Now the legend was whisked to life in the silk painting before Hunt's eyes.

"This is a most sacred find," Tsendyn whispered. "It will lead us to the tomb of the Great Khan." Tsendyn spoke with a reverence that bordered on fright.

"Yes," Hunt gasped, imagining the fame that would sweep his way if he led the discovery of Genghis Khan's grave.

Suddenly fearful of exposing the significance of the silk to the Chinese laborers, one of whom might have an eager bandit in the family, Hunt hastily rerolled the fabric into the tube and replaced it in the lacquered box with the cheetah skin. He then wrapped the box in a cloth and secured it in a large leather satchel, which stayed clasped in his left hand for the rest of the day.

After riddling the earth where the box was recovered and finding no other artifacts, Hunt reluctantly ordered a halt to the dig. The laborers quietly stowed their picks, shovels, and brushes into a wooden cart then stood in line for their meager salary. Though paid just pennies a day, several of the men had actually fought over the physically demanding jobs, which were a rare commodity in the poverty-stricken Chinese provinces.

With the equipment and artifacts secured in a trio of wooden carts and the Chinese laborers dismissed, Hunt retired to his canvas tent after dinner with Tsendyn and packed up his belongings. For the first time, an uneasiness fell over him as he doc.u.mented the day's events in his personal journal. With the last minute discovery of the valued artifact, he suddenly became more cognizant of the dangers around him. Looters and bandits had wantonly robbed other excavations in Shaanxi Province, and a fellow archaeologist had been beaten and pistol-whipped by marauders seeking three-thousand-year-old bronze artifacts. Then there was the j.a.panese Army. Though they might not harm a British citizen, they could very well appropriate his work and artifacts. And who knows? Would the discovery of Genghis Khan's grave prove to be a curse for him, as many claimed it was for Lord Carnarvon and the crew that discovered the grave of King Tut?

With the satchel containing the wooden box safe under his cot, he slept fitfully, the myriad of thoughts banging around his head like a blacksmith's hammer. The night was made more ominous by the howl of a shrieking wind that rocked the tent till dawn. Rising groggily at daybreak, he was relieved to find the satchel safe and sound under his cot, while, outside, there were no j.a.panese militants to be seen. Tsendyn was standing nearby, cooking some goat meat over an open fire with a pair of Chinese orphan boys who a.s.sisted the Mongol.

"Good morning, sir. Hot tea is at the ready." Tsendyn smiled, handing Hunt a cup of steaming brew. "All of the equipment is packed, and the mules are hitched to the carts. We can depart at your desire."

"Jolly good. Stow my tent, if you would, and take a good mind of the satchel under the cot," he said, taking a seat on a wooden crate and watching the sunrise as he enjoyed his tea.

The first distant artillery sh.e.l.l sounded an hour later as the remaining excavation party rolled away from the Shang-tu site aboard three mule-drawn wagons. Across the windswept plains stood the tiny village of Lanqui, just over a mile away. The caravan continued past the dusty town, joining a small trail of refugees headed west. Near noon, the mules clopped into the aged town of Duolun, where they stopped at a roadside hovel for lunch. Downing a tasteless bowl of noodles and broth that was sprinkled with dead bugs, they made their way to a large flat meadow at the edge of town. Sitting atop one of the wagons, Hunt peered overhead into a partly cloudy sky. Almost like clockwork, a faint buzz broke the air, and the archaeologist watched as a tiny silver speck grew larger against the clouds as it approached the makeshift airfield. As the airplane neared, Hunt pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it to a stick, thrusting it into the ground as a primitive wind sock for the pilot to gauge the breeze.

With a gentle touch, the pilot circled the metal-sided aircraft in a wide, low turn, then set the noisy plane down onto the turf in a quick motion. Hunt was relieved to see the plane was a Fokker F. VIIb trimotor, a safe and able aircraft aptly suited to flying over remote stretches of barren landscape. He noted with curiosity that the name Blessed Betty was painted beneath the pilot's c.o.c.kpit window.

