Golden Buddha Part 51

Then Cabrillo walked out the door, climbed down the steps and boarded the helicopter. Five minutes later he was back at Gonggar Airport.

Ten minutes later he and his team were airborne in the C-130.

They pa.s.sed the fleet of leased helicopters in the air, headed for Bhutan, and the pilot of the C-130 wagged his wings. The helicopters returned the good-bye by flicking on their landing lights.

Then the team settled in for the short flight. Soon they'd be back on the Oregon.

IN BEIJING, NEWS of the events in Tibet was filtering in, and a hurried meeting was held.

President Jintao was direct. "What are our options?" he asked.

"We could send bombers to hit Lhasa," the head of the Chinese air force said. "Then ready paratroopers for a later a.s.sault."

"But that leaves us short on the Mongolian border," Jintao noted.

"What's the latest intelligence on the Russian movements?"

The head of Chinese intelligence was a short man with a p.r.o.nounced belly. He adjusted his gla.s.ses before speaking. "The Russian forces are enough for them to sweep down and flank our troops that are currently still headed down the pa.s.s into Qinghai Province. If they supported their efforts with air power, we could lose both Qinghai and Xinjiang Provinces, basically the entire western frontier."

"That would give them control of our secret advanced weapons fa-414 415.

cilities at Lop Nur, plus a good portion of our s.p.a.ce program," Jintao said wearily.

"I'm afraid so, sir," the head of intelligence noted.

"Okay--" Jintao started to say before his aide rushed into the room and walked over and whispered in his ear.

"Gentlemen," President Jintao said, "continue discussions--I have an emergency meeting. The Russian amba.s.sador is insisting we talk and has arrived ahead of his scheduled meeting."

The Russian amba.s.sador was waiting in an outer office. He rose as Jintao walked into the room. "Mr. President," he said solicitously, "I apologize for moving up the time of our meeting, but the president of my country insisted I see you immediately."

"Do you come bringing a declaration of war?" Jintao asked directly, motioning the Russian to take a seat on a couch near a window with a view of the outer gardens.

The Russian amba.s.sador sat on the left end of the couch, Jintao farther down on the right.

"No, Mr. President," the Russian amba.s.sador said, straightening his suit pants. "I come with a business offer that can put an end to the tension between our countries, as well as placing your economy on solid footing again."

Jintao stared at his watch before answering. "You have five minutes."

The Russian amba.s.sador explained it all in four.

"So you are convinced you can pull a UN Security Council vote?"

Jintao said after he was through.

"We can," the Russian said.

"What do we get if we go along with the vote?" Jintao asked. "If China votes to go along."

The Russian amba.s.sador smiled. "World peace?"

"I was thinking of a larger percentage of the field."

Two minutes later, the Russian had his offer.

"Mr. President," he said, "allow me to make a telephone call."

"Tell them I want your armored column stopped immediately," Jintao said, "confirmed by satellite reconnaissance."

Eight minutes later, the new percentages would be confirmed and the Russian armored column would grind to a halt. Further negotiations would continue right up until the UN vote.

AT THE SAME instant the Russian amba.s.sador was calling Moscow, the C-130 containing the Corporation team was crossing into India.

Off the right wing the jet carrying the Dalai Lama home pa.s.sed.

The pilot of the jet wagged his wings and the pilot of the C-130 reciprocated.

Less than an hour later, the team reached Calcutta, India, and was met by the Corporation's amphibious airplane. Within minutes of the C-130 touching down, the crew was being flown out to the s.h.i.+p.

By sundown on March 31, the Oregon was steaming south in the Bay of Bengal.

On the deck, Hanley and Cabrillo watched the setting sun.

"I got a call from Overholt after you left Calcutta," Hanley said.

"I'm sure it was the usual," Cabrillo said. "Rah, rah, good job. The check is in the mail."

"He did mention that, and a wire transfer that Halpert has already confirmed."

