Flood Tide dp-14

by Clive Cussler

  “Could he barge cargo up and down the Atchafalaya and Red rivers to a transportation center farther north?”

  “A losing proposition,” Montaigne replied. “The Atchafalaya may be an inland navigable waterway, but it doesn't contain half the flow of the Mississippi. It's considered a shallow-draft artery and barge traffic is limited, unlike the Mississippi, which can accommodate great towboats with ten thousand horsepower pushing as many as fifty barges tied together in rows like a marching column stretching nearly a third of a mile. The Atchafalaya is a treacherous river. It may look calm and peaceful, but that is a mask that hides its true, ugly face. It waits like a gator with only its eyes and nostrils showing, ready to strike the unwary river pilot or pleasure-boat operator out for a weekend cruise. If Qin Shang thought he could build a commercial waterborne empire to support freight traffic up and down the Atchafalaya or across the Intracoastal Waterway, he was sadly mistaken. Neither channel has been improved to handle heavy barge traffic.”

  “The White House and Immigration Service suspect the chief purpose behind the building of Sungari is for a dispersal point for smuggling illegal immigrants, drugs and illegal weapons.”

  Montaigne shrugged. “So I was told. But why sink tons of money into a facility capable of handling millions of tons of ship cargoes and then use it only to smuggle illicit contraband? I fail to see the logic.”

  “There is big money in alien smuggling alone,” said Gunn. “One thousand illegals brought in on one boat and ferried across the country at thirty thousand dollars a head, and you're talking real money.”

  “Ah” right, if Sungari is a front for immigrant smuggling,“ said Montaigne, ”I'd be interested in knowing how Qin Shang is going to get the immigrants and goods from point A to point B without some sort of underground transportation system. U.S. Customs and Immigration comb every ship docking at Sungari. All barge traffic inland is carefully monitored. It would be impossible for undocumented aliens to slip through their fingers."

  “The reason NUMA is here.” Gunn picked up a metal pointer and tapped the point inside the image of the Atchafa-laya River that divided Sungari East from Sungari West. “Because there is no way for him to send human and drug cargo over land and water, he must be shipping them under the surface.”

  Montaigne sat erect and stared at Gunn through skeptical eyes. “By submarine?”

  “Submarines capable of carrying large numbers of passengers and cargo are a possibility we can't ignore.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, but there is no way in hell you can get a submarine up the Atchafalaya River. The shoals and bends are a nightmare for experienced river pilots. Navigating below the surface upriver against the current is unthinkable.”

  “Then perhaps Shang's engineers have carved out hidden underwater-passage systems that we're not aware of.”

  Montaigne gave a negative shake of his head. “No way they could have excavated a tunnel network without discovery. Government building experts scrutinized every square inch of the site during construction to make sure the approved plans were followed to the letter. Qin Shang's contractors were incredibly cooperative and either complied with our criticisms or took as gospel any and all suggested changes without argument. In the end it was almost as if we had all been in on the design stage. If Qin Shang dug a tunnel under the noses of men and women whom I consider the best engineering and structural inspectors in the South, he could get himself elected Pope.”

  Gunn held up a pitcher and a glass. “Can I interest you in a glass of iced tea?”

  “You wouldn't happen to have a bottle of bourbon lying about?”

  Gunn smiled. “Admiral Sandecker follows Navy tradition and has a rule against alcohol on board NUMA research vessels. However, in honor of your presence, I do believe a bottle of Jack Daniels' Black Label whiskey somehow slipped on board.”

  “You, sir, are a saint,” said Montaigne, his eyes gleaming in anticipation.

  Gunn poured a glass. “Ice?”

  “Never!” Montaigne held up the glass and studied the amber contents, then sniffed the aroma as if pondering a fine wine before sipping it. “Because nothing suspicious was observed above ground, I was told at my briefing that you're going to try your luck with an underwater search.”

  Gunn nodded. “I'm sending in an autonomous underwater vehicle for an exploratory search first thing in the morning. If anything questionable is recorded by its cameras, divers will investigate.”

