Flood Tide dp-14

by Clive Cussler

  “It's started?”

  “Our agents dropped onto the grounds by helicopter eight minutes ago.”

  “The prisoners inside the building?”

  “All alive, but in need of medical care.”

  “The security guards?”

  “Rounded up without a fight. At last report only their head man had yet to be apprehended. But he should be in custody shortly.”

  Julia turned to Pitt, who was helping the last of the elderly immigrants out of the runabout. “Mr. Simmons, may I introduce Mr. Dirk Pitt of NUMA, who made your raid possible.”

  Simmons stuck out his hand to Pitt. “Ms. Lee didn't have time to fill me in on the details, Mr. Pitt, but I gather that you pulled off a remarkable achievement.”

  “They call it being hi the right place at the right time,” said Pitt, gripping the INS agent's hand.

  “Seems to me it was more like the right man being where it counts most,” said Simmons. “If you don't mind, I'd like a report of your activities over the past two days.”

  Pitt nodded and then pointed at the Chinese who were being herded by the other INS agents to a waiting bus at the end of the dock. “These people have gone through the worst ordeal imaginable. I hope they'll be treated in a humane manner.”

  “I can safely say, Mr. Pitt, they will be given every consideration.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Simmons. I appreciate your concern.”

  Simmons nodded at Julia. “If you feel up to it, Ms. Lee, my boss would like your presence at the retreat to assist as a translator.”

  “I think I can stay awake a little longer,” she said stoutly. She turned and looked up at Pitt, who stood beside her. “I guess this is good-bye.” He grinned. “I'm sorry I proved to be a lousy date.”

  She ignored the pain and smiled. “I can't say it was romantic, but it was exciting.”

  “I promise to show more savoir faire the next time.”

  “Are you going back to Washington?”

  “I haven't received my marching orders yet,” he replied, “but I suspect they came with my pals, Giordino and Gunn. And you? Where will the needs of the service send you?”

  “My home office is in San Francisco. I assume that's where they'll want me.”

  He moved forward and took her in his arms, kissing her gently on the forehead. “Next time we meet,” he said softly, tenderly touching his fingertips to her cut and swollen lips, “I'll kiss you full on the mouth.”

  “Are you a good kisser?”

  “Girls come from miles around to kiss me.”

  “If there is a next time,” she murmured softly, “I'll return the favor.”

  Then she was walking with Simmons to a waiting car. Pitt stood alone by the forlorn Chris-Craft and watched until the car rounded a streetcorner. He was standing there when Giordino and Gunn came bounding across the dock, shouting like madmen.

  They had remained in the air until the runabout was safely tied to the town dock. Seeing an INS helicopter sitting in a field about a mile north of town, Giordino would have none of it. He set the NUMA helicopter down in a parking lot less than a block from the dock, much to the annoyance of a deputy sheriff, who threatened him with arrest. Giordino pacified him by claiming they were scouting locations for a Hollywood production company and promised they would recommend Grapevine as the perfect backdrop for a new big-budget horror movie. Suitably charmed by NUMA's most renowned con artist, the deputy insisted on driving Giordino and Rudi Gunn to the dock.

  Standing only five feet four inches but with shoulders nearly as wide as he was tall, Giordino lifted Pitt off his feet in a great bear hug. “What is it with you?” he said, elated to see Pitt alive. “Every time I let you out of my sight you get into trouble.”

  “Natural instinct, I guess,” Pitt grunted while being crushed.

  Gunn was more sedate. He simply put his hand on Pitt's shoulder. “Good to see you again, Dirk.”

  “I've missed you, Rudi,” said Pitt, taking a deep breath after Giordino released him.

  “Who were those guys in the ultralights?” asked Giordino.

  “Smugglers of illegal aliens.”

  Giordino stared down at the bullet holes in the Chris-Craft. “You ruined a perfectly good boat.”

  Pitt also studied the shattered windshield, the splintered engine hatch, the holes stitched across the bow, the wisp of dark smoke rising from the engine compartment. “If you'd arrived two seconds later, Admiral Sandecker would be stuck with the chore of writing my eulogy.”