The motors barely gurgled to a stop when the fuselage door burst open and out jumped two men in worn leather jackets.

"Hunt? I'm Randy Schodt," greeted the pilot, a tall man with a rugged yet friendly face who spoke with an American accent. "My brother Dave and I are here to fly you to Nanking, or so the contract says, he added, patting a folded paper in his jacket pocket.

"What's a pair of Yanks doing way out here?" Hunt mused.

"Beats working in the shipyard back home in Erie, Pennsylvania," grinned Dave Schodt, an affable man like his brother who was quick with a joke.

"Been flying for the Chinese Ministry of Railroads, supporting rail extensions on the PekingShanghai line. Though work has come to a sudden halt with this unpleasantness by these j.a.panese folks," Randy Schodt explained with a smirk.

"I have a slight change in destination," Hunt said, sidestepping the banter. "I need you to fly me to Ulaanbaatar."

"Mongolia?" Schodt asked, scratching his head. "Well, as long as we're headed away from the neighborhood of the Nippon Army, I guess it's okay with me."

"I'll plot it out, see if we have the range to get there," Dave said, walking back to the plane. "Hopefully, they'll have a gas station when we arrive," he laughed.

With Schodt's help, Hunt supervised the loading of the more important artifacts and tools into the fuselage of the Fokker. When the wooden crates had nearly filled the interior, Hunt took the satchel with the lacquered box and carefully placed it on the front pa.s.senger's seat.

"That will be a hundred fifty miles less than the flight to Nanking. But we'll need return mileage, which exceeds what your British Museum people contracted me to fly," Schodt explained, spreading a map of the region across a stack of crates. Ulaanbaatar, the capital of Mongolia, was marked with a star in the north-central region of the country, over four hundred miles from the Chinese border.

"You have my authorization," Hunt replied, handing the pilot a handwritten request for the change in route. "I a.s.sure you, the museum will honor the additional expense."

"Sure they will, they don't want your artifacts to end up in the Tokyo Museum," Schodt laughed. Sticking the note in his pocket, he added, "Dave has the route to Ulaanbaatar laid in and promises we can make it in one hop. Since we'll be flying over the Gobi Desert, you're lucky the Blessed Betty has extra fuel tanks. Whenever you're ready."

Hunt walked over and surveyed the two remaining mule carts still packed with equipment and artifacts. Tsendyn stood holding the reins of the lead mule, stroking the animal's ears.

"Tsendyn, we have had a difficult but fruitful summer. You have been invaluable in the success of the expedition."

"It has been my honor. You have done a great service to my country and heritage. My heirs shall be particularly grateful."

"Take the remaining equipment and artifacts to Shijiazhuang, where you can catch the rail to Nanking. A representative from the British Museum will meet and arrange shipment of the items to London. I will wait for you in Ulaanbaatar, where we will investigate our latest find."

"I look forward to the next search with great antic.i.p.ation," Tsendyn replied, shaking the archaeologist's hand.

"Farewell, my friend."

Hunt climbed aboard the loaded Fokker as the plane's three 220-horsepower Wright Whirlwind radial engines roared to life. Tsendyn stood and watched as Schodt turned the plane into the wind, then shoved the throttles to their stops. With a deafening roar, the aircraft jostled across the meadow, bouncing up and down several times before slowly lumbering into the air. Turning in a graceful arc low above the field, Schodt swung the big plane northwest toward the Mongolian border as it gradually gained alt.i.tude.

Tsendyn stood in the meadow and watched as the plane grew smaller on the horizon and the throbbing of the motors dissolved from his ears. Not until the aircraft had completely vanished from sight did he reach into the vest pocket of his coat for a rea.s.suring touch. The bolt of silk was still there, as it had been since the early hours of the night before.