  “The water is murky and running with silt, so I doubt if you'll see much.”

  “With high resolution and digital enhancement, our cameras can distinguish objects in murky water up to twenty feet. My only concern is Qin Shang's underwater security.”

  Montaigne laughed. “If it's anything like the security around the port,” Montaigne said with a chuckle, “you can forget it. A ten-foot-high fence runs around the perimeter, but there is only one gate that leads to nowhere in the swamp with no guard. Any passing vessel, especially fishing boats out of Morgan City, are welcome to tie up at a dock. And there is an excellent helicopter landing pad with a small terminal building on the north end. I never heard of Shang's security turning away anybody who dropped in for a guided tour. They go out of their way to make the place accessible.”

  “Definitely not your ordinary Qin Shang operation.”

  “So I've been told.”

  “As a port,” Gunn continued, “Sungari must have offices for customs and immigration agents?”

  Montaigne laughed. “Like the Maytag man, they're the loneliest men in town.”

  “Dammit!” Gunn abruptly burst. “This has to be a gigantic scam. Qin Shang built Sungari to conduct criminal activities. I'd stake my government pension on it.”

  “If it was me, and my aim was to conduct an illegal operation, I'd have never designed the port to stand out like a Las Vegas casino.”

  “Nor I,” Gunn conceded.

  “There was, come to think of it,” Montaigne said thoughtfully, “an odd bit of construction that puzzled inspecting engineers.”

  “What was that?”

  “Shang's contractor built the upper level of their docks a good thirty feet higher than necessary from the water's surface. Instead of walking down a gangway to the dock from the deck of a ship, you actually have to negotiate a slight incline.”

  “Could it be insurance against hurricane tides or a hundred-year flood down the river?”

  “Yes, but they magnified the threat,” explained Montaigne. “Oh sure, there have been flood stages on the Mississippi that have reached huge heights, but not on the Atchafalaya. Ground level at Sungari was raised to a level far beyond anything that nature could throw at it.”

  “Qin Shang wouldn't be where he is by gambling with the elements.”

  “I suppose you're right.” Montaigne finished off the Jack Daniels. He waved a hand at the image of Sungari. “So there it sits, a grand edifice to one man's ego. Look across the water. Two ships in a port built to take a hundred. Is that any way to run a profitable business?”

  “No way that I'm aware of,” said Gunn.

  The general rose to his feet. “I should be on my way. It'll be dark soon. I think I'll instruct my pilot to go upriver to Morgan City and tie up there for the night before heading back to New Orleans.”

  “Thank you, General,” Gunn said sincerely. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me. Please don't be a stranger.”

  “Not at all,” Montaigne replied jovially. “Now that I know where to go for a free shot of good whiskey, rest assured, you'll see me again. And good luck on your investigation. Anytime you require the services of the Corps, you have but to call me.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  Long after General Montaigne returned to his survey boat, Gunn sat staring at the holographic image of Sungari, his mind seeking answers that never revealed themselves.

  “If you're worried about their security hassling us,” said Frank Stewart, captain of the Marine Denizen, “we can
conduct our survey from the middle of the river. They may own the buildings and land on both sides of the Atchafalaya, but free passage between the Gulf and Morgan City is guaranteed under maritime law.”

  Stewart, with brown hair cut short and slickly combed with a precision part on the right side, was a mariner from the old school. He still shot the sun with his sextant and figured latitude and longitude the old-fashioned way when a quick scan of his geophysical positioning system could tell him within a yard of where he was standing. Slim and tall with deep-set blue eyes, he was a man without a wife whose mistress was the sea.

  Gunn stood beside the helm, staring through the wheelhouse windows at the deserted port. “We'd look as obvious as a wart on a movie star's nose if we anchored in the river between their docks and warehouses. General Montaigne said that security around Sungari was no heavier than any other port facility on the East and West coasts. If he's right, I see no reason to play cagey. Let's simply call the port master and request dock space to make repairs, and work in their backyard.”

