Текст книги "Golden Buddha"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

“Tiny calling the chairman of the board, you out there?”

A few seconds passed before an answer came. “This is control, go ahead.”

“The ladies and I,” Tiny said, “will be there in a few minutes to hook you on board.”

“We have you on the scope,” Cabrillo said. “You should be seeing us shortly.”

“What’s the drill?” Gunderson asked.

“You’ll have two yanks,” Cabrillo said. “The first is the object—remember it’s heavy.”

“We have a cargo slide with a belt, but the door to this old bird is on the side,” Gunderson said. “My plan was to winch whatever we were taking aboard close, then do some fancy flying to get the load aboard.”

Back on the Oregon, Cabrillo shook his head in amazement. “Don’t try that on the second load.”

“Why’s that, boss?”

“Because the second load is me.”

Michaels was staring out the window. A speck that was the Oregoncame into view.

“I have a visual,” she said.

“We have you in sight,” Gunderson said, “and we’ll take it easy bringing you aboard, Mr. Chairman, don’t you worry.”

“I’m going topside to strap up,” Cabrillo said. “Is there anything else you need?”

Gunderson looked at Pilston and Michaels, who shook their heads no.

“Maybe just some ham-and-cheese sandwiches,” Gunderson said.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Cabrillo said.

“We’re descending now,” Gunderson said. “See you in a few.”

CABRILLO opened the door and walked into the Magic Shop. Nixon had the Golden Buddha on a small table and was waving a small electronic radar device across the belly. He stared at a monitor and shook his head.

“There’s a space there, boss,” Nixon said to Cabrillo, “but I’ll be damned if I can figure out the access.”

Cabrillo stood thinking for a moment, then turned to Nixon. “Hand me a heat gun,” he said.

Nixon walked over to the tool bench and removed a heat gun from a peg, attached an extension cord, then dragged it over to the Golden Buddha. Cabrillo flicked the switch on and started to heat the Buddha’s belly.

“What are you thinking, boss?” Nixon asked over the roar of the heat gun.

“People always want to rub Buddha’s belly for good luck,” Cabrillo said. “Rub something enough and you make heat.”

Nixon reached over and touched the golden belly. It was becoming warm, like human skin.

Cabrillo stared at the icon, then turned to Nixon. “Get me a single-edge razor blade,” he said.

Nixon walked to the workbench, found a box of razor blades, grabbed them, then walked back, peeling the paper off one of the blades.

“There,” Cabrillo said. “There’s a crack forming.”

Nixon slid the blade into the tiny gap.

“Slide in another,” Cabrillo said, “and begin to wedge off the belly plate.”

Minutes passed as the gap widened. As it did, Cabrillo diverted the heat under the plate, which heated the glue applied centuries before. At last the crack was large enough that a hand could fit inside. Cabrillo handed Nixon the heat gun, slid his fingers inside the crack, then gently pried back the plate while Nixon continued heating the yak’s-hoof glue.

Slowly the plate peeled back. Then, all at once, it came off in Cabrillo’s hand.

He stared through the opening into an inner compartment. Inside lay ancient parchments rolled into a tube and secured with a decomposing strip of rawhide. Cabrillo reached in and carefully removed the bundle.

Nixon looked at Cabrillo and smiled. “What now, boss?”

“We copy them,” Cabrillo said quietly, “and put them back.”

SUNG Rhee was in the center of a maelstrom of angry people. The admiral from the Chinese navy had called Beijing to report the damage to his ships, the two billion aires had both returned with teams of attorneys, and his assistant had just called to report that the mayor of Macau was downstairs and on his way up.

And then his telephone rang.

“I told you,” he told his receptionist, “no interruptions.”

“President Hu Jintao’s office is calling.”

“Put him through,” Rhee said, motioning with his hand to clear his office. “Put him through.”

A few seconds later, a voice said, “President Jintao is on the line.”

“Good morning, Mr. President,” Rhee said.

“Good morning, Mr. Rhee,” Jintao said quietly. “I understand you had a bit of trouble last night.”

Rhee began to sweat. “A…a minor theft,” he stammered. “Nothing we can’t handle, Mr. President.”

“Mr. Rhee. We’ve received calls this morning from the United States embassy, the head of the Chinese navy, and the vice president of Greece wanting to know why one of his ships was illegally stopped and boarded on your orders. That does not sound like a minor theftto me.”

“There…has been some trouble here,” Rhee admitted.