"What else?" Cabrillo asked.

"He has another job for us," Hanley said.

"Where?" Cabrillo asked.

"The land of the midnight sun, Mr. Chairman," Hanley said. "The Arctic Circle."

Cabrillo sniffed the salt air, then began walking for the hatch inside.

"Come on, you can explain over dinner."

"It had better be dinner and drinks," Hanley said. "I haven't had a c.o.c.ktail since Cuba."

"Cuba," Cabrillo said wearily. "Seems like years ago."

417.

EPILOGUE.

THERE EXIST SNIPPETS of history etched into the fabric of time and so perfectly formed that they may never be duplicated. Seemingly scripted by a power with perfect timing and blessed with scenes that know no bounds, these moments exist to be captured on film, to be remembered and cherished for centuries to come.

These snippets do not happen often. They are as rare as the perfect turn on skis, as delightful as homemade ice cream in the hot sun. They exist to remind man there is hope. They exist to show promise. They exist for generations yet unborn.

The Dalai Lama's return to Lhasa was one of these events.

April 1, 2005, dawned with clear skies and no wind. The snowcapped mountains surrounding the city appeared to be close enough that one could run his fingertip across the sharp crests. The very air in Lhasa seemed alive with energy. It filled the lungs of the faithful with a hope silent for decades and soothed and cooled the fires of war.

"Unbelievable," a reporter for a Los Angeles newspaper said quietly.

It was an image from Shangri-la. Potala Palace was glistening like a mirage in the mind of a complicated man. The hillside surrounding the palace was covered with a flowing field of red and blue blooming flowers that spilled down the hill in a waterfall of color. One thousand Buddhist monks in yellow robes filled the steps from top to bottom like a colored strip of DNA molecules. On the lower buildings, parts of the green roofs were visible, adding contrast, while the white rocks of the structure seemed to have been scrubbed clean of dirt as a result of the cloak of oppression being lifted. High overhead a hawk circled lazily on the warming air.

The chosen one was coming home.

Nearly a mile away, on the large flat meadow below Potala, a monk stepped over to a six-foot-tall gong suspended from a dark, carved wooden frame. He glanced at the Dalai Lama, who was sitting atop a gold gilded throne chair. The throne chair was topped with a fringed silk awning, supported by wooden poles at the corners and held aloft by six stout monks who walked in unison with the throne chair.

The six monks chanted a single-word chant and the wood-and-leather hammer struck the gong.

The sound of the gong filled the air. One, two, until it sounded three times. And then the procession started forward. The Ngagpa, carrying the symbolic wheel of life, led the column. Directly behind the Ngagpa were Tibetan hors.e.m.e.n, their steeds decorated with ceremonial blankets whose intricate needlepoint depicted scenes from Tibetan history. The hors.e.m.e.n wove their mounts back and forth in a ch.o.r.eographed display of precision. In their hands were triangular flags attached to long bronze staffs that were capped with fluted tops. To the rear of the hors.e.m.e.n were two dozen archers with bows at parade rest against their shoulders.

They marched in perfect harmony. Next came a dozen porters carrying cages filled with songbirds that chirped a song of freedom and happiness.

The porters were followed by fifty-five monks from the Dalai 418 Lama's home monastery at Namgyal. They chanted in a single voice and carried in their hands the sacred texts.

Next were more hors.e.m.e.n, four dozen in total, who were also musicians.

They played their flutes and stringed instruments while they steered their mounts with their knees. The horse-mounted musicians were followed by monks from the Tsedrung Order, who represented the government of Tibet, followed by children waving thin, pointed, ornately colored flags that danced through the air like kites without tails.

To the rear of the children was another group of hors.e.m.e.n with serious faces, dressed in Tibetan army uniforms of green cloaks and red hats. They steered their horses a few feet forward, then stopped. A few more feet, then a pause again. These soldiers carried the Tibetan Seals of State. Just to the rear of the soldiers carrying the Seals of State were ten simple monks, barefoot and dressed in yellow robes. The ten monks were humming loudly.

