“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.
IN Little Lhasa, the Dalai Lama waited inside the communications room near a bank of radios. In the last few minutes, his network of spies inside Tibet had begun to report the progress. So far, at least, the operation appeared to be going flawlessly.
He turned to an aide-de-camp. “Are the preparations completed for our trip home?” he asked.
“As soon as word comes from Mr. Cabrillo, Your Holiness,” he said. “We can have you there in two hours by jet.”
The Dalai Lama thought for a moment. “Once we take off,” he asked, “how long will it be until we are over Tibet?”
“Half an hour,” the man noted, “give or take.”
“I am going to the temple now to pray,” the Dalai Lama said, rising. “Keep watch on the situation.”
“Yes, Your Holiness,” the aide said.
CHUCK Gunderson was helping George Adams strap himself into the attack helicopter. None of the Chinese helmets inside the hangar were large enough to fit his head, so he was using his own personal headset, plugged into the radio for communications. He was squeezed into the seat like a fat girl in spandex.
“They don’t make these for big guys like us,” Adams joked.
“You should see mine,” Gunderson said. “The Chinese still believe in quantity over quality. My cockpit looks like I’m back in World War Two. I keep expecting Glenn Miller music to start playing over the radio.”
“Look at this dashboard,” Adams said as Gunderson finished and stood upright on the ladder. “It’s got more metal that a fifty-seven Chevy.”
Just then, Eddie Seng walked over quickly. “You need to get airborne and clear the runway. Cabrillo just called. He’s five minutes out.”
Gunderson pushed down on the Plexiglas shield over Adams’s head and held it as he fastened it in place. Then he thumped the top and gave Adams a thumbs-up sign. Climbing back down the ladder, he motioned for the Tibetan helpers to wheel it out of the way. He began walking with Seng toward the cargo plane as he heard the igniters in the turbine engine of the attack helicopter begin to wind up.
“Mr. Seng,” Gunderson said, “what’s the latest?”
“I interrogated the Chinese lieutenant that was the ranking officer here,” Seng said. “He was not able to get word to Beijing before we captured his forces.”
“So for now,” Gunderson said, reaching the door of the cargo plane, “we don’t need to worry about an attack from Chinese fighters from outside the country?”
“If the Russians do their job and keep the Chinese on their toes,” Seng said, “your role right now seems to be to provide close air support for the Dungkarforces.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Gunderson said, climbing into the side door of the cargo plane.
“Good,” Seng said, patting the side of the plane. “Now get to work—the boss is coming.”
At just that second, Adams pulled the collective and the Chinese helicopter lifted from the ground. The helicopter wobbled a little as Adams fought to get the feel, then it moved forward, broke through the ground effect, and headed in the direction of Lhasa.
Gunderson walked up the slope to the cockpit, slid into his seat, then began the engine-starting procedure. Once the pair of engines were running smoothly, he glanced back to the four Dungkarsoldiers manning the gun in the rear.
“Okay, men,” he shouted over the noise of the engines, “I’ll tell you when and where to direct the fire. For right now, we’re just taking a little flight.”
That sounded simple enough—but not one of the Tibetans had ever been inside a plane before.
ON board the Oregon, Hanley stood above the microphone and talked in a clear voice.
“I just sent word to your contact,” he said. “Watch for red strobes as your signal.”
“Same spot as we had first planned?” Murphy asked.
“Yes,” Hanley said. “Now as far as Gurt is concerned, we talked to Huxley. You need to apply direct pressure to the wound as soon as possible.”
“Do you have us on satellite surveillance?” Murphy asked.
“Yes,” Hanley said, staring at the screen. “You’re about five minutes from the rendezvous point.”
“We’ll report back once we land,” Murphy said.
The radio went dead. Hanley dialed Seng and waited while it rang.
BRIKTIN Gampo checked to make sure the strobes were flashing, then stared up at the sky. The clouds were low, almost a fog, but from second to second they would shift, revealing patches of open air. In the distance he could hear a helicopter approaching. He walked back inside, stirred a pot of tea on the stove, then went back out to await the arrival.
“I see one,” Murphy said, pointing.
In the last few minutes, Gurt’s face had turned ashen. Murphy could see beads of sweat on his forehead, and his hand controlling the helicopter was shaking.
“Hold on,” Murphy said, “we’re almost there.”
“I’m starting to see black on the edges of my eyes,” Gurt said. “You might need to guide me on where to land.”
THE sound of the cargo plane lifting off was loud. Eddie Seng was forced to yell into the telephone. “How bad is it?” he asked Hanley.
“We don’t know,” Hanley said, “but we should dispatch someone now—the flight north takes a couple of hours. If the support is not needed, we can call it back.”
“Got it,” Seng said.
Then he walked toward the makeshift clinic to see if Huxley had found anyone trained in nursing to fly along. Five minutes later, he had a helicopter refueled, a Tibetan soldier with a limited nursing background, and supplies in the air.