"Who are they after?" Rimpoche asked.

"The chairman of the Tibet Autonomous Region, Legchog Zhuren."

The last helicopter was on the ground, and Huxley walked over.

"This is our medical officer," Seng said to Rimpoche. "Poll your troops and see if any of your men have any experience as doctors or nurses--if so, we need them to work with Julia here. Right now, however, we need that helicopter unloaded and the contents carried inside the terminal. Ms. Huxley will be setting up a field hospital immediately.

If any of your men were injured or wounded, she'll treat them shortly."

Rimpoche shouted orders and men raced to the helicopter to unload.

Adams and Gunderson were standing to the side, waiting for Seng to finish. He turned and smiled.

"You two go see what the Chinese have that we can use," Seng said.

"I need to interrogate a prisoner."

The two pilots ambled off toward the hangars. Seng walked inside to where a Chinese air force lieutenant was sitting in a chair in the middle of the terminal with four fierce-looking Tibetan soldiers surrounding him.

d.a.m.n NICE SCENERY," Murphy noted, glancing out the window.

"Like Alaska on steroids."

Gurt was watching the alt.i.tude gauge as they climbed higher toward the imposing ridge of mountains just ahead. The sun had yet to peek over the horizon, but her coming was heralded by the pink glow being cast over the rugged terrain.

"We could probably claim the helicopter alt.i.tude record," Gurt said.

"I don't think so," Murphy said. "Some guy went to twenty-four thousand feet a couple of years ago to perform a Himalayan rescue."

"I read about that," Gurt said, "but that was in a Bell 206. And it had special rotor blades."

"You sound a little worried," Murphy said.

"Not worried," Gurt said, "just apprehensive."

He pointed out the front windshield at the wall approaching. The trees were petering out as they drew nearer. Now there was only the 366 black and gray of rocks streaked with tendrils of snow and ice that dripped down the sides of the imposing mountain like rivulets of ice cream on a child's hand. A gust of wind buffeted the helicopter, blowing it sideways. Clouds started to appear around the Bell. Gurt stared at the gauge again. '

It read eighteen thousand feet and climbing.

THE HELICOPTER CARRYING Reyes, King and the Dungkar forces came in twenty feet above the ground and approached Lhasa from the south. The sound from the Lhasa River helped cover the noise as the pilot landed on a small spit of sand in the river just east of what the Chinese referred to as Dream Island, formerly an idyllic picnic spot now replaced by tacky Chinese shops and karaoke bars.

"Unload the crates," Reyes shouted to the Dungkar.

As soon as the crates were unloaded and King had exited, they all ]

raced a short distance away and crouched down to avoid the blast of sand from the rotor wash as the helicopter quickly lifted off and raced downriver. Once the helicopter was out of sound and sight, Reyes

opened a small satchel and removed a parabolic dish for listening.

Quickly switching it on, he listened for the sound of alarms in the city.

He heard only the sound of the river.

Nodding, he whispered to one of the Tibetans, "Look."

Prying a crate open, he pointed. It was a box of Tibetan flags, which had long ago been banned by the Chinese oppressors. The flags featured a snow lion with red and blue rays. The man bent down and touched the pile gingerly, and when he rose to look at Reyes, his eyes were filled with tears.

"We need to carry all these crates across the river," Reyes said to the Tibetan, "and stash them. Then you and the others need to follow me and King to Zhuren's house."

"Yes," the Tibetan said eagerly.

"We'll need one of you to guard the flags and one man to go with GOLDEN BUDDHA 367.

Mr. King. The other two of you," Reyes said quietly, "will enter the house with me."

The Tibetan nodded, then began to whisper orders to his men.

Five minutes later, they were all safely across the river and walking toward the Barkhor area of Lhasa. King and his Tibetan helper peeled away from the group and made their way to the tallest building near the home of the Chinese government official. The streets were empty except for a few Tibetan merchants who were sweeping the square in preparation of setting up shop. Taking the steps two at a time, King and his helper made their way to the rooftop, where they took up position.

Once he was in place, King reached into his bag, removed a small bottle of oxygen, and then took a few deep breaths. He then offered the bottle to the Tibetan, who smiled but shook his head no. Then he scanned the area through his scope.

The home of Legchog Zhuren was an ornate affair whose front faced south onto Barkhor Square. Just to the east of the house lay the Jokhang, a temple built sometime in the seventh century. The Jokhang, the most revered religious building in Lhasa, featured dozens of statues, a variety of gold artwork and some thirty chapels.

King watched as Reyes pa.s.sed in front of the Jokhang. He stopped for a second and raised a closed fist into the air. Then Reyes, followed by two Tibetans, made his way down an alley between the temple and the chairman's house and pa.s.sed out of view.

King pushed the b.u.t.ton on a silver-plated stopwatch, set the time for one minute, and watched.

When the stopwatch read fifteen seconds, King reached into his satchel and removed a hollowed-out ram's horn and handed it to the Tibetan.

"When I say," he told him, "start blowing, and don't stop until I tell you to, or we're dead."

The man nodded eagerly and took the horn. King took another breath of oxygen and checked the stopwatch. Five seconds. He glanced at the guards patrolling the walkway outside Zhuren's house. There 368 369.

were two outside the wrought-iron gate, two more just outside the front door sitting on chairs. He lined up his shots.

"Now," he said loudly.

The horn erupted with the sound of a cat under a vacuum cleaner.

Like wraiths appearing above a graveyard, the square was suddenly filled with four dozen Dungkar warriors. They had posed as shopkeepers and early-morning walkers, and had hidden inside drums containing spices and seeds. They screamed war cries and raced toward the gate leading up to the chairman's home. On the front porch, one of the guards was rousted from a half sleep by the sound of the horn and the approaching horde. He stood up and reached for a bell near the front door. But before he could reach it to sound the alarm, he heard a sharp crack. As if in a dream, he stared in amazement as his hand and arm from the elbow dropped onto the porch.

Then he screamed as blood erupted from the stump like a geyser.

At the same time, the Dungkar reached 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 Dungkar raced 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 Dungkar raced 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 doork.n.o.b. 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."

''T" CAN'T SEE much," Gurt admitted.

The clouds had closed in as they neared the top of the pa.s.s.

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.

370.

371.

"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 pa.s.s 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 alt.i.tude 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 his372 .

beeper chirped. He finished attaching the detonation cord, then rose up and removed the beeper from his pocket.

"d.a.m.n," he said, nipping 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.