"But we would not burn Lhasa. It is sacred to Tibet. We would burn only Chinese and their profane buildings."
"We've had enough burning. When we hit Lhasa, I want it done quietly."
"We will hit Lhasa as quietly as Khampas are able," promised Bumba Fun.
"Do better," said Remo. "After I haul the Bunji Lama's butt out of town, it's your show."
Perking up, Bumba Fun bore down on the accelerator like a Khampa possessed.
THE PLA HELICOPTER settled onto the mountain summit, kicking up a cloud of stinging flakes. The skids sank a foot into pristine snow cover.
"We are safe here," grunted Kula as he shut down the rotors.
The Master of Sinanju stepped out onto the frozen snowcap. The air was thin and very bitter to inhale. But it smelled of freedom, and so it was good.
He surveyed the valley below.
Lhasa's fantastical roofs shone in the harsh light of day. But other than the tiny figures in green, no people were about in the streets. Martial law had clamped down upon the ancient city cupped in the eternal mountains. And because the people of Lhasa accepted whatever befell them as preordained from the beginning of time, and the Chinese were many and possessed deadly weapons in plenty, there was no resistance. Mostly it was the latter.
Someone would have to rouse the people to the Bunji's presence in their midst. Only then would they come out of their homes and their hovels and retake the streets.
Only a Master of Sinanju was fit for such a dangerous task, thought Chiun. So be it. When darkness came and the Chinese slept exhausted in their barracks, he would venture down into the city to awaken the people of Tibet from their long nightmare of sleep.
Until then the Master of Sinanju could only wait and hope that no People's Liberation Army helicopter ventured over this particular peak.
AN F-70-CT HELICOPTER stood waiting at the end of the Gonggar Airport runway when the turboprop whined to a safe stop.
The minister of state security spit the last bitter taste of bile and his morning rice into the paper sack and rushed to the exit door. He waved toward the helicopter pilot, then made a circling motion over his head. The pilot engaged the main rotor. The droopy blades began to revolve to the accompaniment of a rising whine.
As he went back to prepare the Tashi for the short hop to Lhasa, the minister of state security thought to himself that the worst was over. He had made Gonggar without injury. And the helicopter was a variation of the Sikorsky Blackhawk specially equipped for high-altitude flying. The pilot would be the best the PLA had to offer.
It was just a matter of introducing the presence of the Tashi into the volatile situation in Lhasa now.
He stood at the foot of the stairs as the Tashi was helped down by his personal servants. The Tashi looked serene. His movements were graceful, delicate, almost sweet. He spun the gold prayer wheel in his left hand with a studied intent.
"The hour of your ascendancy draws near," the minister of state security told his charge when the Tashi's sandals at last stood on Tibetan soil for the first time.
Closing his small eyes, the Tashi merely nodded.
"In honor of this momentous event, I am pleased to present to you a gift worthy of your station," the security minister said, snapping his fingers once.
Out of the aircraft, a cadre came, bearing a prayer wheel almost as tall as himself.
The Tashi's attendants gasped at the sight of it. Turning, the Tashi himself went wide of eye.
It stood over four feet tall, the mahogany shaft as thick around as a shepherd's staff. Surmounting it was a prayer wheel the size and shape of a snare drum. It was made of rare woods, inlaid with silver, gold, jade and semiprecious stones.
The Tashi took it. Planting the staff onto the tarmac, he shook it until the wheel hummed, its red and blue and green stones making streaks of varicolored light.
"It is an auspicious augury," the Tashi said, smiling.
Together they glided toward the waiting helicopter. The Tashi allowed one of his attendants to bear the prayer wheel that had been looted from the Potala in the early weeks of the annexation of Tibet, more than a generation ago. It was too heavy for his small-boned form to carry.
When they were over Gonggar, the minister of state security noticed a line of military trucks and vehicles speeding toward the airport town. PLA reinforcements, obviously.
He took comfort in the fact that by the time they reached Lhasa, the stubborn difficulty of the Bunji Lama would be resolved.
TWO T-72 HEAVY BATTLE tanks stood guard on the street called Yanhe Donglu at the south approach to Lhasa proper. They sat stern to stern, 125mm Smoothbore cannon pointed menacingly in the direction of Gonggar.
There was enough space between them for a yak to pass-if the yak wasn't pregnant.
"Slow down," Remo told Bumba Fun when they came to the tanks.
"Do you not mean stop?"
"Slow down first. Then stop."
The truck drew to a halt not ten yards from the yawning Smoothbore muzzles.
"What do we do, Gonpo Jigme?" Bumba Fun asked uncertainly. "Those tanks block our path."
"Give me a minute," said Remo, stepping out.
"To do what?"
"Break the tanks," said Remo.
PLA TANK COMMANDER Yun Ting narrowed his eyes at the lone Khampa who stepped out of the lead truck of the unauthorized convoy. He watched the man approach, apparently unarmed. The way the Khampa walked was too casual to suggest a threat. Still, Yun Ting, seated up in the turret hatch, tripped the lever that controlled the turret's revolutions. The turret jerked left, the better to fix the Khampa with the terrifying maw of its cannon. It was a very intimidating action, designed to promote compliance.
The trouble was the Khampa with the silver-fox turban looked not at all intimidated. Not even when Yun's counterpart in the other tank adjusted his Smoothbore so that the Khampa was fixed in an annihilating cross fire.
The Khampa walked right up to the point where the cannon barrels were within easy reach. Ignoring Yun's shouted demand that he identify himself, the Khampa reached up with casual hands and cupped the lower rims of both barrels in his palms, like some brainless peasant ready to milk the teats of a giant goat.
He used his fingers to feel the hard steel, and Yun noticed they were too white to belong to a true Khampa.
The sound came like a thunderclap. For the rest of his days, Yun thought the sound came first. But he also clearly remembered, in the military prison where they threw him for dereliction of duty, seeing the hands withdraw and snap back in unison. The edges of the twin palms struck the hard rim of the Smoothbore together. And at once the long barrels cracked and split for the entire length.
The thunderous crack that jerked Yun Ting up in his hard seat came then. Not before. His shocked nerves only remembered it the other way.
The twin Smoothbores each fell to the hard asphalt in two sections, perfectly halved.
It was impossible. Unbelievable. And most of all, the insolent Khampa who had destroyed the peoples' property simply stood there in the middle of the road blowing on his fingers and polishing his white knuckles on the breast of his native costume.
His eyes, staring at Yun Ting, were insolent and mocking. They as much as said "I dare you to shoot me now."
It was a dare PLA Tank Commander Yun Ting elected not to take. He called for retreat. There was a machine gun mounted on his turret, it was true, but in his quailing heart, Yun knew it would be of no value against a being who could split the finest steel forged in China with what looked like a casual kung fu chop of each hand.