A few minutes later, the helicopter lifted off the flats and dropped off the Dungkarand cargo. Four minutes later, the truck carrying Po and the Public Security Bureau members slid to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. Po unholstered his pistol and, followed by the others, started up the stairs. Cabrillo disappeared out of sight in the first structure bordering the stairs.
The helicopter, now empty, parked on the flats near the truck.
The pilot noticed the truck and radioed the Oregon.
“It has markings from the Public Security Bureau,” he said.
“I’ll call Cabrillo,” Hanley said, “but I wouldn’t worry about it right now. We’re receiving sporadic radar returns here. We have yet to determine the source. Watch overhead.”
GEORGE Adams had stopped and refueled the Chinese attack helicopter twice. Chuck Gunderson still had half a tank. For the most part, their mission so far had been quiet. Gunderson had been called in to monitor the fighting at the motor pool, but the Dungkarhad gained control fast enough that they never needed his makeshift gunship. Adams had yet to locate a clear target to fire upon. In the last twenty minutes, the situation had changed—other than a few pockets of small-arms fire in the city, it appeared that Lhasa was now firmly under Dungkarcontrol. Both men could see the transformation clearly from the air—the war was almost over.
“Gorgeous George, this is Tiny,” Gunderson said over the radio.
“Hey, Chuckie,” George said, “you as bored as I am?”
“I’m telling you—” Gunderson started to say.
“This is Climber One,” Murphy said. “A trio, meaning three, Chinese fighters just blew past me and Rescue One. We are fifty miles out of Lhasa inbound for Gonggar.”
“All Corporation members, this is the Oregon,” Hanley said. “We have detected three Chinese fighters inbound from the northern theater. Assume them as unfriendly. Prepare to take cover. All offensive forces report in now.”
“Predator, ready,” Lincoln said from his remote station in Bhutan.
“Attack One, ready,” Adams said.
“Gunship One, ready,” Gunderson said.
“I’m sorry, people,” Hanley said. “They must have slipped in low under the radar. We now have intermittent returns and expect arrival in minutes.”
The three fighters roared down the canyon from the north toward Lhasa.
CABRILLO was in a large prayer room with small rooms to each side. He was searching each room one at a time, but the going was slow. Po and his team had made it up the stairs. Po paused outside the door with his pistol in the air and peered inside. Then, seeing no one, he crept inside. Cabrillo was searching through a large stack of wooden crates in a storeroom. His attention was focused on locating the poison gas, so he was unaware that Po and his men were outside. The crates contained scrolls, old textbooks and documents. Wiping his hands, he walked out.
Po was standing outside the door with his pistol trained on Cabrillo’s chest. The six members of the Public Security Bureau carried rifles, which they pointed at him as well.
Cabrillo smiled. “Morning, men,” he said easily. “Just changing the filters in the furnace. This old palace can get a mite drafty when it snows.”
“I’m Detective Ling Po from the Macau Constabulatory, and you’re under arrest for theft and murder.”
“Murder?” Cabrillo said quietly. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Your little Buddha theft and the subsequent escape left three Chinese citizens dead.”
“Do you mean when the Chinese navy attacked my boat?” Cabrillo said. “They started it.”
Right at that instant, the first fighter plane passed over Lhasa, and all hell broke out.
MURPHY’S warning gave Adams and Gunderson just enough time to prepare. Adams clung to the side of a mountain west of Lhasa, pointing his tail boom toward the fighters. Gunderson clung to the mountains on the east side with the mini-gun ready to fire. The Predator was in a slow orbit over Gonggar, ready to protect the area.
The fighters passed over Lhasa and unleashed their chain guns, killing scores of Tibetans, then they continued toward the airport. A minute or so later, the fighters neared Gonggar and the antiaircraft guns opened fire. Flying through flak, the lead fighter pilot passed over the airport, then made a sweeping left turn back toward Lhasa. Slowly a helicopter appeared against the mountain. Then a puff of smoke and a flaming spear emerged from under the fuselage.
Adams watched the video camera and made adjustments as the missile streaked toward the fighter. He’d aimed for the main fuselage. What he hit was a wing. The pilot ejected and Adams saw a chute open.
In a textbook maneuver, the second fighter pilot had broken right. He was racing back toward Lhasa when a target showed on his radar scope off his left wing. Before he could react, a Chinese cargo plane appeared. Confused for a second by the appearance of a seemingly friendly force, the pilot hesitated firing.
“Open up,” Gunderson shouted to the rear.
The Tibetan gunner let loose with a volley that stitched the side of the fighter like a shotgun blast to the gut of a duck. The man kept firing even after the plane passed from view.
“I think you got him,” Gunderson shouted back. “Hold off.”
Gunderson made a sweeping turn and caught a glimpse as the flaming wreckage spun into a mountain. There was no ejection, no salvation.
As soon as the third fighter realized they were being fired upon, he made a steep climb straight up in the air. The Predator was hot on his tail.
“Fire four,” Lincoln said over the radio as he blew off all his remaining missiles at once.
The jet raced into the heavens, but the lighter and smaller missiles were faster.
The Tibetans on the ground watched as the white contrail from the jet made a straight line up into the sky. Two sets of twin tendrils of steam followed. Then, high over Lhasa, a fireball erupted. The three fighters would fight no more.
“GO see what that was,” Po ordered one of the Tibetans.
The man walked out and stared down at the city, then walked back inside. “Planes attacking,” was all he said when he returned.
“That’s the Chinese retaking the city,” Po said. “In a few minutes—”
Just then Cabrillo’s telephone rang. So he answered it.
“Excuse me,” he said to Po, holding his hand over the receiver.
“Right,” Cabrillo said. “Okay, good. No, not yet, there has been a slight snag. There is a Macau policeman here that’s—”
Po slid his pistol in his holster and batted the telephone to the floor.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Cabrillo said. “I didn’t buy the extended warranty.”
Po was enraged. His control was slipping and he needed it back now.
On the Oregon, Hanley was still listening to the open line.
“Against the wall,” Po said, dragging Cabrillo against a stone wall, then stepping back.
Cabrillo stood there, the realization of what was happening slowly dawning.
“What do you think, Po” he spat. “That you’re judge, jury and executioner?”
“Men,” Po said, “line up.”
The Tibetans formed a firing line, their rifles at their shoulders.
On the Oregon, Eric Stone was next to Hanley, listening in. “Sir,” he said, “what can we do?”
Hanley raised his hand to quiet him.
“On behalf of the Macau authorities,” Po said, “I have heard your admission of guilt and find you guilty of murder. Your sentence is death by firing squad, at this time and place.”
Stone looked in horror at Hanley, whose face remained impassive.
“Do you have any last words or pleas?” Po asked.
“Yes,” Cabrillo said. “I ask that you stop this nonsense immediately—there is a deadly gas somewhere in this palace, and if I don’t find it soon, we all will die.”