The telephone was silent for a few seconds. “Mr. Rhee,” Jintao said coldly, “I want you to tell me everything that happened. Right now, from the start.”

Slowly, Rhee began speaking.

GUNDERSON started a long lumbering turn around the Oregon. As he stared out the cockpit window, he could see a large balloon do a fast inflate, then head up in the air, towing a line.

On the stern deck of the Oregon, Kevin Nixon checked the straps around the crate containing the Golden Buddha again. The three-pronged hook was duct-taped to the crate and would be used to yank Cabrillo aboard if they were successful getting the icon aboard the Antonov. Hanley stood off to the side, checking the fit on the harness that wrapped around Cabrillo’s chest and upper thighs. Satisfied it was properly attached, he snapped a smaller bag containing the sandwiches to one side of the harness.

“The old Fulton Recovery System,” Cabrillo said. “You’d think with all our funds we’d have found a replacement by now.”

“It’s so rare we’re this far offshore,” Hanley said. “Past the point our amphibian or a helicopter can reach us.”

“You ever ridden one of these?” Cabrillo asked.

“Never had the pleasure,” Hanley said, smiling.

“It feels like a mule kicked you in the ass,” Cabrillo said.

“That’s the least of your worries, the way I see it.”

“How do you figure?” Cabrillo asked.

“The only winch we could find was designed for light trucks,” Hanley noted. “I just hope they can reel you in fast enough before you strike the rear stabilizer.”

“You make it all sound so appealing,” Cabrillo said wryly.

The sound of the Antonov was growing louder.

“Clear the decks,” Nixon shouted, “for the first approach.”

GUNDERSON was noted for never becoming flustered. No matter what the situation, he always maintained his cool. Lowering the flaps on the Antonov, he slowed the speed to just above stall, then lined up less than a hundred feet above the deck.

“Anybody got any gum?” he asked.

Michaels quickly peeled the foil off a piece and jammed it in his mouth.

“Head back to help Tracy,” Gunderson said. “I’ll hook the fatso on the first pass, then I’ll shout back before I roll her over.”

Inside the Oregon, the cameras on the deck relayed an image of the operation throughout the ship. Everyone watched as Gunderson steered closer.

In the cargo compartment, Pilston and Michaels were watching out the open door. The steel cable stretched backward, but the hook on the end was out of view. Gunderson was peering out the front window, then the side window, in a rapid ballet of visual Olympics. At the top of the cable leading to the Fulton Aerial Recovery System, just below the balloon, the cable spread into a Y shape. Gunderson chomped on the gum as he steered the Antonov closer.

“It’s show time,” he shouted.

The hook dangling back from the plane slid cleanly into the Y and snagged the cable. A split second later the crate containing the Golden Buddha was yanked from the deck as cleanly as ripping a bandage off a wound. Gunderson instantly felt the drag on the plane and shouted for Pilston to engage the winch.

She threw the lever forward and the package started to reel aboard, while at the same time Gunderson eased the biplane over on her side. Hanley watched from the deck in amazement.

“Tell me when the load’s within ten feet,” Gunderson shouted.

A minute or so later, Michaels shouted, “Okay, Chuck.”

Gunderson did a quick sideways dive to the ocean, now only some eighty feet away, and the crate went temporarily weightless from the g forces. The crate floated in the air for a second.

“Rolling flat,” Gunderson shouted.

Pilston and Michaels moved away from the door, and the cable tightened and reeled the Golden Buddha aboard as easily as a book sliding into a bookcase. The crate slammed against the far inner wall of the fuselage and stopped. The crate was cracked, but not much. Pilston turned the winch motor off.

Gunderson stared back, quite happy with the results. He reached for the radio.

“Mr. Hanley,” he said. “I scratched your box a little, but the cargo is safe and sound.”

Hanley pushed the button on his portable radio as Gunderson began to climb and bank around. “Hell of a job, Tiny. There’s a different hook attached to the box. Attach that to the cable before you pull the chairman aboard.”

“Roger that,” Gunderson said.

Then he shouted back to Michaels to attach the other hook to the end of the line. By the time Gunderson had passed over the top of the Oregonagain and was starting his turn to line up, the hook was attached and Pilston started to reel out the cable once again. Gunderson adjusted his flight controls, they set the speed of the Antonov to right at stall.

“Once I hook the boss man,” Gunderson shouted, “you reel him in as fast as possible. When he’s next to the door, reach out and pull him inside.”

“Got it,” Pilston shouted.

“Here I come, boss,” Gunderson said into the radio, “ready or not.”

