Flood Tide dp-14

by Clive Cussler

  “There is no justification to stand by while the Chinese rip off the American public,” said Laird earnestly. “The last combined CIA-FBI counterintelligence report named over a hundred Chinese agents who have penetrated every level of our government from NASA to the Pentagon. Several have achieved high-level staff jobs in the Congress and the Commerce and Interior departments.”

  “Come now, Morton. I browsed the report. I failed to see a critical threat to our security. China no longer harbors a fanatical desire to steal our nuclear technology and military secrets.”

  “Why should they?” Laird's voice was hard and low. “Their priority is now political and economic espionage. Besides obtaining our business and technology secrets, they're working every minute of the day to influence our trade policy as it relates to their economic expansion. They've already passed Japan as the trading partner with whom we have the greatest deficit. Economic forecasts put their economy ahead of ours before your term of office expires.”

  “So what? Even if China does pass us in the gross size of its economy, her people will still only have a per-capita income one quarter of the average American.”

  “I respectfully say to you, Mr. President, wake up and smell the coffee. Their forty-five-billion-dollar balance-of-trade surplus is poured back into building their military and worldwide criminal smuggling activities, all the while enhancing their mushrooming economic power.”

  “You've taken a pretty tough stand against me, Morton,” said Wallace coldly. “I hope you know what you're doing.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Morton inflexibly, “I do, because I honestly believe you have sold out the country for your own personal political gain. You are well aware how strongly I disagreed when you extended most-favored-nation trade status and at the same time said your decision was no longer contingent on progress in human rights.”

  “My only concern was for American jobs.” Wallace was standing behind his desk now, his face turning red with anger.

  “If that's the case, how do you explain the fact that in the last fifteen years a total of eight hundred thousand American workers have lost their jobs to cheap Chinese labor, much of it slave labor?”

  “Do not push too far, Morton,” Wallace snarled through clenched jaws. “I have done nothing that will not pay dividends for the American public.”

  Laird crossed a hand wearily over his eyes. “I've known you too many years not to know when you're distorting the truth.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “That and more, sir. I'm calling you a traitor. And to back up my sentiments, you'll have my resignation as chief of staff on your desk within the hour. I don't want to be around when the chickens come home to roost.”

  With that, Morton Laird walked out of the Oval Office for the last time. Fully enlightened as to his former friend's vindic-tiveness, he and his wife soon dropped out of public view and moved to an island off the Great Barrier Reef of Australia, where he began to write the memoirs of his life and times in Washington with great insight into his long association with President Dean Cooper Wallace.

  Su Zhong, Qin Shang's personal secretary, was sitting at a desk inside his large armored bus, which he entered after concluding his meeting with the President. As soon as he settled into a leather chair behind a desk covered with a battery of telephones and computer systems, she handed him several messages that had arrived by fax and satellite phone. Qin Shang had developed a code to frustrate any agents, government or commercial, who attempted to eavesdrop on his personal business. He ran the messages through a scanner that instantly translated them.

  “Any word yet from Zhu Kwan?”

  Su Zhong recited a synopsis of the reports as her boss scanned the translations. “Only that he is attempting to track down the location where it was rumored the Princess Dou Wan sank. He claims the pieces do not fit together as constructed.”

  “If anyone can find the whereabouts of the ship, Zhu Kwan can,” Qin Shang said confidently. “What else do you have?”

  “The purchase of four Russian oil tankers has been concluded. Our company crews are in flight to Sevastopol to take command of the ships. They are scheduled to reach your yard in Hong Kong for refitting by the middle of next month.”

  “Progress on the new cruise ship?”

  “The Evening Star?” said Su Zhong. “Four months from completion. Our promotion department has produced preliminary art for her introduction as the largest and most luxurious cruise ship in the world.”

  “And the United States. What is the latest on her status?”

  “She has entered the Head of Passes at the mouth of the Mississippi River and is in transit to New Orleans. That part of your operation is going as planned.”

  “Anything else I should know about?” asked Qin Shang warily. “Any incidents at Sungari, perhaps?”

