Treasure of Khan by Clive Cussler

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.
    â€œGood 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.”
    â€œJolly good. Stow my tent, if you would, and take a good mind of that 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.
    â€œHunt? 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.
    â€œWhat’s a pair of Yanks doing way out here?” Hunt mused.
    â€œBeats working in the shipyard back home in Erie, Pennsylvania,” grinned Dave Schodt, an affable man like his brother who was quick with a joke.
    â€œBeen 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.
    â€œI have a slight change in destination,” Hunt said, sidestepping the banter. “I need you to fly me to Ulaanbaatar.”
    â€œMongolia?” 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.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œThat will be a hundred fifty miles less than the flight to Nanking. But we’ll need return