Cabrillo had moved onto the rear deck and Nixon inflated the balloon. It shot in the air when the Antonov was only a hundred yards off the bow.

“Clear the decks,” Nixon shouted as he sprinted away.

Juan Cabrillo stood quietly. There was really no way to prepare for what was about to happen. In a few seconds, he would be yanked from the safety of the Oregonand into the air over the ocean. From the known to the unknown in a split second. So Cabrillo simply cleared his mind and waited.

Gunderson chewed his gum, watched the line carefully, and then put the three-pronged hook directly into the center of the Y once again. Bam! One second Cabrillo’s feet were on the deck, the next second he was yanked into the air. He moved his feet back and forth like he was trying to run. The wind crept past the goggles he was wearing and his eyes began to weep as the Antonov grew larger. Cabrillo could see hands reaching out of the door as he rose, closer to safety. He tilted his head back and looked. Every few seconds the cable was bumping against the rear stabilizer and he prepared to push himself off as he grew closer.

“He’s going to hit the tail,” Pilston shouted to Gunderson.

Cabrillo put his feet in the air to push against the stabilizer. He was only a few feet away when Gunderson pulled back on the controls and pitched the nose of the Antonov up. Cabrillo, hanging from the cable like a pendulum, dropped a few feet and slid past the tail. A few seconds later he was next to the door; Michaels and Pilston grabbed his arms and pulled him inside.

Gunderson started the Antonov climbing, then glanced back into the cargo area.

“Hey, boss,” he yelled, “how was the ride?”

36

MICHAEL Halpert flicked on the computer in the Oregon’s library. Working the party in Macau had been exciting—the element of danger involved in operations ensured that. Even so, Halpert’s forte was the arcane accounting and banking network he had constructed for the Corporation’s activities. In that, Halpert was a master. The twisted matrix of corporate law and structure was exciting to him—he loved to hide the Corporation’s assets like a penny under a glacier, and shield its ownership in companies through complex structures that would take teams of accountants years to unravel.

Today he would need to use all his skills.

Halpert was building what he liked to call a skeleton. A skeleton was a series of corporations forming the bones to support the skull that held the nerve center of an operation. Each would need to be structured, funded and interlinked until the actual source of ownership and control was as cloudy as a London morning.

He scanned a database of available existing companies.

First would come the skull itself—the eventual owner of the assets that would soon be created. For that he chose a corporation based in the tiny country of Andorra. The company, Cataluna Esteme, had been founded in 1972 with the purpose of mining and trading lead.

Andorra, all 181 square miles of territory, is perched in the Pyrenees Mountains, with Spain to the south and France to the north. The population of Andorra is some sixty-five thousand people, and the primary industry is tourism, with an emphasis on snow skiing. The country had been in existence since 1278 and was modern and progressive, plus Halpert had never used it before.

Cataluna Esteme itself had been active in the lead business until 1998, when the aging owner had been felled by heart trouble while on a visit to Paris. Over the next year or so, the assets of the corporation had been distributed to the owner’s heirs, and the company itself had gone dormant. Cataluna Esteme existed in the desk drawer of a lawyer in Andorra’s capital city of Andorra la Vella.

Halpert scanned the history and found it ideal. The company had perfect credit, a past history of large sums passing through the corporation coffers, as well as the shield of privacy offered by Andorran law. The remaining stock in the company was available for the equivalent of $50,000. This sum would give them complete control of a corporation that had existed for over thirty years, had a charter similar to the intended use, and was completely untraceable.

Halpert decided to buy Cataluna Esteme.

For the feet of the skeleton, he used two companies the Corporation already owned. The first was Gizo Properties, based in the Solomon Islands in the South Pacific. The second was Paisen Industries, based in San Marino, a country on the Adriatic coast completely surrounded by Italy. Accessing the companies’ accounts over the computer, Halpert deposited $874,000 in Gizo Properties and $418,000 in Paisen Industries. In the blink of an eye, Halpert had moved $1.292 million into already existing accounts. The money would not remain there long.

Next, Gizo Properties and Paisen Industries, through a special shareholders’ resolution that Halpert drafted and passed, each agreed to buy stock in two more companies. The first was Alcato, based in Lisbon, the second, Tellemedics of Asunción, Paraguay. Both of these companies were operating concerns—Alcato built specialized marine electronics, Tellemedics made telemetry equipment used in hospitals throughout South America. The Portuguese company had a book value of $3 million U.S.; the Paraguayan, nearly $10 million.

