Flood Tide

“I regret saying this, but the ship appears clean. I searched every deck and found no indication of illegal immigrants.”

Captain Lewis on board the Weehawken replied without hesitation. “Are you secure?”

“Yes, I was accepted without reservation.”

“Do you wish to disembark?”

“Not yet. I'd like to hang around a bit longer.”

“Please keep me advised,” said Lewis, “and be careful.”

Lewis's parting words came muffled, as the air trembled suddenly with a thumping sound followed by the exhaust roar of the Weehawken's helicopter sweeping over the dock. Julia suppressed an urge to wave. She remained leisurely hunched over the railing, gazing at the aircraft with detached curiosity. She felt a wave of pleasure just knowing that she was watched over by a pair of U.S. coast guardsmen who were acting as her angels.

She was relieved that her job was done and angered that she had failed to discover any criminal activity. From the looks of it, Qin Shang had outsmarted everyone once again. If her mind

ran in a practical vein, she could call Lewis to come get her or simply jump ship into the arms of the nearest immigration agent. But she could not bring herself to quit by default. There had to be an answer, and Julia was determined to find it.

She moved around the stern to the lower portside deck until she could look directly down into the barge that was now half filled with plastic trash bags. She stood at the railing for a long minute, studying the barge and the towboat as its captain engaged the powerful engines to pull away from the Sung Lien Star. The wash from the twin propellers began beating the calm brownish water into foam.

Julia was seized with frustration. There was no crowd of immigrants huddled in sordid conditions on board the Sung Lien Star. Of that she was positive. Nor did she truly doubt the CIA agent's veracity who reported from Qingdao. Qin Shang was a shrewd customer. He must have devised a method that had fooled the best government investigators in the business.

There were no hard and fast answers. If there was a solution, perhaps it was connected with the towboat and barge pulling away from the ship. She was left with no other options. Failure was staring her in the face again. She felt overwhelmed by a sense of inadequacy and self-anger. She knew then, beyond all doubt, that she had to act.

One swift glance told her that the cargo door had been closed and there were no crewmen to be seen working the side of the ship's hull that faced the water opposite the dock. The captain of the towboat was standing at the helm while one crewman acted as lookout on the bridge wing and another stood forward on the bow of the barge, their eyes focused on the waters ahead. None were looking aft.

As the towboat passed her position she looked down on its stern deck. There was a long length of rope coiled aft of the funnel. She estimated the drop at ten feet, and climbed over the railing. There was no time to call Lewis and explain her action. Any hesitation was brushed aside, for Julia was a woman of quick decision. She took a deep breath and leaped.

Julia's dive into the barge was observed, not by any of the Sung Lien Star's crew, but by Pitt on board the Marine Denizen, which was anchored at the entrance to the port. For the past hour he had sat in the captain's chair on the bridge wing, tolerant of the sun and occasional passing rain shower, and scrutinized the activity swirling around the container ship through a pair of powerful binoculars. He was especially intrigued by the barge and towboat alongside. He watched intently as the trash accumulated on the long voyage from China was tied neatly in bags and dropped from a hatch in the ship's hull to the barge below. When the last trash bag was tossed overboard and the hatch closed, Pitt was about to turn his attention to the containers being hoisted onto the dock by the cranes when, unpredictably, he saw a figure climb the railing along the deck above and drop onto the roof of the towboat. “What the hell!” he burst.

Rudi Gunn, who was standing near Pitt, stiffened. “See something interesting?”

“Somebody just took a dive off the ship onto the towboat.”

“Probably a crewman jumping ship.”

“It looked like the ship's cook,” Pitt said, keeping the glasses fixed on the boat.

“I hope he didn't injure himself,” said Gunn.

“I think a coil of rope broke his fall. He appears to be uninjured.”

“Have you discovered anything that still makes you think there is a some sort of submerged craft that can be moved from beneath the ship and under the barge?”

“Nothing that would hold up in court,” Pitt admitted. Then the opaline-green eyes became intense and a faint glint radiated from them. “But all that could change in the next forty-eight hours.”

THE MARINE DENIZENS LITTLE JET BOAT SPED ACROSS THE Intracoastal Waterway and then slowed as it cruised past the Morgan City waterfront. The town was protected from a flooding river by a concrete levee eight feet high and a giant seawall that rose twenty feet and faced the Gulf. Two highway bridges and a railway bridge span the Atchafalaya River in Morgan City, the white headlights and red taillights of the traffic moving like beads slipped through a woman's fingers. The lights of the buildings played across the water, wavering in the wash from passing boats. With a population of 15,000, Morgan City was the largest community in St. Mary Parish (Louisiana's civil divisions are called parishes instead of counties, as with most states). The city faced west overlooking a wide stretch of the Atchafalaya River called Berwick Bay. To the south ran Bayou Boeuf, which circled the town like a vast moat and ran into Lake Palourde.

Morgan City is the only town on the banks of the Atchafalaya and sits low, making it susceptible to floods and extreme high tides, especially during hurricanes, but the residents never bother to look southward toward the Gulf for menacing black clouds. California has its earthquakes, Kansas has its tornadoes and Montana has its blizzards, “so why should we worry” is the prevailing sentiment.

The community is a bit more urbane than most other towns and small cities throughout the Louisiana bayou country. It functions as a seaport, catering to fishermen, oil companies and boat builders, and yet it has the flavor of a river town much like those along the Missouri and Ohio rivers, with the majority of the buildings facing water.

A procession of fishing boats passed. The sharp-prowed boats, with high freeboards and the cabins mounted well forward, masts and net booms aft on the stern, were heading into deep water in the Gulf. The boats that stayed in shallower water had flat bottoms for less draft, lower freeboards, rounded bows with the masts forward and little cabins at the stern. Both types trawled for shrimp. Oyster luggers were another breed. Since they mostly worked the inland waters they had no masts. One chugged by the NUMA jet boat, its decks barely above the surface and heaped with a small mountain of unshucked oyster shells piled six to seven feet high.

“Where do you want to be dropped off?” asked Gunn, who sat behind the wheel of the propless runabout.

“The nearest waterfront saloon would be a good place to meet the river men,” said Pitt.

Giordino pointed toward a rambling block of wooden structures stretching along a dock. A neon sign over one building read,

CHARLIE'S FISH DOCK, SEAFOOD AND BOOZE.

“Looks like our kind of place.”

“The packing house next door must be where fishermen bring their catch,” Pitt observed. “As good a spot as any to ask about unusual goings-on upriver.”

Gunn slowed the runabout and steered her between a small fleet of trawlers before coming to a stop at the bottom of a wooden ladder. “Good luck,” he said, smiling, as Pitt and Giordino began climbing onto the dock. “Don't forget to write.”

“We'll stay in touch,” Pitt assured him.

Gunn waved, pushed away from the dock and turned the little jet boat back downriver toward the Marine Denizen.

The dock reeked of fish, the authentic aroma made even more pungent by the nighttime humidity. Giordino nodded at a hill of shucked oyster shells that rose almost to the roof of the waterfront bar and cafe“. ”A Dixie beer and a dozen succulent

Gulf oysters would suit me just fine about now," he said in happy anticipation.

“I'll bet their gumbo is world-class too.”

Walking through the doors of Charlie's Fish Dock saloon was like walking back in time. The ancient air-conditioning had long ago lost the war against human sweat and tobacco smoke. The wooden floor was worn smooth from the tread of fisherman boots and was scarred by hundreds of cigarette burns. The tables that had been cut and varnished from the hatch covers of old boats showed their share of cigarette bums, too. The tired captain's chairs looked patched and glued after years of bar fights. Covering the walls were rusty metal signs advertising everything from Aunt Bea's Ginger Ale to Old South Whiskey to Goober's Bait Shack. All had been liberally peppered with bullet holes at one time or another. There were none of the modern promotional beer signs that proliferated in most watering holes around the country. The shelves behind the bar, which held nearly a hundred different brands of liquor, some distilled locally, looked like they had been haphazardly nailed to the wall during the Civil War. The bar came from the deck of a long-abandoned fishing boat and could have used a good caulking job.

The clientele was a mixed bag of fishermen, local boatyard and construction workers, and oilmen who worked the offshore rigs. They were a rugged lot. This was the land of the Cajuns, and several conversed in French. Two big dogs snoozed peacefully under an empty table. At least thirty men filled the bar with no women to be seen, not even a barmaid. All drinks were served by the bartender. No glasses came with the beer. You either got a bottle or a can. Only the liquor rated a cracked and chipped glass. A waiter who looked as if he wrestled on Thursday nights at the local arena served the food.

“What do you think?” Pitt asked Giordino. “Now I know where old cockroaches go to die.”

“Just remember to smile and say 'sir' to any of these hulks who ask you the time.”

“This would be the last place I'd start a fight,” Giordino agreed.

“Good thing we're not dressed like tourists off a cruise ship,” said Pitt, reexamining the soiled and patched work clothes the crew of the Marine Denizen had scrounged together for them. “Though I doubt it makes any difference. They know we don't belong by the clean smell.”

“I knew it was a mistake to bathe last month,” Giordino said wryly.

Pitt bowed and gestured toward an empty table. “Shall we dine?”

“Yes, let's,” Giordino countered with a bow as he pulled back a chair and sat down.

After twenty minutes with no service, Giordino yawned and said, “It would appear our waiter has refined the professional technique of pretending not to notice our table.”

“He must have heard you,” Pitt said, grinning. “Here he comes.”

The waiter approached them, dressed only in cutoff jeans and wearing a T-shirt with a longhorn steer skiing down a hill of brown that said, IF GOD MEANT TEXANS TO SKI, HE'D HAVE MADE COWSHIT WHITE.

“Can I get you something from the kitchen?” he asked in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

“How about a dozen oysters and a Dixie beer?” said Giordino.

“You got it,” answered the waiter. “And you?”

“A bowl of your famous gumbo.”

The waiter grunted. “I didn't know it was famous, but it is good-tastin'. Whatta you want to drink?”

“Got tequila behind the bar?”

“Sure, we get a lot of Central American fishermen in here.”

“Tequila on the rocks with a lime.”

The waiter turned and began walking toward the kitchen, but not before he looked at them and said, “I'll be back.”

“I hope he doesn't think he's Arnold Schwarzenegger and drives a car through the wall,” Giordino muttered.

“Relax,” said Pitt. “Enjoy the local color, the ambience, the smoke-filled environment.”

“I might as well take advantage of the stale atmosphere and add to it,” said Giordino, lighting up one of his exotic cigars.

Pitt surveyed the room, searching for an appropriate character to probe for information. He eliminated a group of oil riggers gathered round one end of the bar and who were playing pool. The dockyard workers were a good possibility, but they did not look like they took kindly to strangers. He began focusing on the fishermen. A number of them were sitting at community tables pulled together and playing poker. An older man, in what Pitt guessed was his mid-sixties, straddled a chair nearby but did not join in. He played the role of a loner, but there was a humorous and friendly gleam in his blue-green eyes. His hair was gray and matched a mustache that fell and met a beard around the chin. He watched the others as they tossed their money on the poker table as though he was a psychologist studying behavioral patterns of laboratory mice.

The waiter brought the drinks, no tray, a glass in one hand and a bottle in the other. Pitt looked up and asked, “What brand of tequila did the bartender have?”

“I think it's called Pancho Villa.”

“If I know my tequilas, Pancho Villa comes in a plastic bottle.”

The waiter twisted his lips as if trying to dredge up a vision seen many years previously. Then his face lit up. “Yeah, you're right. It does come in a plastic bottle. Great medicine for what ails you.”

“Nothing ails me at the moment,” said Pitt.

Giordino came as close to a smirk as he could get. “How much residue lies on the bottom of the bottle, and how much does it cost?”

“I bought a bottle in the Sonoran Desert during the Inca Gold project for a dollar sixty-seven,” said Pitt.

“Is it safe to drink?”

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 night. 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.

Giordino stepped out of the doorway and without comment pointed inside at a bloodhound lying on his back with his paws in the air, big floppy ears splayed to the sides, his tongue half hanging out.

“Is he dead?”

“He might as well be, for all the enthusiasm he's shown at my presence,” said Giordino. “He hasn't twitched or blinked an eye since I came on board.”

“What is so unusual about the engine?”

“You've got to see this.” Giordino led the way through the one room that composed the living room, bedroom, and kitchen of the shantyboat to a trapdoor in the floor. He lifted the cover and pointed below into the compact engine room in the hull. “A Ford 427-cubic-inch V-8 with dual quad carburetors. An oldie but goodie. It's got to have at least four hundred horsepower.”

“Probably closer to four hundred twenty-five,” said Pitt, admiring the powerful engine that appeared in immaculate condition. “How the old man must have laughed after I asked him if the engine could move the boat against the river current.”

“As big as this floating shack is,” said Giordino, “I'd guess we could make close to twenty-five miles an hour if we had to.”

“Keep it slow and easy. We don't want to look like we're in a hurry.”

“How far is the canal?”

