“That’s what I was thinking,” Ross said. “If he flies high, he can scan the entire city, plus keep the bird out of sight of riflemen.”
“Makes sense,” Kasim said.
“What do you find for radio and television transmitters?”
“There is one television,” Kasim said, “and a pair of radios. We need quickly to gain control of both so we can keep the Tibetan people alerted.”
“What’s the report say?” Ross said. “Will they rally against the Chinese when the time comes?”
“We think so,” Kasim said, “and God help the Chinese when they do.”
“The Dungkar?” Ross said.
“Tibetan for blackbirds with red beaks,” Kasim said. “The fighting arm of the Tibetan underground.”
Ross glanced at the sheet holding the assembled intelligence. “When it is time, we will feed on the carcasses of the oppressors and the beaks will be red with blood and the day will be black with death.”
“Brings a chill to my spine,” Kasim said.
“And I thought,” Ross said, “we had the air conditioning too cold.”
ONE floor below where Ross and Kasim were planning, Mark Murphy was in the armory. Munitions and crates were piled to one side, and Sam Pryor and Cliff Hornsby were slowly moving them toward the elevator to be taken to an upper storage area where they would be off-loaded in Da Nang. On each crate to be used, Murphy attached a red-taped sticker. Then the contents were labeled with a felt-tipped pen. He was singing a ditty while he worked.
“I’m a gonna blow some stuff up tomorrow,” he said. “Gonna blow me up some stuff.”
Pryor wiped his forehead with a handkerchief before bending down to lift another crate to carry to the elevator. “Shoot, Murph,” he said, “you packing enough C-6?”
“You can’t have too much,” Murphy said, smiling, “at least in my opinion. Heck, it doesn’t spoil and you never know what might come up.”
“You got enough here to blow up an Egyptian pyramid,” Hornsby said, walking into the room after placing his crate in the elevator, “and enough mines to register shock waves on a seismograph.”
“Those are for the airport,” Murphy said. “You don’t want the Chinese to be able to land troops, do you?”
“Land?” Pryor said. “You use all these, there won’t be an airport.”
“I have other plans for some of them,” Murphy said.
“I’ve got the feeling you’re looking forward to this,” Hornsby said.
Murphy started singing again as he walked over to crates of Stinger missiles and began to attach the red tags. Letting loose a long whistle, he finished with the sound of a blast.
Hornsby and Pryor carried crates out the door and headed for the elevator.
“I’d sure hate to have him mad at me,” Pryor said.
37
THE Antonov was less than a hundred miles from Da Nang, heading due west. At its current speed, the plane would touch down in about forty minutes, or just around 4:30 P.M. local time. The biplane, although slow, had performed flawlessly. Gunderson balanced the yoke with his knees and reached into the air and stretched.
“This baby’s a peach,” he said to Cabrillo.
“After this mission is completed, you can check into buying one for the company, if you think we’ll use it enough,” Cabrillo said.
“Take the wings off and we could probably fit it into a forty-foot shipping container,” Gunderson said. “If we had Murphy mount a fire cannon out the door, we’d have a hell of a gunship.”
For the last hour Cabrillo had been checking arrangements with the Oregon over his secure telephone. The last call from Hanley had placed the Gulfstream G550 on final approach to Da Nang airfield. Cabrillo was nodding at Gunderson’s comment when his telephone buzzed again.
“The Gulfstream’s on the ground and refueled,” Hanley told him. “The pilot is setting the course now. I contacted General Siphondon in Laos and received permission for you to cross through their airspace.”
“How is the general?” Cabrillo asked.
“His usual self,” Hanley said. “Dropping hints about a classic car he’d like.”
“At least he’s upfront about his wants,” Cabrillo said. “And an old-car fetish I can understand. What is it he’s after?”
“Hemi Roadrunner convertible,” Hanley said. “Apparently some Air America pilot had one shipped over to use during the war. The general was only a kid then, but it stuck in his mind.”
“Any around?”
“I’ve got Keith Lowden in Colorado checking out the market,” Hanley said. “He’ll get back to us when he knows what’s available.”
“Excellent,” Cabrillo said. “Now what about Thailand and Myanmar?”
“All cleared,” Hanley said, “so it’ll be a straight shot to India.”
“C-130?”
“She’s due to leave Bhutan and touch down in Da Nang just after eight P.M.”
“Do you have the team ready?” Cabrillo asked.
“They’ll be ready by the time the Oregon reaches port,” Hanley said.
“This is a tight timetable,” Cabrillo said, “and we only have one shot at this.”
“No do-overs,” Hanley said quietly.
“No do-overs,” Cabrillo agreed.
IN northern India at Little Lhasa, the oracle was deep in a trance. The Dalai Lama sat to one side as the man spun and danced. From time to time the oracle would race over to a sheet of rice paper and scribble notes furiously, then return to his ritualistic motions. A strange animal-like sound seeped from his vocal cords and drops of sweat flew through the air.
At last he collapsed in a heap on the floor and his helpers removed the headpiece and robes.
The Dalai Lama picked up a wooden bowl filled with water, dampened a sheep’s skin, then stepped over, bent down, and began to wash the sweat from the aging man.
“You did well,” he said in a soothing voice. “There is much information written on the sheets.”
The oracle allowed the Dalai Lama to drip some water into his mouth. He swished it around and spit it to the side. “I saw bloodshed and fighting,” he said quietly. “Much bloodshed.”
“Let us pray not,” the Dalai Lama said.
“But there was a second way,” the oracle said. “I think that is what I wrote.”
“Bring some tea and tsampa,” the Dalai Lama ordered an aide, who rushed out of the room.
Twelve minutes later, the oracle and the Dalai Lama were sitting around a table in the great room. The Tibetan tea, flavored with salt and butter, as well as the tsampa, roasted barley flour usually mixed with milk or yogurt, had brought the color back to the oracle’s cheeks. Where only moments before he had seemed aged and weak, he now appeared animated and in control.
“Your Holiness,” he said eagerly, “shall we see what I received?”
“Please,” the Dalai Lama said.
The oracle stared at the sheets of rice paper. The letters were in an ancient script only he and a few others could read. He read them through twice, then smiled at the Dalai Lama.
“Is someone from the west coming to see you?” the oracle asked.
“Yes,” the Dalai Lama said, “later this evening.”
“Here is what you tell him,” the oracle said.
Thirty minutes later, the Dalai Lama nodded and smiled at the oracle.
“I will have my aides prepare notes to buttress our argument,” he said, “and thank you.”
Rising from the chair, the oracle walked unsteadily from the room.
LANGSTON Overholt was using a borrowed office in a far corner of the compound at Little Lhasa. He was speaking on a secure line to the director of Central Intelligence in hushed tones.