Both had been secretly owned by the Corporation for nearly a decade.

Halpert pulled up the corporate records of both and found sufficient cash reserves for his plan.

With the legs now in place, he looked for the torso.

He would need a recognizable and stable platform that would appeal to the Corporation’s soon-to-be partners. For this he could only use Central Europe. Halpert needed a company based in a country with rock-solid political stability, iron-clad currency and worldwide recognition of financial wherewithal. He scanned his database and found he had three companies to choose from—the first was based in Basel, Switzerland; the second in Luxembourg; the third, which he favored, in Vaduz, Liechtenstein.

Liechtenstein it was.

Albertinian Investments S.A. was a currency-and-gold-trading concern that had proved widely successful since the recent upward move in precious metals prices. The company, secretly controlled by the Corporation, owned a beautiful six-story building in Vaduz, where it occupied the top two stories, had a cash balance in accounts amounting to over $18 million U.S., and frequently invested in other companies that showed promise.

Next, Alcato and Tellemedics passed corporate resolutions making loans of $1.25 million each to Albertinian Investments. These were composed of the monies transferred from Gizo Properties and Paisen Industries, plus some cash from the coffers of each. Albertinian Investments agreed to pay each company 7 percent interest for the loans, as well as an option to convert the loans to stock at a set price for the next five years. The trail of money was becoming cloudier by the minute.

There was now an extra $5 million of washed and clean funds in Albertinian Investments.

Halpert sipped from a glass of iced tea. Then he entered the commands into the computer and Albertinian Investments offered to buy Cataluna Esteme for the $50,000 asking price. The transaction would take several hours for the attorney in Andorra to complete.

Next, Halpert scanned a base of lawyers the Corporation had used in the past in Spain. Finding one in Madrid, he dialed the telephone and waited.

“Carlos the Second, please,” he said in Spanish when the receptionist answered. “Mr. Halpert calling.”

Exactly forty-two seconds later, the lawyer came on the line.

“Sorry for the wait, Mr. Halpert,” the lawyer said. “What can I do for you?”

“I need you to fly to Andorra, immediately,” Halpert said. “We are buying another company.”

“Standard protocol?” the lawyer asked. “Open bank accounts, rent offices and such?”

“That’s the idea,” Halpert said, “and we need it done yesterday.”

“I’ll need to charter a plane, then,” the lawyer said. “I doubt there are commercial flights available at this late hour.”

“We will approve the costs,” Halpert said.

“How big are you looking, sir?”

“The initial funding will be ten million,” Halpert said. “Five will be a direct loan from one of our divisions in Liechtenstein, the second five will be in the form of a line of credit, available immediately.”

“I understand, sir,” the lawyer said. “I’ll leave right away.”

“One more thing,” Halpert said. “Find us a public relations firm in Andorra—I have a feeling what we are planning will garner some press interest.”

“Anything else?”

“If there is,” Halpert said, “I’ll contact you when you reach Andorra.”

“Very good,” the lawyer said as he hung up the telephone.

Then the lawyer sat back in his chair and smiled. He knew his rather excessive fees would be paid in cash—which he would fail to report to the tax authorities. Reaching for the telephone, he called a local company to charter a prop-jet for the trip north.

“LIKE being kicked by a mule,” Cabrillo said over the noise of the droning engine.

Pilston was closing the side door of the Antonov. She wrestled it in place and held it closed while Michaels locked it down. Cabrillo placed his hand on the Golden Buddha to stabilize himself, and then removed the package of papers and the satchel of food. He placed them on the floor, then unsnapped the harness and set it aside. He stared around the cargo bay of the Antonov before walking forward to the cockpit.

“How’s she fly, Tiny?” he asked as he slid into the copilot’s seat.

“She’s as slow and steady as a diesel trawler,” Gunderson answered.

“Did you get any sleep?”

“Yep,” Gunderson said. “Tracy needed to rack up some flight time, so she and Judy flew us here from Vietnam.”

Cabrillo nodded and turned his head back to the cargo area. “How’d it go with Mr. Silicon Valley?” he asked.

“We made it through,” Michaels said.

“I want to apologize to both of you,” Cabrillo said quietly. “If there was any other way…”

“We know, sir,” Pilston said. “It was just a job—and we treated it as such.”

“Still…,” Cabrillo said, “it was above and beyond what we should ask of you. I approved a special bonus for you both, and Hanley has scheduled you for a month off with pay as soon as we finish this mission.”

