Truitt nodded.
“We need those votes,” Hanley said quietly. “Do whatever it takes to make that happen.”
“Not to worry,” Truitt said. “Even if it takes a river of grease, by Monday vote time they will be ours.”
Later that night, the Oregonpassed the breakwater and entered the port, and Truitt boarded the waiting jet for the nine-hour flight to the South Pacific. He would arrive on Easter morning.
40
THE Zil limousine slid to a stop in front of the Gulfstream G550. Cabrillo climbed out, clutching a folder containing the documents, and made his way up the ramp without hesitating. The copilot immediately retracted the ramp and fastened the door. Then he shouted toward the cockpit.
“We’re good to go.”
Instantly, the pilot engaged the igniters, and a few seconds later the jet engines began to spool up. Cabrillo made his way to a seat and fastened the belt as the copilot started for the cockpit.
“We received your telephone call, sir,” the copilot said over his shoulder as he slid into his seat. “The course is all plotted and we’ve received preliminary clearance.”
“What’s the distance?” Cabrillo asked.
“Straight through, it’s about thirty-four hundred miles,” the copilot said. “The winds are favorable, so we estimate six hours’ flight time.”
The Gulfstream started taxiing toward the runway.
“Easter morning, seven A.M.,” Cabrillo said.
“That’s the plan, sir,” the copilot said.
SOMETIMES it all comes down to a few. A few minutes, a few strokes of luck, a few people.
At this instant, it was two. Murphy and Gurt. Two men, one helicopter with extra fuel pods and a load of explosives would form the advance team for the liberation of Tibet.
They lifted off just after 4 A.M. under the waning light of a quarter moon.
Once Gurt had the Bell 212 at an altitude of one thousand feet above ground level and in a steady forward flight, he spoke into the headset.
“Our mission,” he said, “seems fairly impossible.”
“Is it the altitude of the pass?” Murphy asked. “Or the lack of fuel for the return flight that concerns you the most?”
“Neither,” Gurt said. “It’s missing Sunday service and the chicken dinner afterward.”
Murphy reached behind his seat and retrieved a small pack. Unzipping it, he removed a single can and a small blue-covered book. “Spam and a Bible,” he said.
“Excellent,” Gurt noted. “I can proceed, then.”
“Will there be anything else?” Murphy asked.
“Only one more thing,” Gurt said.
“What’s that?”
“Keep your eyes on the road,” Gurt said. “I don’t want to get lost.”
“Not to worry,” Murphy said. “The Oregonis running the command and control. This operation will run like a well-oiled sewing machine.”
“I would have felt better,” Gurt said, pointing out a herd of deer underneath that were lit by the moon, “had you said like a computer.”
Murphy was staring at the instruments. “We’re a little hot,” he said. “Take it down a notch.”
Gurt made the adjustment. They continued north.
AT about the same instant that the Bell 212 carrying Murphy and Gurt crossed into Tibetan airspace, Briktin Gampo was steering the two-and-a-half-ton truck along a rutted dirt road. Locating the spot his Dungkarcell leader had marked, he slowed and pulled to a stop.
Gampo was on the flats just below Basatongwula Shan in an open meadow ringed by stunted trees. Climbing from the truck, he walked around to the rear and removed several metal tubes and felt them. They were cold to the touch. Remembering what he had been told, Gampo pulled a small fuel oil stove from the rear, moved a distance away, then erected the legs. Once the stove was assembled, he removed some tent poles and slid them inside an off-white canvas tent and hoisted the apparatus into the air. Once the tent was secure, he lit the stove, brought the tubes inside to keep them warm, then went back to the rear of the truck and removed a radio, a folding chair and a fur to cover himself while he waited.
Then he switched on the radio and began to listen.
Outside the tent, thousands of stars flickered against the black sea of deep space. A cold wind blew down from the mountain. Gampo pulled the fur closer around his neck until the tent warmed. Then he patiently waited for the hours to pass.
ON the Oregon, Hanley was staring at the wall of flat-screen monitors. Suddenly, the satellite feed of the Russian troop concentration near Novosibirsk began to display a thermal image of tanks being started. At the same instant, the secure telephone began to ring.
“We’re a go,” Cabrillo said.
“I have confirmation over the satellite,” Hanley told him. “The Russian tanks are warming.”
“Link my computer to the Oregon’s data banks,” Cabrillo ordered. “I want to monitor the situation from here until I arrive.”
Hanley nodded to Stone, who typed in commands on his computer keyboard.
“Signal’s going out,” Stone said a minute later.
In the Gulfstream G550, Cabrillo stared at his laptop. Suddenly the screen erupted with a burst of light, then went dark, then slowly began to glow again. The screen split into six separate blocks, each duplicating what Hanley was seeing.
“I’ve got it,” Cabrillo said.
“Mr. Chairman,” Hanley said, “call the ball.”
“Proceed as planned,” Cabrillo said, “and link me up with Seng.”
“You got it,” Hanley said.
EDDIE Seng was pacing back and forth inside the hangar in Thimbu, Bhutan. Occasionally he would return to the table where the computer screen showed the pulsing red dot that marked the progress of the helicopter carrying Murphy and Gurt. Then he would walk around the hangar again like a caged lion.
He answered his telephone before the second ring.
“Eddie,” Cabrillo said, “we’re a go.”
“Yes, sir,” Seng said. “We have a team already flying north—I took the liberty, knowing we could call them back if necessary.”
“Good job,” Cabrillo said. “Max?”
“I’m on the three-way,” Hanley said from the Oregon.
“Send Seng the latest data showing the airport near Lhasa.”
“It’s being transmitted now.”
Seng walked over to the printer. A few seconds later, it began to spit out documents.
“It’s coming across now,” Seng noted.
“Okay,” Cabrillo said, “you have your playbook and the latest intelligence.”
“Yes, sir,” Seng said.
“Now go take Gonggar Airport,” Cabrillo said.
“You got it, boss,” Seng said eagerly.
FIVEA.M. the early-morning hours when drunks sweat and nightmares grow ugly.
A cold wind was blowing across the runway at Gonggar Airport, located fifty-nine miles from Lhasa. A pair of Chinese transport planes sat on the far end of the runway along with three helicopters. The other Chinese aircraft inside Tibet had been called north in support of the tank column.
Gonggar Airport was as deserted as a cemetery on a weekday.
A single janitor swept the chipped concrete floor in the crude main terminal. Taking a break to smoke a hand-rolled cigarette, he stepped outside and stood where a wall shielded him from the wind. The limited troops on duty at the airport were sleeping. They were not due to rise for another hour.