With the satchel containing the wooden box safe under his cot, he slept fitfully, the myriad of thoughts banging around his head like a blacksmith's hammer. The night was made more ominous by the howl of a shrieking wind that rocked the tent till dawn. Rising groggily at daybreak, he was relieved to find the satchel safe and sound under his cot, while, outside, there were no Japanese militants to be seen.
Tsendyn was standing nearby, cooking some goat meat over an open fire with a pair of Chinese orphan boys who assisted the Mongol.
"Good morning, sir. Hot tea is at the ready." Tsendyn smiled, handing Hunt a cup of steaming brew. "All of the equipment is packed, and the mules are hitched to the carts. We can depart at your desire."
"Jolly good. Stow my tent, if you would, and take a good mind of the satchel under the cot," he said, taking a seat on a wooden crate and watching the sunrise as he enjoyed his tea.
The first distant artillery shell sounded an hour later as the remaining excavation party rolled away from the Shang-tu site aboard three mule-drawn wagons. Across the windswept plains stood the tiny village of Lanqui, just over a mile away. The caravan continued past the dusty town, joining a small trail of refugees headed west. Near noon, the mules clopped into the aged town of Duolun, where they stopped at a roadside hovel for lunch. Downing a tasteless bowl of noodles and broth that was sprinkled with dead bugs, they made their way to a large flat meadow at the edge of town. Sitting atop one of the wagons, Hunt peered overhead into a partly cloudy sky. Almost like clockwork, a faint buzz broke the air, and the archaeologist watched as a tiny silver speck grew larger against the clouds as it approached the makeshift airfield. As the airplane neared, Hunt pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it to a stick, thrusting it into the ground as a primitive wind sock for the pilot to gauge the breeze.
With a gentle touch, the pilot circled the metal-sided aircraft in a wide, low turn, then set the noisy plane down onto the turf in a quick motion. Hunt was relieved to see the plane was a Fokker F. VIIb trimotor, a safe and able aircraft aptly suited to flying over remote stretches of barren landscape. He noted with curiosity that the name Blessed Betty was painted beneath the pilot's cockpit window.
The motors barely gurgled to a stop when the fuselage door burst open and out jumped two men in worn leather jackets.
"Hunt? I'm Randy Schodt," greeted the pilot, a tall man with a rugged yet friendly face who spoke with an American accent. "My brother Dave and I are here to fly you to Nanking, or so the contract says, he added, patting a folded paper in his jacket pocket.
"What's a pair of Yanks doing way out here?" Hunt mused.
"Beats working in the shipyard back home in Erie, Pennsylvania," grinned Dave Schodt, an affable man like his brother who was quick with a joke.
"Been flying for the Chinese Ministry of Railroads, supporting rail extensions on the Peking—Shanghai line. Though work has come to a sudden halt with this unpleasantness by these Japanese folks," Randy Schodt explained with a smirk.
"I have a slight change in destination," Hunt said, sidestepping the banter. "I need you to fly me to Ulaanbaatar."
"Mongolia?" Schodt asked, scratching his head. "Well, as long as we're headed away from the neighborhood of the Nippon Army, I guess it's okay with me."
"I'll plot it out, see if we have the range to get there," Dave said, walking back to the plane. "Hopefully, they'll have a gas station when we arrive," he laughed.
With Schodt's help, Hunt supervised the loading of the more important artifacts and tools into the fuselage of the Fokker. When the wooden crates had nearly filled the interior, Hunt took the satchel with the lacquered box and carefully placed it on the front passenger's seat.
"That will be a hundred fifty miles less than the flight to Nanking. But we'll need return mileage, which exceeds what your British Museum people contracted me to fly," Schodt explained, spreading a map of the region across a stack of crates. Ulaanbaatar, the capital of Mongolia, was marked with a star in the north-central region of the country, over four hundred miles from the Chinese border.
"You have my authorization," Hunt replied, handing the pilot a handwritten request for the change in route. "I assure you, the museum will honor the additional expense."
"Sure they will, they don't want your artifacts to end up in the Tokyo Museum," Schodt laughed. Sticking the note in his pocket, he added, "Dave has the route to Ulaanbaatar laid in and promises we can make it in one hop. Since we'll be flying over the Gobi Desert, you're lucky the Blessed Betty has extra fuel tanks.
Whenever you're ready."
Hunt walked over and surveyed the two remaining mule carts still packed with equipment and artifacts.
Tsendyn stood holding the reins of the lead mule, stroking the animal's ears.
"Tsendyn, we have had a difficult but fruitful summer. You have been invaluable in the success of the expedition."
"It has been my honor. You have done a great service to my country and heritage. My heirs shall be particularly grateful."
"Take the remaining equipment and artifacts to Shijiazhuang, where you can catch the rail to Nanking. A representative from the British Museum will meet and arrange shipment of the items to London. I will wait for you in Ulaanbaatar, where we will investigate our latest find."
"I look forward to the next search with great anticipation," Tsendyn replied, shaking the archaeologist's hand.
"Farewell, my friend."
Hunt climbed aboard the loaded Fokker as the plane's three 220-horsepower Wright Whirlwind radial engines roared to life. Tsendyn stood and watched as Schodt turned the plane into the wind, then shoved the throttles to their stops. With a deafening roar, the aircraft jostled across the meadow, bouncing up and down several times before slowly lumbering into the air. Turning in a graceful arc low above the field, Schodt swung the big plane northwest toward the Mongolian border as it gradually gained altitude.
Tsendyn stood in the meadow and watched as the plane grew smaller on the horizon and the throbbing of the motors dissolved from his ears. Not until the aircraft had completely vanished from sight did he reach into the vest pocket of his coat for a reassuring touch. The bolt of silk was still there, as it had been since the early hours of the night before.
***
It was two hours into the flight when Hunt reached for the satchel and pulled out the lacquered box. The boredom of the flight mixed with the excitement of the find was too much to bear and he was drawn to run the silk painting through his fingers one more time. With the box in his hands, he felt the familiar weight of the bronze tube rolling around inside in a reassuring manner. Yet something didn't feel right.
Prying off the lid, he found the cheetah skin tightly rolled up and stuffed to one side, as it had been before. The bronze tube sat next to it, appearing secure. But picking the tube up, he noticed it felt heavier than he remembered. With a shaking hand, he quickly pulled off the cap, releasing an outpouring of sand that dribbled onto his lap. As the last grain tumbled out, he peered in and saw that the silk scroll had vanished.
His eyes bulged at the sudden realization that he'd been duped and he struggled to catch his breath. The shock quickly turned to anger and regaining his voice, he began screaming at the pilots.
"Turn back! Turn the airplane around! We must return at once," he cried.