Flood Tide dp-14

by Clive Cussler

  Pitt held his glass up to the light before taking a healthy swallow. Then he jokingly crossed his eyes and said, “Any port in a storm.”

  The waiter returned from the kitchen with Giordino's oysters along with Pitt's gumbo. They decided on a main course of jambalaya and catfish. The Gulf oysters were so large that Giordino had to cut them apart as he would a steak. Pitt's bowl of gumbo would have satisfied a hungry lion. After stuffing their stomachs with a heaping platter of jambalaya, then ordering another Dixie beer and Pancho Villa tequila, they sat at the table and loosened their belts.

  All during dinner, Pitt had rarely taken his eyes off the old man observing the poker players. “Who's the old fellow over there straddling the chair?” he asked the waiter. “I know him but can't place where we met.”

  The waiter swiveled his eyes around the bar, stopping them on the old man. "Oh, him. He owns a fleet of fishing boats.

  Mostly trawls for crab and shrimp. Owns a big catfish farm, too. Wouldn't know it to look at him, but he's a wealthy man."

  “Do you know if he charters boats?”

  “Dunno. You'll have to ask him.”

  Pitt looked at Giordino. “Why don't you work the bar and see if you can learn where Qin Shang Maritime's towboats dump their trash?”

  “And you?”

  “I'll ask about the dredging operations upriver.”

  Giordino nodded silently and rose from the table. Soon he was laughing amid several fishermen, regaling them with inflated stories of his fishing days off California. Pitt moved over to the old fisherman and stood beside him.

  “Excuse me, sir, but I wonder if I might have a word with you.”

  The gray-bearded man's blue-green eyes slowly examined Pitt from his belt buckle to his black curly hair. Then he nodded slowly, rose from his chair and motioned Pitt to a booth in one corner of the bar. After he settled in and ordered another beer, the fisherman said, “What can I do for you Mr....”

  “Pitt.”

  “Mr. Pitt. You're not from around the bayou country.”

  “No, I'm with the National Underwater and Marine Agency out of Washington.”

  “You doing marine research?”

  “Not this trip,” said Pitt. “My colleagues and I are cooperating with the Immigration Service in trying to stop the illegal smuggling of aliens.”

  The old man pulled a cigar stub from the pocket of an old windbreaker and lit it. “How can I help?”

  “I would like to charter a boat to investigate an excavation upriver—”

  “The canal dug by Qin Shang Maritime for landfill at Sung-ari?” the fisherman interrupted knowledgeably.

  “The same.”

  “Not much to see,” said the fisherman. “Except a big ditch where the Mystic Bayou used to be. Folks call it the Mystic Canal now.”

  “I can't believe it took that much fill to build the port,” said Pitt.

  “What muck dredged from the canal that wasn't used for landfill was barged out to sea and dumped out in the Gulf,” answered the fisherman.

  “Is there a nearby community?” asked Pitt.

  “Used to be a town called Calzas that sat at the end of the bayou a short ways off the Mississippi River. But it's gone.”

  “Calzas no longer exists?” asked Pitt.

  “The Chinese spread the word that they was doing the townspeople a service by providing them with boating access to the Atchafalaya. The truth is, they bought out the landowners. Paid them three times what the property was worth. What's left standing is a ghost town. The rest was bulldozed into the marsh.”

  Pitt was confused. “Then what was the purpose of excavating a dead-end canal when they could have just as easily dug fill anywhere in the Atchafalaya Valley?”

  “Everybody up and down the river is curious about that, too,” said the fisherman. “The problem is that friends of mine who have fished that bayou for thirty years are no longer welcome. The Chinese have run a chain across their new canal and no longer give access to fishermen. Nor hunters either.”

  “Do they use the canal for barge traffic?”

  The fisherman shook his head. “If you're thinking they smuggle illegal aliens up the canal, you can forget it. The only towboats and barges that come upriver out of Sungari turn northwest up Bayou Teche and stop at a landing beside an old abandoned sugar mill about ten miles from Morgan City. Qin Shang Maritime bought it when they was building Sungari. A rail yard that used to run alongside the mill was restored by the Chinese.”