  “When we flew over Foley's cabin, the place was swarming with guys in black ninja suits. Naturally thinking the worst, I shoved the throttles to the board and we took off after you. After finding you being strafed by a bunch of shady characters flying ultralights, we just naturally crashed the party.”

  “And saved a dozen lives,” Pitt added. “But where in hell did you come from? The last I heard you were in Hawaii and Rudi was in Washington.”

  “Lucky for you,” said Gunn, “Admiral Sandecker was handed a priority project by the President. As much as he disliked cutting off your rest and recuperation, he ordered Giordino and me to meet in Seattle. We both arrived last night, then borrowed a helicopter at the NUMA marine-science center at Bremerton to come pick you up. After you called the admiral this morning and told him what you'd discovered and that you were making a run for it down the river, Al and I took off and dashed across the Olympic Peninsula in forty minutes flat.”

  “That Machiavellian old sea dog sent you thousands of miles just to put me back to work?” Pitt asked in mild amazement.

  Gunn smiled. “He told me that he was reasonably certain that if he'd called himself, you'd have uttered unrepeatable words over the phone.”

  “That old man knows me pretty well,” Pitt admitted.

  “You've had a rough time,” said Gunn sympathetically. “Perhaps I can talk him into letting you lay low for a few days longer.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Giordino added candidly. “You look like the rat the cat dragged in.”

  “Some vacation,” Pitt said finally. “I hope I never have another like it. I'd like to think of it as being over.”

  Gunn motioned toward the edge of the dock. “The helicopter isn't far. Think you can make it okay?”

  “There are a few things I'd like to take care of before you rush me off,” Pitt said, giving both men a cold eye. “First, I'd like to get Sam Foley's Chris-Craft to the nearest boat yard for repairs and an engine overhaul. Second, it might be nice if we found a doctor who wouldn't ask a lot of questions while he attends to a gunshot wound in my hip. And third, I'm starved. I'm not going anywhere until I've been fed breakfast.”

  “You're wounded?” both men said in unison.

  “Hardly a life-threatening puncture, but I'm not keen to get gangrene.”

  The show of obstinacy was tremendously effective. Giordino nodded at Gunn. “You find Dirk a doctor, I'll take care of the boat. Then we'll check out the nearest restaurant. This looks like a good town for boiled crab.”

  “There is one more thing,” said Pitt.

  The two men stared at him expectantly.

  “What's this urgent project I have to drop everything for?”

  “It involves an underwater investigation of a strange shipping port near Morgan City, Louisiana,” answered Gunn.

  “What's so strange about a shipping port?”

  “Its location in a swamp, for one thing. That, and the fact the developer is the head of a large-scale international alien-smuggling empire.”

  “Heaven help me,” Pitt said piously, throwing up his hands.

  “Say it isn't true.”

  “You have a problem?” Giordino asked.

  “I've been up to my ears in illegal immigrants for the past twelve hours—that's the problem.”

  “It's truly amazing how you can gather on-the-job experience with such ease.”

  Pitt fixed his friend with an icy stare. “I suppose our divine government thinks the port is
being used to smuggle in aliens.”

  “The facility is far too elaborate for that alone,” replied Gunn. “We've been given the job of discovering its true purpose.”

  “Who built and developed the port?”

  “An outfit by the name of Qin Shang Maritime Limited out of Hong Kong.”

  Pitt didn't throw an apoplectic fit. He didn't even bat an eyelid. He did look, however, as if he'd been punched in the pit of his stomach. His face took on the expression of a man in a horror movie who just found out his wife ran away with the monster. His fingers bit deeply, painfully, into Gunn's arm. “You did say Qin Shang?”

  “That's right,” answered Gunn, wondering how he would explain the black-and-blue marks at his gym. “He directs an empire of malignant activities. Possibly the fourth-richest man in the world. You act as though you know him.”

  “We've never met, but I'm safe in saying he hates my guts.”

  “You're kidding,” said Giordino.

  Gunn looked puzzled. “Why would a man who has more money than a New York City bank hate an ordinary screwup like you?”