  Su Zhong shook her head. “Not Sungari.”

  He could tell from the way she avoided his eyes the news was bad. “What is the story?”

  “Federal agents have raided and closed down the staging depot at Bartholomeaux, Louisiana. Three hundred and forty-two immigrants were apprehended.”

  “Our people?”

  “Ki Wong is dead. Jack Loo of the Dragon Triad is dead. His assistant, May Ching, is in the custody of INS agents.”

  Qin Shang merely shrugged. “No great loss, any of them. Jack Loo was only one cog in the American-Chinese syndicate. His death and the raid, no doubt brought about by his lax security and stupidity, offers me an excellent opportunity to renegotiate my agreement with the Dragon Triad.”

  “A more profitable agreement in your favor, of course,” said Su Zhong.

  “Of course,” Qin Shang said, smiling. “I would have ordered Bartholomeaux closed down in thirty-six hours anyway, once I realized my goal of making Sungari the premier shipping port on the Gulf.”

  “The last report will not be to your liking,” Su Zhong murmured reluctantly.

  “No review?”

  “Perhaps you should absorb it with your own eyes, Qin Shang.” She nodded at the message containing a report detailing the destruction of the security post on the Mystic Canal.

  As Qin Shang scanned the report his eyes shifted from somber to wrathful, especially when he reached the message from Pitt. “So Mr. Pitt wonders if I still stoop to pick up bananas. He seems to take great delight in taunting me.”

  “The accursed devil should have his tongue torn out,” Su Zhong said loyally.

  “I have had many enemies in my time,” Qin Shang said quietly. “Most were business competitors. But none were as challenging as Pitt. I must say, I relish his pathetic attempts at sarcastic wit. A worthy opponent?” Qin Shang shook his head wearily. “Not really. But an opponent to be savored, not like fine caviar, but more like an American hamburger—coarse, common and primitive.”

  “If he but knew where to look he would be able to view the pitiful remains of those who wished you ill and tried to obstruct your ambitions.”

  “Pitt will be eliminated,” Qin Shang said in a cold voice. “So far he has merely thwarted a pair of minor projects that can be easily restored. My only concern with him now is why is he in Louisiana when my sources here in Washington informed me that NUMA was taken off all investigations involving immigrant smuggling? His dogged persistence in annoying me is a mystery.”

  “A misguided vendetta against you, perhaps?”

  “Pitt is what the Americans call a righteous do-gooder,” said Qin Shang with a rare flash of humor. “And therein lies his flaw. When he makes a mistake, as he surely will, his demise will come because he took a moral road. He has never learned that money and power, when arranged in appropriate designs, cannot lose.” He paused to pat her on the knee. “Do not trouble yourself over Dirk Pitt, my little songbird. He will die very soon.”

  April 29, 2000 The Lower Mississippi River

  TWENTY MILES SOUTH OF THE HEAD OF PASSES, THAT PART OF the lower Mississippi that branches into three major channels leading
into the Gulf of Mexico, two large helicopters took turns dropping onto the open stern deck of the United States and discharging their cargo of men and equipment. Then they lifted into the air again and flew west toward the port of Sun-gari. The operation lasted little more than fifteen minutes while the ship continued moving at a speed of twenty-five knots, as dictated by her automated control systems.

  A tight unit of heavily armed men from Qin Shang's private security forces, led by a former colonel from the Chinese People's Liberation Army, dressed in work clothes usually worn by the men who worked the river, and carrying automatic weapons and portable missile launchers, dispersed throughout the decks as maritime crewmen went to the engine room and wheelhouse, where they took manual command of the ship's systems. Before reaching the Southwest Pass, the channel most often used by oceangoing vessels entering the river, the great liner slowed as it was met by the boat carrying the pilot who would navigate the ship upriver to New Orleans.

  The pilot was a heavy man with a beer belly. He was sweating heavily and dabbing a red bandanna across his balding head after climbing the rope ladder when he stepped into the wheelhouse. He gave a wave and walked up to Captain Li Hung-chang, who until two days before had commanded the Sung Lien Star.

