Golden Buddha

Dear Readers,

A few years ago, while I was writing Flood Tide, I realized that Dirk Pitt needed some help on a particular assignment, and so I dreamed up Juan Cabrillo.

Cabrillo ran a ship called the Oregon, on the outside completely nondescript, but on the inside packed with state-of-the-art intelligence-gathering equipment. It was a completely private enterprise, available for any government agency that could afford it. It went where no warship could go, transported secret cargo without suspicion, plucked data out of the air--it was the perfect complement to NUMA.

In fact, I had so much fun writing about the Oregon and its rakish, one-legged chief that I was sorry to see it sail off when its task was done. I promised myself I'd find a way to bring them back some day-- and here, I am pleased to say, they are. Golden Buddha is the first in a new series about Juan Cabrillo's merry men (and women!), and I hope you get as much of a kick reading about them as I did creating them.

And who knows, maybe some time they'll cross paths with Dirk Pitt again. . . .

Clive Cussler

For my brothers Larry, Steve, Cliff and John, and my sister, Dawn, who never let a busy day get in the way of a good nap.

FOREWORD

Just so you know, this is not a Dirk Pitt adventure, nor a NUMA Files-Kurt Austin story. This book is based on the old tramp cargo ship Oregon that I described in the Pitt tale titled Flood Tide.

Beneath her derelict superstructure and rusty hull, Oregon is a mechanical marvel of technology and scientific genius. She is crewed by a group of highly educated and intelligent mercenaries who function under the myriad umbrellas of a far-flung corporate conglomerate. They contract with governments, corporations and private interests around the world to fight corruption and challenge the sinister threats of rogue villains in the exotic ports of the seven seas.

Craig Dirgo and I worked together to create an entirely new series of adventures with a cast of characters unlike any ever seen before.

I sincerely hope you will find it an enjoyable departure as well as a fun read.

Clive Cussler

CAST OF CHARACTERS

THE CORPORATION TEAM

juan cabrillo: Chairman of the Corporation

max hanley: President of the Corporation

richard truitt: Vice President of Operations for the Corporation

THE CREW

(in alphabetic order)

george adams: Helicopter Pilot/Operative

rick barrett: Assistant Chef/Operative

monica crabtree: Supply and Logistics Coordinator/Operative

carl gannon: General Operations/Operative

chuck "tiny" gunderson: Chief Pilot/Operative

michael halpert: Finance and Accounting/Operative

cliff hornsby: General Operations/Operative

julia huxley: Medical Officer/Operative

pete jones: General Operations/Operative

hali kasim: Communications Expert/Operative

larry king: Sniper/Operative

franklin lincoln: General Operations/Operative

bob meadows: General Operations/Operative

mark murphy: Weapons Specialist/Operative

kevin nixon: Magic Shop Specialist/Operative

sam pryor: Propulsion Engineer/Operative

gunther reinholt: Propulsion Engineer/Operative

tom reyes: General Operations/Operative

linda ross: Security and Surveillance/Operative

eddie seng: Director of Shore Operations/Operative

eric stone: Control Room Operations/Operative

THE OTHERS

the dalai lama: Spiritual Leader of Tibet

hu jintao: President of China

langston ovERHOLT iv: CIA Officer who hires the Corporation to free Tibet

legchog zhuren: Chairman of the Tibet Autonomous Region

sung rhee: Chief Inspector of the Macau Police

ling po: Detective with the Macau Police

stanley ho: Macau billionaire and buyer of the Golden Buddha

marcus friday: U.S. software billionaire who agrees to buy stolen Buddha

winston spenser: Crooked art dealer who attempts to steal the Golden Buddha

michael talbot: San Francisco art dealer who works for Friday

MARCH 31, 1959

THE FLOWERS SURROUNDING the summer palace of Norbulingka were closed but ready to bloom. The parklike setting of the complex was beautiful. High stone walls surrounded it, within the walls were trees and lush gardens, and in the center was a smaller yellow wall, through which only the Dalai Lama, his advisors and a few select monks passed. Here were tranquil pools, the home of the Dalai Lama and a temple for prayer.

It was a sea of order and substance centered in a country in chaos.

Not far away, perched on the side of a hill, was the imposing winter palace of Potala. The massive structure seemed to step down the hillside. Potala contained over one thousand rooms, was populated by hundreds of monks and dated from centuries before. There was an imposing orderliness to the building. Stone steps led from the mid levels of the seven story palace in an orderly zigzag downward and then stopped at a gigantic block stone wall that formed the base of the behemoth. The precisely laid stones rose nearly eighty feet into the air.