“I haven't measured the distance, but it looks to be close to sixty miles.”

“We'll want to get there sometime before sunset,” said Giordino, mentally calculating a leisurely cruising speed.

“I'll cast off. You take the helm and head her into the channel while I store the groceries.”

Giordino needed no coaxing. He couldn't wait to start the big 427 Ford and feel its torque. He hit the starter and it rumbled into life with a mean and nasty growl. He let it idle for a few moments, savoring the sound. It did not turn over smoothly, but loped. It was too good to believe, Giordino thought to himself. The engine was not stock. It was modified and tuned for racing. “My God,” he murmured to himself. “It's far more powerful than we thought.”

Knowing without a shade of doubt Giordino would soon get carried away and push the engine throttle to its stop, Pitt secured the groceries so they wouldn't end up on the deck. Then he stepped over the sleeping Romberg, went out onto the forward veranda and relaxed in a lawn chair, but not before bracing his feet against the bulwark and wrapping his arm around the railing.

Giordino waited until the Atchafalaya River was clear and there were no boats in sight. He laid out the nautical chart of the river provided by Doug Wheeler and studied the river depths ahead. Then, true to form, he increased the speed of the old shantyboat until the flat nose bow was a good foot above the water and the stern was burrowed, cutting a wide groove across the surface. To see such an ungainly craft barreling upriver at better than thirty-five miles an hour was an extraordinary and incongruous sight. On the forward veranda, the wind resistance and the raised angle of the bow pressed Pitt back against the wall of the house with such force he felt constrained and barely able to move.

Finally, after about two miles of spreading a three-foot-high wash behind the shantyboat that swept into the marshlands and splayed the unbroken green mat of water hyacinth that spread from the river channel, Giordino observed two small fishing boats approaching on their way to Morgan City. He eased back the throttle and brought the shantyboat to a crawl. The water hyacinth is a pretty plant but is a disaster to inland waterways, growing at a prolific rate and choking off streams and bayous. They are kept afloat by their stems full of air bladders. The hyacinth sprouts beautiful lavender-pink flowers, but unlike most other flowering plants, it smells like a fertilizer factory when pulled from the water.

Feeling as if he had survived a roller-coaster ride, Pitt returned inside, retrieved the topographical map and began studying the twists and turns in the river as well as familiarizing himself with the network of swampy bayous and lakes between Wheeler's Landing and the canal dug by Qin Shang Maritime. He traced and compared the landmarks and river bends with those on the map. It was refreshing to sit comfortably in the shade of the veranda overhang and experience the pleasant sensation of traveling smoothly over timeless waters that only a boat can provide. Riverbank vegetation varied from mile to mile. Thick forests with willows, cotton-woods and cypresses interspersed with berry bushes, and wild grapevines slowly gave way to a moist, primeval swamp, a prairie of soaring reeds swaying under a light breeze that swept off to the horizon. A lone cypress rose majestically out of the grass like a frigate on the sea. He saw herons walking on their long, sticklike legs along the fringe of water, their necks bent into an S shape as they pecked for food in the mud.

To a hunter kayaking or paddling a canoe through the swamps of southern Louisiana, the trick was to find a firm piece of ground on which to pitch a tent for the night. Duckweed and hyacinth floated on much of the open water. Forests grew from the brackish muck, not dry land. It was hard for Pitt to imagine that all the water he could see came from as far away as Ontario and Manitoba, North Dakota and Minnesota, and every state below. Only behind the safety of thousands of miles of levee systems did people cultivate farms and build cities and towns. It was a landscape unlike any he'd ever seen.

The day was pleasantly cool, with just enough breeze to make small waves across the surface of the water. The hours rolled by as if time was as limitless as space. As idyllic as the lazy cruise up the river seemed, they were on serious business that could easily be the cause of their deaths. There could be no mistakes, no errors in planning their reconnaissance of the mysterious canal.

A few minutes after noon, Pitt took a salami sandwich and a bottle of beer up to Giordino in the little wheelhouse on the roof. Pitt offered to take the helm, but Giordino wouldn't hear of it. He was having too much fun, so Pitt returned to his chair on the veranda.

Although time seemed to have no meaning, Pitt's hours were neither idle nor aimless. He spent the time laying out their diving equipment. He unpacked and adjusted the controls on the little AUV he had used at Orion Lake. Lastly, he removed the night-vision goggles from their case and laid them on the cushions of an old, worn sofa.

Shortly after five o'clock in the afternoon, Pitt stepped inside the house and stood at the base of the ladder leading up to the pilothouse on the roof. “One half mile before we reach the mouth of the canal,” he alerted Giordino. “Move on past another half mile to the next bayou. Then swing a turn to starboard.”

“What's it called?” asked Giordino.

“Hooker's Bayou, but don't bother looking for a sign at the intersection. Take it for about six miles to where the map shows an abandoned dock by a capped oil well. We'll tie up there and have dinner while we wait for darkness.”

Giordino eased the shantyboat around a long string of barges pushed downriver by a large towboat. The captain of the tow-boat gave a blast from his air horn as they passed, no doubt thinking the owner was on board the shantyboat. Pitt had returned to his chair on the bow and waved. Using a pair of binoculars, he scrutinized the canal as they crossed its mouth. It was carved in a perfectly straight course nearly a quarter of a mile wide that seemed to roll like a green carpet over the horizon. A rusty chain stretched across the mouth and was attached to concrete pilings. Large, billboard-sized signs were raised with red letters against a background of white that said,

NO TRESPASSING. ANYONE CAUGHT ON QIN SHANG MARITIME PROPERTY WILL BE PROSECUTED.

Small wonder the local residents hate Qin Shang, thought Pitt. He seriously doubted that the local sheriff would go out of his way to arrest friends and neighbors for hunting or fishing on foreign-owned property.

Forty minutes later, Giordino eased back on the throttle and swung the bulky shantyboat from the narrow channel of Hooker's Bayou and crept to a halt toward the remains of a concrete pier, nudging the flat, raked bow onto a low bank. Stenciled lettering on the concrete pilings read, CHEROKEE OIL COMPANY, BATON ROUGE, LOUISIANA. The boat had no anchor, so they took up long poles that were tied to the catwalks for the purpose and rammed them into the mud. Then they tied the mooring lines from the boat to the poles. Lastly, a gangplank was run out onto firm ground.

“I have a contact on radar moving across the marsh from the southeast,” Giordino calmly reported.

“They're coming from the direction of the Mystic Canal.”

“They're coming fast,” Giordino said in a deliberate tone.

“Shang's security didn't waste any time tagging us.” Pitt went inside and returned with a large square net with vertical supports he'd found on the aft veranda. “Drag Romberg out here and get yourself a bottle of beer.”

Giordino looked at the net. “You think you're going to catch crab for dinner?”

“No,” Pitt answered, catching a glint from the setting sun on a shiny object far away in the ocean of grass. “The trick is to look like I know what I'm doing.”

“A helicopter,” Giordino said in a deliberate tone, “or an ultralight like Washington.”

“Too low, more likely a hovercraft.”

“Are we on Qin Shang's real estate?”

“According to the map, we're a good three hundred yards off their property line. They must be paying a social call to check us out.”

“What's the scenario?” asked Giordino.

“I'll play a crab fisherman, you act like a redneck swilling beer and Romberg can play Romberg.”

“Not easy for an Italian to pretend he's French Cajun.”

“Chew on some okra.”

The dog cooperated when dragged out onto the veranda, not out of obedience, but out of necessity. He walked slowly across the gangplank and did his duty. The hound has an iron bladder, Giordino thought, to have lasted this long. Then Romberg abruptly became alert, barked at a rabbit that darted through the grass and chased after him. “No Academy Award nomination for you, Romberg!” Giordino yelled at the dog as it took off onto a path leading along the bank. Then he flopped in a lawn chair, removed his sneakers and socks and propped his bare feet up on a railing, a bottle of Dixie beer clutched in one hand.

Onstage for the opening act, Pitt with his old .45 Colt stashed in a bucket at his feet and covered by a rag, Giordino with the Aserma 12-gauge shotgun from Pitt's hangar resting beneath the pad on his lawn chair, they watched the black dot that was the hovercraft grow in size as it flew over the marshlands, swirling and flattening a swath through the reeds. It was an amphibious craft that could make the transition from water to land. Propelled by twin aircraft engines with propellers at the stern, the hovercraft was supported by a cushion of air contained within a heavy rubber structure and produced by a smaller engine attached to a horizontal fan. Control was accomplished with a set of rudders much like those used on aircraft. Pitt and Giordino watched as it moved effortlessly and rapidly over the marshlands and mud flats.

“She's fast,” commented Pitt. “Capable of fifty miles an hour. About twenty feet long with a small cabin. By the look of her, she can carry six people.”

“And none of them are smiling,” muttered Giordino as the hovercraft approached the shantyboat and slowed. At that moment, Romberg came bounding from the swamp grass, barking up a storm.

“Good old Romberg,” said Pitt. “Right on cue.”

The hovercraft came to a stop ten feet away, its skirted hull resting in the bayou. The engines died away to a dull murmur. The five men on board all wore side arms but carried no rifles. They were wearing the same Qin Shang security uniforms Pitt had seen at Orion Lake. Every eye had the unmistakable slant of an Asian. They weren't smiling; their sunburned faces looked dead serious. This was clearly an attempt at intimidation.

“What are you doing here?” asked a hard-faced individual in fluent English. He wore the insignia on his shoulders and hat of someone in command, and he looked like a man who would enjoy sticking pins hi living insects, a man who would welcome the opportunity to shoot another human being. He eyed Romberg with a gleam in his eye.

“We're havin' fun,” Pitt said casually. “What's y'alls problem?”

“This is private property,” the hovercraft's commander said coldly. “You cannot moor here.”

“Ah happen to know for a fact that the land around Hooker's Bayou belongs to the Cherokee Oil Company.” Pitt actually wasn't certain who owned the property, but he assumed it had to be Cherokee Oil.

The commander turned to his men and they jabbered among themselves in Chinese. Then the commander stepped to the side of the hovercraft and announced, “We are coming aboard.”

Pitt tensed and readied himself to snatch up the old Colt. Then he realized the demand to come aboard was a deception. But Giordino didn't fall for it. “The hell y'all are,” said Giordino, threateningly. “Y'all got no authority. Now get your ass out of here before we call the sheriff.”

The commander looked at the weathered shantyboat and the faded and shabby clothing worn by Pitt and Giordino. “You have a radio or a cellular phone on that boat?”

“A flare gun,” Giordino answered, scratching an imaginary itch between the toes of one foot. “We shoot flares and the law comes a-runnin'.”

The hovercraft's commander's eyes narrowed. “I do not find that believable.”

“Exhibiting a pompous attitude toward intellectual impeccability will get you nowhere,” Pitt suddenly said smartly.

The commander tensed. “What was that?” he demanded. “What did you say?”

“Ah said, leave us alone,” Pitt drawled. “We ain't hurtin' nothin'.”

Another conference between the commander and his men. Then he pointed a finger at Pitt. “I warn you. Do not enter Qin Shang Maritime property.”

“Who'd want to?” Giordino said nastily. “Y'all's company ruined the swamp, killed the fish and drove off the wildlife with your dredging. No reason to go in there anyways.”

The commander arrogantly turned his back and dismissed them as the first drops of a rainsquall began to splatter on the roof of the shantyboat. He gave the still barking Romberg a withering stare and said something to his crew. The engines accelerated and the hovercraft began moving off in the direction of the canal. A moment later they disappeared from view as the rain poured down in blinding torrents.

Giordino sat enjoying the rain splashing on his bare feet as they dangled over the railing. He cringed as Romberg shook his wet fur, sending a barrage of water flying in every direction. “A glittering performance except for your attempt at a drawing-room put-down.”

Pitt laughed. “A bit of keen and boisterous freewheeling humor never fails to get a rise.”

“You might have given us away.”

“I wanted them to record our arrogance. Did you catch the video camera on top of the cabin? At this moment, our pictures are being sent by satellite to Shang's security headquarters in Hong Kong for identification. A pity we can't be there to see Shang's face when he's informed that we're poking around another one of his sensitive projects.”

“Then our friends will be back.”

“You can bet the farm on it.”

“Romberg will protect us,” Giordino said jokingly.

Pitt looked around for the dog and found him curled up inside the shantyboat, having quickly returned to his catatonic state. “That I seriously doubt.”

AFTER THE RAINSQUALL PASSED AND BEFORE THE LAST RAYS of the sun vanished beyond the marshlands in the west, Pitt and Giordino moved the shantyboat into a narrow tributary of Hooker's Bayou and moored it beneath a huge cottonwood tree to cloak it from the hovercraft's radar. Then they camouflaged the boat with reeds and dead branches from the cottonwood. Romberg only came alive when Pitt fed him a bowl filled with catfish. Giordino offered him some hamburger, but Romberg wouldn't touch it, happily licking his chops and drooling from his flews while consuming the fish.