“Thank you, sir,” Michaels said. “And this helped soften the blow somewhat.”

She held up the stack of bearer bonds.

“I trust,” Gunderson said, “you mean that figuratively and not literally.”

THE U.S. Ambassador to Russia sipped from a small glass of vodka, then smiled at President Putin. The men were seated in front of a roaring fire inside the presidential offices in Moscow. Outside, a spring storm was finally exhausting itself after dumping nearly a foot of wet snow on the capital city. Soon the first flowers would pop their heads from the soil. Then it would all turn green.

“How much are we talking about?” Putin asked.

“Billions,” the ambassador said.

“And the structure?”

“As you know,” the ambassador said, taking another sip, “this is not a United States government operation. For all intents and purposes, you will be making the agreements with a separate company that we subcontract with.”

“But they work for you?” Putin asked.

“Not on paper,” the ambassador said, “but we have used them in the past.”

“Give me some details,” Putin said as he rose to stoke the fire with a poker. “I’d like to know with whom I’m getting into bed.”

“They call themselves the Corporation,” the ambassador noted quietly. “They handle things of a sensitive nature for us and other countries. The company has specialized skills, huge amounts of funding and an unparalleled reputation for integrity.”

“They can be trusted?” Putin asked.

“You may consider their word their bond,” the ambassador confirmed.

“Who runs this Corporation?” Putin asked.

“A man named Juan Cabrillo,” the ambassador answered.

“And when do I meet this Juan Cabrillo?” Putin said, turning from the fire, placing the poker back in the rack and sliding into the armchair.

“He will be in Moscow late this evening,” the ambassador said.

“Good,” Putin said. “I welcome the chance to hear him out.”

The ambassador finished the small glass of vodka and waved away Putin’s attempt to refill it. “Now,” he said, “how much hassle are you getting from the Chinese?”

“Enough,” the Russian president admitted, “but not more than we can handle.”

“If you need to,” the ambassador asked, “are you ready to go in?”

Putin pointed to a folder of papers on the table. “There is the plan. In less than twenty-four hours, we can cross the Tarim Basin in a lightning-fast raid and reach the border of Tibet.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” the ambassador said.

“If I have to order that approach,” Putin said, “I want your president on paper supporting that move. There is no other way.”

“We don’t think you’ll need to do that,” the ambassador said. “It won’t go that far.”

“Just know,” Putin said, “if we stand up—he does too.”

“I’ll let him know,” the ambassador said.

“THEY appeared out of nowhere,” the head of Chinese state security said.

Chinese president Hu Jintao stared at the man with barely concealed contempt.

“Five hundred Buddhist monks just materialized out of the mist in People’s Park in downtown Beijing?” Jintao said. “That’s some magic.”

The man sat mute. There was nothing to say.

“And they are chanting and calling for Tibetan freedom?”

“Yes, sir,” the man from state security said.

“When was the last time we were faced with a Tibetan protest?” Jintao asked.

“In Beijing?” the man said. “It’s been over a decade—and then it was tiny and easily dispersed.”

“And this one?”

“It’s growing by the minute,” the man admitted.

“I’ve got a massive Russian war exercise on the border with Mongolia, Tibetan separatists in downtown Beijing, and I’m not sure what’s going on in Macau province. This spring is not coming up with fresh-smelling flowers.”

“Do you want me to order troops to disperse the protesters?” the head of state security asked.

“Absolutely not,” Jintao said. “Our world standing still has not been repaired from Tiananmen Square, and that was in 1989. We take action against peaceful Buddhist monks, the repercussions will reverberate for decades.”

“Then do nothing?”

“For now,” Jintao said, “until we figure out what is happening.”

“WHERE are we at on this thing?” the president of the United States asked.

“Off the record, sir?” the Director of Central Intelligence asked.

“I did not sneak you into the White House through the underground tunnel so that I could discuss it tonight on Larry King, Director. Yes, completely off the record.”

“It’s progressing perfectly,” the DCI noted. “And we are shielded behind an armor of deniability that couldn’t be penetrated with an antitank round.”

“How soon before you need me to do my thing?” the president asked.

“Tomorrow,” the DCI said, “if all goes according to plan.”

“Then,” the president said, rising, “you make sure it does.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” the DCI said as the president walked through the door and down the hall to a state dinner that was already in progress.

THE Oregonwas flying across the water. The schedule called for the ship to stop in Ho Chi Minh City. Once there, the operatives that would be needed in Tibet would be off-loaded and flown in a C-130 northwest to Bhutan. Then the Oregonwould continue on, passing Singapore. Traversing the Strait of Malacca, the vessel would race north into the Bay of Bengal, arriving off Bangladesh on Easter Day.