  Stewart nodded and hailed the port master over a satellite phone, which had all but replaced ship-to-shore radio. “This is NUMA research ship Marine Denizen. We request dock space to make repairs to our rudder.”

  The port master was most congenial. He gave his name as Henry Pang and readily gave permission. “Sure, maintain your position and I'll send a boat to lead you to dock seventeen, where you can tie up. If there's one thing we've got, it's vacant moorings.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pang,” acknowledged Stewart.

  “You guys looking for weird fish?” asked Pang.

  “No, we're studying Gulf currents. We bumped over an unmarked shoal off the coast and damaged our rudder. It responds but not to its full arc.”

  “Enjoy your stay,” said Pang politely. “If you need a marine mechanic or parts, please let me know.”

  “Thank you,” said Stewart. “Standing by for your guide boat.”

  “General Montaigne was right,” said Gunn. “So much for tight security.”

  A rainsquall rolled in and out during the night, leaving the decks of the Marine Denizen gleaming under the rising sun. Stewart had two of his crew lowered on a small platform over the rudder to act as though they were making repairs. The performance hardly seemed necessary. The docks and cranes were as dead as a football stadium in the middle of the week. Both of the Chinese cargo ships Gunn had observed the evening before had slipped out during the night. The Marine Denizen had the entire port to herself.

  Inside the center section of the Denizen's hull was a cavernous compartment called the moon pool. Two sliding divisions parted like horizontal elevator doors, allowing water to flow inside the moon pool until it leveled out after rising six feet. This was the heart of the research vessel, where divers could freely enter the water without being knocked about by waves, where submersibles could be lowered to explore the depths, and where scientific equipment that monitored and captured sea life could be raised for study in the ship's labs.

  Lulled by the cemetery-like atmosphere of Sungari, the crew and scientists ate a leisurely breakfast before gathering around the work platforms in the moon pool. A Benthos autonomous underwater vehicle hung in a cradle over the water. This vehicle was three times the size of the compact AUV that Pitt used at Orion Lake. A rugged, streamlined unit with two horizontal thrusters, it could move at speeds up to five knots. The imagery equipment consisted of a Benthos video camera with low-light sensitivity and high resolution. The AUV also featured a digital still camera and a ground-penetrating radar unit that could detect a void through the steel casings, indicating a passage. A diver, wearing a wet suit purely as protection against jellyfish, lazily floated on his back while he waited for the AUV to be lowered.

  Stewart looked through a doorway at Gunn, who was sitting in front of a computer monitor that was mounted beneath a large video screen. “Ready when you are, Rudi.”

  “Drop her in,” said Gunn with the wave of a hand.

  The winch attached to the cradle hummed and the AUV slowly settled into the perpetual gloom of the river. The diver uncoupled the cradle, swam to a ladder and climbed onto the work platform.

  Stewart entered the small compartment that was rilled from deck to roof with electronic equipment. He sat down next to Gunn, who was operating the AUV from a computer console while staring into the video monitor. All that was revealed was a long gray wall of steel casing that trailed off into the gloom. “Frankly, this seems like much ado about nothing.”

  “You'll get no argument from me,” said Gunn. “The order to investigate Sungari from under the surface came direct from the White House.”

  “Do they really think Qin Shang would conduct his smuggling operations through underwater passageways that connect to the hulls of his ships?”

  “Some hotshot in Washington must think so. That's why we're here.”

  “Like me to send for some coffee from the galley?” asked Stewart.

  “I could use a cup,” said Gunn without turning from the monitor.

  The cook's galley assistant soon brought a tray of cups along with a filled coffeepot. Three hours later the cups and pot were as empty as the inspection project. Nothing showed on the monitor except a seemingly unending wall of steel casings that were driven deep into the silt to act as a barrier for the landfill that in turn acted as a foundation for the dock and terminal buildings. Finally, just before noon, Gunn turned to Stewart.

  “So much for the west side of the port,” Gunn said wearily. He rubbed his eyes to relieve the strain. “It gets awfully tedious staring at gray, shapeless casing for hours on end.”

  “See any hint of a door leading to a passage?”

  “No so much as a crack or hinge.”