After closing the shutters and hanging blankets over the windows and doors to black out interior light, Pitt spread the topo map on the dining table and traced out a plan of action. “If Shang's security force runs true to form, they'll have a command post somewhere along the banks of the canal, probably in the center so they can cover both ends quickly against trespassing locals.”

“A canal by any other name is a canal,” said Giordino. “What exactly are we looking for?”

Pitt shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Bodies like you found in Orion Lake?”

“God, I hope not,” Pitt said soberly. “But if Qin Shang is smuggling illegals through Sungari, you can bet he's got a killing ground somewhere in the area. Dead bodies are easy to hide in the marshlands. But according to Doug Wheeler, boat traffic from the river into the canal is nonexistent.”

“Qin Shang didn't excavate an eighteen-mile trench as an exercise in futility.”

“Not him,” Pitt said acridly. “The catch is that two miles of excavation could have easily supplied all the fill he required to build Sungari. And the question is, why dig another sixteen miles?”

“Where do we begin?” asked Giordino.

“We'll take the skiff because it's less likely to be detected by their security systems. After loading the equipment, we paddle up Hooker's Bayou until it empties into the canal. Then continue east to Calzas. After we see whatever there is of interest, we work back toward the Atchafalaya and around to the shantyboat.”

“They must have detection systems to spot trespassers.”

“I'm counting on them using the same limited technology they had at Orion Lake. If they have laser detectors, the beams must be set to sweep above the marsh grass. Hunters with swamp vehicles or fishermen standing in their boat to throw a net can be distinguished from five miles away. By keeping low in the skiff and skirting the banks, we can stay below any sweeping beam.”

Giordino listened to Pitt's plan of action and remained silent for a few moments after he finished. He sat with his Etruscan features twisted in a scowling expression, looking like a mask from a voodoo ceremony. Then he slowly moved his head from side to side, visualizing long, aching hours of paddling the skiff.

“Well,” he said finally, “Mrs. Giordino's boy is going to have a pair of sore arms before this night is over.”

Doug Wheeler's forecast of a waning quarter moon was correct. Leaving a sated and dormant Romberg to guard the shantyboat, they pushed off and began paddling up the bayou, easily finding their way along the twists and turns by the lunar light. A narrow boat with graceful lines, the skiff moved smoothly with little exertion on their part. Whenever a cloud passed over the slim crescent of the moon, Pitt relied on the night-vision goggles to guide their course as the bayou narrowed to little more than five feet in width.

The marshlands came alive at night. The squadrons of mosquitoes winged into the night air, searching for juicy targets. But Pitt and Giordino, shielded by their wet suits and an ample layer of bug repellent on their faces, necks and hands, ignored them. The frogs croaked in a chorus of thousands, rising in a crescendo, then breaking off suddenly into total silence before beginning again. It seemed as if their night song was orchestrated and led by an unseen maestro. The marsh grass became decorated with millions of lightning bugs, blinking their lights on and off like falling sparkles from dying fireworks. An hour and a half later, Pitt and Giordino paddled out of Hooker's Bayou into the canal.

The security force command post was lit up like a football stadium. Floodlights spaced around two acres of dry land illuminated an old plantation house sheltered by live oak trees on a weed-infested lawn that rolled down a slight incline to the bank of the canal. Three stories high with siding that was warped and barely hanging on to support beams by rusty nails, the structure looked similar in architecture to the house in the movie Psycho, but not in nearly as good a condition. Several of the shutters hung off-kilter on rusting hinges, and the attic windows were broken. Wooden pillars stood in rigid formation across a sagging front porch, their cornices supporting a long, sloping roof.

The smell of Chinese cooking permeated the air. Men in uniform could be seen through the uncurtained windows moving around inside. Chinese music, a scourge to the ears of Westerners, and sung by a female who screeched as if she was giving birth, grated over the marshlands. The living room of the old manor was cluttered with a maze of communication and security-detection antennas. Like Orion Lake, there were no guards patrolling the command-center grounds. They had no fear of attack and placed their faith in the electronic systems. The hovercraft was tied to a little dock that floated on empty oil drums. No one was on board.

“Head toward the opposite bank and paddle very slowly,” Pitt whispered. “Keep movement to a minimum.”

Giordino nodded silently and dipped his paddle carefully into the water, stroking as if in slow motion. Like wraiths gliding through the night, they passed through the shadows of the canal bank, past the command post and up the canal for a hundred yards before Pitt called for a brief rest stop. Stealth was not an option but rather a necessity, since they had not packed their weapons in the overloaded skiff to save weight and space.

“From what I've experienced of their security,” said Pitt, “this setup is more slipshod than Orion Lake. The detection network is in place, but they don't seem conscientious about monitoring it.”

“They caught on to us damned quick this afternoon,” Giordino reminded him.

“No trick to spot a ten-foot-high houseboat on a flat field of grass from five miles. If this was Orion Lake, they would have been observing our every movement five seconds after we stepped into the skiff. Yet here, we move right under then-noses as if it was a piece of cake.”

“It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” Giordino observed. “No presents under the tree that contain deep dark secrets. But you've got to like them for giving us free passage.”

“Let's move on,” said Pitt. “Nothing promising here. We've got a lot of territory to cover. The security force may be lax at night, but they'd have to be blind not to discover us if we don't reach the shantyboat before the sun comes up.”

With growing confidence, they cast off any thoughts of caution and began stroking vigorously up the canal. The moon's dim glow fell over the bayou and cast its reflection on the water like a road narrowing to a pinpoint as it traveled over the horizon. The end of the canal seemed impossibly remote, as unattainable as a mirage in the desert. Giordino worked his paddle, easily, powerfully, each stroke moving the skiff four feet to Pitt's three. The night air was balmy but damp. Beneath the wet suits they sweated like lobsters in a pot, but they dared not remove them. Their light skin, although tanned, was revealed under the dying moon like faces in a black velvet painting. Ahead, they could see clouds outlined and glowing from an unseen light source. The headlights from cars and trucks could also be seen, sweeping back and forth on a distant highway.

Buildings from the deserted ghost town of Calzas loomed up on both banks, the canal having split the community in two. The houses huddled eerily in ragged clusters on a large section of land that rose above the marshlands. It was a place haunted by former residents who could no longer return. The town's old hotel stood silent and gaunt across from a gas station whose pumps still stood on islands outside the office and mechanic's bays. A church rose forlorn and empty beside a cemetery, the tombs raised above the ground, little shrines weathered and bleached white. The abandoned town was soon left in the wake of the skiff.

At long last they finally ran out of canal. All excavation ended at an embankment leading up to a major highway. At the base of the highway embankment, rising out of the water in the canal, they found a concrete structure that looked like the entrance to a huge underground bunker. It was sealed tight by a massive steel door that was welded closed.

“What do you suppose they keep in there?” queried Gior-dino.

“Nothing they need to get at fast,” Pitt replied, studying the door through the night-vision goggles. “It would take an hour or more just to torch it open.” He also spied an electrical conduit that ran from the door and vanished into the muck of the canal. He removed the goggles from his head and gestured toward the shore. “Come on, let's beach the skiff and climb to the highway.”

Giordino looked upward speculatively and nodded. They paddled to the bank and pulled the skiff ashore. The embankment was not steep but more of a long, sloping grade. They reached the top and climbed over a traffic guardrail and were almost blown back down the slope by a giant truck and trailer that thundered past. Embellished by the crescent moon, the countryside was bathed in a panoramic sea of lights.

The view was not quite what they expected. The headlights from the traffic, strung out along the highway like fluorescent beads on a snake, twisted around a wide expanse of water. As they stood there, a huge towboat the size of a condominium building moved past, shoving twenty barges that stretched nearly a quarter of a mile. Above and below a large city on the opposite shore, they could see the brilliantly lit white tanks of oil refineries and petrochemical plants.

“Well,” said Giordino without any particular expression in his voice, “is now a good time for a chorus of 'Old Man River'?”

“The Mississippi,” Pitt muttered. “That's Baton Rouge to the north across the river. The end of the line. Why dig a canal to this particular spot?”

“Who knows what weird machinations lurk in the mind of Qin Shang?” Giordino said philosophically. “Maybe he has plans to access the highway.”

“What for? There's no turnoff. The road shoulder is barely wide enough to hold one car. There has to be another reason.” Pitt sat on the guardrail and gazed thoughtfully at the river. Then he said slowly, “The highway runs straight as an arrow along here.”

Giordino looked at Pitt, his eyebrows raised. “What's so novel about a linear road?”

“Was it a coincidence or a well-conceived plan to end the canal at the exact point where the river curls westward and nearly touches the highway?”

“What difference does it make? Shang's engineers could have ended the canal anywhere.”

“A big difference, as I'm beginning to see it, a very big difference indeed.”

Giordino's mind was not running on the same channel as Pitt's. Giordino checked the dial on his dive watch under the lights of an approaching car. “If we want to finish the job while it's still dark, I suggest we row our boat gently down the stream, and be quick about it.”

They still Had the entire eighteen miles of the canal to search using title autonomous underwater vehicle. After dropping back down the slope to the skiff, they removed the AUV from its case and slipped it over the side of the skiff and watched it slip out of sight beneath the dark surface. Then, while Giordino paddled, Pitt worked the remote control, engaging the AUV's motors, switching on its lights and leveling it off five feet from the bottom mud of the canal. Because of the high algae content of the brackish water, which limited visibility to no more than six feet, there was the danger of the AUV striking a submerged object before he could divert it.

Giordino paddled with long even strokes that never slowed as the precious hours passed, making it easy for Pitt to pace the AUV's progress with that of the skiff. Only when they reached the outer fringe of light around the old plantation headquarters of Qin Shang's security force did they move furtively along the opposite bank at a snail's speed.

This time of night most of the security force should have

been sleeping, but the plantation house had suddenly come alive with activity as guards began rushing across the lawn to the little dock where the hovercraft was moored. Pitt and Gior-dino pressed into the shadows and watched as the hovercraft was loaded with automatic weapons. Two men lifted a long, heavy, tubelike object into the boat.

“They're going for bear,” said Giordino softly. “Unless I'm mistaken that's a rocket launcher.”

“You're not mistaken,” Pitt murmured. “I do believe Shang's chief of security in Hong Kong has identified us and sent word that we're evildoers out to spy on another one of his nasty ventures.”

“The shantyboat. It's evident they plan to blow it and anyone in it to smithereens.”

“Not polite of us to allow them to destroy the Bayou Kid's property. And then we've got Romberg to consider. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals would put us on their blacklist for life if we let poor old Romberg go to dog heaven in a blaze of rocket fire.”

“Two unarmed bon vivants against a horde of barbarians armed to the teeth,” muttered Giordino. “Not very healthy odds, wouldn't you say?”

Pitt slipped a dive mask over his head and picked up an air tank. “I've got to get across the canal before they cast off. You take the skiff and wait for me a hundred yards beyond the plantation.”

“Let me guess. You're going to take your little dive knife and slash the hell out of the hovercraft's inflatable skirt.” Pitt grinned. “If it leaks, it won't lift.” “What about the AUV?”

“Keep it submerged. It might be worth seeing what kind of trash they throw in the canal in front of their quarters.”

In ten seconds Pitt was gone. He eased into the water without making a sound or a splash, while at the same time strapping on the air tank and its backpack. He had already kicked twenty feet from the boat before he inserted the regulator in his mouth and began breathing underwater. After leveling out, he quickly got his bearings and swam across the canal toward the lights flickering on the water in front of the plantation. The mud on the bottom below looked dark and forbidding, and the water itself was tepid as a bathtub's. Pitt swam aggressively, his arms out in front forming a V to reduce water resistance, kicking his feet and fins as hard and fast as his leg muscles would allow.

A good diver can sense the water as an animal senses a change in weather or the presence of a predator. The brackish water of the canal had a warm and friendly feel to it, nothing like the sinister and malignant force he experienced in the deep cold of Orion Lake. His only fear now was that one of the security guards might glance out into the canal and see his air bubbles, a possibility he didn't think likely because they were wrapped up in preparing to attack the shantyboat and had no time to stare at the water surface above Pitt for even half a second.

The light became brighter underwater as he neared the source. Soon the shadow of the hovercraft loomed ahead. He was certain it was loaded and the crew was aboard to launch the search and attack. Only the lack of sound told him the engines had yet to start. He swam harder, determined to stop the hovercraft before it hurtled from the dock.

From his vantage point across the canal, Giordino began to have grave doubts that Pitt would reach the hovercraft in time. He cursed himself for not working harder on the return trip so they might have arrived earlier. But then, how could he have known the guards were preparing to assault the shantyboat before daylight? He kept in the shadows and paddled the skiff slowly, so no sudden movement would be caught by the men on the other side of the canal. “Do it!” he muttered under his breath as if Pitt was in earshot. “Do it!”

Pitt felt a growing numbness from overexertion in his arms and legs, his lungs gasping from fatigue. He gathered his waning strength for a final surge, a last effort before his exhausted body refused his demands. He couldn't believe he was killing himself to save a dog that he swore was bitten by a tsetse fly when a pup and suffered from chronic sleeping sickness.