  “Where does it connect?”

  “To the main Southern Pacific line.”

  The muddy waters were beginning to clear. Pitt didn't say anything for several moments as he sat there, staring off into space. The wake he had observed behind the Sung Lien Star showed an unusual, yet defined roll beneath the churned surface that was not normal for the basic hull design of a cargo ship. It seemed to him the hull either displaced more water than was consistent with the ship's design, or carried a second, outer hull. In his mind he began to visualize a separate vessel, perhaps a submarine, attached to the keel of the container ship. Finally he asked, “Is there a name for the landing?”

  “Used to be called Bartholomeaux after the man who built the mill back in nineteen-oh-nine.”

  “In order to get close enough to check out Bartholomeaux without raising suspicion, I'll need to charter some type of fishing boat.”

  The old fisherman stared across the table at Pitt and then he gave a little shrug and smiled. “I can do better than that. What you fellows need is a shantyboat.”

  “A shantyboat?”

  “Some call them campboats. People use them to wander up and down the waterways, mooring in the bayous beside towns or farms before moving on again. Often they're left moored in the same location and used as vacation cabins. Not many people live full-time on them anymore.”

  “A shantyboat must be like a houseboat,” said Pitt.

  “Except a houseboat doesn't usually travel about under its own power,” said the gray-bearded fisherman. “But I have a boat that's livable and has a good engine tucked away inside the hull. It's yours if you think it's suitable. And since you intend to use it for the good of the country, you can have it at no charge. Just so long as you bring it back as good as you found it.”

  “I think the man has made us an offer we can't refuse,” said Giordino, who had wandered over from the bar and was eavesdropping on the conversation.

  “Thank you,” Pitt said sincerely. “We accept.”

  “You'll find the shantyboat about a mile up the Atchafalaya tied at a dock on the left bank called Wheeler's Landing. Nearby is a small boatyard and a grocery store run by an old friend and neighbor, Doug Wheeler. You can buy your provisions from him. I'll see that the fuel tank is filled. If anybody questions you, just say you're friends of the Bayou Kid. That's what some people call me around here. Except for my old fishing pal, Tom Straight, the bartender. He still calls me by my given name.”

  “Is the engine powerful enough to move it upriver against the current?” asked Pitt naively.

  “I think you'll find she can do the job.”

  Pitt and Giordino were elated and grateful for the old fisherman's significant cooperation. “We'll bring your shantyboat back in the condition we found it,” Pitt promised.

  Giordino reached across the table and shook the old man's hand. When he spoke it was with uncharacteristic humility. “I don't think you'll ever know how many people will benefit from your kindness.”

  The fisherman stroked his beard and waved an airy hand. “Glad to be of help. I wish you fellas luck. The illegal business of smuggling, especially that of human beings, is a rotten way to make money.”

  He watched thoughtfully as Pitt and Giordino left Charlie's Fish Dock and stepped into the night outside. He sat and finished his beer. It had been a long day, and he was tired.

  “Did you learn anything at the bar?” Pitt asked Giordino as they walked from the dock down an alley to a busy street. />
  “The rivermen aren't real friendly toward Qin Shang Maritime,” answered Giordino. “The Chinese refuse to use local labor or boat companies. All towboat and barge traffic out of Sungari is conducted by Chinese boats and crews who live at the port and never come into Morgan City. There is an undercurrent of anger that just might erupt into a small-scale war if Qin Shang doesn't begin showing more respect to St. Mary Parish residents.”

  “I doubt if Shang ever cultivated an affinity for dealing with peasants,” commented Pitt drolly.

  “What's the plan?”

  “First we find a local bed and breakfast. Then, soon as the sun comes up, we'll board the shantyboat, travel upriver and canvass the canal to nowhere.”

  “And Bartholomeaux?” Giordino persisted. “Aren't you curious to see if that's where the barge dumps human cargo?”

  “Curious, yes. Desperate, no. We're not working under a deadline. We can size up Bartholomeaux after we check the canal.”

  “If you want to conduct an underwater search,” said Giordino, “we'll need diving equipment.”