  “We can move the AUV across the river channel and, with luck, finish up the east side before dark,” said Stewart.

  “The sooner we wrap this up, the better.” Gunn typed a command on the keyboard that sent the AUV on a course toward the opposite side of the port. Then he leaned back and relaxed in his chair.

  “Sure you don't want to knock off for a sandwich?” asked Stewart.

  Gunn shook his head. “I'll see it through and fill my empty stomach at dinner.”

  It took only ten minutes for the AUV to cross under the river to the east side of the port. Gunn then programmed the AUV's controls to start the run at the end of the casing wall, working north to south. The AUV had only covered two hundred yards when the phone beside him buzzed. “Can you take that?” he asked Stewart.

  The Marine Denizen's skipper picked up the receiver and then handed it to Gunn. “It's Dirk Pitt.”

  “Pitt.” Gunn turned from the monitor, his eyebrows raised in surprise. He took the phone and spoke into the mouthpiece, “Dirk?”

  “Hello, Rudi,” came Pitt's familiar voice. “I'm calling from an airplane somewhere over the Nevada desert.”

  “How did your underwater search of the United States go?”

  “Got a little hairy there for a while, but all Al and I found was a smooth hull and keel with no openings.”

  “If we don't find anything on this end in the next few hours, we'll join you.”

  “Are you using a submersible?” asked Pitt.

  “Not necessary,” replied Gunn. “An AUV is doing the job just fine.”

  “Keep a tight leash on it, or Qin Shang's underwater security people will steal it before your eyes. They're sneaky devils.”

  Gunn hesitated before he replied, wondering what Pitt meant. He was about to ask when Stewart came back. “They're serving lunch, Rudi. I'll talk to you after we reach Washington. Good luck, and give my best to Frank Stewart.” Then the connection went dead.

  “How is Dirk?” inquired Stewart. “I haven't seen him since we worked together on the Lady Flamborough cruise-ship search down off Tierra del Fuego a few years ago.”

  “Testy as ever. He gave me a strange warning.”

  “Warning?”

  “He said Qin
Shang's underwater security people might steal the AUV,” Gunn answered, obviously confused.

  “What underwater security?” said Stewart sarcastically.

  Gunn didn't reply. His eyes suddenly widened and he pointed at the video monitor. “My God, look!”

  Stewart's eyes followed Gunn's outstretched finger and stiffened.

  A face wearing a diver mask filled the screen of the monitor They stared in amazement as the diver pulled off the mask and revealed very Chinese-featured eyes, nose and mouth. Then he flashed a wide gnn and waved as a child waves bye-bye.

  Then the image went dark and was replaced with jagged gray and white streaks. Gunn frantically commanded the AUV to return to the Marine Denizen, but there was no response. The AUV had disappeared as if it had never been launched.

  PlTT KNEW SOMETHING WAS WRONG THE INSTANT THE NUMA driver stopped the car. A tiny indescribable alarm tingled inside his brain and traveled to the nape of his neck. Something was not as it should have been.

  A life-threatening situation was the last thing on his mind on the ride from Andrews Air Force Base, where the NUMA jet had landed, to his home on a far corner of Washington's National Airport. Darkness had closed over the city, but he ignored the ocean of lights illuminating the buildings. He tried to relax and let his mind drift, but it kept returning to Orion Lake. He thought it odd that the story had not broken in the news media.

  From the outside, the former aircraft-maintenance hangar that was built in 1937, the year Amelia Earhart disappeared, appeared forlorn and deserted. Weeds grew right up to its rusting, corrugated-metal walls, whose paint had long since vanished after decades of onslaught by the extremes of Washington's weather patterns. Though it had been condemned as an eyesore and scheduled to be demolished, Pitt had visualized the hangar's potential. Stepping in at the last minute, he thwarted FAA bureaucrats by winning a battle to have it placed on the national register of historic landmarks. Preventing its destruction, he purchased the building and surrounding acre of property and went to work on the interior, remodeling it into a combination living quarters and storage facility for his collection of classic automobiles and aircraft.