Abruptly, the light from above faded and he swam into a dark hole. His head broke the surface just inside the flexible sleeve, called a skirt, that contains the cushion of air and suspends the hovercraft. He floated for several moments, his chest heaving, his arms too numb to move, while he regained his strength and studied the interior of the skirt. Of the three types fitted to hovercraft, this one was called a bag skirt, consisting of a rubber tube that encircled the hull and when inflated served to contain the air cushion while providing lift. He also recognized that this hovercraft used an aluminum propeller as a lift fan to inflate the bag tube and feed air into the cushion.

As Pitt reached down to pull his dive knife out of its sheath strapped to his leg to begin slicing holes in the rubberized fabric, his moment of victory was snatched away by the sound of the starter motors as they began to turn over the engines. Then the propeller's blades started to spin, their speed increasing with every revolution. The skirt began to flare, and the water inside was whipped into a maelstrom. Too late to slash the rubber cushion and prevent the craft from moving.

Out of irreversible despair, he unsnapped the buckle to his air tank's backpack, spit out the breathing regulator and pulled the tank up and over his head. Then, in one movement, he thrust it upward into the spinning lift propeller and ducked under the skirt as it was starting to inflate. The propeller blades struck the tank and shattered. It was an act born of desperation. Pitt knew he had gambled recklessly and pushed his luck too far.

The disintegration of the propeller as its blades struck a solid, ungiving object was followed by a hurricane of metal shards that ripped through the walls of the rubber skirt like shrapnel from a bomb. Then came a second, more massive explosion as the tank's walls were penetrated and it burst from the sudden release of eighty cubic feet of air pressurized at three thousand pounds. Not content to be left out, the fuel tanks added to the cataclysm by erupting in a blazing conflagration that sent a firestorm into the air and fiery particles of the hovercraft flying onto the roof of the plantation house and quickly setting the wooden structure ablaze.

Giordino was stunned in horror as he watched the hovercraft lift out of the water and then violently shred itself into a thousand flaming fragments. Bodies spun through the air like drunken circus acrobats and splashed into the water with the inert stiffness of mannequins dropped from a helicopter. The windows of the plantation house were blown into jagged shards. The explosion rumbled over the surface of the canal and struck Giordino's exposed face like a punch thrown by the gloved fist of a boxer. A waterspout of fiery fuel enveloped the hovercraft, and when it fell away and the spray had scattered into the night, the burning remains of the craft were sinking into the waters of the canal amid a great hiss of steam and dark smoke that swirled and quickly became lost in the black sky.

In growing fear, Giordino frantically paddled the skiff toward the shattered wreckage. Reaching the outer perimeter of the burning debris, he strapped on his air tank and rolled into the canal. Lit by a field of flames on the surface, the water beneath took on a look of eerie candescence, ghostly and threatening. In a strange kind of restrained frenzy, he searched through the mangled remains of the hovercraft, tearing aside the shreds of the skirt and probing underneath. He was still dazed with shock as he desperately tried to find the body of his friend. He groped about the shambles created by Pitt, and his hands touched what remained of a man, stripped of his clothing, a sliced and gutted thing with no legs. One black eye, wide open and unseeing, was all he required to know it wasn't Pitt.

He fought off a sickening fear that it seemed impossible anyone could have survived that holocaust. He searched un-availingly, hopelessly, for some sight of a living body. God, where is he? Giordino cried in his mind. He began to feel beyond weary in his bones and was almost ready to give up in despair when something reached out of the darkness of the muck below him and grabbed his ankle. Giordino experienced an icy chill of panic that gave way to disbelief when he felt the hard grip of a living human. He spun around and saw a face leering at him, green eyes squinting to see through the liquid gloom, blood flowing from the nose and dissolving in the water.

As if risen from the dead, Pitt's lips tightened in a crooked little grin. His wet suit was in tatters and the dive mask had been torn from his head, but he was alive. He pointed up, released his hold on Giordino's ankle and kicked toward the surface a short five feet away. They broke the surface at the same time, Giordino grasping Pitt around the shoulders in a great bear hug.

“Damn you!” Giordino shouted. “You're alive.”

“Damn me if I'm not,” Pitt came back, laughing.

“How in God's name did you do it?”

"Dumb luck. After I heaved my air tank into the hovercraft's lift propeller and dove under the skirt, a stupid move by the way, I got no farther than eight feet when the tank exploded. The explosion blew outward and the resulting blast from the fuel tanks burst upward. I was unscathed until the concussion tore into me. I was blown into the muddy bottom, which cushioned my impact. It was a miracle my eardrums didn't burst.

My ears are still ringing. I ache in places I didn't know existed. Every square inch of my body must be black-and-blue. Things went vague and woolly. I was knocked silly for a few moments but quickly recovered when I sucked on my regulator mouthpiece and found only my tongue along with a gush of swamp water. Gagging and retching, I made for the surface and floated around while pulling my mind and body together until I saw your air bubbles trail by."

“I thought for sure you bought the farm this time,” said Giordino.

“Me too,” Pitt agreed. He gingerly fingered his nose and a split lip. “Something struck my face when I was mashed into the canal bed—” He broke off and made a grimace. “Broken, my nose is broken. First time ever.”

Giordino nodded his head at the devastation, the plantation house that had become a blazing inferno. “Did you ever determine which side of the family passed on your uncanny knack for causing destruction?”

“No pyromaniac ancestors that I know of.”

Three security guards were still alive, one crawling away from the house, smoke curling from smoldering holes in the back of his uniform, the second lying dazed on the edge of the bank, weaving back and forth, his hands cupped to ears whose eardrums had burst. Four bodies floated in the flame-lit waters. The rest of the security force had disappeared. The third living guard stood in shock, staring dumbly at the shattered wreckage of the hovercraft with blood from a gash across one cheek flowing down his neck and dyeing his shirt crimson.

Pitt swam to the bank, came to his feet and walked ashore. The guard stared wide-eyed at the black-suited apparition from the canal as if he was an alien creature from the swamp. He convulsively reached for the gun in his side holster, but it had been torn away by the explosions. He turned and tried to run, staggered a few steps and fell. The apparition, with blood streaming from his nose, stared down.

“You speak English, my friend?”

“Yes,” the guard nodded, replying in a voice hoarse with shock. “I learned American vocabulary.”

“Good. You tell your boss, Qin Shang, that Dirk Pitt wants to know if he still stoops over and picks up bananas. You got that?”

The guard stumbled several times, repeating the sentence, but with Pitt's coaching he finally got it right. “Dirk Pitt wants to know if the esteemed Qin Shang still stoops over and picks up bananas.”

“Nice going,” Pitt said jovially. “You move to the head of the class.”

Then Pitt casually strolled back to the canal and waded out to Giordino, who was waiting in the skiff.

JULIA WAS THANKFUL WHEN DARKNESS ARRIVED. MOVING through the shadows along the outside deck of the towboat toward the bow, she slipped over the side onto the barge and hid amid the black plastic bags of trash. She was not happy about the faint light thrown by a waning moon, but it enabled her to keep track of crew movements on board the towboat and to observe the countryside for geographical references as to location. She also followed the direction of her progress by glancing up every few minutes at Polaris, the North Star.

Unlike the featureless landscape of the central Atchafalaya Valley, the grassy banks of Bayou Teche supported a thick canopy of live oak trees, interspersed with stately cypresses and lime willows. But like the edge of a checkerboard, the tree belt opened up every mile to reveal lights of farmhouses and dim, moonlit fields of newly planted crops. Behind fenced pastures, Julia could make out the shapes of cattle grazing. She recognized the sound of a meadowlark and fleetingly wished that she had a family and a home. She knew the day was not far off when her superiors at INS would curtail her hazardous attempts to stop Chinese immigrant-smuggling operations and put her behind a desk.

The towboat and barge passed what seemed a picturesque fishing town that Julia would later learn was Patterson. Docks lined the waterfront with fishing trawlers taking up almost every slip. She made a mental note of how the town was laid out along the bayou as it receded in the distance. The towboat captain blew his air horn as a drawbridge drew into sight. The bridge tender dutifully tooted his horn in reply and raised the span to allow passage.

A few miles above Patterson the towboat slackened its speed and began easing toward the west bank. Peering over the side of the barge, Julia could see a large, warehouselike brick structure with several outer buildings that were spaced around a long dock. A high chain-link fence with barbwire strung along the top encircled the compound. A few scattered floodlights with dim and dusty bulbs in their sockets ineffectually illuminated the open area between the dock and warehouse. The only sign of life Julia could see was a guard who exited a little shack and stood at a closed gate on the end of the dock. She noted that he was wearing the common uniform sold by private security services. Through a window of the shack, she could see the reflected images of a television screen.

Her heart gave a leap when she spied a pair of railroad tracks that ran down a concrete culvert under the big warehouse. She believed with growing certainty that this was the main staging center from where the illegals were transported to their predetermined destinations. Once there, they were either enslaved or released into heavily populated metropolitan cities.

She burrowed under the trash bags as the Chinese crew came aboard the barge and tied it to the dock. When the barge was secure, they leaped back on board the towboat. There was no word spoken between the captain, crew and the guard behind the gate. The captain gave a brief blast on his air horn to signal his intentions to a small shrimp boat about to pass by. The towboat slowly reversed away from the barge, swinging its stern wide until a 180-degree turn was completed and the flat-nosed bow was pointing down the bayou. Then the captain engaged FORWARD, increased speed and set the towboat on a course back toward Sungari.

The next twenty minutes were spent in a strange silence that began to frighten Julia. Not from personal fear of her safety, but a dread that perhaps she had made a mistake. The guard had long since returned to his shack and his television. The barge full of trash lay moored to the dock, dismissed and neglected.

Julia had contacted Captain Lewis aboard the Weehawken soon after her leap onto the towboat and informed him of her reckless enterprise. Lewis was not a happy camper when he realized that die woman whose safety was in his hands had taken a terrible risk. Professional that he was, he brushed aside his frustration and ordered a launch full of armed men under Lieutenant Stowe to follow the towboat and barge as a backup to the helicopter. His only order to Stowe was to keep a respectful distance behind the towboat and not arouse suspicion. Julia could hear the whine of the helicopter's engines and see its navigation lights in the night sky.

She well knew the fate that awaited her if Qin Shang's smuggling enforcers apprehended her, and it gave her a warm feeling to know she was being watched over by men who were willing to lay their lives on the line to save her if worst came to worst.

She had long before removed Lin Wan Chu's cook clothes and crammed them into a plastic trash bag, not so much because they were now incongruous but because the white cloth would have made her visible to anyone on the towboat when she stood up to stare over the side of the barge during the journey from Sungari. Underneath, she wore simple shorts and a blouse.

For the first time in nearly an hour, she spoke into her miniature radio and hailed Lieutenant Stowe. “The towboat has dropped off the barge and moored it alongside a dock near what looks like a large warehouse.”

Lieutenant Jefferson Stowe, in command of the launch, answered quickly over the transmitter and receiver set around his head. “We confirm. The towboat is about to pass us going in the opposite direction. What is your situation?”

“About as exciting as watching a tree become petrified. Except for a security guard on the other side of a tall fence, who's busy watching a TV program in his shack, there isn't another soul in sight.”

“Are you saying your objective is a washout?” asked Stowe.

“I need more time for an investigation,” answered Julia.

“Not too long, I hope. Captain Lewis is hardly a patient man, and the helicopter only has another hour of fuel left. And that's only the half of it.”

“What's the other half?”

“Your decision to jump on the towboat came so fast none of my crew or I got dinner.”

“You're joking.”

“Not about growing coast guardsmen missing a meal,” Stowe said humorously.

“You will stand by, and not desert me.”

“Of course,” replied Stowe, the humor in his voice quickly fading. “I only hope the towboat didn't simply park the barge overnight in expectation of moving it to a trash fill in the morning.”

“I don't think that's the case,” said Julia. “One of the buildings has a railroad siding leading in and out of it. This place would make an ideal layout to transport smuggled immigrants to destinations around the country.”

“I'll request Captain Lewis to check the railroad company for freight-train schedules that call for stops at the mill,” Stowe offered reasonably. “Meanwhile, I'll run the launch into a small inlet across the bayou about a hundred yards south of you. We'll stand by here until I hear otherwise.” There was a slight pause. “Ms. Lee.”

“Yes.”

“Don't get your hopes up,” said Stowe evenly. “I've just spotted a shabby, run-down sign that's sitting at a crazy angle on the bank of the bayou. Would you like to know what it says?”

“Yes, do tell me,” Julia answered, deliberately robbing her words of irritation.

“Felix Bartholomeaux Sugar Processing Plant Number One. Established 1883. You're apparently moored at a long-abandoned sugar mill. From my vantage point, the complex looks deader than a fossilized dinosaur egg.”

“Then why would it be protected by a security guard?”

“I don't know,” Stowe replied honestly.

“Hold on!” Julia snapped unexpectedly. “I heard something.”