  “Soon as we're settled in, I'll call Rudi and have him ferry our gear to wherever we're staying.”

  “And Bartholomeaux?” Giordino continued. “Should we prove the old sugar mill is a staging and distribution depot for smuggled aliens, then what?”

  “We'll turn the chore of conducting a raid over to INS agents, but only after we give Admiral Sandecker the satisfaction of informing Peter Harper that NUMA has uncovered another one of Qin Shang's illicit operations without his help.”

  “I believe that is what you call poetic justice.”

  Pitt grinned at his friend. “Now comes the hard part.”

  “Hard part?”

  “We have to find a taxi.”

  As they stood on the curb Giordino turned and looked back over his shoulder at the bar and grill. “Did that old fisherman look familiar to you?”

  “Now that you mention it, there was something about him that struck a chord.”

  “We never did get his name.”

  “Next time we see him,” said Pitt, “we'll have to ask if we've ever met.”

  Back in Charlie's Fish Dock restaurant and bar, the old fisherman glanced up at the bar as the bartender yelled across the room at him.

  “Hey, Cussler. You want another beer?”

  “Why not?” The old man nodded. “One more brew before I hit the road won't hurt.”

  “OUR HOME AWAY FROM HOME,” SAID GlORDINO AT HIS FIRST look of the shantyboat he and Pitt were borrowing from the old fisherman. “Hardly bigger than a North Dakota outhouse.”

  “Not fancy but functional,” Pitt said as he paid the taxi driver and studied the ancient boat that was moored at the end of a rickety, sagging dock that extended from the riverbank on waterlogged pilings. Inside the dock, several small aluminum fishing boats bobbed in the green water, their outboard motors showing rust and grease from long, hard use.

  “Talk about roughing it,” Giordino groaned as he unloaded their underwater equipment from the trunk of the taxi. “No central heating or air-conditioning. I'll bet this tub doesn't have running water or electricity to operate lights and a television.”

  “You don't need running water,” said Pitt. “You can bathe in the river.”

  “What about a toilet?”

  Pitt smiled. “Use your imagination.”

  Giordino pointed to a small reception dish on the roof. “Radar,” he muttered incredulously, “It has radar.”

  The shantyboat's hull was broad and flat with easy rakes, much like that of a small barge. The black paint was heavily scarred from a hundred sideswipes against dock pilings and other boats, but the bottom that could be seen below the water-line appeared scraped clean of marine growth. A square box with windows and doors, which was the house, rose about seven feet, its weathered blue walls nearly flush with the sides of the hull. A small, roofed-over veranda sporting lawn chairs stretched across the bow. Above, centered on the house roof, as if it was an afterthought, sat a low, raised bridgelike structure that acted as a skylight and a small pilothouse. On the roof lay a short skiff with paddles lashed upside down. The black chimney pipe from a wood-burning potbellied stove stuck up from the aft end of the house.

  Giordino shook his head sadly. “I've slept on bus benches that had more class than this. Kick me the next time I complain about my motel room.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith, stop griping. Keep telling yourself that it didn't cost us anything.”

  “I've got to admit that it has character.”

  Pitt aimed the chronically complaining Giordino toward the shantyboat. “Go load up the equipment and check out the engine. I'll go over to the store and buy some groceries.”

  “I can't wait to see our motive power,” Giordino groused. “Ten to one it doubles as an eggbeater.”

  Pitt walked a boardwalk through a boatyard leading down the bank into the river. A worker was giving a wooden fishing boat set inside a cradle on rails a new coat of antifouling paint on the keel and hull. Next door, Pitt came to a wooden structure under a sign that proclaimed WHEELER'S LANDING. A long porch ran around the building, which was raised off the ground by rows of short pilings. The walls were painted a bright green with yellow shutters framing the windows. Inside, Pitt found it incredible that so much merchandise could be crammed in so small a space. Boating parts took up one end of the store, fishing and hunting supplies the other. The center was devoted to groceries. A compact refrigerator stocked with five times as much beer as soft drinks and dairy products stood against one wall.

