A bank of prayer wheels stood like vertical press rollers, and Squirrelly gave them a spin, mentally praying for her voice to come back. It didn't happen. She wondered if praying to herself had been a mistake.
Carefully they crept toward the fresh air. The clear light of early morning filtered in a little from the near mouth of the cave.
At the entrance-the cavern was some kind of temple cut into the side of a great hill-they stood looking across at the Potala. Its multistoried white levels, like some Hare Khrishna's idea of a condominium, were busy with greenuniformed soldiers. They swarmed along the many-leveled roofs with its golden lions. Smoke and dust boiled out of a cluster of windows.
"A jeep comes," hissed Kula, pointing to the road below.
Instantly everyone squatted down to get out of sight. Except Squirrelly. A hand reached up and yanked her flat.
The jeep passed without incident.
Squirrelly lay on her stomach and tried to make sounds come out of her mouth. She pointed to her mouth angrily. More jeeps whirled by. Tanks clanked, taking up defensive positions. Canvas-backed trucks laden with hard-faced PLA cadres rolled back and forth.
Lobsang hissed, "There are too many Chinese even for a Master of Sinanju and one Mongol."
Squirrelly glowered at them. What was she-chopped yak liver?
From his crouching position, Chiun searched the busy street with his eyes. "Escape will be difficult," he admitted, his hazel eyes narrowing to slits.
"Then we will make our stand here," vowed Kula. "Prepared to die if need be in the service of the Buddha-Sent One."
Die? thought Squirrelly. I can't die. I'm the heroine.
She tried to communicate that, but the three were too busy arguing among themselves to pay her attention. Typical supporting actors.
"Any fool can die," Chiun was saying. "We must seek out a place of true refuge in order to plan our strategy."
His eyes went to a ring of snowcapped peaks that seemed so close but could not be reached on foot without incurring great risk.
Kula followed the Master of Sinanju's gaze. "Yes, the mountains would be a good place."
"But how to reach them," said Lobsang.
Kula checked his AK-47 and said, "I will find us a worthy steed." Without another word, he clambered down the mountainside.
THE NEXT HOUR was one of the most boring yet nervous in Squirrelly Chicane's sixty years on earth. It was worse than waiting for the director to set up a shot.
They withdrew to the cool shadows of the temple cavern and waited. The sounds of motorized infantry, helicopters and the unintelligible shoutings of Chinese commanders came and went. More than once the loudspeakers distributed throughout Lhasa blared shouts and exhortations.
"They are calling upon us to surrender," Chiun said.
"We will never surrender," Lobsang said, stiff-voiced.
Squirrelly said nothing. She spun the prayer wheels furiously, imploring the Buddhas of the Past, Present and Future to give her back her voice. They must have been on another cosmic line, because all she managed were some hoarse gasps.
The whup-whup-whup of the helicopter at first sounded like any other. Then it drew alarmingly close. Then its earsplitting racket filled the cavern.
Squirrelly's blue eyes went to the cave mouth. A helicopter bubble hovered just outside like the clear, all-seeing eye of a great dragonfly. Kicked-up dust obscured everything.
Lobsang had possession of one of Kula's AK-47s. He snapped it to his shoulder and aimed toward the pilot.
A hand swept out and relieved the Tibetan of the weapon, and the voice of the Master of Sinanju squeaked, "It is Kula. He has brought us the steed by which we will make our escape."
Squirrelly looked past the helicopter windshield. Sure enough, there sat the big, lovable Mongol. Kula was grinning and pointing upward. Then the helicopter lifted from sight.
After that it was just a matter of climbing to the hilltop to join him under the whirling rotor blades.
"We will escape from right under the noses of the Chinese enemies of the faith," he boasted.
"You can fly this unholy machine safely?" Lobsang asked doubtfully.
"If we die, it was meant to be," laughed Kula.
"If we die," said Chiun, gathering up his skirts to step aboard, "I will hold you personally accountable throughout all your lives to come."
They lifted off and went rattling toward the snowcaps surrounding Lhasa Valley so smoothly that right on the spot Squirrelly decided the scene was too good not to use. She'd just have to rewrite it so she commandeered the helicopter. Why not? It was her movie. If anyone questioned it, she'd invoke the old dramatic-license chestnut.
Chapter 36
There were fires burning to the south as the CAAC turboprop bearing the minister of state security fought the terrific downdrafts above Gonggar Airport, eighty miles to the south of Lhasa.
Tibet was in revolt. The radio reports verified it. Chushi Gangdruk guerrillas were committing depredations in towns and cities strung all along the Friendship Highway.
There was no doubt that this was the doing of the meddlesome Bunji Lama. The minister of state security prayed to whatever gods still smiled upon China in these unsuperstitious days that the Tashi, chanting mantras in his seat and spinning his golden prayer wheel, would be recognized as a greater power than the white-eyes lama from the other side of the world. If not, the minister of state security was prepared to take measures not sanctioned by Beijing.
He would not lose Tibet. To lose Tibet would be to lose face . . . if not his head.
The turboprop dropped with sickening suddenness, and the minister forgot all about the Bunji Lama, Tibet and possible loss of face or head.
As he held the paper sack to his pale lips, all he cared about was holding in his breakfast.
WHEN THEY CAME within sight of the town of Gonggar, Remo Williams told his Khampas, "I want this place left the way we found it."
Bumba Fun shrank behind the driver's seat of the truck as if deflated. "No burning?"
"No nothing. We're making good time."
"But why, O Gonpo?"
"You burn the town, and you'll wreck the airport. I'm going to need the airport to get the Bunji the hell out of Tibet."
"That is a strange reason," Bumba Fun muttered.
"It'll be good practice for when we reach Lhasa."
"But we would not burn Lhasa. It is sacred to Tibet. We would burn only Chinese and their profane buildings."
"We've had enough burning. When we hit Lhasa, I want it done quietly."
"We will hit Lhasa as quietly as Khampas are able," promised Bumba Fun.
"Do better," said Remo. "After I haul the Bunji Lama's butt out of town, it's your show."
Perking up, Bumba Fun bore down on the accelerator like a Khampa possessed.
THE PLA HELICOPTER settled onto the mountain summit, kicking up a cloud of stinging flakes. The skids sank a foot into pristine snow cover.
"We are safe here," grunted Kula as he shut down the rotors.
The Master of Sinanju stepped out onto the frozen snowcap. The air was thin and very bitter to inhale. But it smelled of freedom, and so it was good.
He surveyed the valley below.
Lhasa's fantastical roofs shone in the harsh light of day. But other than the tiny figures in green, no people were about in the streets. Martial law had clamped down upon the ancient city cupped in the eternal mountains. And because the people of Lhasa accepted whatever befell them as preordained from the beginning of time, and the Chinese were many and possessed deadly weapons in plenty, there was no resistance. Mostly it was the latter.
Someone would have to rouse the people to the Bunji's presence in their midst. Only then would they come out of their homes and their hovels and retake the streets.