She went quietly, listening, and Stowe cooperated by asking no questions. As if far away, she heard the muted clank of metal against metal. At first, she thought it came from somewhere within the deserted sugar mill, but then she realized the sound was muffled by the water beneath the barge. Furiously, she threw the plastic trash bags aside until she could squirm a passage down to the bottom of the barge's hull. Then she pressed her ear against the damp, rusting metal of the bilge keel.

This time she heard muffled voices whose vibrations telegraphed through the steel. She could not distinguish words, but what she heard came through as men shouting harshly. Julia fought her way back to the top of the trash-bag pile, checked to see the guard was still occupied and then leaned over the side of the barge, peering down into the water. There were no telltale lights in the depths, and it was too dark to see more than a few inches past the surface.

“Lieutenant Stowe,” she said softly.

“I'm here.”

“Can you see anything in the water between the dock and the barge?”

“Not from here. But I have you in view.”

Julia instinctively turned and stared across the bayou, but all she saw was darkness. “You can follow my actions?”

“Through a night-vision scope. I didn't want anybody sneaking up on you without you knowing about it.”

Good old faithful Lieutenant Stowe. Another time, another place, she might have felt a growing affection for him. But any thought of love, no matter how fleeting, created an image of Dirk Pitt in her mind. For the first time in her life she was infatuated with a man, and her independent spirit was not sure how to accept the situation. Almost reluctantly, she refocused her concentration on discovering the covert methods of Qin Shang's smuggling operation.

“I believe there must be another vessel or compartment connected to the bottom of the barge,” she reported.

“What are the indications?” asked Stowe.

“I heard voices through the keel. That would explain how the Chinese were able to smuggle the illegal immigrants through Sungari and past immigration, customs and the Coast Guard.”

“I'd like to buy your theory, Ms. Lee, but an underwater compartment that is carried across two oceans from China and then shifted under a barge for a voyage up a Louisiana bayou to a railroad terminal in an abandoned sugar mill may get you an award for literary fiction, but it won't score you any points with pragmatic minds.”

“I'll stake my career on it,” Julia said positively.

“May I ask your intent?” Stowe's tone went from friendly to official.

“I intend to gain entry into the mill and make a search.”

“Not a smart move. Better to wait until morning.”

“That may be too late. The immigrants could be herded into freight cars and transported away by then.”

“Ms. Lee,” said Stowe coldly. “I strongly urge you to think this thing out and back off. I'll swing the launch across the bayou and pick you up off the barge.”

Julia did not feel that she had come this far suddenly to walk away. “No thank you, Lieutenant Stowe. I'm going in. If I find what I hope to find, you and your men can come running.”

“Ms. Lee, I must remind you that although you're under the protection of the Coast Guard, we are not a Justice Department SWAT team. My advice, if you wish to take it, is to wait until daylight, obtain a search warrant from a parish judge and then send in the local sheriff to investigate. You'll score more points with your superiors that way.”

It was as though Julia had not heard Stowe. “Please ask Captain Lewis to notify Peter Harper in Washington and alert the INS office in New Orleans. Good night, Lieutenant Stowe. Let's do lunch tomorrow.”

Stowe tried several times to raise Julia, but she had turned off her little radio. He looked across the bayou through his night-vision scope and saw her jump from the barge and run the length of the dock, disappearing around a moss-covered oak tree outside the chain-link fence.

Julia stopped when she reached the oak and hid for a few minutes under the moss that hung from the branches above. Her eyes slowly panned around the seemingly deserted buildings of the sugar mill. No lights inside the doors and windows leaked through the weathered cracks. She listened but only heard the rhythmic whine and rasp of cicadas, an indication that summer was just around the corner. The balmy air lay heavy and damp with no breeze to cool skin moist with sweat.

The main building in the complex, solid and substantial, stood three stories tall. The founder must have been influenced by medieval architecture. Ramparts traveled around the roof with four turrets that once held the company's offices. The walls showed only enough windows to provide daylight for the interior, but to the men and women who had once labored there, the lack of ventilation must have caused incredibly oppressive working conditions. The red-clay bricks looked as if they had long defied the mugginess, but green moss and climbing vines were slowly invading their mortared seams, loosening their grip. Already, a large number of them had fallen to the damp earth below. To Julia the unearthly scene of a once-thriving business humming with activity, crowded with people but now abandoned, wore the expectant air of a place long overdue for the wrecker's ball.

She worked her way through the shadows of the vegetation growing along the fence until she came to the railroad tracks leading through a heavily padlocked gate, down the culvert and ending at a massive wooden door opening into the basement of the main warehouse. She bent down and studied the rails under a light on a nearby pole. The steel was shiny and free of rust. Her cocksure conviction was now becoming more firmly established.

She continued her reconnaissance, flitting silently with the grace of a cat through the underbrush until she came to a small drainage pipe two feet in diameter that ran under the fence before emptying in a ditch parallel to the old mill. She made a quick survey of the immediate area to check that she was still unobserved and began crawling into the pipe, pushing herself feet first so she could scramble forward if it proved to be a dead end.

Julia was by no means lulled into a false sense of security. It puzzled her that only one guard appeared to be working for a security service other than Qin Shang Maritime. The lack of extra guards and brighter floodlighting suggested that this was a facility holding little of value—perhaps the very image that was meant to be projected. She was too much the professional not to consider the likely possibility that her movements were recorded by concealed infrared video cameras from the time she jumped from the barge until now. But she had come too far to quit. If this was a staging area for illegal immigrants, then Qin Shang wasn't operating under his usual formula of fanatical secrecy and tight security.

A broad-shouldered man might never have squirmed through the drainage pipe, but Julia had inches to spare. At first, all she saw when she looked between her feet was blackness. But after negotiating a slight bend in the pipe, she saw a circle of moonlight playing in a reflection of water. At last she emerged into a concrete ditch filled with several inches of muck that ran around the main warehouse building to catch the rainwater that dropped from drain spouts on the roof.

She went immobile as she gazed to her left and right. No sirens, no mad attack dogs, no searchlights greeted her entry into the sugar-mill compound. Content that her presence wasn't detected, she stealthily moved along the building, searching for a way to enter. She pressed her back against the moss-covered brick walls, deciding on which direction to take around the sugar mill. The side where the railroad tracks sloped off into a basement was open and washed from the light on the pole, so she chose the opposite course, which offered dark shadows from a grove of cypress trees. She stepped as noiselessly as possible, careful not to fall over any old rubbish that lay scattered about the ground.

A small thicket of brush blocked her way, and Julia crawled under it. Her outstretched, probing fingers touched a stone step, and then a second one leading downward. Squinting her eyes, she peered into the shadows and discovered a stairway dropping to the basement of the mill. The steps were covered with debris, and she carefully had to step around and over it. The door at the bottom of the stairs had seen better days. Stout and made of oak, at one time it could have stopped a battering ram. But a century of damp climate had rusted out the hinges, and Julia found that all she had to do was give it a hearty kick for the door to creak open just far enough to allow her to squeeze past.

Julia hesitated only long enough to see that she was in a concrete-walled passage. There was a faint glow of light at the other end a good fifty feet away, she guessed. The dank smell from the long-unused passage lay heavy. The floor was dripping-damp and puddled in places where rainwater had seeped in from the outer door. Debris and old furniture cast into the passageway when the sugar mill closed down made it difficult to pass through without undue sounds. She became extra cautious when she reached the dim light that shone through the dirty glass window of a heavy oak door blocking the way. She carefully turned a rusting door handle. Unexpectedly, the bolt slid whisper-silent from its slot. Then she painstakingly eased the door open a crack. It swung on its hinges as smoothly as if it had been oiled only the day before.

She softly stepped inside with the expectation of a woman anticipating trouble. She found herself inside an office furnished in the heavy oak furniture so popular in the early part of the twentieth century. Julia froze. The room was immaculately clean. There wasn't a speck of dust or a cobweb to be seen. It was like entering a time capsule. She had also stepped into a trap.

She felt as if she had been punched in the stomach when the oak door clunked shut behind her and three men stepped from behind a screen that shielded a sitting room at the other end of the office. All of the men were dressed in business suits, two carrying briefcases as though they had just come from a board-of-directors meeting.

Before she could transmit over her hidden radio, her arms were pinned and her mouth taped shut.

“You are a most obstinate young lady, Ling T'ai, or should I call you Julia Lee?” said Ki Wong, Qin Shang's chief enforcer, as he gave a curt bow and grinned satanically. “You don't know how happy I am to meet you again.”

Stowe stared across the bayou as he pressed the receiver against his ear with one hand and held the microphone of the transmitter until it nearly touched his lips. “Ms. Lee. If you read me, please answer.”

He heard what seemed to be stifled voices for a moment before all communications with Julia went dead. His first instinct was to rush across the bayou and charge the gate on the wharf. But he could not be certain Julia had encountered a life-threatening situation. Surely not certain enough to risk the lives of his men in a combat engagement. Another factor that preyed on his mind was the possibility of ambush on territory that was unknown. Stowe took the route used by astute officers since the first military force was formed: He laid the responsibility on his superior officer.

“Weehawken, this is Lieutenant Stowe.”

“We read you,” came the voice of Captain Lewis.

“Sir, I believe we have a situation.”

“Please explain.”

“Contact has been lost with Ms. Lee.”

There was a few moments' pause. Then Lewis replied slowly. “Remain in your position and keep the sugar mill under surveillance. Report any new information. I'll get back to you.”

Stowe stood in the launch and gazed across the bayou at the silent and dark buildings. “God help you if you've run into trouble,” Stowe muttered softly, “because I can't.”

THERE WAS NO FEVERISH HURRY AFTER PITT AND GIORDINO left the burning hovercraft and command post. It seemed reasonable to assume that all communications between the security force and Qin Shang's headquarters were cut off when the plantation burned to the ground. They continued their project of photographing the bed of the canal with the AUV as if no interruption ever occurred. Neither man was of a mind to do a rushed, botched job.

They reached the Atchafalaya River and returned up Hooker's Bayou to the shantyboat just as the eastern sky was beginning to lighten from black to blue-gray. Romberg greeted their arrival by opening his eyes only long enough to recognize them before instantly dropping off into dog dreamland again.

Without delay, they unloaded the dive equipment and the AUV. Once the skiff was stowed on the roof, Giordino started the big Ford 427 engine as Pitt pulled the mooring stakes from the mud under the boat. The sun had still to put in an appearance when the shantyboat swung onto the Atchafalaya and headed downriver.

“Where to?” Giordino shouted down into the main cabin from the pilothouse.

“Bartholomeaux,” Pitt yelled back over the roar of the engine.

Giordino said no more. Boat traffic was not as light as he expected this early in the morning. The oyster and crawfish boats were already on the river heading toward their favored fishing grounds. Towboats with their trains of barges came south after passing through the Old River Canal Lock from the Mississippi into the Atchafalaya north of Baton Rouge. He skirted the other vessels respectfully, but once past he took the big 427 up to half throttle, sending it barreling down the river at twenty-five miles an hour.

Inside the little house, Pitt sat on a small sofa and played the videotape shot by the cameras of the AUV of the canal bed beginning at the highway bordering the Mississippi and ending at the entrance to the Atchafalaya. From start to finish the totally dull and boring show ran nearly six hours. Except for a few fish, a passing turtle and a runty baby gator no more than a foot in length, the bottom of the canal was nothing but barren muck. Pitt was relieved to find no bodies, nor was he surprised. Qin Shang's incredibly complicated plan had a small crack in it. The canal was the key, and Pitt was onto its purpose now. But he still found himself on the short side of tangibility. He had no proof. Only a vague theory that even he found almost impossible to accept.

He turned off the TV monitor and sat back in the sofa. He didn't dare close his eyes. He could have easily slipped off to sleep, but it wouldn't be fair to Giordino. There was still much to do. He fixed breakfast and called Giordino down to a table laid with a plate of scrambled eggs and ham. He'd brewed coffee in an old-fashioned pot and set out a carton of orange juice. To save time, he spelled Giordino at the helm while his friend ate.

He turned the shantyboat into Berwick Bay several miles above Morgan City and traveled south through the Wax Lake Canal, entering Bayou Teche just above Patterson, only two miles from the old sugar mill at Bartholomeaux. He gave the wheel back to Giordino and sat in his lawn chair on the veranda with Romberg curled up beside him.

They had made good time, and it was still shy of twelve noon when Giordino slowed the shantyboat as the abandoned sugar mill came into view around a bend just under a mile ahead. Pitt stared through a pair of binoculars, scanning the

buildings and the long wharf that trailed along a stone breakwater. A tight smile curled his lips at seeing the barge still loaded with trash. He stood, leaned over the veranda railing, called up to Giordino and pointed down the bayou. “That must be the place. The barge moored to the wharf looks like the same one we saw at Sungari.”

Giordino picked up a brass telescope he'd found in a drawer next to the helm. His right eye squinted through the lenses, scanning the wharf and buildings. “The barge is still full. Looks like they haven't gotten around to dumping the trash.”