  “Because,” Pitt said with a fiendish grin, “I torched his yacht.”

  When Kung Chong failed to report the destruction of the runabout, and efforts to contact him were returned by silence, Lo Han knew his trusted assistant and the five men who flew with him were all dead. The realization was accompanied by the sickening certainty that the devil who caused so much grief had escaped.

  He sat alone in the mobile security vehicle, trying to make some sense of the disaster. His black eyes had a vacant stare, his face was tight and cold. Kung Chong had reported seeing immigrants in the runabout. Their appearance seemed a mystery since all the prisoners were accounted for in their cells. Then a thought exploded in his mind. Chu Deng. That idiot on the catamaran must have somehow allowed the immigrants marked for execution to escape. There was no other conclusion. The man who was taking them to safety must have been in the pay of the American government.

  Then, as if to ram home the revelation, his eyes traveled to the video monitors and observed two large helicopters landing beside the main building. In a synchronized assault armored cars broke through the barricade on the road leading to the main highway. Men poured from the aircraft and vehicles and rushed into the building. There was no pause, no demand for those inside to lay down their weapons and surrender peacefully.

  The raiders burst inside the prison compound before Lo Man's guards knew what was happening. It was as if the INS agents knew the prisoners were to be killed in the event of a raid. It became obvious that they were well informed by someone who had made a reconnaissance of the retreat.

  Quickly realizing that resistance against a large force of armed law-enforcement agents was hopeless, Lo Man's security force meekly submitted individually and in groups. Numb with defeat, Lo Han leaned back in his chair and entered a series of codes into his satellite communication system and waited for a reply from Hong Kong.

  A voice answered in Chinese. “You have reached Lotus II.”

  “This is Bamboo VI,” said Lo Han. “Operation Orion has been compromised.”

  “Say again.”

  “Operation Orion is in the process of being closed down by American agents.”

  “This is not welcome news,” replied the voice on the other end.

  “I regret we could not have remained in business until Operation Iberville was completed.”

  “Were the prisoners terminated so they could not talk?”

  “No, the raid was conducted with astonishing speed.”

  “Our chairman will be most displeased to hear of your failure.”

  “I accept all blame for my mismanagement.”

  “Can you make good your escape?”

  “No, it is too late,” said Lo Han solemnly.

  “You cannot be arrested, Bamboo VI. You know that. Nor your subordinates. There can be no trail for the Americans to follow.”

  “Those who were aware of our association are dead. My security guards are merely mercenaries who were hired to do a job, nothing more. They are ignorant of who paid them.”

  “Then you are the only link,” said the voice without inflection.

  “I have lost face and must pay the price.”

  “This, then, is our final communication.”

  “I have one final act to perform,” Lo Han said quietly.

  “Do not fail,” the voice demanded coldly.

  “Good-bye, Lotus II.”

  “Good-bye, Bamboo VI.”

  Lo Han watched the monitors as they revealed a group of men rushing toward the mobile security vehicle. They were attacking the locked door when he removed a small nickel-plated revolver from the drawer of his desk. He placed the barrel inside his mouth pointing upward. His finger was tightening on the trigger when the first INS agent burst through the doorway. The blast stopped the agent dead in his tracks his gun leveled, a look of surprise in his eyes as Lo Han jerked back in his chair, then fell forward, head and shoulders falling on the desk as the revolver dropped from his hand onto the floor.

  Dirk Pitt 14 - Flood Tide

  April 20, 2000 Hong Kong, China

  QIN SHANG DID NOT HAVE THE APPEARANCE OF A CORRUPT and depraved sociopath who had indiscriminately murdered untold thousands of innocent people. He did not have serpent's fangs, vertical slit eyes, nor a forked tongue that flicked in and out. There was no aura of evil about him. Sitting at a desk in his palatial four-level penthouse atop the fifty-story mirrored tower of Qin Shang Maritime Limited, he looked no different than any other Chinese businessman working in the financial hub of Hong Kong. Like most mass murderers throughout history, Qin Shang went unobtrusive and unnoticed whenever he strolled down the street.