  “Howdy, Captain, Sam Boone. I got lucky and won a lottery of river pilots for the honor of taking this here monstrosity up to New Orleans,” he proclaimed, pronouncing Orleans as Auwlans.

  “That won't be necessary,” said Hung-chang without bothering to introduce himself. He pointed toward the short Chinese man standing at the helm who was the rudder master. “My first officer will do the job.”

  Boone looked at Hung-chang queerly. “You're funnin' me, right?”

  “No,” answered Hung-chang. “We are quite capable of running the ship to our destination under our own command.” He nodded at two guards who were nearby. They took Boone by the arms and began leading him away.

  “Now wait just a damned minute,” snorted Boone, fighting off the guards. “You're violating maritime law. You're headin' for a calamity if you're dumb enough to try navigatin' it yourself. You don't know the river like an experienced pilot. We have rigorous standards. I've been taking ships up and down the delta for twenty-five years. It might look easy to you, but believe you me, it ain't.”

  Hung-chang nodded at the guards. “Lock him up. Knock him unconscious if you have to.”

  “You're crazy!” Boone shouted over his shoulder as he was dragged away. “You'll ran her aground sure as hell!”

  “Is he right, Ming Lin?” Hung-chang asked the rudder master. “Will you run us aground?”

  Lin turned and smiled a narrow smile. “I've taken this ship upriver over two hundred times in computer-generated virtual reality in three dimensions.”

  “Have you ever run aground?” Hung-chang persisted.

  “Twice,” replied Ming Lin without taking his eyes off the river channel. “The first two times I tried it, but never after.”

  Hung-chang's dark amber eyes gleamed. “Please keep your speed within the limit. We can allow curiosity, but we cannot afford to arouse suspicion, not for the next several hours.”

  Hung-chang was chosen by Qin Shang's personal orders to captain the United States upriver to New Orleans. Not only did Qin Shang trust him explicitly, but his decision was also based on expediency. Having a captain at the helm who was experienced in ocean liners was not a necessity. By selecting a snip's captain and his crew who were already in America and within a short helicopter flight of the approaching liner, Qin Shang saved time and the expense of sending a crew from Hong Kong. His ulterior motive was that he did not believe more experienced cruise-ship chief officers were as expendable as the captain and crew of the Sung Lien Star.

  Hung-chang's duties consisted of little more than greeting the customs inspectors and immigration officials and acting the conquering hero to the crowds of people lining the riverbanks. His true function was mostly for ornamentation. Besides twenty heavily armed security men on Qin Shang's payroll, his crew of fifteen was primarily made up of demolition experts mixed in with a few engineers to stand by in case there was a call for emergency repairs if the ship was attacked.

  He turned a blind eye to the dangerous part of the journey. Twenty-four hours, that was all the time Qin Shang had requested of his services. His evacuation, when the moment came, was well timed and organized. Helicopters were standing by to swoop in and pick up the fighting men and crew once the charges were detonated and the ship was scuttled in precisely the right spot. Qin Shang had given his assurances that Hung-chang would be a rich man when he returned home, providing, of course, the operation went as conceived.

  He sighed. All that troubled him now was navigating the sharp bends in the river, avoiding other ships and passing under the six bridges that faced him after New Orleans. The distance from the Head of Passes to the city was ninety-five miles. Although the navigation channel for oceangoing traffic in the lower reaches of the river averaged more than forty feet deep by one thousand feet wide, no ship the size of the United States had ever traveled on the Mississippi before. The narrow inland waterway channel was not dredged for a vessel of her huge bulk and restricted maneuverability.

  After passing Venice, the last town on the west bank that was accessible by highway, the levees were lined with thousands of people who had turned out to see the grand spectacle of the great liner's passage up the river. Students had been temporarily let out of schools to witness an event that had never before taken place and would not again. Hundreds of small private boats trailed after the ship, tooting and honking their horns, and were kept a safe distance away from her churning wake by two escorting Coast Guard boats that had appeared after the United States had emerged from the Head of Passes.