“Unlike the ramshackle condition of the buildings, the wharf looks no more than a year or two old. Can you make out anyone inside the guard shack by the gate?”

Giordino swung the telescope and refocused. “I have a single security guard sitting on his ass inside, watching a TV set.”

“Any sign we might be sailing into an ambush?”

“I've seen cemeteries with more life than this place,” Giordino said mildly. “Word must not have come down about our party on the canal.”

“I'm going over the side and check out the bottom of the barge,” said Pitt. “I lost my dive gear at the plantation so I'll borrow yours. Take it slow, as if you're having engine problems. As soon as I'm in the water, tie up to the wharf and give the guard another of your sterling performances.”

“After mastering the manipulation of unsympathetic audiences,” Giordino pontificated, “Romberg and I may form an act and go to Hollywood.”

“Don't get your hopes up,” Pitt replied sourly.

Giordino pulled back the throttle two notches above the idle position and flicked the ignition key on and off to simulate misfiring cylinders within the engine. As soon as he saw Pitt in his wet suit stepping over the catwalk on the side of the shantyboat out of sight of the guard, he turned the wheel toward the wharf. A few seconds later, when he glanced downward, Pitt was gone.

He watched Pitt's bubbles approach the barge, and then steadily scatter as he passed under its bottom edge. It looked to Giordino as if Pitt was working deeper and deeper. Then the bubbles rising beside the barge disappeared altogether.

Giordino slowly raised a hand to shield the sun from his eyes and expertly steered the shantyboat around the barge and along the pilings without scratching the paint on the hull. Then he dropped down a ladder to the catwalk, jumped onto the wharf and began looping mooring lines around a pair of rusty bollards.

The guard came out of his shack, unlocked the gate and rushed up to the shantyboat. He cautiously eyed Romberg, who acted happy to see him. The guard looked Asian but he spoke with a West Coast accent. He was a good four inches taller than Giordino but much thinner. He wore a baseball cap and World War II pilot's sunglasses.

“You must leave. This is a private dock. The owners do not allow boats to moor here.”

“Ah cain't help it,” Giordino moaned. “Man engine died on me. Just give me twenty minutes, and Ah'll have it fixed.”

The guard was not to be refused. He began untying the lines. “You must leave.”

Giordino walked over and grasped the guard's wrist in an iron grip. “Qin Shang will not be happy when I report your offensive behavior to one of his inspectors.”

The guard looked at Giordino queerly. “Qin Shang? Who the hell is Qin Shang? I was hired by the Butterfield Freight Corporation.”

Now it was Giordino's turn to make a queer expression. He unconsciously glanced over the side into the water where he'd last seen Pitt's air bubbles and wondered if they'd made a big mistake. “You were hired to do what? Keep crows off the corn?”

“No,” said the guard defensively, unable to shake Giordino's grip and contemplating whether he was dealing with a madman and should draw his bolstered revolver. “Butterfield uses the old buildings to store furniture and equipment from their offices around the country. My job, and the guards who work the other shifts, is to keep vandals off the property.”

Giordino released the guard's arm. He was far too wise and cynical to fall for the lie. He was almost thrown off the track in the first moments of the conversation. But now he knew with solid conviction there was more to the abandoned sugar mill at Bartholomeaux than met the eye.

“Tell me, friend. Would it be worth a bottle of Black Label Jack Daniel's whiskey to let me stay here just long enough to fix my engine?”

“I don't think so,” the guard said testily as he rubbed his wrist.

Giordino fell back into his back country accent. “Look, Ah'm in a bind. If Ah just drift out in the river while workin' down on the engine, Ah could be busted in two by a towboat.”

“That's not my problem.”

“Two bottles of Black Label Jack Daniel's whiskey?”

A sly look gleamed in the guard's eyes. “Four bottles.”

Giordino stuck out his hand. “Done.” Then he motioned through the door leading inside the shantyboat from the veranda. Come on board and Ah'll put 'em in a sack for ya."

The guard looked apprehensively at Romberg. “Does he bite?”

“Only if ya put your hand in his mouth and step on his jaws.”

Unwittingly drawn into the web, the guard stepped around Romberg and entered the shantyboat's main cabin. It was the last thing he remembered until he woke up four hours later. Giordino hit him on the nape of the neck. Not a judo chop, but a huge fist swung like a club that sent the guard crashing heavily to the deck, out for the long count.

Ten minutes later, Giordino, wearing the guard's uniform, pants and sleeves too long by inches but the shirt straining at its buttons as his chest and shoulders stretched the seams, stepped out on the shantyboat's veranda. With the guard's baseball cap pulled down over the old, wide-style sunglasses, Giordino leisurely walked to the gate, closed it behind him and pretended to lock it. Then he went inside the guard shack and sat in front of the television set while his eyes roamed the grounds of the sugar mill, picking out the security cameras placed about the property.

Pitt sank to the bottom before swimming up and under the flat bottom of the barge. He was surprised to encounter the bed of the bayou at thirty feet beside the wharf—far deeper than was necessary for barge traffic. The depth must have been dredged to accept a deep-hulled ship.

It was as if a cloud had passed over the sun. The shadow of the barge cut off nearly fifty percent of the light from the surface. The water was an opaque green and filled with plant particles. He swam fast and had hardly passed under the barge when a vague shape appeared in the gloom and stopped his progress.

Hanging from the keel of the barge was an immense cylindrical tube with tapered ends. Pitt instantly recognized what it was, and his heart began to pump faster with excitement. The size and regular shape was similar to the hull of an early submarine. He swam along the hull slightly above it. There were no visible ports, and he could see that it was attached to the barge by a system of rails. These, Pitt immediately determined, were used to move the submerged container from the seagoing ship to the barge and back again.

He estimated the size of the underwater container at ninety feet in length by nearly fifteen feet in diameter by ten feet high. Without being able to peer inside, Pitt quickly realized that it was capable of housing anywhere from two hundred to four hundred people, depending on how tightly they were packed inside.

Quickly, he swam around the vessel to the other side, looking for a hatch connecting with an underwater passage from the vessel to inside the breakwater that anchored the wharf. He found it thirty feet aft of the bow, a small watertight tunnel just large enough for two people to pass through at the same time.

Pitt could find no way to enter, certainly not from the water. He was about to give up and swim back to the shantyboat when he spotted a small round portal embedded in the stone breakwater. The portal was above the surface of the water but just below the planking on the wharf. It was covered by an iron door that was secured by three dog levers. Its purpose eluded him. A sewer outlet? A drainage pipe? A maintenance tunnel? A closer inspection of the lettering stamped by the manufacturer on the iron door cleared up the mystery.

MANUFACTURED BY THE ACADIA CHUTE COMPANY NEW ORLEANS. LOUISIANA

It was a chute that was used when the mill was in operation to load the raw sugar onto barges. The old wharf had been demolished and a new one constructed that was five feet higher to accommodate the passage of illegal immigrants under the water without being visible on the surface. The newer, raised wharf now sat a good foot over the early loading chute.

The dog levers were badly rusted and probably hadn't been opened in eighty years. But the bayou water did not have the salt content of the sea. The corrosion was not deep. Pitt gripped a dog lever with both hands, positioned his feet against the upper planks of the wharf and pulled downward.

To his delight, the lever gave and moved an inch on the first try. The next heave took it three inches; then it turned more easily. Finally, he twisted it out against its stop. The second dog lever came slightly easier, but the third fought him every inch of the way. Gasping and panting, Pitt rested for a minute before pulling the door open. It fought too. He had to put both feet against the breakwater and pull with every ounce of strength he had left.

At last the iron door grudgingly squeaked open on its rusting hinges. Pitt peered inside, but all he could see was darkness. He turned and swam under the wharf, stopping just before he reached the shantyboat's hull. He called up softly. “Al, are you there?”

His only response came from Romberg. Curious, the hound strolled onto the wharf and sniffed through the cracks in the planking just above Pitt's head. “Not you. I want Giordino.”

Romberg began wagging his tail. He stretched out his front paws, and lay down on the wharf and playfully tried to dig through the wooden planking.

Inside the guard shack, Giordino turned every minute or two and stared at the shantyboat for an indication of Pitt's return. Seeing Romberg pawing and scratching on the wharf for something underneath made him curious. He slowly walked through the gate and stopped by the dog. “What are you sniffing at?” he asked.

“Me!” Pitt whispered through the planking.

“Jeez!” muttered Giordino. “For a second I thought Romberg could talk.”

Pitt stared up between the cracks in the planks. “Where did you get the uniform?”

“The guard decided to take a nap, and charitable, benevolent fellow that I am, I offered to stand his watch.”

“Even with my limited view I can tell it's a lousy fit.”

“You might be interested to learn,” said Giordino, facing away from the sugar mill and rubbing a two-day-whiskered chin to cover his lip movements, “this place is owned by the Butterfield Freight Corporation, not Qin Shang Maritime. Also, the guard may have Asian ancestry, but I figure he went to school in either L.A. or San Francisco.”

“Butterfield has to be a corporate front used by Shang to move people in and out of here. There's a submerged vehicle connected to the bottom of the barge that has the capacity to transport close to four hundred bodies.”

“Then we've found the mother lode.”

“We'll know shortly, just as soon as I get inside.”

“How?” asked Giordino simply.

“I found a chute that was used to load sugar onto barges. It appears to lead toward the main building.”

“Watch your step and make it fast. I don't know how much longer I can fool whoever is monitoring me.”

“They have a camera on you?” asked Pitt.

“I've counted three and suspect there may be a few more around the perimeter I haven't spotted yet,” Giordino answered.

“Can you drop my forty-five over the side? I don't want to go in naked.”

“I'll lower it over the side.”

“You're okay, Al. I don't care what they say about you,” said Pitt.

“If I hear a gunshot,” said Giordino as he walked toward the shantyboat, “Romberg and I will come running.”

“That should be a sight to behold.”

Giordino entered the shantyboat, took Pitt's Colt automatic and shiftily lowered it on a string through a window until it hung just above the water surface opposite the wharf. He felt a sharp tug on the line and the gun was gone. Then he slowly made his way back to the guard shack, where he unholstered the impressive Wesson Firearms .357 Magnum revolver that he'd taken off the unconscious guard, and waited for something to happen.

Pitt dropped his air tank, weight belt and the rest of the dive gear below the shantyboat. Clad only in his wet suit and carrying the Colt above his head to keep it dry, he stroked under the wharf to the chute portal and climbed inside. It was a tight squeeze, and he had to pull his body along a few inches at a time. The Colt he slipped under the collar of his wet suit against his upper chest, making it easy merely to bend his arm and retrieve it should an unpleasant occasion arise. The light decreased the farther he penetrated the chute, his body blocking off a fair share of it. But he could still see well enough to pick out any obstacles that lay ahead. He fervently hoped he wouldn't run up against a poisonous snake. With almost no room to maneuver, he would either have to club it to death with the old Colt or shoot it. One event risked a bite from fangs, the other detection by security guards.

Then a belated fear flooded his mind. What if the other end was blocked by another iron door that could only be opened from the opposite side? There was no denying the possibility. But the gamble was worth the effort, he rationalized. Nothing ventured and all that. He forged on until the chute began to slope upward. The going became more difficult as gravity began to work against him.

Fingertips scraped raw from clawing the corroded lining of the chute, Pitt continued forward. A vivid imagination could have easily conjured up visions of nightmare monsters from an alien world lurking in the darkness ahead, but reality revealed an empty, hollow chute, nothing more. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the chute began to widen, as if blossoming into the upper half of a giant funnel. Then suddenly and completely unanticipatedly, he found himself crawling into a large bin that flared upward and out to the sides. The upper lip was only four feet away. He struggled upward, gaining a grip and pulling himself higher, then climbing toward the upper rim of the chute.

Automatic grasped in one hand and only dimly aware of the curious prickling sensation moving up the nape of his neck, he heard voices drifting into the chute, voices that were not speaking English. He also became strongly aware of the heavy, sickening odor of human bodies packed too long in a stifling atmosphere. Pitt raised his head until his eyes could see over the edge of the chute. He found himself gazing down from a height of twelve feet into a large chamber scarcely lit by a small dirty skylight in the ceiling. The walls of the chamber were dingy brick, the floor concrete.

Standing, lying or crouched in the stale atmosphere of the chamber, packed together shoulder to shoulder with little or no room to move about, were over three hundred men, women and children in varying states of sickness, malnutrition and fatigue. All appeared to be Chinese. Pitt scanned the chamber but saw no guards. The mass of humanity below was sealed in what was once the sugar-processing room; the only entrance was barred by a thick wooden door.

As he watched, the door abruptly swung open, and an Asian wearing the same uniform Giordino had taken off the guard at the dock roughly pushed a man into the crowded chamber. A woman, who Pitt assumed was the man's wife, had her arms tightly pinned by another guard in a passage outside. The door slammed shut with an echoing thud, and the man, in a highly emotional state, pounded on it and cried out in Chinese, clearly begging the guards not to take the woman away.

