Rimpoche translated.
As soon as he had finished, the four men shouted “Huh” and stomped one foot on the tarmac.
“You have your file?” Seng asked Reyes.
“Yes, sir,” Reyes said.
King was a short distance away, removing a long black case from a crate. “Okay, Larry,” Seng shouted, “you and Tom can go do your thing.”
Holding a set of night-vision goggles, King walked over. “Let’s do it,” he said.
Reyes motioned to the four Tibetans, who were eagerly waiting. “We’re going to grab someone, and we’re going to do it with a minimum of shooting—do you men understand?”
“I speak fair English,” one of the soldiers said. “I’ll translate.”
He reiterated what Reyes had said, then turned. “Which helicopter?”
“This way,” Reyes said, leading them back to the helicopter he had just climbed off. King followed the four Tibetans, and once they were seated inside, the helicopter lifted off and headed into the center of town.
“Who are they after?” Rimpoche asked.
“The chairman of the Tibet Autonomous Region, Legchog Zhuren.”
The last helicopter was on the ground, and Huxley walked over.
“This is our medical officer,” Seng said to Rimpoche. “Poll your troops and see if any of your men have any experience as doctors or nurses—if so, we need them to work with Julia here. Right now, however, we need that helicopter unloaded and the contents carried inside the terminal. Ms. Huxley will be setting up a field hospital immediately. If any of your men were injured or wounded, she’ll treat them shortly.”
Rimpoche shouted orders and men raced to the helicopter to unload. Adams and Gunderson were standing to the side, waiting for Seng to finish. He turned and smiled.
“You two go see what the Chinese have that we can use,” Seng said. “I need to interrogate a prisoner.”
The two pilots ambled off toward the hangars. Seng walked inside to where a Chinese air force lieutenant was sitting in a chair in the middle of the terminal with four fierce-looking Tibetan soldiers surrounding him.
41
“DAMN nice scenery,” Murphy noted, glancing out the window. “Like Alaska on steroids.”
Gurt was watching the altitude gauge as they climbed higher toward the imposing ridge of mountains just ahead. The sun had yet to peek over the horizon, but her coming was heralded by the pink glow being cast over the rugged terrain.
“We could probably claim the helicopter altitude record,” Gurt said.
“I don’t think so,” Murphy said. “Some guy went to twenty-four thousand feet a couple of years ago to perform a Himalayan rescue.”
“I read about that,” Gurt said, “but that was in a Bell 206. And it had special rotor blades.”
“You sound a little worried,” Murphy said.
“Not worried,” Gurt said, “just apprehensive.”
He pointed out the front windshield at the wall approaching. The trees were petering out as they drew nearer. Now there was only the black and gray of rocks streaked with tendrils of snow and ice that dripped down the sides of the imposing mountain like rivulets of ice cream on a child’s hand. A gust of wind buffeted the helicopter, blowing it sideways. Clouds started to appear around the Bell. Gurt stared at the gauge again.
It read eighteen thousand feet and climbing.
THE helicopter carrying Reyes, King and the Dungkarforces came in twenty feet above the ground and approached Lhasa from the south. The sound from the Lhasa River helped cover the noise as the pilot landed on a small spit of sand in the river just east of what the Chinese referred to as Dream Island, formerly an idyllic picnic spot now replaced by tacky Chinese shops and karaoke bars.
“Unload the crates,” Reyes shouted to the Dungkar.
As soon as the crates were unloaded and King had exited, they all raced a short distance away and crouched down to avoid the blast of sand from the rotor wash as the helicopter quickly lifted off and raced downriver. Once the helicopter was out of sound and sight, Reyes opened a small satchel and removed a parabolic dish for listening. Quickly switching it on, he listened for the sound of alarms in the city. He heard only the sound of the river.
Nodding, he whispered to one of the Tibetans, “Look.”
Prying a crate open, he pointed. It was a box of Tibetan flags, which had long ago been banned by the Chinese oppressors. The flags featured a snow lion with red and blue rays. The man bent down and touched the pile gingerly, and when he rose to look at Reyes, his eyes were filled with tears.
“We need to carry all these crates across the river,” Reyes said to the Tibetan, “and stash them. Then you and the others need to follow me and King to Zhuren’s house.”
“Yes,” the Tibetan said eagerly.
“We’ll need one of you to guard the flags and one man to go with Mr. King. The other two of you,” Reyes said quietly, “will enter the house with me.”
The Tibetan nodded, then began to whisper orders to his men.
Five minutes later, they were all safely across the river and walking toward the Barkhor area of Lhasa. King and his Tibetan helper peeled away from the group and made their way to the tallest building near the home of the Chinese government official. The streets were empty except for a few Tibetan merchants who were sweeping the square in preparation of setting up shop. Taking the steps two at a time, King and his helper made their way to the rooftop, where they took up position. Once he was in place, King reached into his bag, removed a small bottle of oxygen, and then took a few deep breaths. He then offered the bottle to the Tibetan, who smiled but shook his head no. Then he scanned the area through his scope.
The home of Legchog Zhuren was an ornate affair whose front faced south onto Barkhor Square. Just to the east of the house lay the Jokhang, a temple built sometime in the seventh century. The Jokhang, the most revered religious building in Lhasa, featured dozens of statues, a variety of gold artwork and some thirty chapels.
King watched as Reyes passed in front of the Jokhang. He stopped for a second and raised a closed fist into the air. Then Reyes, followed by two Tibetans, made his way down an alley between the temple and the chairman’s house and passed out of view.
King pushed the button on a silver-plated stopwatch, set the time for one minute, and watched.
When the stopwatch read fifteen seconds, King reached into his satchel and removed a hollowed-out ram’s horn and handed it to the Tibetan.
“When I say,” he told him, “start blowing, and don’t stop until I tell you to, or we’re dead.”
The man nodded eagerly and took the horn. King took another breath of oxygen and checked the stopwatch. Five seconds. He glanced at the guards patrolling the walkway outside Zhuren’s house. There were two outside the wrought-iron gate, two more just outside the front door sitting on chairs. He lined up his shots.
“Now,” he said loudly.
The horn erupted with the sound of a cat under a vacuum cleaner.
Like wraiths appearing above a graveyard, the square was suddenly filled with four dozen Dungkarwarriors. They had posed as shopkeepers and early-morning walkers, and had hidden inside drums containing spices and seeds. They screamed war cries and raced toward the gate leading up to the chairman’s home. On the front porch, one of the guards was rousted from a half sleep by the sound of the horn and the approaching horde. He stood up and reached for a bell near the front door. But before he could reach it to sound the alarm, he heard a sharp crack. As if in a dream, he stared in amazement as his hand and arm from the elbow dropped onto the porch.
Then he screamed as blood erupted from the stump like a geyser.