The Golden Buddha came next. It sat on a plain wagon pulled by a single horse.

Only a few feet behind the Golden Buddha was the throne chair containing the Dalai Lama.

Two hundred thousand Tibetans lined the procession route leading to Potala. They ma.s.sed on both sides of the cleared path through the meadow. The day they had prayed and hoped for over these last decades was finally here--and they allowed their joy to wash across the land.

As soon as the Golden Buddha appeared, the crowd went wild.

A roar erupted, and the faithful prostrated themselves onto the hard soil, then began to chant as one.

The Dalai Lama began pa.s.sing through the crowd and witnessed the tears of joy on the cheeks of the faithful. The sight filled him with happiness, duty and honor, and it caused him to smile.

Following the throne chair were members of the Dalai Lama's inner cabinet, the Kasag. Next came the Kusun Depon, the Dalai Lama's bodyguards, dressed in their black padded suits and carrying their curved GOLDEN BUDDHA 419 swords. Following the bodyguards was the commander in chief of the Tibetan army, the Mak-chi, and a platoon of soldiers.

The Mak-chi and the soldiers were dressed in their ceremonial uniforms consisting of blue trousers and yellow tunics covered in gold braid. They marched in slow and perfect cadence, with their boots making a timed thumping sound as they struck the soil. Next were the Dalai Lama's religious tutors and teachers, as well as family and friends.

At the rear of the procession came a wagon with a tiger in a cage, followed by a single horseman holding a thirty-foot-tall staff flying the formerly outlawed Tibetan flag. The parade was both magisterial and magnificent. It was based on two thousand years of tradition and strengthened by fifty-five years of exile.

The procession continued toward Potala.

AT THE BASE of the eighty-foot-tall foundation wall of Potala, four hundred laborers had worked eight hours the night before to build a series of stone steps leading from the edge of the meadow to the top of the wall. As soon as the first of the procession reached the lowest step, they parted to each side, like the flow of water in a stream being split by a boulder, then took their positions alongside the temporary stairway.

Once the Golden Buddha reached the base of the steps, the ten monks walked over, formed a ladder with their arms, then carried the Buddha up the steps and placed it on the top of the wall. Then they descended the stairway as the throne chair containing the Dalai Lama slowed and stopped at the base. On a signal from the Dalai Lama, the monks carrying the throne chair bowed down on their knees, then swiveled to the side. Holding the throne chair only inches above the ground, they waited until the Dalai Lama climbed off the chair onto the thick woven carpet that lay upon the ground. Breathing a sigh of relief as the weight was removed from the chair, the monks waited until the Dalai 420 Lama started up the stairs, then they set the throne chair upon the ground and rose to their feet.

With a soul seeped in tradition and divinely inspired, the Dalai Lama ascended the stairway.

Reaching the top, he slowly turned and stared out at the crowd. The ma.s.s of humanity stretched across the meadow and onto the surrounding hillsides. He bowed his head, then closed his eyes for a moment.

Then he spoke.

"I have missed you," he said simply.

The crowd, so subdued only seconds before, once again erupted into cheers.

Twenty minutes would pa.s.s before it quieted down enough for the Dalai Lama to speak again.

I.

CLIVE CDSSLER'S liie nearly parallels that of his hero Dirk Pitt.

Whether searching for lost aircraft or leading expeditions to find famous s.h.i.+pwrecks, he has garnered an amazing record of success. With his NUMA crew of volunteers, Cussler has discovered more than seventy lost s.h.i.+ps of historical significance, including the long-lost Confederate submarine Hunley. Like Pitt, Cussler collects cla.s.sic automobiles. His collection features ninety examples of custom coachwork, and is one of the finest in the world. Cussler divides his time between the deserts of Arizona and the mountains of Colorado.