  Tall for most Asian men at five feet, eleven inches, he was heavy around the waist, weighing in at 210 pounds, not solid but what you might call chubby, the aftereffects of a taste and appetite for good Chinese cooking. The black hair was thick and cut short, with a part down the middle. The head and face were not round but narrow and almost feline, and matched the long and slender hands. The mouth, oddly and deceptively, seemed fixed in a permanent smile. Outwardly, Qin Shang seemed as threatening as a shoe salesman.

  No one who met him could forget his eyes. They were the color of the purest green jade and revealed a black depth that belied a good-tempered man. They burned with a frightening degree of malevolence and were so penetrating that men who knew him swore he could look through your skull and read the latest stock market quotes. The inward man behind the eyes was a different story. Qin Shang was as sadistic and unscrupulous as a Serengeti hyena. He thrived on manipulation so long as it led to spiraling wealth and power. As an orphan begging on the streets of Kowloon across Victoria Harbor from the island of Hong Kong, he developed an uncanny talent for exploiting people for their money. By the age of ten, he had saved enough to buy a sampan and used it to ferry people and transport whatever cargo he could talk merchants into letting him carry.

  In two years, he had a fleet of ten sampans. Before he was eighteen, he sold his thriving little fleet and bought an ancient intercoastal tramp steamer. This tired old rust bucket became the foundation for Qin Shang's shipping empire. The freight line flourished during the next decade because Qin Shang's competitors hi the freight trade strangely fell by the wayside when many of their ships mysteriously disappeared at sea without a trace with all hands aboard. Finding their profit margins dropping into the red, the owners of the doomed ships always seemed to find a ready buyer for their remaining vessels and dwindling assets. Operating out of Japan, the company that did the buying was known as Yokohama Ship Sales & Scrap Corporation. In reality it was a front whose parental ties stretched across the China Sea to Qin Shang Maritime Limited.

  In time, Qin Shang took a different course from his business peers hi Hong Kong, who established alliances with European financial institutions and Western exporters and importers. In a shrewd move, he turned his focus on the Peo
ple's Republic of China, creating friendships with high government officials in preparation for the day when they would take control of Hong Kong from the British. He conducted behind-the-scenes negotiations with Yin Tsang, chief director of the People's Republic's Ministry of Internal Affairs, an obscure department of the government that was involved with everything from foreign espionage of scientific technology to the international smuggling of immigrants to relieve the country's overcrowded population. In return for his services Qin Shang was allowed to register his ships in China without the usual exorbitant fees.

  The partnership proved incredibly profitable to Qin Shang. The clandestine transportation and trade in undocumented aliens, in concert with the legitimate hauling of Chinese goods and oil exclusively by Qin Shang's freighters and tankers, brought hundreds of millions of dollars over several years into the company's many hidden bank accounts around the world.

  Qin Shang soon amassed more money than he could spend in a thousand lifetimes. Yet there was a fixed determination in his sinister brain to amass even more wealth, more power. Once he had built one of the largest cargo and passenger fleets in the world, the challenge was gone and the moral and legitimate end of the business began to bore him. But there was excitement in the covert side of his operation. The rush of adrenaline and the intoxication of taking risks excited him like a steep slope of moguls in front of an expert skier. Little did his fellow conspirators in the People's Republic know he was also smuggling drugs and guns along with the illegal immigrants. It was a very lucrative sideline, and he used the profits to develop his landmark port facility in Louisiana. Playing the ends against the middle gave him glorious hours of exhilaration.

  Qin Shang was an egomaniac with a stratospheric level of insane optimism. He held the firm belief that his day of reckoning would never come. Even if it did, he was too rich, too omnipotent, to be broken. He already paid enormous bribes to high-level officials in half the governments of the world. In the United States alone, there were over one hundred people in every agency of the federal government on his payroll. As far as Qin Shang was concerned the future was wrapped in a nebulous fog that never fully materialized. But just for added insurance, he maintained a small army of bodyguards and professional assassins he'd pirated away from the most efficient intelligence agencies in Europe, Israel and America.