Golden Buddha

Handing one to Cabrillo, he asked, “Feel better?”

“Amazing what a little rest will do,” Cabrillo said, taking the cup.

“Richard?” Hanley asked.

Truitt turned from the screen he was studying. “I’m okay,” he said.

“What’s the score?” Cabrillo asked without further preamble.

Hanley walked back to his chair and motioned for Cabrillo to sit. Then he pointed at a screen that showed a red line from Ho Chi Minh City directly toward the Oregon. “That line is Gunderson and his team. They will be arriving in about a half hour to pick you up.”

“They aboard the amphibian?”

“Nope,” Hanley said. “It was still too far south to get here in time.”

“So we secured another seaplane?” Cabrillo asked.

“Gannon pulled out all the stops,” Hanley told him, “but there were none available.”

Cabrillo sipped his coffee while Truitt swiveled his head and stared back at him.

“You’re yanking me off?” Cabrillo said.

“Sorry, Mr. Chairman,” Hanley said. “It was the only way you could make your flight out of Vietnam on time.”

“And the Buddha?”

“He’ll go first,” Hanley noted.

“Why,” Cabrillo said, “do I always end up in these situations?”

“The money?” Truitt said, smiling.

“Or the thrill of victory?” said Hanley.

ON board the Antonov, Gunderson was brushing his teeth and washing his face. Spitting out the window, he rubbed the washcloth across the stubble on his cheeks. Once he had finished, he walked forward and motioned to Pilston. “Why don’t you let me take over.”

Pilston slid out of the pilot’s seat and Gunderson climbed aboard.

“How’d our rookie do?” he asked Michaels.

“She’s not a bad pilot,” Michaels noted. “I had her do most of the flying while I napped.”

Gunderson smiled and turned back to stare at Pilston. “Be sure and log the hours,” he told her. “When you have two hundred you can apply for a commercial license. Our last operative who certified got a five-thousand-dollar bonus from Cabrillo.”

“This old beast is a smooth flying plane,” Pilston said. “Slow as a slug but as stable as a table.”

“How far out are we?” Gunderson asked Michaels.

Michaels stared at the GPS and examined her marks in the charts, then did a couple of calculations in the flight computer. “Twenty-four minutes, give or take.”

“Have you maintained radio silence?”

“As we planned,” Michaels replied.

Gunderson adjusted the mixture to the engine and watched the gauges a few seconds. Satisfied all was okay, he spoke again. “Tracy, can you pour me a cup of coffee? It’s time to call the mother ship.”

Pilston unscrewed the cup off the thermos, put a piece of folded duct tape on the bottom, then poured a cup and handed it to Gunderson. He sipped the hot liquid, then set the cup down on a flat surface, where it stuck. Then he reached for the radio, adjusted the frequency, and spoke.

“Tiny calling the chairman of the board, you out there?”

A few seconds passed before an answer came. “This is control, go ahead.”

“The ladies and I,” Tiny said, “will be there in a few minutes to hook you on board.”

“We have you on the scope,” Cabrillo said. “You should be seeing us shortly.”

“What’s the drill?” Gunderson asked.

“You’ll have two yanks,” Cabrillo said. “The first is the object—remember it’s heavy.”

“We have a cargo slide with a belt, but the door to this old bird is on the side,” Gunderson said. “My plan was to winch whatever we were taking aboard close, then do some fancy flying to get the load aboard.”

Back on the Oregon, Cabrillo shook his head in amazement. “Don’t try that on the second load.”

“Why’s that, boss?”

“Because the second load is me.”

Michaels was staring out the window. A speck that was the Oregon came into view.

“I have a visual,” she said.

“We have you in sight,” Gunderson said, “and we’ll take it easy bringing you aboard, Mr. Chairman, don’t you worry.”