“YOU’RE close enough, Gurt,” Murphy said, “and you’re about twelve feet above the ground.”
Gurt started to descend, then vomited across the dashboard of the Bell. “In case I can’t, when that gauge reads green,” he said, wiping the sleeve of his flight suit across his mouth, “flick these three switches down. That will shut down the turbines.”
Six feet above the ground in a slow descent, Gurt paused and hovered for a second, then took her the rest of the way to the ground. As soon as the helicopter settled on the skids, he slumped over in the harness and sat unmoving.
Murphy started to unsnap him from the belt as he waited for the helicopter to cool, then turned the engines off and waited for the rotor to stop spinning. Then he quickly climbed from his seat and raced around to the pilot’s door. With Gampo’s help, they carried Gurt inside the tent.
Then Murphy began to cut off his flight suit with a knife.
The cloth was saturated by blood and the wound was still leaking.
“SIR,” the pilot of the Gulfstream said, “we’re on final approach.”
Cabrillo stared out the window. Smoke was still rising from the burning wreckage at the far end of Gonggar Airport. The sun was over the horizon and he could just catch sight of Lhasa sixty miles distant. Staring up the aisle, through the open cockpit door and out the windshield, he could see a lumbering silver plane some seventy feet above the runway climbing out and away. On the ground were several trucks driving down the road away from the airfield.
They were a hundred feet above the runway and two hundred yards downwind. Two minutes later, the tires touched the tarmac with a squeal. The pilot taxied off the runway near the terminal and stopped. The turbines were still spinning when Cabrillo climbed out.
CHAIRMAN Zhuren had tape across his eyes and his wrists were taped behind his back. The dark-haired man that had burst into his bedroom was pulling him quickly along. Zhuren could hear a noisy crowd of people nearby. Then distant gunfire rang out from a few blocks away.
The thumping of a distant helicopter grew louder.
King watched through the scope as Reyes led Zhuren through the crowd. He could see Reyes ordering the Dungkarsoldiers with him to clear the people away from the landing zone. Turning, he glanced from his perch a few blocks away to where the armored personnel carriers were approaching. Crowds of Tibetans were trying to stop them but they were being felled by bursts of machine-gun fire. The lead APC was coming down a narrow street, with Tibetans fleeing from the front. He watched as it ran over the fallen body of a Tibetan freedom fighter. It flattened the body like a frog on a train track.
Reaching into his bag, he removed a belt of ammunition containing armor-piercing rounds and slid them into the .50. The helicopter was just about to touch down when he started firing.
Ten shots in seven seconds. Ten more for good measure.
The lead APC ground to a halt. The ones to the rear stopped also.
The sound of the helicopter was loud in Zhuren’s ears. He felt himself being pulled from inside and pushed from outside into a seat, then he felt someone slide in next to him. He sniffed the air. It was the dark-haired man, the man who had yanked him from safety into the unknown.
The helicopter lifted off.
“They will hover above us and we’ll climb inside,” King said to his Dungkarassistant.
“Mr. Sir,” the Tibetan said, “can I stay?”
“What’s your plan?” King asked.
The Tibetan pointed to where his countrymen were swarming over the disabled APC.
The helicopter was almost to the rooftop. King reached into his satchel and removed a black cloth bag. “These are hand grenades,” he said. “Do you know how they work?”
“Pull the metal thing and run?” the Dungkarsaid, smiling.
“You got it,” King said, “but keep your people back when you use them—these will shred a human like cheese in a grater.”
The helicopter was above the rooftop and lowering down. The Tibetan grabbed the bag and started for the ladder down.
“Thank you, sir,” the Dungkarsoldier shouted.
“Good luck,” King shouted as a pair of hands from inside the helicopter reached for him and he stepped up onto the skid, then ducked down and climbed inside.
“How’s things?” Reyes shouted after the door was closed and the helicopter had turned back toward Gonggar Airport.
“You know what they say,” King said wearily. “We do more before lunch than most people do all day.”
43
“MR. Seng,” Cabrillo said, “excellent job so far.”
A cold wind was blowing from the north. It bore the scent of forests and glaciers, aviation fuel and gunpowder. Cabrillo zipped the leather jacket he was wearing tighter around his neck, then reached in his rear pocket and removed a carefully folded white handkerchief and dabbed his nose, which was running.
“Thank you, sir,” Seng said. “Here’s the most current situation report. Murphy and the contract pilot managed to get the charges placed and cause the avalanche at the pass. Any Chinese armor is now effectively immobilized. Even if they decided to ignore the Russian advance and try to return to Lhasa now, their only route would cost them at least forty-eight hours of transit time, and that is ifthe weather holds.”
“Problems with that operation?” Cabrillo asked.
“The contract pilot, one Gurt Guenther, was hit by small-arms fire,” Seng said. “The extent of his injuries is unknown.”
“You’ve dispatched backup?”
“A relief helicopter with Kasim aboard is en route,” Seng said, “but they made it to the fuel stop and managed to land, so Guenther might not be too critical. The way it stands now is that if Murphy’s team can fly themselves out, we can call back Kasim.”
“Good,” Cabrillo said. “We might just need him here.”
“Speaking of the weather,” Seng said, “we are going to catch a late spring storm this afternoon, then it will clear for tomorrow and the next few days. The estimate is two to three inches of snow, and for the temperature to go below freezing before a slow warming trend.”
“The weather has the same impact on us as on the Chinese,” Cabrillo said, “but it is a possible advantage for the Dungkarforces. We’ll score it in Tibet’s favor.”
From far in the east came the sound of an approaching helicopter. Cabrillo stared in the distance and tried to make out which type it was.
“That’s one of ours, sir,” Seng said. “It contains Reyes, King and Legchog Zhuren.”
“Excellent.”
The two men started walking closer to the terminal. Zhuren would end up there soon enough.
“We have managed to field an attack helicopter liberated from the Chinese and piloted by Mr. Adams. Also a cargo plane we modified into a gunship with Gunderson at the controls, as well as the rental Bells and the Predator.”
“An excellent air armada for the newly resurrected Tibetan military,” Cabrillo said.
“Everything else in the plan has taken place at the correct time,” Seng said, “but there is one problem that has arisen. I discovered it when questioning a captured Chinese lieutenant.”
“What?” Cabrillo asked.
“Because the Chinese troops in Tibet have always been outnumbered,” Seng said, “if they were overrun—and I mean a Broken Arrow situation, no hope at all—the plan called for them to gas the Tibetan rebels with an airborne paralyzing agent.”
“The drums must be marked with some symbols,” Cabrillo said. “We’ll just call Washington and receive recommendations for how to disable it.”