At the base was a flat stretch of land where tens of thousands of Tibetans were assembled. The people, as well as another large group at Norbulingka, had come to protect their spiritual leader. Unlike the hated Chinese who occupied their country, the peasants carried not rifles but knives and bows. Instead of artillery, they had only flesh, bone and spirit. They were outgunned, but to protect their leader they would have gladly laid down their lives.

Their sacrifice would require but one word from the Dalai Lama.

INSIDE THE YELLOW wall, the Dalai Lama was praying at the shrine to Mahakala, his personal protector. The Chinese had offered to take him to their headquarters for his protection, but he knew that was not their true motive. It was the Chinese from whom he needed protection, and the letter the Dalai Lama had just received from Ngabo Ngawang Jigme, the governor of Chamdo, held a truer picture. After a discussion with General Tan, the Chinese military officer in command of the region, Jigme was certain the Chinese were planning to begin shelling the crowds to disperse them.

Once that happened, the loss of life would be horrific.

Raising from his knees, the Dalai Lama walked over to a table and rang a bell. Almost instantly the door opened and the head of the Kusun Depon, the Dalai Lama's personal bodyguards, appeared. Through the open door he could see several Sing Gha warriors. The monastic policemen lent a terrifying presence. Each was over six feet tall, wore a fearsome mustache, and was dressed in a black padded suit that made them appear even larger and more invincible.

Several Dogkhyi, the fierce Tibetan mastiff guard dogs, stood on their haunches at attention.

"Please summon the oracle," the Dalai Lama said quietly.

FROM HIS HOUSE in Lhasa, Langston Overholt III was monitoring the deteriorating conditions. He stood alongside the radio operator as the man adjusted the dial.

"Situation critical, over."

The radio operator turned the dial to reduce the static.

"Believe red rooster will enter the henhouse, over."

The operator watched the gauges carefully.

"Need immediate positive support, over."

Again a lag as the operator adjusted the dial.

"I recommend eagles and camels, over."

The man stood mute as the radio warbled and the green gauges returned to a series of wavelike motions. The words were out in the ether now; the rest was out of their control. Overholt wanted airplanes --and he wanted them now.

THE ORACLE, DORJE Drakden, was deep in a trance. The setting sun came through the small window high on the wall of the temple and cast a path of light that ended at an incense holder. The wisps of smoke danced on the beam of light and a strange, almost cinnamon smell filled the air. The Dalai Lama sat cross-legged on a pillow against a wall a few feet from Drakden, who was hunched over, knees down, with his forehead on the wood floor. Suddenly, in a deep voice, the oracle spoke.

"Leave tonight! Go."

Then, still with his eyes closed, still in a trance, he rose, walked over to a table and stopped exactly one foot away. Then he reached down, picked up a quill pen, dipped it in ink and drew a detailed map on a sheet of paper before collapsing to the ground.

The Dalai Lama rushed to the oracle's side, lifted his head and patted his cheek. Slowly, the man began to awaken. After sliding a pillow under his head, the Dalai Lama rose and poured a cup of water from an earthenware pitcher. Carrying the cup back to the oracle, he placed it under his lips.

"Sip, Dorje," he said quietly.

Slowly, the older man recovered and pulled himself to a seated position. As soon as the Dalai Lama was sure the oracle was on the mend, he walked over to the table and stared at the ink drawing.

It was a detailed map showing his escape route from Lhasa to the Indian border.

OVERHOLT HAD BEEN born into his career. At least one Overholt had served in every war the United States had fought since the Revolutionary War. His grandfather had been a spy in the Civil War, his father during World War I, and Langston the third had served in the OSS in World War II before switching to the CIA when it'd been formed in 1947. Overholt was now thirty-three, with a fifteen-year history of espionage.

In all that time, Overholt had never seen a situation quite this ominous. This was not a king or a queen in peril, not a pontiff or dictator. This was the head of a religion. A man who was a God-king, a deity, a leader that traced his lineage back to a.d. 1351. If something did not happen quickly, the communist scourge would soon be taking him prisoner. Then the human chess match would be over.

IN MANDALAY, BURMA, Overholt's message was received and forwarded to Saigon where it was transferred to Manila, then over a secure underwater cable to Long Beach, California, then on to Washington, D.C.

As the situation in Tibet continued to deteriorate, the CIA started to assemble a force in Burma. The group was not large enough to defeat  the Chinese, just large enough to slow them down until more heavily armed ground troops could be brought to bear.

Disguised as a front company named Himalayan Air Services, the armada consisted of fourteen C-47s: ten that could drop supplies and four that had just been converted to first-generation gunships. This force was augmented with six F-86 fighters and a lone, fresh-offthe-assembly-line Boeing B-52 heavy bomber.

ALAN DULLES SAT in the Oval Office, puffing on his pipe and pointing out the situation to President Eisenhower. Then the CIA director sat back and let the president think for a moment. Several minutes passed in silence.

