Golden Buddha

“Fire-foam the decks,” Hanley said over the intercom. “We shut down all the electrical power in one minute.”

Many people think that once a helicopter loses power it plunges from the sky. Actually, if power to the rotor is lost, the pilot can use the wind from his descent to spin the blades. The procedure, auto-rotation, is tricky, but the maneuver has saved more than a few lives over the years. Usually the pilot has a reasonably large field or clearing to land on. Doing a forced auto-rotation onto a pad just slightly bigger than the helicopter herself takes nerves of steel and fortitude. Adams used his minute to gain altitude. Then he lined up behind the landing pad. When his watch said it was time, he flicked off the governor and rolled back the throttle. The R-44’s freewheeling unit engaged and the drive shaft to the main and tail rotor disconnected.

Adams reached up and turned off the key.

Suddenly, without the noise from the engine, it was strangely quiet, the only sounds the whooshing of the wind racing past the fuselage and the sound from Adams’s lips as he whistled Bobby Darrin’s “Mack the Knife.” The R-44 was making a steeper descent than normal, but Adams was in complete control.

Only when all the lights on the Oregon went dark in the fog did he give it a second thought.

“ONE away,” the chief of boat said quietly. “Now two.”

The cruise missiles left the launch tubes and streaked skyward, then turned and dived down to wave level. Programmed to the target by a sophisticated computer, the missiles raced toward the Chinese corvette and the frigate at 450 kilometers an hour. Once the cruise missiles were close to the two ships, they sent out a concentrated burst of electronic friction similar to that emitted after an atomic bomb blast.

The electronic circuits throughout both ships shorted as cleanly as if a switch had been thrown. The engines ceased to function and the electronics in the wheelhouse and below went black. Both ships slowed in the water just as a burst of wind and rain raked across the sea.

“YEE-HA!” Adams SHOUTED as the wind hit the R-44.

He was eighty feet back of the stern and twenty feet in the air when he initiated his flare. Pulling up on the cyclic, he pitched the nose up using the drag on the powerless rotor to bleed off forward speed. He was four feet above the pad when the forward speed ceased and the Robinson dropped down on the deck with a thud. The foam reached halfway up the fuselage as Adams pulled on the rotor brake to stop the blades from spinning. Then he unlocked and pushed the door open. Next, he began to unsnap his harness.

Richard Truitt waded through the dissolving foam to the door as soon as the rotor stopped.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Shaken but not stirred.” Adams smiled. “What’s new?”

At just that instant the Oregon started moving again.

Truitt shrugged. “We’re heading out.”

“Open seas,” Adams said, climbing from the cockpit, “here we come.”

“Fill out a repair order,” Truitt said, “then meet me in the cafeteria. We need to do a little planning.”

The two men reached the edge of the foam just as a deckhand began to hose the foam over the side with a stream of seawater. They brushed flecks off their pants as they made their way to the door leading inside.

“Do I need to bring anything special?” Adams asked.

“High-altitude performance charts,” Truitt answered.

34

THEOregon steamed south just inside the edge of the storm. The time was 6 A.M. and the cafeteria aboard smelled of bacon, sausage, eggs and cinnamon rolls. Cabrillo was sitting at a table talking with Julia Huxley as Hanley walked toward them with a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. He smiled and nodded.

“Now that,” he said to Cabrillo, “was exciting.”

“Never a dull moment around here,” Cabrillo agreed.

“How are Reinholt and Jones?” Hanley asked Huxley.

“Minor injuries,” Huxley reported. “Jonesy has a couple of cracked ribs—I gave him pain medication and he’s sleeping in sick bay. Reinholt claims he’s better, but I have him resting in his cabin just to be sure.”

“Did you check on repairs to the R-44?” Cabrillo asked.

“Yes, Mr. Chairman,” Hanley said as an attendant walked over and set a plate containing a cinnamon roll in front of him. “A buckle that controls movement to the rotor head was bent. They are replacing it now and estimate it will be ready to fly in a couple of hours.”

“Good,” Cabrillo said. “Once the Oregon steams closer to the mainland, I’ll need Adams to drop me off at the airport.”

“Just like we planned,” Hanley agreed.

“Now all we need to do is find the secret compartment inside the Golden Buddha,” Cabrillo said, “and see if its contents are still intact.”

SUNG Rhee caught sight through the window of the four men approaching his office. They did not look happy, and the aide did not bother to knock before swinging the door open. Rhee rose from his desk as the aide stood aside and allowed the admiral to enter.

“We managed to get air bags under the hydrofoil to keep her afloat until a salvage ship can tow her back,” the admiral said without preamble, “but my men tell me repairs will require close to six months.”

“Sir—” Rhee started to say.

“Enough,” the admiral thundered. “I have one ship out of commission and our only frigate and fast-attack corvette disabled and dead in the water. You set me up—and you will pay.”

“Sir,” Rhee said quickly, “we had no idea…the ship to all appearances was merely a decrepit cargo