At the same time, the Dungkarreached the pair of guards outside the gate; they were dead before they could comprehend what was happening, their throats slit like pigs at slaughter.
Swiveling around, the front-door guard stared in horror at the advancing Dungkar. His partner started to speak, but a second later his head was blown off his shoulders. It landed on the porch with a thud, the lips still straining to answer a signal from an impulse now dead. The first Dungkarraced up the steps with his sword held in front. The guard tried to reach for his handgun, but with no hand he had no chance.
The sword ran through his middle and pinned him to the wooden door like some macabre Christmas wreath. He mouthed a few words before dying, but only blood seeped from inside. The force of the guard slamming into the door burst the lock.
The door swung open and the Dungkarraced inside.
AROUND the rear of the house the scene was less violent. The single guard at the door off the kitchen had been asleep. His dereliction of duty would save his life. Reyes crept up, hit him with a stun gun, then had one of the Tibetans bind his mouth, wrists and legs with duct tape before he had a chance to do anything. Then Reyes popped open the lock with a pick and made his way inside. He and the Tibetans were halfway up the stairs leading to Zhuren’s bedroom before the horn sounded.
Then Reyes saw them.
There were three unarmed men at the top of the landing. He reached for his holstered .40 handgun, but before he could snap off a round, a Tibetan houseboy appeared from behind and lopped a leather garrote over the men’s heads and pulled tight. Their heads slammed together, then their legs began to kick as the houseboy tightened the cord. Reyes motioned for one of the men following to help, then raced past to Zhuren’s door. Stopping for a second to line himself up, he slammed his polished black boot at a point just above the doorknob. The door burst open and he stepped inside. The man in the bed slowly started to rise while rubbing his eyes, then he reached toward the nightstand. Reyes fired a round into the headboard above the man’s head and the room filled with the smell of spent gunpowder.
“I wouldn’t,” Reyes said, “if I were you.”
“Ican’t see much,” Gurt admitted.
The clouds had closed in as they neared the top of the pass. Snow and sleet raked across the windshield of the Bell. The 212 was slowly ascending, but barely making any forward movement at all. They were flying blind on the edge of the helicopter’s performance envelope.
“I’ve got a road,” Murphy suddenly shouted, “on the port side.”
Gurt spotted the black stripe against the white background. A movement of vehicles across the terrain had displaced most of the snow, leaving only dirt and rock.
“What’s that?” Gurt said, straining to see.
“I think it’s a column of tanks,” Murphy said.
“I’ll go to one side,” Gurt said, “and stay in the cloud cover.”
Along the side of the road, a Chinese tank commander was watching several of his soldiers repair a tread that had come loose. He heard the helicopter in the distance, so he climbed inside and called his superior on the radio.
“No idea,” his superior reported, “but you’d better find out what it is.”
Popping his head out of the hatch, the tank commander shouted down to his men, then he began to pass rifles out of the hatch. Two minutes later, the soldiers were hiking up the road away from their disabled tank.
“THERE’S the crest,” Murphy shouted. “Find a spot to touch down.”
Gurt played with the collective, but at this altitude he had little control. “Hold on,” he shouted.
The landing was more a controlled crash than a touchdown. The 212 came down hard on the skids, but they held. Murphy was already unsnapping his safety harness.
“Driver,” he said, smiling, “just keep her running—I’ll only be a minute.”
Opening the door, he stepped out and a few feet back and opened the cargo door. Then he removed a pair of snowshoes, which he attached to his feet. Pulling another coat over the one he was already wearing, he began to dig in a crate, placing the items he needed into a backpack.
“Hold down the fort,” he shouted to the front of the helicopter. “I’m going to set the charges.”
Gurt nodded, then watched as Murphy disappeared into the blowing snow. Then he began to play with his radio. He found little to hear, so he switched back to the regular frequency.
“SHERPA, Sherpa, Sherpa, this is the Oregon, over.” In the control room, Eric Stone looked at Hanley with worry.
“That’s the fifth time, nothing.”
“Sherpa, Sherpa, Sherpa, this is the Oregon, over.”
“ Oregon, this is Sherpa,” Gurt answered. “Read you eight by eight.”
There was a two-second delay as the signal bounced off the ionosphere and down to the ship.
“Where are you?” Hanley said, taking the microphone.
“We’re on site,” Gurt reported. “Your man just left for the appointment.”
“We just intercepted a communication from the bad guys,” Hanley said. “Someone heard you go over and they’ve been asked to investigate.”
“This is not good, Oregon,” Gurt said quickly. “I have no way to reach Murphy and warn him. Plus, it’s going to take us some time to lift off.”
“Okay,” Hanley said, “we can send a signal to Murph’s beeper—we’ll tell him to return to where you are. In the meantime, keep a close eye for anyone approaching. If they do, you take to the air.”
“Send a message to Murphy to withdraw,” Hanley said to Stone, who quickly punched the commands into his keyboard.
“My visibility is around thirty to forty feet,” Gurt said, “and I’m not leaving Murph—no way.”
“No, we don’t want you to—” Hanley started to say.
“Oregon,”Gurt shouted over the radio. “There are Chinese troops coming through the snow.”
Murphy was bent over, placing the charges in the snow, when his beeper chirped. He finished attaching the detonation cord, then rose up and removed the beeper from his pocket.
“Damn,” he said, flipping the switch open so the charge could be remotely detonated. Then he pulled his M-16 around from his back on its sling and began heading back in the direction of the helicopter.
Gurt reached behind his seat and felt for a handgun in a rack. The Chinese troops were struggling through the thick snow, making slow but steady progress toward the Bell. They were holding rifles, but they had yet to take a shot.
Murphy stumbled along as fast as one could run on snowshoes. While he ran, he was folding out a grenade launcher. Reaching over his shoulder into the pack, he removed a rocket-propelled grenade and started fitting it into the launcher. He was on a sloping ridge, racing down, when he first caught sight of the Chinese troops. They were twenty-five feet from the Bell. Murphy estimated his angle and fired a grenade. It went over the heads of the Chinese troops and exploded. They flopped on their bellies in the deep snow.
“What the—” Gurt started to say as he turned and saw Murphy approaching in the distance.
Adding fuel to the turbine, Gurt tried to lift off. Nothing. Murphy was twenty feet away now and racing toward the helicopter. The first few Chinese troops began to rise from the snow and shoulder their rifles. Gurt started firing the handgun from the window. A couple seconds later, Murphy’s M-16 opened up.
Ten feet now. Gurt reached across and opened the copilot’s door. Murphy paused in his firing, removed his pack, placed it gingerly behind his seat and climbed inside, holding the M-16 in his lap. Gurt was firing the handgun and fiddling with the collective at the same time.