Cabrillo stared at the icon, then turned to Nixon. “Get me a single-edge razor blade,” he said.
Nixon walked to the workbench, found a box of razor blades, grabbed them, then walked back, peeling the paper off one of the blades.
“There,” Cabrillo said. “There’s a crack forming.”
Nixon slid the blade into the tiny gap.
“Slide in another,” Cabrillo said, “and begin to wedge off the belly plate.”
Minutes passed as the gap widened. As it did, Cabrillo diverted the heat under the plate, which heated the glue applied centuries before. At last the crack was large enough that a hand could fit inside. Cabrillo handed Nixon the heat gun, slid his fingers inside the crack, then gently pried back the plate while Nixon continued heating the yak’s-hoof glue.
Slowly the plate peeled back. Then, all at once, it came off in Cabrillo’s hand.
He stared through the opening into an inner compartment. Inside lay ancient parchments rolled into a tube and secured with a decomposing strip of rawhide. Cabrillo reached in and carefully removed the bundle.
Nixon looked at Cabrillo and smiled. “What now, boss?”
“We copy them,” Cabrillo said quietly, “and put them back.”
SUNG Rhee was in the center of a maelstrom of angry people. The admiral from the Chinese navy had called Beijing to report the damage to his ships, the two billion aires had both returned with teams of attorneys, and his assistant had just called to report that the mayor of Macau was downstairs and on his way up.
And then his telephone rang.
“I told you,” he told his receptionist, “no interruptions.”
“President Hu Jintao’s office is calling.”
“Put him through,” Rhee said, motioning with his hand to clear his office. “Put him through.”
A few seconds later, a voice said, “President Jintao is on the line.”
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Rhee said.
“Good morning, Mr. Rhee,” Jintao said quietly. “I understand you had a bit of trouble last night.”
Rhee began to sweat. “A…a minor theft,” he stammered. “Nothing we can’t handle, Mr. President.”
“Mr. Rhee. We’ve received calls this morning from the United States embassy, the head of the Chinese navy, and the vice president of Greece wanting to know why one of his ships was illegally stopped and boarded on your orders. That does not sound like a minor theftto me.”
“There…has been some trouble here,” Rhee admitted.
The telephone was silent for a few seconds. “Mr. Rhee,” Jintao said coldly, “I want you to tell me everything that happened. Right now, from the start.”
Slowly, Rhee began speaking.
GUNDERSON started a long lumbering turn around the Oregon. As he stared out the cockpit window, he could see a large balloon do a fast inflate, then head up in the air, towing a line.
On the stern deck of the Oregon, Kevin Nixon checked the straps around the crate containing the Golden Buddha again. The three-pronged hook was duct-taped to the crate and would be used to yank Cabrillo aboard if they were successful getting the icon aboard the Antonov. Hanley stood off to the side, checking the fit on the harness that wrapped around Cabrillo’s chest and upper thighs. Satisfied it was properly attached, he snapped a smaller bag containing the sandwiches to one side of the harness.
“The old Fulton Recovery System,” Cabrillo said. “You’d think with all our funds we’d have found a replacement by now.”
“It’s so rare we’re this far offshore,” Hanley said. “Past the point our amphibian or a helicopter can reach us.”
“You ever ridden one of these?” Cabrillo asked.
“Never had the pleasure,” Hanley said, smiling.
“It feels like a mule kicked you in the ass,” Cabrillo said.
“That’s the least of your worries, the way I see it.”
“How do you figure?” Cabrillo asked.
“The only winch we could find was designed for light trucks,” Hanley noted. “I just hope they can reel you in fast enough before you strike the rear stabilizer.”
“You make it all sound so appealing,” Cabrillo said wryly.
The sound of the Antonov was growing louder.
“Clear the decks,” Nixon shouted, “for the first approach.”
GUNDERSON was noted for never becoming flustered. No matter what the situation, he always maintained his cool. Lowering the flaps on the Antonov, he slowed the speed to just above stall, then lined up less than a hundred feet above the deck.
“Anybody got any gum?” he asked.
Michaels quickly peeled the foil off a piece and jammed it in his mouth.
“Head back to help Tracy,” Gunderson said. “I’ll hook the fatso on the first pass, then I’ll shout back before I roll her over.”
Inside the Oregon, the cameras on the deck relayed an image of the operation throughout the ship. Everyone watched as Gunderson steered closer.
In the cargo compartment, Pilston and Michaels were watching out the open door. The steel cable stretched backward, but the hook on the end was out of view. Gunderson was peering out the front window, then the side window, in a rapid ballet of visual Olympics. At the top of the cable leading to the Fulton Aerial Recovery System, just below the balloon, the cable spread into a Y shape. Gunderson chomped on the gum as he steered the Antonov closer.
“It’s show time,” he shouted.
The hook dangling back from the plane slid cleanly into the Y and snagged the cable. A split second later the crate containing the Golden Buddha was yanked from the deck as cleanly as ripping a bandage off a wound. Gunderson instantly felt the drag on the plane and shouted for Pilston to engage the winch.
She threw the lever forward and the package started to reel aboard, while at the same time Gunderson eased the biplane over on her side. Hanley watched from the deck in amazement.
“Tell me when the load’s within ten feet,” Gunderson shouted.
A minute or so later, Michaels shouted, “Okay, Chuck.”
Gunderson did a quick sideways dive to the ocean, now only some eighty feet away, and the crate went temporarily weightless from the g forces. The crate floated in the air for a second.
“Rolling flat,” Gunderson shouted.
Pilston and Michaels moved away from the door, and the cable tightened and reeled the Golden Buddha aboard as easily as a book sliding into a bookcase. The crate slammed against the far inner wall of the fuselage and stopped. The crate was cracked, but not much. Pilston turned the winch motor off.
Gunderson stared back, quite happy with the results. He reached for the radio.
“Mr. Hanley,” he said. “I scratched your box a little, but the cargo is safe and sound.”
Hanley pushed the button on his portable radio as Gunderson began to climb and bank around. “Hell of a job, Tiny. There’s a different hook attached to the box. Attach that to the cable before you pull the chairman aboard.”
“Roger that,” Gunderson said.
Then he shouted back to Michaels to attach the other hook to the end of the line. By the time Gunderson had passed over the top of the Oregonagain and was starting his turn to line up, the hook was attached and Pilston started to reel out the cable once again. Gunderson adjusted his flight controls, they set the speed of the Antonov to right at stall.
“Once I hook the boss man,” Gunderson shouted, “you reel him in as fast as possible. When he’s next to the door, reach out and pull him inside.”
“Got it,” Pilston shouted.
“Here I come, boss,” Gunderson said into the radio, “ready or not.”
Cabrillo had moved onto the rear deck and Nixon inflated the balloon. It shot in the air when the Antonov was only a hundred yards off the bow.
“Clear the decks,” Nixon shouted as he sprinted away.