That was the closest to Tibet that the Oregonwould ever be.

No one in the Corporation enjoyed it when the Oregonand her battery of electronics and firepower were far from the operation. The ship was the lifeline to the crew, their home away from home, their anchor in the stormy sea of intrigue where they operated.

Ross and Kasim were doing their best to smooth the difficulty.

“I’ve tested the satellite uplink,” Kasim said. “The Oregonwill have command-and-control capability. Everyone will be reachable either by radio or secure telephone.”

Ross glanced up from her computer screen. “I’m programming the drones. We have two. That’s less than I would like, but they’re just so damn expensive.”

“Who will fly them?” Kasim asked.

“They will need to be operated from within three hundred miles,” she noted. “Thimbu or inside Tibet itself.”

Kasim nodded.

She scanned a sheet of paper that listed crew qualifications. “Four of us are trained in the operation. You, me, Lincoln and Jones.”

“Lincoln would stand out in Tibet like a debutante at a tractor pull,” Kasim noted. “If he operates the drone, at least he’ll be hidden inside a tent. If I were you, I’d recommend to Hanley he get the job.”

Ross nodded her head in agreement. “He’s good,” she said, “and the drones are critical—they will be our only eyes in the sky. If Lincoln can keep them over station above Lhasa Airport, the control room here can watch the action unfolding.”

“What have the Chinese got in Tibet to shoot them down?” Kasim asked.

Ross glanced at the sheet listing Chinese defenses that had been recently smuggled out of Tibet by the underground freedom movement. “Some old antiaircraft guns and one ten-year-old missile defense battery. Around Gonggar Airport near Lhasa there’s not much,” she said. “Looks like a couple of cargo planes, some helicopters, and rifles carried by the troops.”

“I’d make a note to Hanley to target the antiaircraft guns for early destruction,” Kasim said, “then have Lincoln fly only one drone at a time.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Ross said. “If he flies high, he can scan the entire city, plus keep the bird out of sight of riflemen.”

“Makes sense,” Kasim said.

“What do you find for radio and television transmitters?”

“There is one television,” Kasim said, “and a pair of radios. We need quickly to gain control of both so we can keep the Tibetan people alerted.”

“What’s the report say?” Ross said. “Will they rally against the Chinese when the time comes?”

“We think so,” Kasim said, “and God help the Chinese when they do.”

“The Dungkar?” Ross said.

“Tibetan for blackbirds with red beaks,” Kasim said. “The fighting arm of the Tibetan underground.”

Ross glanced at the sheet holding the assembled intelligence. “When it is time, we will feed on the carcasses of the oppressors and the beaks will be red with blood and the day will be black with death.”

“Brings a chill to my spine,” Kasim said.

“And I thought,” Ross said, “we had the air conditioning too cold.”

ONE floor below where Ross and Kasim were planning, Mark Murphy was in the armory. Munitions and crates were piled to one side, and Sam Pryor and Cliff Hornsby were slowly moving them toward the elevator to be taken to an upper storage area where they would be off-loaded in Da Nang. On each crate to be used, Murphy attached a red-taped sticker. Then the contents were labeled with a felt-tipped pen. He was singing a ditty while he worked.

“I’m a gonna blow some stuff up tomorrow,” he said. “Gonna blow me up some stuff.”

Pryor wiped his forehead with a handkerchief before bending down to lift another crate to carry to the elevator. “Shoot, Murph,” he said, “you packing enough C-6?”

“You can’t have too much,” Murphy said, smiling, “at least in my opinion. Heck, it doesn’t spoil and you never know what might come up.”

“You got enough here to blow up an Egyptian pyramid,” Hornsby said, walking into the room after placing his crate in the elevator, “and enough mines to register shock waves on a seismograph.”

“Those are for the airport,” Murphy said. “You don’t want the Chinese to be able to land troops, do you?”

“Land?” Pryor said. “You use all these, there won’t be an airport.”

“I have other plans for some of them,” Murphy said.

“I’ve got the feeling you’re looking forward to this,” Hornsby said.

Murphy started singing again as he walked over to crates of Stinger missiles and began to attach the red tags. Letting loose a long whistle, he finished with the sound of a blast.

Hornsby and Pryor carried crates out the door and headed for the elevator.

“I’d sure hate to have him mad at me,” Pryor said.