It was two hours into the flight when Hunt reached for the satchel and pulled out the lacquered box. The boredom of the flight mixed with the excitement of the find was too much to bear and he was drawn to run the silk painting through his fingers one more time. With the box in his hands, he felt the familiar weight of the bronze tube rolling around inside in a rea.s.suring manner. Yet something didn't feel right. Prying off the lid, he found the cheetah skin tightly rolled up and stuffed to one side, as it had been before. The bronze tube sat next to it, appearing secure. But picking the tube up, he noticed it felt heavier than he remembered. With a shaking hand, he quickly pulled off the cap, releasing an outpouring of sand that dribbled onto his lap. As the last grain tumbled out, he peered in and saw that the silk scroll had vanished.

His eyes bulged at the sudden realization that he'd been duped and he struggled to catch his breath. The shock quickly turned to anger and regaining his voice, he began screaming at the pilots.

"Turn back! Turn the airplane around! We must return at once," he cried.

But his plea fell on deaf ears. In the c.o.c.kpit, the two pilots suddenly had something more troubling of their own to contend with.

The Mitsubishi G3M bomber, known in the west as a Nell, was not on a bombing mission at all. Flying casually alone at an alt.i.tude of nine thousand feet, the twin-engine aircraft was flying reconnaissance, probing the aerial resources of Russia that were rumored to have surfaced in Mongolia.

With its easy conquest of Manchuria and successful advance into northern China, the j.a.panese had sharpened their sights on the important seaports and coal mines of Siberia to the north. Leery of the j.a.panese intent, the Russians had already bolstered their defensive forces in Siberia, and recently signed a defense pact with Mongolia that allowed for the deployment of troops and aircraft in that mostly barren country. Already the j.a.panese were busy gathering intelligence, testing and probing the defensive lines in preparation for an outright northern offensive that would be launched from Manchuria in mid-1939.

The Nell had come up empty on its foray into eastern Mongolia, finding no sign of troop deployments or runway construction on behalf of Russian aircraft. If there was any Russian military activity in Mongolia, it would be much farther north, the j.a.panese pilot concluded. Below him was nothing but the occasional nomadic tribe, wandering the empty expanse of the Gobi Desert with their herd of camels.

"Nothing but sand out here," the Nell's copilot, a youthful lieutenant named Miyabe, said with a yawn. "I don't know why the wing commander is excited over this real estate."

"As a buffer to the more valuable territory to the north, I suspect," Captain n.o.buji Negishi replied. "I just hope we get repositioned to the front when the northern invasion occurs. We're missing all the fun in Shanghai and Peking."

As Miyabe stared at the flat ground beneath the plane, a bright glint of sunlight briefly flashed out of the corner of his eye. Scanning across the horizon, he tracked the source of the light, squinting at what he saw.

"Sir, an aircraft ahead and slightly below us," he said, pointing a gloved hand toward the object.

Negishi peered ahead and quickly spotted the plane. It was the silver Fokker trimotor, flying northwest toward Ulaanbaatar.

"She's crossing our path," the j.a.panese pilot noted with a rise in his voice. "At last, a chance for battle."

"But sir, that's not a combat plane. I don't think it is even a Chinese airplane," Miyabe said, observing the markings on the Fokker. "Our orders are to engage only Chinese military aircraft."

"The flight poses a risk," Negishi explained away. "Besides, it will be good target practice, Lieutenant." No one in the j.a.panese military was getting reprimanded for aggressive behavior in the Chinese theater, he well knew. As a bomber pilot, he would be afforded few opportunities to engage and destroy other aircraft in the skies. It was a rare chance for an easy kill and he wasn't about to pa.s.s it by.

"Gunners at your stations," he barked over the intercom. "Prepare for air-to-air action."

The five-man crew of the attack bomber were immediately energized as they manned their battle positions. Rather than play the quarry of smaller and quicker fighter aircraft, as was their lot in life, the bomber crew suddenly became the hunter. Captain Negishi mentally computed a dead-reckoning line of the trimotor's path, then eased back on the throttles and banked the bomber in a wide slow turn to the right. The Fokker slipped by beneath them until Negishi eased out of the turn, which brought the bomber around and behind the silver trimotor.

Negishi eased the throttles forward again as the Fokker loomed ahead. With a top speed of two hundred sixteen miles per hour, the Mitsubishi was nearly twice as fast as the Fokker and easily closed the gap.