Without misgivings or thoughts of personal risk, Pitt dropped out of the chute opening onto the floor below, landing on his feet between two women, knocking both into people packed around them, creating a ripple in the mass. The women stared at him in startled curiosity but said nothing. No one else gave indication of his sudden appearance.

Pitt didn't bother to beg their pardon. He moved quickly through the huddled crowd of bodies toward the door. Reaching it, he gently pushed the sobbing man aside and then rapped on the door with the butt of his Colt. It was a familiar knock, one long, four short, two long, often given by someone friendly with the occupants on the other side. After the second try, Pitt's brazenness was rewarded. As he'd hoped, the guard's curiosity was aroused by the incomprehensible rap instead of the crazed pounding from a distraught husband.

The lock clacked and the door was thrown open again, only this time with Pitt standing behind it. A guard burst back into the chamber, grabbing the husband by the collar and shaking him like a fruit tree. The other guard still stood in the passage, pinning the woman's arms cruelly behind her back. He spoke angrily in perfect English.

“Tell that dumb bastard for the last time, he isn't getting his wife back until he forks over another ten thousand U.S. dollars.”

Pitt's arm whirled in a blurred arc downward, the butt of the Colt in his hand connecting solidly on the side of the first guard's head, sending him unconscious to the concrete floor. Then Pitt stepped into the open doorway, gun pointed steadily at the head of the man with the young woman.

“I don't mean to intrude, but I believe you have something that belongs to someone else.”

The guard's jaw, already open at seeing his colleague crumpled in a heap, dead to the world, began working furiously as he stared pop-eyed at the apparition in the black wet suit. “Who the hell are you?”

“I was hired by your captives to act as their agent,” Pitt said, smiling. “Now let the girl go.”

The guard had guts, Pitt had to admit that. One arm moved up and encircled the young woman's neck. “Drop the gun or by God I'll snap her neck.”

Pitt stepped forward and raised the Colt until the muzzle was only a few inches from the guard's left eye. “I'll blow your eyes out if you do. Is that what you want, to spend the rest of your days as a blind man?”

The guard was smart enough to know he was in a no-win situation. He looked up and down the passageway in hope of finding help. But he was alone. Slowly, he acted as if his hold was loosening around the woman's neck while his other hand inched toward a gun in a holster at his hip.

Pitt caught the movement and rammed the muzzle of the Colt into the guard's eye. “Not a wise gamble, my friend.” He smiled pleasantly, his teeth gleaming in the pale light.

The guard gasped in pain, dropped his hold on the woman and clutched both hands to his eye. “Oh God, you blinded me!”

“No such luck,” Pitt said briefly as he yanked the guard into the chamber by the collar. He didn't have to order the woman; she had already rushed by him and thrown herself into her husband's arms. “The worst you can expect is a bloodshot eyeball for a few days.”

Pitt kicked the big door closed, crouched down and hurriedly removed the guards' revolvers from their holsters. Then he searched them for concealed weapons. The guard he'd knocked unconscious carried a small .32-caliber automatic strapped to his pants belt behind his back; the other had a bowie knife stuffed in one boot. Then he checked them for size to see which one came closest in height and weight. They were both considerably shorter, but one nearly matched his chest and waist measurements.

As he began to switch clothes, Pitt spoke to the hushed horde who stared back at him as if he was some kind of deity. “Do any of you speak English?”

Two people made their way toward him. One was an elderly man with a long white beard, the other an attractive woman in her mid-thirties. “My father and I can speak English,” she said. “We both taught languages at Chungking University.”

Pitt swept his hand around the chamber. “Please tell them to bind and gag these men and hide their bodies as far away from the door as possible, where they can't be easily found.”

The father and daughter nodded. “We understand,” he replied. “We will also caution them to remain quiet.”

“Thank you,” said Pitt, as he stripped off his wet suit. “Am I correct in saying that you have all been treated badly by the smugglers who are extorting you for more money?”

“Yes,” answered the woman, “all you say is true. We were subjected to unspeakable conditions during the voyage from China. After we arrived in the United States, we were brought here by the enforcers from Qin Shang Maritime, where we were turned over to an American-Chinese crime syndicate. It is they who are extorting us for more money by threatening to either kill or force us into indentured slavery if we do not pay.”

“Tell them all to take heart,” said Pitt solemnly. “Help is on the way.”

He finished dressing, grinning when he noticed that a good three inches of socks showed between the guard's shoes—two sizes too small—and the bottom cuffs of the trousers. While the guards were dragged to the other end of the chamber and bound, Pitt slipped one revolver and the Colt automatic inside his pants and buttoned the shirt over them. Next he adjusted the holster containing the second guard's revolver at his side. Then, with a quick look of encouragement to the poor wretched immigrants, he stepped into the passage, quietly closed the door and locked it.

Twenty feet to the left of the door the passage ended in a tangled mass of old rusty machinery that filled it from floor to ceiling. Pitt went right and came to a stairway ascending to a corridor that opened onto a series of rooms with huge copper pots that had corroded over the decades until the once-bright metal had changed to a patinated green.

Pitt entered one of what had been the sugar cane cooking rooms and peered through a long row of dusty windows. Below him was a vast storage and shipping terminal. A pair of railroad tracks ran between two loading docks before stopping at a concrete barrier. Broad doors on one end of the floor were spread open to accommodate three freight cars that were being backed down a slope by a diesel-eiectric locomotive painted in the blue and orange colors of the Louisiana & Southern Railroad.

Next to the building near the railroad tracks, Pitt could see a parked pair of white stretch limousines, their drivers talking together while watching with interest as the train rolled past.

It became startlingly clear to Pitt that the immigrants he'd just left were about to be loaded on the freight cars. Accompanied by a growing knot in his stomach, he also observed that the loading docks were manned by nearly a dozen guards. After seeing all there was to see, he sat down below the window, back to the wall, and considered the situation.

Stopping the smugglers from boarding the immigrants onto the train looked grim. Stalling them was a tactic that lay open, but what good would delaying the inevitable do? He might take out four or five of the guards before they recovered from surprise and blasted him, but where were the percentages in that? There was almost no hope of terminating the departure, but there was a slim chance of bringing it to a standstill, at least for the next few hours.

Pitt removed his small arsenal and studied the two .357 magnum revolvers, the bowie knife and his steadfast old Colt. The six-shot revolvers gave him twelve rounds. Many years ago he had redesigned the grip on the Colt to hold a twelve-shot magazine. The revolvers were loaded with hollow-point cartridges, excellent for stopping power and producing extreme tissue damage in man and animal, but not efficient for what Pitt had in mind. His .45 packed Winchester 185-grain Sil-vertips, which were not as brutal on flesh but had better penetration. He had twenty-four chances to stop the train's departure. Only one lucky shot would do it. The problem was that although he had more than enough killing power, he was woefully short in the metal-piercing department. His intent was to strike a vital part of the diesel engines and electric generators, shutting down all power to the drive wheels.

Pitt sighed, rose to his knees, took the revolvers in both hands and commenced firing, aiming at the louvered sides of the locomotive.

JULIA HAD NO IDEA OF HOW LONG SHE HAD BEEN UNCONSCIOUS. The last thing she remembered was the soft face of a woman, a very beautiful woman, dressed in a red Oriental-silk sheath dress slit up the sides, tearing Julia's blouse from her shoulders. As the haze lifted she became aware of a fiery, burning sensation that coursed through her body. She also discovered that her hands and feet were in manacles with chains running around her waist and snaking through the bars of a gate, brutally pulling her arms out of their sockets, leaving her toes barely touching the floor. The chains were worked tight and looped over the door, making it impossible for her to move even fractionally.

Only the cool, damp air that touched and tingled her bare skin gave her relief from the searing fire flowing in her veins. She slowly came to realize that her clothes were gone and she was dressed in little else but her bra and panties.

The woman, who looked Eurasian, stared at Julia from a nearby chair. She sat with her legs curled under her and smiled a catlike smile that sent a shiver running through Julia. Her hair was shiny black and fell in a long cascade down her back. Her shoulders were broad, her breasts nicely rounded, her slim

waist neatly merging with trim hips. She wore makeup with skill and her nails were incredibly long. But it was her eyes that drew Julia's interest. The scientific term was heterochro-mia. One of her eyes was nearly black while the other was a light gray. The effect was hypnotic.

“Well?” she said sociably. “Welcome back to reality.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is May Ching. I serve the Dragon Triad.”

“Not Qin Shang?”

“No.”

“Not very sporting of you to drug me,” Julia whispered angrily, fighting off the internal torment raging inside her body.

“I suspect you did no less to Lin Wan Chu, the cook on board the Sung Lien Star,” said May Ching. “Where is she, by the way?”

“She's being treated better than I am.”

May Ching casually lit a cigarette and blew the smoke toward Julia. “We had quite a chat, you and I.”

“I was interrogated?” Julia exclaimed. “I don't remember.”

“You wouldn't. The very latest in truth serums. Not only does it reverse the mind to a child of five, but it makes the body feel as if your blood turned into molten lava. Between the madness and the agony, no man or woman, regardless of how strong-willed, can refuse honest answers to intimate questions. By the way, just so you won't feel unduly embarrassed, it was I who undressed and searched you. Clever hiding places for your little automatic and knife. Most men wouldn't have thought to look between your legs and inside your biceps. Being a woman, however, your radio was exactly where I thought it would be.”

“You're not Chinese.”

“Only on my mother's side,” answered May Ching. “My father was British.”

At that moment Ki Wong entered the room with another man whose facial features were also Eurasian. They both stood in front of Julia, staring at her lewdly. Wong's sallow skin stretched tautly and contrasted with his companion's suntanned face and neck. As he stared at her, he seemed to revel in a perverse satisfaction.

“Excellently done,” he informed May Ching. “You obtained an incredible supply of information that will be most useful. Discovering that Miss Lee is working hi cooperation with the Coast Guard, who has our facility under surveillance from across the bayou, has given us the necessary time to remove all immigrants and any evidence of their presence before local authorities and immigration agents can marshal their forces to conduct a raid.”

“Fifteen more minutes and all they'll find are abandoned ruins,” said the other man. His eyes were black and vapid, like those of a raccoon. A scavenger's eyes, bright without warmth. His hair was long, black and tied in a ponytail that came halfway down his back. His face portrayed someone who lived high, a party animal, a Las Vegas gambler, a womanizer. The skin was taut from more than one face-lift. Nothing done by a surgeon hid the fact that he would never see fifty again. He was dressed fashionably for a Hollywood lifestyle.

He stepped over to Julia, reached out, took a handful of hair and cruelly pulled her head back until she was staring up at the ceiling. “My name is Jack Loo,” he said icily. “You belong to me.”

“I belong to no one,” Julia gasped through lips taut from the sudden pain.

“Not so,” said Wong. “Qin Shang's orders were to kill you on sight. But Mr. Loo made an offer I cannot refuse. For a tidy sum, I sold you to him.”

“You sick beast,” Julia flashed at him, fear beginning to spread in her eyes.

“Do not entirely blame me,” Wong said as if wounded. “Your future is now in the hands of the Dragon Triad, Qin Shang Maritime's partners in crime, you might say. We export and the Dragon Triad imports. We smuggle and sell; they buy, be it drugs, aliens or weapons. In return, Mr. Loo, who is their chief executive officer, and his partners provide Qin Shang with stolen luxury automobiles, yachts, consumer goods, high technology, and counterfeit currency, credit cards and government documents for shipment to China.”

“A most profitable arrangement for both sides,” said Loo, twisting Julia's hair viciously until she screamed. Then he slapped her hard across the buttocks and began removing the chains. “You and I are going for a nice, long ride in my limo. By the time we reach New Orleans, we'll be on very close terms.”

“You will pay,” Julia murmured as she was released from the door, her wrists and ankles free of the manacles. Unable to stand, she sagged into Loo's arms. “I am an agent of the United States government. Kill me and they'll never rest until you're brought to justice.”

Wong laughed off her threat. “You have no one but yourself to blame for your plight. Qin Shang sent a force of no less than twenty men to track you and Mr. Pitt down for the purpose of killing you both. They lost your trail and certainly never expected you to walk through our front door.”

“I was stupid.”

Wong shrugged in agreement. “Granted, impulsive behavior is not what makes a good government agent—” Wong was suddenly interrupted by the sound of gunfire from somewhere within the building. He stared at Loo, who removed a portable phone from a pocket of his expensive sport coat and spoke into the receiver.

“Where is the gunfire coming from?” demanded Loo. “Are we being raided?”

“No, Mr. Loo,” his chief of security answered from the monitoring-systems room. “There is no raid. All grounds and wharf are clear. The gunfire is coming from a room above the train-loading dock. We do not yet know who is behind the attack nor his purpose.”

“Are there casualties?”

“No,” answered the security chief. “Whoever is shooting is not aiming at our guards.”

“Keep me informed!” Loo snapped. He nodded at Wong. “It is time to go.” He had barely spoken the words when the shooting stopped. “What has happened?” he inquired, snatching up the radio again.

