Golden Buddha

cable that could be mounted on the floor of the plane. It took Gannon a couple of telephone calls, but he found a 1985 Russian-built Antonov AN-2 Colt owned by a Laotian company that had a logging contract with the Vietnamese government. The big biplane, with a wingspan of fifty-eight feet, a cruise speed of only 120 miles an hour and a stall speed of 58, could best be described as a flying pickup truck. The large interior was mainly cargo space and she could carry nearly five thousand pounds of payload.

The winch he bought new from a dealer in Ho Chi Minh City on a company credit card.

After finishing the arrangements for the plane and winch, Gannon slurped the last drop from a bottle of Coca- Cola and dialed the Oregon on the satellite telephone. He waited as the number beeped and popped while the signal was scrambled.

“Go ahead, Carl,” Hanley said a minute later.

“I’ve got the plane, Max,” he said, “but you didn’t ask for a pilot.”

“One of our guys will be flying,” Hanley said.

“It’s a Russian Antonov,” Gannon noted. “I doubt we have someone typed in this model.”

“We’ll download some manuals off the Internet,” Hanley said. “That’s about all we can do.”

“She’s fueled and waiting at the airport in old Saigon,” Gannon said. “The mechanic should be finished bolting the winch in place in the next hour. I’m faxing a picture.”

“We’ll be seeing you soon,” Hanley said. “Everything okay in the meantime?”

“Smooth as a baby’s bottom,” Gannon said easily.

ON the Zapata Petroleum rig off Vietnam, Delbert Chiglack took the sheet that had just printed out of the fax machine, then called once more to the incoming helicopter. When finished, he returned to the lunchroom on the rig and handed the sheet to Gunderson.

“This just came for you.”

“Thanks,” Gunderson said quickly, staring at the picture of the biplane the Oregon had sent, then folding it and placing it in his flight-suit pocket.

Just then, a siren on the rig sounded twice.

“Your ride’s here,” Chiglack said.

Walking the trio out to just below the helicopter pad, Chiglack waited until the helicopter touched down, then shouted over the noise.

“Up the ladder, heads down, the door should be open,” he said.

“Thanks for the hospitality,” Michaels shouted.

“Watch your hair, ladies,” Chiglack called as they started up the stairs.

Four minutes later the helicopter was airborne again, heading back toward land. Chiglack shook his head as the helicopter retreated in the distance. Then he walked back to his office to report his guests had left the rig.

GUNDERSON handed the photo of the biplane to the copilot. “She’s on the north side of the airport,” he said as the copilot clipped the photo to a strap around his knee. “If you can land nearby, we’d sure appreciate it.”

The copilot replaced his headset over his ears, then relayed the information to the pilot, who made an okay sign with his fingers. The copilot smiled at Gunderson, nodded yes, then motioned for him to sit back in his seat.

Twenty minutes later, the coast of southern Vietnam came into view. As they passed over shallow water, he caught sight of a wrecked ship below the surface of the water. In the bushes nearby was what looked like the remains of a bombed-out tank from the war some thirty years before.

Pilston tapped on Gunderson’s arm as the helicopter approached the airport and located the Antonov from the air. Slowing his speed, the pilot neared the large biplane, then hovered in the air above the tarmac. After touching down smoothly some fifty feet away, the copilot unbuckled his belt, then slipped back and unlatched the door to the Bell.

“Later, alligators,” he shouted.

Gunderson, Pilston and Michaels bowed their heads and sprinted away from the helicopter.

Once they were clear, the pilot throttled up, pulled up on the collective and moved the cyclic so the Bell rose in the air and made a sweeping turn. The helicopter disappeared into the haze as it flew off to the south.

The trio was ten feet from the biplane when Michaels spoke.

“What are we going to do with this beast?” she asked.

“The plan is,” Gunderson said as he approached the open door and stared inside, “to fly out to the Oregon.”

“What on earth for?” Pilston asked.

“Our chairman has a meeting to attend.”

35

INSIDE the Oregon’s Magic Shop, Kevin Nixon was loosening the top off a long wooden crate with a pry bar. The crate was stamped U.S. Air Force, Special Operations. The second line read: (1) ea. Fulton Aerial Recovery System, checked 02-11-90, and then the initials of the airman who had rendered the verdict that the system was operational. Setting the top aside, Nixon peered inside. Then he began to remove the contents.

First was a harness made out of nylon webbing similar to that on a parachute. On the front of the harness was a swivel hook. Next was a length of high-tension strength line. Last, a deflated balloon and the fittings to hook the system together. Nixon checked each piece carefully as he removed them from the box. Everything looked fine.