  Pitt picked up a hand basket and made out very well, selecting enough foodstuffs to feed him and Giordino three or four days, and, as with most men, he probably bought more than they could eat, especially specialty items and condiments. Setting the overloaded basket on the counter by the cash register, he introduced himself to the portly owner of the store who was busily stocking canned goods.

  “Mr. Wheeler. My name is Dirk Pitt. My friend and I have charted the Bayou Kid's shanty boat.”

  Wheeler brushed his thick mustache with the light touch of a finger and stuck out his hand. “Been expectin' you. The Kid said you'd be by this mornin'. She's all ready to go. Fuel tank filled, battery charged and topped off with oil.”

  “Thank you for your trouble. We should be back in a few days.”

  “I hear y'all is goin' up to the canal them Chinks built.”

  Pitt nodded. “Word travels.”

  “Y'all got charts of the river?” asked Wheeler.

  “I was hoping you might supply them.”

  Wheeler turned and checked the labels taped on a slotted cabinet hanging on the wall containing rolled nautical charts of the local waterways and topographical maps of the surrounding marshlands. He pulled out several and spread them on the counter. “Here's a chart showing depths of the river and a few topo maps of the Atchafalaya Valley. One of them shows the area around the canal.”

  “You're a great help, Mr. Wheeler,” said Pitt sincerely. “Thank you.”

  “I guess y'all know the Chinks won't let you on the canal. They've got it chained off.”

  “Is there another way in?” asked Pitt.

  “Sure, at least two of them.” Wheeler took a pencil and began marking the maps. “You can take either Hooker's or Mortimer's bayous. Both run parallel to the canal and empty into it about eight miles from the Atchafalaya. Y'all'll find Hooker's to be the easiest to navigate the shanty boat.”

  “Does Qin Shang Maritime own the property around Hooker's Bayou, too?”

  Wheeler shook his head. “Their borders only run a hundred yards on either side of the canal.”

  “What happens if you cross the barrier?”

  “Local fishermen and hunters sneak in sometimes. More often than not, they're caught and thrown out by an armed boatload of automatic rifle-to tin' Chinks who patrol the canal.”

  “Then security is tight,” said Pitt.

  “Not so much at n
ight. Y'all could probably get in, see what y'all want to see, since we're havin' a quarter moon for the next two nights before it wanes, and get out before they know y'all been there.”

  “Has anyone reported seeing anything strange in and around the canal?”

  “Nothin' worth writin' home about. Nobody can figure why the fuss to keep people out of a ditch through a swamp.”

  “Any barge or boat traffic in and out?”

  Wheeler shook his head. “None. The chain barrier is fixed in place and can't be opened unless ya blast it with TNT.”

  “Does the canal have a name?”

  “Use to be known as Mystic Bayou,” Wheeler said wistfully. “And a pretty bayou it was, too, before it was dug all to hell. Lots of deer, ducks and alligator to hunt. Catfish, bream and bass to fish. Mystic Bayou was a sportsman's paradise. Now it's all gone, and what's left is off limits.”

  “Hopefully my friend and I will have some answers in the next forty-eight hours,” said Pitt as he loaded the groceries in an empty cardboard box offered by Wheeler.

  The boat-landing owner penciled several numbers on the corner of a map. “Y'all get into trouble, call my cell-phone number. Y'all hear? I'll see that you get help real quick.”

  Pitt was touched by the amiable and intelligent people in southern Louisiana who had offered their advice and assistance. They were contacts to be treasured. He thanked Wheeler and carried the groceries down the dock to the shantyboat. As he stepped on board the veranda, Giordino stood in the doorway shaking his head in wonderment.

  “You're not going to believe what you see in here,” he said.

  “It's worse than you thought?”

  “Not at all. The ulterior is clean and Spartan. It's the engine and our passenger that boggle the mind.”

  “What passenger?”

  Giordino handed Pitt a note he'd found pinned to the door. It read,

  Mr. Pitt and Mr. Giordino. I thought that since you wanted to look like locals on a fishing trip, you should have a companion. So I loaned you Romberg to embellish your image as rivermen. He'II eat any kind offish you throw at him.

  Luck, The Bayou Kid

  “Who's Romberg?” asked Pitt.