"Mr. President," he said at last, "the CIA took the liberty of arranging a first-strike force in Burma. If you say the word, they'll be airborne in an hour."

Since his election in 1952, Eisenhower had faced the McCarthy hearings, the first advisors into Vietnam and a heart attack. He'd had to order ten thousand troops to Little Rock, Arkansas, to enforce integration; witness the Soviets take the lead in space; and have his vice president stoned by hostile crowds in Latin America. Now Cuba had a communist leader only ninety miles from U.S. soil. He was weary.

"No, Alan," he said quietly, after a pause. "I learned as a general that you have to know how to pick your fights. We need to stay clear of this Tibet situation right now."

Dulles rose and shook Eisenhower's hand. "I'll notify my men," he said.

In Overholt's command post in Lhasa, the ashtray on the table near the radio was filled with the stubs of unfiltered cigarettes. Hours passed, with only the confirmation that the radio transmission had been received. Every half hour, Tibetan messengers delivered intelligence. Visual reconnaissance reported that the crowds outside the palaces near Lhasa were growing minute by minute, but the messengers were unable to take an accurate count. Tibetans continued to stream down from the mountains, armed with sticks, rocks and knives. The milling mass would be cannon fodder for the well-armed Chinese.

So far the Chinese had taken no action, but the reports mentioned troop buildups on the roads leading into the fabled city. Overholt had seen this same scenario unfold five years ago in Guatemala, when a crowd supporting the anticommunist rebels under Carlos Armas had suddenly sparked. Chaos had ensued. Forces under President Jacobo Arbenz had begun to fire into the crowd to restore order, and before dawn broke, the hospitals and morgues had been filled to capacity. Overholt had organized the demonstration and the knowledge clouded his mind like a shroud.

Just then the radio crackled.

"Top Hat negative, over."

Overholt's heart skipped a beat. The planes he sought were not coming.

"Papa Bear will okay sweeping the path if critically necessary during extraction. Advise on departure and subsequent travel, over."

Eisenhower said not to attack Lhasa, Overholt thought, but Dulles has agreed to cover the escape out of Tibet on his own, if it came to that. If he worked things right, Overholt thought, he wouldn't need to put his boss's ass on the line.

"Sir?" the radio operator asked.

Overholt was jarred from his thoughts.

"They're expecting a reply," the operator said quietly.

Overholt reached for the microphone. "Acknowledged and agreed," Overholt said, "and thank Papa Bear for the gesture. We'll call from the road. Closing office, over."

The radio operator stared up at Overholt. "Guess that's that."

"Break it all down," Overholt said quietly, "we'll be leaving soon."

INSIDE THE YELLOW wall, preparations for the Dalai Lama's escape into exile were moving at a blistering pace. Overholt was cleared past the guards and waited to be seen. Five minutes later, the Dalai Lama, wearing his black-framed prescription glasses and yellow robes, entered the office in the administration room. The spiritual leader of Tibet looked weary but resigned.

"I can tell by your face," he said quietly, "no help is coming."

"I'm sorry, Your Holiness," Overholt replied. "I did all that I could."

"Yes, Langston, I am certain you did. However, the situation is as it is," the Dalai Lama noted, "so I have decided to go into exile. I cannot risk the chance of my people being slaughtered."

Overholt had arrived expecting to use all his powers of persuasion to convince the Dalai Lama to flee--instead he found the decision had already been made. He should have expected as much--over the years he had grown to know the Dalai Lama, and he had never seen anything that made him doubt the leader's commitment to his people.

"My men and I would like to accompany you," Overholt offered. "We have detailed maps, radios and some supplies."

"We'd be glad to have you come along," the Dalai Lama said. "We leave shortly."

The Dalai Lama turned to leave.

"I wish I could have done more," Overholt said.

"Things are as they are," the Dalai Lama said at the door. "For now, however, you should assemble your men and meet us at the river."

HIGH ABOVE NORBULINGKA, the sky was dotted with a trillion stars. The moon, only days away from being full, lit the ground with a yellow diffused glow. A stillness, a quiet. The night birds that normally warbled their haunting songs were silent. The domesticated animals inside the compound--musk deer, mountain goats, camels, a single aged tiger and the peacocks that ran loose--barely stirred. A light TWO DAYS INTO the journey, across the sixteen-thousand-foot Che-La Pass and over the Tsangpo River, the group stopped for the night at the monastery at Ra-Me. Messengers racing on horseback caught up with the party and brought news that the Chinese had shelled Norbulingka and machine-gunned the helpless crowd. Thousands had been killed. The news cast a pall over the Dalai Lama.

Overholt had reported their progress by radio and felt relieved there had been no need to call for help. The route had been expertly chosen to avoid any conflict with the Chinese. He and his men were exhausted, but the hardy Nepalese pushed on without pause. The town of Lhuntse Dzong was behind them, as was the village of Jhora.