  They all stood, many in awed silence, others waving and cheering, as the United States negotiated the sharp bends of the river, her bow brushing the edge of the channel on the west bank, her stem and slowly turning propellers thrashing past the east bank that protruded around the bend. This was late April going on May, and the spring runoff far to the north that came flowing down from the Mississippi's tributaries had raised the water level above the base of the levees. Hung-chang was thankful for extra water between the keel and river bottom. It gave him an extra margin for success.

  He readjusted the buckle on the strap of his binoculars, squared the cap on his head, then stepped out onto the bridge wing. He ignored the compass mounted on a stand that responded to the ship's every change of direction as it moved over the curling river. He was glad the waterway had been emptied of traffic in anticipation of the big ship's passage. It would be a different story after New Orleans, but he would deal with that problem when the time came.

  He looked up at the sky and was relieved to see the weather had cooperated. The day was warm with only a whisper of a breeze. A twenty-mile-an-hour wind against the gigantic hull of the ship could have caused disaster by pushing her broadside into the bank during navigation of a sharp river bend. The azure-blue cloudless sky and the sunlight reflected off the water surface, giving it a green, almost clean, look. Because he was ascending the river the green channel buoys swayed aimlessly on his left while the red navigation buoys rolled to his right.

  He waved back at the people standing on the levee amid a sea of parked cars and pickup trucks. From his height nine stories above the water he looked down on the horde and saw the flat marsh and farmlands beyond. Li Hung-chang felt like a spectator watching someone else play his role in a drama.

  He began to speculate on the reception waiting along the waterfront in New Orleans, and he smiled to himself. Millions of Americans would remember this day, he mused, but not for the reasons they had expected.

  RUDI GUNN WAS WAITING FOR PITT AND GIOROINO WHEN they returned the shantyboat to Doug Wheeler's dock late the same afternoon. His eyes were red from lack of sleep caused by sitting up most of the night waiting for Pitt's sporadic reports. He wore khaki shorts and a white T-shirt with
the words

  ST. MARY PARISH, GOOD OLD FASHION SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY

  printed across the back.

  After replacing the fuel they had used and loading their equipment in the Marine Denizen's launch, Put and Giordino bade a fond farewell to Romberg, who raised his head from the deck and gave them a lethargic goodbye “Woof,” before promptly falling back to sleep.

  As they cleared the dock, Giordino stood beside Gunn at the helm. “I'd say we could all use some dinner and a good night's sleep.”

  “I'll second the motion,” Pitt yawned.

  “All you get is a thermos of coffee with chicory,” said Gunn. “The admiral flew into town along with Peter Harper of the Immigration Service. Your presence has been requested on board the Coast Guard cutter Weehawken.”

  “Last I saw of her,” said Pitt, “she was anchored just above Sungari.”

  “She's now tied up at the Coast Guard dock near Morgan City,” Gunn enlightened him.

  “No dinner?” asked Giordino sadly.

  “No time,” Gunn replied. “Maybe if you act like good little boys, you can get a fast bite from the Weehawken's galley.”

  “I promise to be good,” Giordino said with a wily shift to his eyes.

  Pitt and Gunn exchanged disbelieving looks. “Never happen,” Gunn sighed.

  “Not in our lifetime,” Pitt agreed.

  Peter Harper, Admiral Sandecker, Captain Lewis and Julia Lee were waiting for them in the wardroom of the Weehawken when they climbed on board. Also present were Major General Frank Montaigne of the Army Corps of Engineers and Frank Stewart, captain of the Marine Denizen. Lewis cordially asked if there was anything he could get them. Before Giordino could open his mourn, Gunn said, “We had coffee on the ran from Wheeler's dock, thank you.”

  Pitt shook hands with Sandecker and Harper before giving Julia a light kiss on the cheek. “How long has it been since we've seen each other?” “All of two hours.”

  “Seems like an eternity,” he said with his devilish grin. “Stop,” she said, pushing him away. “Not here.” “I suggest we get on with it,” said Sandecker restlessly. “We have a lot of ground to cover.”