Read Online Echo Six: Black Ops 7 - Tibetan Fury by Eric Meyer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Eric Meyer
Tags: thriller, Literature & Fiction, Action & Adventure, Mystery, War & Military, Genre Fiction, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, War, Men's Adventure
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wore ragged, prison clothing. Yet his head was shaved, a monk, like himself.
"I am a monk, Tenzin Davaika," he replied.
I must never admit to my American name, David Campbell. No matter who this man is, not until I know who I can trust.
The man bowed his head in greeting. "I also am a monk. My name is Lobsang Cho."
Campbell struggled to return the bow. "Where am I?"
"You don't know? This is Prison Number 529, outside of Lhasa. Most of us here are political prisoners, which I'm sure you know is the label the Chinese give to Buddhists who go about their lawful business in Tibet. What did you do, what are they accusing you of?"
He thought rapidly. If the man was a fellow monk, there was no reason why he shouldn't tell the truth. Not all of it. That would be unforgivable. But he could tell him some of it. He knew any monk would go to his death before he revealed anything to the Chinese, but the Chinese employed a number of their own people to infiltrate the monasteries and impersonate monks.
"I… don't know. They accused me of being a spy, an American spy."
"And are you?"
"The accusation is false."
Technically, it was true. It was as far as he could go without lying. The other monk seemed to understand this and gave him a smile.
"I understand. You know this is a camp of hard regime? Shortly, they will call us outside to assemble on the parade ground. When they have counted us, they will march us to the project we are working on. Right now, we're breaking rocks to build a new road that will divert traffic to the South of Lhasa. I'm afraid you will find it hard. At least until you are used to it."
Campbell didn't reply for a few moments, and the man watched him carefully, his face creased with concern.
"You need not worry. Your fellow Buddhists will do their best to lighten your burden until you are used to the work."
"There is no time to get used to anything. I am under sentence of death; in a few days they will execute me."
"How many days do you have left?"
"I'm not sure. I don't know how long I was unconscious. Thirteen, I believe."
"Thirteen days can be a lifetime. And then you will pass into another lifetime."
"Thank you, Cho. I will endeavor to devote my last days in the service of Lord Buddha."
"Very wise. But you haven't experienced the work yet. You will need to be strong, very strong. In this place, even thirteen days can seem endless."
Later, he began to realize what Cho meant. The march was beyond anything he'd ever known. They were issued thin sandals with which to trudge through the snow, after standing on the camp square for an hour while the guards counted them. They had no breakfast. It was handed to them at the work site, only after they had completed their first quota. Most of the prisoners were wearing torn, thin garments, many of them made of cotton, yet they worked hard and without complaint.
His first task was carrying huge pieces of rock from a dump at the side of the new road. Each rock had to be placed in position, and then hammered down with a sledgehammer. When they didn't fit, they had to chip at them with pickaxes that continually shed shards of steel in the bitter cold, sending pieces of hard steel to slice into the skin of anyone unlucky enough to be in the way.
He had no idea of the time, but he estimated they'd been working for an hour and a half when the Chinese called a halt and handed out their food. He queued with the rest of them, and when he reached the cauldrons of thin soup, which were their breakfast, he held out the wooden bowl they'd given him.
The prisoner, a trustee, ladled in the thin gruel, and he walked away to find Cho and eat with him.
"Where are you going?"
He hung his head, not daring to look at the brutal Chinese Sergeant who was in charge of the work detail.
"To eat with my…"
The blow was stunning. His head rang, and he saw stars for a few moments. He went to look up, and another hard blow to his head threw him to the hard, rocky ground. The
"I am a monk, Tenzin Davaika," he replied.
I must never admit to my American name, David Campbell. No matter who this man is, not until I know who I can trust.
The man bowed his head in greeting. "I also am a monk. My name is Lobsang Cho."
Campbell struggled to return the bow. "Where am I?"
"You don't know? This is Prison Number 529, outside of Lhasa. Most of us here are political prisoners, which I'm sure you know is the label the Chinese give to Buddhists who go about their lawful business in Tibet. What did you do, what are they accusing you of?"
He thought rapidly. If the man was a fellow monk, there was no reason why he shouldn't tell the truth. Not all of it. That would be unforgivable. But he could tell him some of it. He knew any monk would go to his death before he revealed anything to the Chinese, but the Chinese employed a number of their own people to infiltrate the monasteries and impersonate monks.
"I… don't know. They accused me of being a spy, an American spy."
"And are you?"
"The accusation is false."
Technically, it was true. It was as far as he could go without lying. The other monk seemed to understand this and gave him a smile.
"I understand. You know this is a camp of hard regime? Shortly, they will call us outside to assemble on the parade ground. When they have counted us, they will march us to the project we are working on. Right now, we're breaking rocks to build a new road that will divert traffic to the South of Lhasa. I'm afraid you will find it hard. At least until you are used to it."
Campbell didn't reply for a few moments, and the man watched him carefully, his face creased with concern.
"You need not worry. Your fellow Buddhists will do their best to lighten your burden until you are used to the work."
"There is no time to get used to anything. I am under sentence of death; in a few days they will execute me."
"How many days do you have left?"
"I'm not sure. I don't know how long I was unconscious. Thirteen, I believe."
"Thirteen days can be a lifetime. And then you will pass into another lifetime."
"Thank you, Cho. I will endeavor to devote my last days in the service of Lord Buddha."
"Very wise. But you haven't experienced the work yet. You will need to be strong, very strong. In this place, even thirteen days can seem endless."
Later, he began to realize what Cho meant. The march was beyond anything he'd ever known. They were issued thin sandals with which to trudge through the snow, after standing on the camp square for an hour while the guards counted them. They had no breakfast. It was handed to them at the work site, only after they had completed their first quota. Most of the prisoners were wearing torn, thin garments, many of them made of cotton, yet they worked hard and without complaint.
His first task was carrying huge pieces of rock from a dump at the side of the new road. Each rock had to be placed in position, and then hammered down with a sledgehammer. When they didn't fit, they had to chip at them with pickaxes that continually shed shards of steel in the bitter cold, sending pieces of hard steel to slice into the skin of anyone unlucky enough to be in the way.
He had no idea of the time, but he estimated they'd been working for an hour and a half when the Chinese called a halt and handed out their food. He queued with the rest of them, and when he reached the cauldrons of thin soup, which were their breakfast, he held out the wooden bowl they'd given him.
The prisoner, a trustee, ladled in the thin gruel, and he walked away to find Cho and eat with him.
"Where are you going?"
He hung his head, not daring to look at the brutal Chinese Sergeant who was in charge of the work detail.
"To eat with my…"
The blow was stunning. His head rang, and he saw stars for a few moments. He went to look up, and another hard blow to his head threw him to the hard, rocky ground. The
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