42
THE pilot of the Gulfstream stared at his navigation screen carefully. The route he was taking did not allow much margin for error. He was flying above a small corridor of Indian airspace that jutted between Bangladesh and Nepal. The surface area was but twenty miles in width at the smallest point. The land below was hotly contested by all three countries.
Slowly he steered the Gulfstream in a sweeping turn to the left.
“Sir,” he shouted to the rear cabin, “we’re through the worst of it.”
The Gulfstream was now above the wider strip of land between Nepal and Bhutan.
“How long until we reach Tibetan airspace?” Cabrillo asked.
The pilot stared at the GPS screen. “Less than five minutes.”
Juan Cabrillo should have been bone-tired, but he was not. He stared out the window at the mountainous terrain below. The rising sun was blanketed in a glow of pinks and yellows. Tibet was directly ahead. He reached for the secure telephone and dialed.
IN Beijing, Hu Jintao was awakened early. The actions in Barkhor Square had not gone unnoticed. Jintao quickly rose from his bed, washed his face, and went downstairs, still dressed in his nightclothes.
“What’s the situation?” he asked a general without preamble.
“It’s all fluid, Mr. President,” the general admitted, “but the Russian tank column has started moving into Mongolia. Their ambassador assures us the movement is just an exercise between their country and Russia. However, at the speed they are moving, they could enter China across the Altai Mountains into the Tarim Basin anytime in the next few hours.”
“What about aircraft?” Jintao asked.
“They have several paratroop units at the staging area inside Russia,” the general said. “Our satellites have detected transport planes moving on the tarmac. As of right now, nothing has left the ground.”
Jintao turned to the head of foreign relations. “We don’t currently have any dispute with Russia,” he said. “What possible reason would they have to launch an attack on our border?”
“At the moment, our relations are peaceful.”
“Most odd,” Jintao said.
“The Russian ambassador has asked for a meeting at ten A.M. this morning,” the man added. “The request came overnight through a priority channel.”
“Did he disclose the nature of his request?” Jintao asked.
“No,” the foreign relations head said.
Jintao stood quietly for a moment, thinking.
“Mr. President,” the general said, “there’s more. We just received reports from the capital of Tibet that a protest has formed in one of the main squares inside the city.”
“What’s the chairman of the region say?” Jintao asked.
There was a pause before the general answered. “Well, Mr. President, that’s the problem. We have been unable to reach Chairman Zhuren.”
“DAMN, Gurt,” Murphy said. “That was close.”
“I think one of the rounds hit a hydraulic line that controls our forward pitch. As for me, I was hit in my left shoulder.”
“How bad is it?” Murphy said quickly.
“She’ll fly,” Gurt noted, “but it’ll be a little hairy.”
“I mean you, Gurt,” Murphy thundered. “How bad are you hit?”
Gurt was steering the Bell down the slope leading off the pass through a thick cloud cover. The helicopter’s nose was pointed down and both men’s bodies were tight against the seat harnesses.
“Hang on,” Gurt said. “I’ll lean forward so you can check.”
Gurt moved his upper torso away from the seat back and Murphy leaned over and looked. Then he reached over with his hand and felt around. A second later he pulled a flattened slug from inside the foam of the seat.
“The round passed clean through and was stopped by the metal back plate on the seat,” Murphy noted, “but you’re losing blood.”
“It wasn’t hurting until now,” Gurt disclosed. “I think I was on such an adrenaline high I didn’t really notice it much.”
“I’m going to need to bind the wound,” Murphy said. “Hold on a minute—let me make a call.”
He reached for his portable radio and called the Oregon.
“WEDGE it in there,” Gunderson said, “but make sure the spent cartridges have a way to blow out the side door. I don’t want any live rounds cooking off inside the cargo area.”
The Dungkar soldier assisting Gunderson nodded. Ten minutes earlier, they had yanked a rapid-firing antiaircraft gun from its mount on the border of Gonggar Airport. Now they were fitting it to the cargo plane to make a crude gunship. The soldiers worked quickly, as did those at the other end of the hangar.
George Adams watched as the Dungkar troops filled the fuel tank on the attack helicopter. For the last ten minutes, he had climbed around inside the ship in an effort to determine the controls and weapons systems. At this instant, he was convinced that he could probably fly the bird—making the weapons perform as desired was a little iffier.
“Welcome to the Dungkar Air Force,” Gunderson said, walking over. “We fly, you die.”
“How’s it going over there?” Adams said, smiling.
“I’m not sure,” Gunderson admitted. “We have the weapon lodged in the rear and supported with enough planks to build a barn—if it doesn’t fly out the opposite side the first time we light it up, we should be okay. How about you?”
“My Chinese is a little rusty,” Adams said. “About as rusty as an iron ship on the bottom of the ocean. But I think I can pilot this beast.”
Gunderson nodded. “Let’s make a pact, old buddy,” he said, smiling.
“What’s that?” Adams asked.
“When we get up there,” Gunderson said, “let’s not shoot each other down.”
He turned and started to walk back to the cargo plane. “Good luck,” he said over his shoulder.
“You too,” Adams answered.
Right then the door started to rise, and sunlight and cold air swept into the hangar. A minute later the attack helicopter was wheeled onto the tarmac and a motorized cart was attached to the front of the cargo plane to pull it onto the runway.
BARKHOR Square was rapidly filling with Tibetans. The crude human telegraph system that operates in time of crisis was working overtime. Four blocks away, a platoon of Chinese soldiers were attempting to make their way by armored personnel carrier from their barracks to the square after receiving a call that there was action at the chairman’s home.
Tibetans clogged the streets and the going was slow.
“Piper, Piper, this is Masquerade.”
“Masquerade, this is Piper, we read.”
“Request immediate extraction,” Reyes said. “We have the target.”
“State point of extraction, Masquerade.”
“Spot one, one, primary, Piper. Spot one three, secondary HH.”
“Acknowledge extraction coordinates, Masquerade, they are inbound in three.”
Upon receiving the order, the helicopter that had delivered them to the river lifted from the ground at a spot ten miles between Lhasa and Gonggar Airport, where the pilot had been waiting. Once he had the helicopter in forward flight, the pilot stared at a map listing the extraction points they had arranged, and glanced at the note he had scribbled on a pad attached to the clip on his knee. He flew fast and low toward Barkhor Square.