Clive Cussler: The Kingdom

“You’re correct. As I mentioned back in Mustang, the border is fairly open. Several hundred trekkers jaunt across it every year. Actually, the Chinese government doesn’t seem to care. There’s nothing of any strategic importance in the area.”

“More good news,” Remi said. “Now tell us the downside.”

“You mean aside from the ridiculously rugged terrain?”

“Yes.”

“The downside is that we will be, for all intents and purposes, invading China. If we’re unlucky enough to get caught, we’ll probably end up in prison.”

“We’ve already faced the possibility once,” Sam replied. “Let’s do our best to avoid that, shall we?”

“Right. Okay, let’s move on to snakes and venomous insects . . .”

After a quick supper that consisted of tandoori chicken, Sam and Remi retired for the evening. They found their rooms in keeping with the hostel’s motif: Hollywood western chic sans the chic. Though the outside temperature was a pleasant sixty degrees, the humidity was stifling. The room’s creaking ceiling fan slowly churned the air, but after sunset the temperature began dropping, and soon the room was comfortable.

They were asleep by eight.

They awoke the next morning to the sound of Ajay knocking softly on their door and whispering their names. Bleary-eyed, Sam crawled out of bed in the darkness and shuffled to the door.

Ajay said, “Coffee, Mr. Fargo.”

“No tea? This is a pleasant surprise. It’s Sam, by the way.”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“What time is it?”

“Five a.m.”

“Uh-oh,” Sam murmured, and glanced over at Remi’s sleeping form. Mrs. Fargo was not exactly a morning person. “Ajay, would you mind bringing us two more cups of coffee right away?”

“Of course. In fact, I will bring the carafe.”

The group assembled in the tavern thirty minutes later for breakfast. Once they were done, Karna said, “We’d best pack. Our death trap should be here anytime now.”

“Did you say ‘death trap’?” Remi asked.

“You might know it by its common name: helicopter.”

Sam chuckled. “After what we’ve been through, we almost prefer your description. Are you sure you can handle it?”

Karna held up a softball-sized Nerf ball. It was riddled with finger holes. “Stress toy. I’ll survive. The ride will be short.”

With their gear assembled and packed, they soon regrouped at the northern edge of Yingkiong near a dirt clearing.

“Here he comes,” Ajay said, pointing to the south where an olive green helicopter was skimming over the surface of the Siang.

“It looks positively ancient,” Karna observed.

As it drew even with the clearing and slowed to a hover, Sam spotted a faded Indian Air Force roundel on the side door. Someone had tried and failed to paint over the orange, white, and green insignia. The group turned away from the rotor downwash and waited until the dust settled.

“Ajay, what is this thing?” asked Karna.

“A Chetak light utility helicopter, sir. Very reliable. As a soldier, I flew in these many times.”

“How old?”

“Nineteen sixty-eight.”

“Bloody hell.”

“If I had told you, Mr. Karna, you would not have come.”

“Oh, you’re damned right. All right, all right, let’s get on with it.”

With Jack clawing furiously at his Nerf ball, the group packed their gear aboard, then took their seats. Ajay checked their fivepoint seat harnesses, then slid the door shut and gave the pilot a nod.

They lifted off, the nose tilted forward, and surged ahead.

Partially for ease of navigation and partially to increase their chances of rescue should the Chetak crash, the pilot followed the serpentine course of the Siang River. The few pockets of habitation that lay north of Yingkiong were situated along its banks, Ajay explained. With luck, someone would see the Chetak go down and report the incident.

“Oh, that’s just fantastic!’” Karna shouted over the rush of the engine.

“Squeeze your ball, Jack,” Remi replied. “Ajay, do you know this pilot?”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Fargo, very well. We served together in the Army. Gupta now runs a cargo business-brings supplies to the far parts of Arunachal Pradesh.”

The Chetak continued north, skimming a few hundred feet above the brown waters of the Siang, and before long they found themselves flying through knife-edged ridges and plummeting valleys, all of it covered in jungle so thick Sam and Remi could see nothing but a solid carpet of green. In most places the Siang was wide and sluggish, but several times, as the Chetak passed through a gorge, the waters were a maelstrom of froth and crashing waves.

“Those are Class VI waters down there,” Sam called, staring out the window.

“That’s nothing,” Karna replied.

“Where we’re headed, the Tsangpo River Gorge, is known as the Everest of Rivers. There are sections of the Tsangpo that defy classification.”

Remi said, “Has anyone ever tried traversing those?”

“Oh, yes, a number of times. Mostly extreme kayakers, right, Ajay?”

Ajay nodded. “Many lives have been lost. Bodies never found.”

“They don’t wash downstream?” asked Sam.

“Bodies are usually either trapped forever in hydraulics, where they are ground into pulp along the bottom or they are ground into pulp while being dragged down the gorges. There is not much left to find after that.”

After they had traveled forty minutes, Gupta turned in his seat and called, “Coming up on Tuting Village. Prepare for landing.”

Sam and Remi were surprised to find that Tuting had a dirt airstrip partially overgrown with jungle. They touched down, and everyone climbed out. To the east, higher up the valley, they glimpsed a few roofs peeking above the treetops. Tuting Village, Sam and Remi assumed.

“From here, we hike,” Karna announced.

He, Sam, and Remi began unloading their gear.

“Pardon, just one moment,” Ajay said. He was standing ten feet away with the pilot. “Gupta has a proposal he wishes you to consider. He asked me how far into China we are going, and I told him. For a fee, he will fly us very close to our destination.”

“Isn’t he worried about the Chinese?” asked Sam.

“Very little. He says they maintain no radar in the area, and from here to our destination the valleys only deepen, and that there is almost no habitation. He can fly unseen, he believes.”

“Well, that’s a damned sight better than a six-day march in and back,” Karna observed. “How much does he want?”

Ajay spoke to Gupta in Hindi, then said, “Two hundred thousand rupees-or roughly four thousand U.S. dollars.”

Sam said, “We don’t have that much cash on us.”

“Gupta assumed this. He says he will happily take a credit card.”

They agreed to Gupta’s terms, and in short order the pilot was on the helicopter’s radio, transmitting Sam’s Visa information to his home base in Itanagar.

“This is surreal,” Sam said. “Standing here, in the back of beyond, while an Indian pilot runs our card.”

“As I said back in Nepal, never a dull moment,” Remi replied. “I know my ankle will appreciate this itinerary change.”

Ajay called, “Gupta says you are approved. We can lift off whenever you are ready.”

Airborne and heading north along the Siang again, they soon passed over the last Indian settlement before the border. Gengren disappeared behind them in a flash, and then Gupta announced, “We are crossing the McMahon Line.”

“That’s it,” Sam said. “We’ve invaded China.”

The crossing had been decidedly anticlimactic, but soon the landscape began to morph. As Gupta had predicted, the peaks and ridges traded their rounded appearance for exposed and serrated rock; the valley walls steepened and the forests thickened. The most startling difference was the Siang. Here, on the southern edge of the Tsangpo Gorge region, the river’s surface roiled, the waves exploding against boulders and hanging rock walls, sending plumes of mist high into the air. Gupta kept the Chetak as close to the river as possible, and kept below the ridgeline. Sam and Remi felt as though they were on the wildest flume ride on earth.