deck. I’m out of here as soon as I have operating temps.”

The man bent down, removed the pins from the missiles and checked the power to the mini-gun. Once he was finished, he popped his head inside the door again.

“Check your weapons console.”

Adams stared at the small screen attached to the side of the dashboard. “I’m green.”

The deckhand shut the door and raced away. Adams waited until he was clear, then engaged the starter. Four minutes and twenty-eight seconds later, using the surface wind from the accelerating Oregon as a crutch, Adams lifted from the deck, then pivoted the R-44 in midair, turned and headed back toward Macau.

THE Zodiacs were skimming across the water at thirty knots. According to their crude radars, they were keeping ahead of the pursuing boats, but just barely. Seng’s boat, with the added weight of the Golden Buddha, was straining to maintain speed. He had the throttle all the way to the stops, but there was no more speed to be coaxed from his engine. The fog and rain were still thick and they shielded the inflatable boats from the pursuers, but Seng could sense they were just out of visual and auditory range. If one thing went wrong—an engine miss or overheating, a leak in the inflatable pontoons that slowed them down—they would be toast.

At the same instant Seng was having his dark thoughts, Huxley heard the Oregon calling over the radio. She cupped her hand over her ear so she could hear. Because of the potential for interception, the message was brief and to the point.

“Help is on the way,” Stone said.

“Understand,” Huxley answered.

She turned to Seng and Hornsby. “The Oregon’s sending the cavalry,” she said.

“Not a moment too soon,” Seng said as he stared at the temperature gauge for his engine, now beginning to creep into the red.

Not too far distant, the Zodiac carrying Kasim, Murphy Meadows, and Jones heard the message as well. Kasim was steering, Meadows standing alongside, with Jones lying prone on the deck to the stern. Once Meadows heard the news, he turned, crouched down, then yelled the news over the sound of the wind and waves to Jones.

“I wish I’d have known,” Jones quipped. “I would have asked them to bring some aspirin.”

“You want another bottle of water?” Meadows asked.

“Not unless there’s a bathroom on board,” Jones said, grimacing.

“Hang in there, buddy,” Meadows said. “We’ll be home soon.”

LIKE the distant view of a shoplifter across a crowded store, the outline of the Oregon started to form through Ching’s binoculars as the fog began to clear. Concentrating on the hull, Ching could see the large white-capped wake being created by the racing cargo ship. The wake and the cargo ship’s track were like nothing he had ever witnessed before. Most cargo ships, and Ching had tracked and intercepted more than a few, moved through the water like lumbering manatees—this Iranian-flagged vessel he was chasing moved like a thoroughbred in heat.

The water out the stern was not churning, as with most ships; instead, it seemed to be forming into concentric whirlpools that flattened the sea to the rear, as if a large container of glycerin had been poured overboard. Ching stared at the decks, but no crew was visible. There was only rusty metal and junk piled high.

Though the decks were deserted, the Oregon did not give the appearance of a ghost ship. No, Ching thought, beneath her metal skin, much was happening. At just that instant, a medium-sized helicopter flew over the Gale Force about a hundred yards to the port side, just above wave-top level.

“Where did that come from?” Ching asked his electronics officer.

“What, sir?” the officer said, staring up from a screen.