Karpo Pass, the border with India, was less than a day's ride.

And then it began to snow. A blizzard with howling winds and low clouds hunkered down over Mangmang, the last Tibetan town before the Indian border. The Dalai Lama, already exhausted by the journey and stressed by the knowledge that many of his countrymen lay dead and dying, took ill. His last night in his country was torment.

To ease his journey, he was placed on the back of an animal called a dzomo, which was a cross between a yak and a horse. As the dzomo climbed the side of Karpo Pass, the Dalai Lama paused to glance at his beloved Tibetan soil one last time.

Overholt pulled closer on his horse. He waited until the Dalai Lama glanced his way. "My country never forgets," he said, "and someday we will bring you back home."

The Dalai Lama nodded, then patted the dzomo's neck and steered it into exile. To the rear of the column, the monk pulling the cart containing the priceless artifact braced his legs as he crested the pass and started down the grade. The six-hundred-pound weight, so heavy on the climb up the pass, now wanted to run free. He dug in his heels.

THE PRESENT DAY

EIGHT IN THE evening. From out of the south, like a dark insect crawling over a wrinkled blue tablecloth, a tired old cargo ship pushed her way through the Caribbean swells toward the entrance of Santiago Harbor on the isle of Cuba. The exhaust from her single funnel drifted in a blue haze under an easterly breeze as the sun settled below the western horizon and became a ponderous orange ball magnified by the earth's atmosphere.

She was one of the last tramp steamers, a cargo ship that traveled the sea anonymously to the exotic and far-flung ports of the world. There were few left in operation. They did not follow a regular shipping route. Their schedules depended on the demands of their cargo and its owners, so their destinations changed from port to port. They coasted in, unloaded their freight and sailed away like wraiths in the night.

Two miles from shore, a small boat slapped over the rolling sea, approached the ship and swung around on a parallel course. The pilot closed on the rust-streaked hull as a boarding ladder was thrown down from an open hatch.

The pilot, a man in his fifties with brown skin and thick gray hair, stared up at the ancient ship. Her black paint was faded and badly needed to be chipped away and repainted. Streams of rust flowed from every opening in the hull. The huge anchor, pulled tightly in its hawse-hole, was completely covered by corrosion. The pilot read the letters, barely discernible on the upper bow. The weary old freighter was named Oregon.

Jesus Morales shook his head in amazement. It was a miracle the ship hadn't been scrapped twenty years ago, he mused. She looked more like a derelict than a cargo carrier still in service. He wondered if the party bureaucrats in the Ministry of Transportation had any idea of the condition of the ship they had contracted to bring in a cargo of chemical fertilizer for the sugar and tobacco fields. He could not believe the ship had passed maritime insurance inspection.

As the ship slowed almost to a dead stop, Morales stood at the railing and the pilot boat's bumpers squeezed against the freighter's hull. Timing the crest of a wave as it lifted the boat, Morales leaped agilely from the wet deck onto the boarding ladder and climbed to the hatch. It was a function he performed as often as ten times a day. A pair of crewmen were waiting beside the hatch and helped him up on the deck. The two were both burly-looking individuals, and they did not bother to smile in greeting. One simply pointed toward the ladder leading to the bridge. Then they turned and left Morales standing alone on the deck. Watching them walk away, Morales hoped that he'd never have to meet them in a dark alley.

He paused before climbing the ladder and took a few moments to study the upper works of the ship.

From his long experience and knowledge of ships, he judged her length at 560 feet, with a 75-foot beam. Probably a gross tonnage  around 11,000. Five derricks, two behind the funnel and superstructure and three on the forward deck, stood waiting to unload her cargo. He counted six holds with twelve hatches. In her prime, she would have been classed as an express cargo liner. He guessed that she had been built and launched in the early 1960s. The flag on her stern was Iranian. Not a registry Morales had seen very often.

If the Oregon looked shabby from the waterline, she looked downright squalid from her main deck. Rust covered every piece of deck machinery from winches to chains, but the hardware at least appeared to be in usable condition. By comparison, the derricks looked as if they hadn't been operated in years.

To add further insult, battered drums, tools and what could only be described as junked equipment were scattered around the decks. In all his years as a harbor pilot, Morales had never seen a ship in such filthy condition.

He climbed the ladder steps leading to the bridge, past bulkheads with flaking paint and portholes whose lenses were cracked and yellowed. Then he paused before finally swinging the door open. The interior of the vessel was as bad, if not worse. The wheelhouse was dirty, with the scars of cigarette burns on the counters and on what had once been a polished teak deck. Dead flies littered the windowsills, the smell assaulted his nose. And then there was the captain.

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