The security chief's voice came back. “We must have hit him. I am sending a team upstairs to examine the body.”

“I wonder who it can be,” Wong muttered thoughtfully.

“We'll know shortly,” Loo muttered. He threw Julia over his shoulder as lightly as if she was a large pillow. He shook hands with Wong. “Good doing business with you, Mr. Wong. I suggest you find a new staging depot. This one is no longer safe.”

Wong smiled without the slightest expression of agitation. “Three days from now Qin Shang Maritime's new operation will be firmly established and the Americans will have bigger problems on their minds.”

With Wong in the lead, they left the office together and hurried down a circular staircase that opened onto a wide corridor leading past empty storage and equipment rooms last used when the sugar mill was in operation. They were halfway down the corridor when Loo's beeper went off on his radio. “Yes, what is it?” he said irritably.

“Our security agents stationed throughout St. Mary Parish report a small fleet of Coast Guard boats entering Bayou Teche, and a pair of helicopters with government markings just now passing over Morgan City, headed in this direction.”

“How long before they arrive?” asked Loo.

“The helicopters,” said his security chief, “fifteen, maybe eighteen minutes. Add half an hour for the boats.”

“All right, close down all systems and follow the plan for evacuation and dispersal of all personnel.”

“Shutting down now.”

“We should be in our limos and on the road in less than three minutes,” said Loo, shifting Julia to his other shoulder.

“More than enough time to put a safe distance between us and the mill,” Wong acknowledged.

When they reached a doorway leading to stairs that dropped to the basement shipping terminal, they heard the shouting of voices but no sounds from the locomotive. Then the voices died and it became clear that something was very, very wrong. They burst through a doorway onto a landing high above the loading dock. Wong, ahead of the rest, stopped and froze in shock.

The freight cars had been loaded with the immigrants and their doors shut and locked. But the engine sat idle, with blue smoke curling up through bullet holes on the panels covering the diesel engines and electric generating compartment. The engineers stood looking at the damage, their expressions reflecting helplessness and bafflement. The security guards who worked for the Triad had already climbed into a truck that quickly drove off toward the main highway the instant it was loaded.

Suddenly Loo realized why the unknown assailant did not shoot at the guards. Fear and confusion swept over him as he understood that the train was not going anywhere. Three hundred immigrants and a cargo of illegal goods worth nearly thirty million dollars was going to be captured and confiscated by United States government agents. He turned to Wong. “I'm sorry, my friend, but because the transfer of goods was not able to take place, I must hold Qin Shang responsible.” “What are you saying?” demanded Wong. “Simple,” explained Loo. “I'm saying the Dragon Triad is not paying for this shipment.”

“Qin Shang Maritime delivered as agreed,” Wong said thickly. If Loo and the Dragon Triad reneged on their deal with his boss, Wong knew that he would be held responsible. Failure of this magnitude meant death when one was in the employ of Qin Shang. “The goods and property were turned over and placed in your hands. You will be held accountable.”

“Without us, Qin Shang cannot do business in the United States,” Loo said smugly. “The way I see it, he is powerless to do anything but accept the loss.”

“He is far more powerful than you think,” said Wong. “You are making a grave mistake.”

“You tell Qin Shang that Jack Loo is not afraid of him. Valuable friends are not to be cast off like old clothes. He is too wise not to accept a minor defeat that he can recoup in a week.”

Wong gazed ferretlike at Loo.

“Then our little deal is off concerning Miss Lee. She reverts back to me.”

Loo considered that for a moment, then he laughed. “Didn't you say Qin Shang wants her dead?” “Yes, that is true,” Wong said, nodding. Loo lifted Julia above his head with both hands. “The drop from here onto the steel rails of the track bed is thirty feet. Suppose I fulfill Qin Shang's wish to kill Miss Lee and make reparation for our financial differences.”

Wong glanced down at the steel rails lying directly below and between the rear of the last freight car and the concrete stop barrier. “Yes, you make an excellent point. I think Qin Shang might be appeased for his loss. But please make it now. We can no longer afford to waste time. We must leave quickly.”

Loo extended his arms and tensed. Julia screamed. Wong and May Ching were waiting in sadistic anticipation. None of them noticed a tall, curly-haired man in an ill-fitting security uniform who had stepped silently down the stairs behind them. “Forgive me for interrupting,” said Pitt, jamming the muzzle of his Colt against the base of Loo's skull, “but if anyone so much as scratches their nose, I'll blow their gray matter into the next parish.”

They all turned instinctively toward the strange voice, each forming different expressions on their faces at his abrupt appearance. Loo's tan features went pallid, his eyes blank with incredulity. May Ching's features went taut with dread. Wong looked downright curious.

“Who are you?” Wong asked.

Pitt ignored him. When he spoke, it was to Loo. “Put the lady down gently.” To emphasize his demand, Pitt jammed the .45 solidly into the flesh of Loo's neck below the skull.

“Don't shoot, please don't shoot,” pleaded Loo as he slowly lowered Julia to her feet, his beady eyes glazed with fear.

Julia crumpled to her knees. It was then that Pitt saw the terrible bruises on Julia's wrists and ankles. Without a second's hesitation, he clubbed Loo on the temple with the barrel of the Colt, watching with grim satisfaction as the Triad director dropped and rolled down the stairs.

Unable to believe the voice was really his, Julia looked up and saw the opaline-green eyes and the crooked grin. “Dirk!” she muttered dazedly as she reached up and gentry touched the bandage on his broken nose. “Oh God, oh God, you're here. How, how in the world ... ?”

Pitt wanted desperately to lift her up and hold her in his arms, but he didn't dare take his eyes off of Wong. He read the expression and knew Qin Shang's enforcer was coiled to strike like a snake. With foresight, he also predicted May Ching had nothing to lose now that her boss was a broken body at the foot of the stairs. She stared at him with a look of cold hatred no woman had ever speared him with before. Pitt kept his eyes on her and the gun trained on Wong's forehead. “I just happened to be passing by and thought I'd drop in and say hello.”

“Your name is Dirk?” Wong said tightly. “Am I to presume you are Dirk Pitt?”

“I certainly hope so. And you?”

“Ki Wong, and the lady is May Ching. What do you intend to do with us?”

“Ki Wong,” said Pitt thoughtfully. “Where have I heard that name before?”

Julia was astute. Without jeopardizing Pitt's vigilance, she circled her arms around his waist from the back so as not to restrict his movements.

“He's Qin Shang's chief enforcer,” said Julia, slowly struggling to her feet. “He interrogates the immigrants and decides who lives and dies. He was the one who tortured me on board the Indigo Star.”

“You're not a very nice man, are you?” said Pitt conversationally. “I've seen your handiwork.”

Without warning a guard appeared from nowhere. Too late, Pitt caught the unexpected presence from May Ching's eyes as they flashed from hatred to triumph at seeing the uniformed guard. Desperately he whirled around to face his attacker as Wong threw himself at Pitt. May Ching screamed.

“Kill him! Kill him!”

“I always respect a lady's wishes,” said the intruder without emotion. The .357 magnum revolver in his hand spat ike, the deafening blast reverberating around the landing as if it came from a cannon. Wong's eyes burst from their sockets as the bullet's impact struck him square, just above the bridge of the nose. He reeled backward, arms outstretched, and careened over the railing, his already dead body crashing onto the rails far below.

Giordino regarded his handiwork modestly. “I hope I did the right thing.”

“And high time too,” said Pitt, hoping his heart would start pumping again.

“Damn you!” shrieked May Ching, leaping at Pitt, her ringers with their long nails curled to gouge out his eyes.

She only took one step before Julia's fist rammed into May Ching's mouth, splitting the lips and sending a spurt of blood down the front of the red silk dress. “You bitch!” said Julia fiercely. “That's for drugging me.” Another convulsive movement, and Julia's next blow took May Ching in the stomach, sending the lady from the Dragon Triad to her knees, gasping for breath. “And that's for leaving me half naked in front of men.”

“Remind me never to make you mad,” Pitt said with a grin.

She massaged her fist and stared up at him, her face sad and strained. “If only we could have caught them in the act of transporting illegal immigrants. God only know how many lives we could have saved. Now it's too late.”

Pitt hugged her tenderly, favoring her cracked ribs. “Didn't you know?”

“Know?” she said, puzzled. “Know what?”

He motioned toward the train below. “There are over three hundred of them locked into freight cars down there.”

Caught off balance, she stiffened as if Pitt had struck her. She stared uncomprehending at the train. “They were here and I never saw them.”

“How did you get to the sugar mill?” he asked her.

“I sneaked on board the trash barge as it left the Sung Lien Star.”

“Then you rode on top of them from Sungari. They came across the sea from China in a submerged container that was moved by an underwater rail system from under the Sung Lien Star to the barge that brought mem here.”

Her voice suddenly became hard. “We've got to free them before the train leaves.”

“Not to worry,” said Pitt with a canny smile. “Even Mussolini couldn't make that train run on time.”

They were unlocking the freight cars and helping the illegal immigrants onto the loading docks when the Immigration and Naturalization Service agents and coast guardsmen arrived and took over.

PRESIDENT DEAN COOPER WALLACE CAME FROM BEHIND HIS desk as Qin Shang stepped into the oval office of the White House. He put out a hand and said, “My dear Qin Shang, how good to see you.”

Qin Shang pressed the President's hand in both of his. “It's so kind of you to see me in light of your busy schedule.”

“Nonsense, I'm deeply in your debt.”

“Will you be needing me?” asked Morton Laird, who had escorted Qin Shang from the reception room.

“Please stay, Morton,” said the President. “I'd like you to be present.”

The President showed Qin Shang to a pair of sofas that faced across a coffee table, and they sat down. “I wish you to convey my deep appreciation to Premier Wu Kwong for his generous contribution to my presidential campaign. And please tell him he has my promise of close cooperation between our two governments.”

“Premier Kwong will be happy to hear it,” said Qin Shang affably.

“What can I do for you, Qin Shang?” asked the President, setting the discussion in a firm direction.

“As you know, certain members of Congress have been calling my country a slave state and condemning what they call human-rights abuses. They are currently proposing a bill to reject our most-favored-nation status. Premier Wu Kwong fears they may muster enough votes to push through the bill's passage.”

“Rest assured,” the President said, smiling, “I fully intend to veto any bill Congress passes that jeopardizes trade between our two countries. I've also gone on record as stating that mutual trade benefits are the best opportunity to eliminate the human-rights questions.”

“Do I have your word on that, Mr. President?” asked Qin Shang, his aggressiveness pulling a negative expression from Chief of Staff Laird.

“You can tell Premier Wu Kwong that he has my personal assurance.”

Laird marveled at the conciliatory atmosphere in the room between the shipping tycoon and the President when the air should have crackled with antagonism.

“The other matter of concern is the harassment by your Coast Guard and immigration agents of my ships. Search boardings have become more numerous and extensive in the past months, and shipping-schedule delays have proved very costly.”

“I understand your concern, Qin Shang,” said Wallace flatly. “At last count by the INS there were six million people living illegally in the United States. A good percentage of them, so the Immigration and Naturalization Service claims, were smuggled into the country in your ships, and the fiasco at Orion Lake was not an easy event to conceal. By rights I should have you arrested as you stand in my office and indicted for mass murder.”

There was no display of indignation from Qin Shang. He stared at the most powerful man in the world without blinking. “Yes, under your laws you have every right to do so. But then you run the risk of much delicate information being leaked to the American public about your secret dealings with Qin Shang Maritime and the People's Republic of China.”

“Are you threatening blackmail against the President of the United States?” Wallace demanded, suddenly disturbed.

“Please forgive me,” Qin Shang acquiesced quickly. “I merely wished to remind the President of possible contingencies.”

“I will not condone mass murder.”

“An unfortunate event caused by criminal syndicates in your own country,” Qin Shang countered.

“Not in the report I read.”

“You have my solemn oath there will be no repetition of Orion Lake.”

“In return, you want your ships left alone. Is that it?”

Qin Shang nodded. “I would be most grateful.”

Wallace looked at Laird. “Inform Admiral Ferguson and Duncan Monroe that I wish the Coast Guard and INS to treat the inspection of Qin Shang Maritime ships entering our waters with the same courtesy offered to any other foreign shipping company.”

Laird's brow was furrowed in disbelief. He sat quietly and did not immediately acknowledge the presidential order.

“Thank you, Mr. President,” said Qin Shang courteously. “I speak for my board of directors when I say we are very honored by your friendship.”

“You're not off the hook that easily, Qin Shang,” said Wallace. “Please pass on my concern to Premier Wu Kwong regarding the continued use of slave labor to manufacture your trade goods. If we are to maintain close ties, his government must accept the use of decently paid workers in its manufacturing facilities and reject violation of human rights. Otherwise, I will cut off our export of phosphatic fertilizers to China.”

Morton Laird smiled inwardly. At last the President struck a chord. Phosphatic fertilizers exceeded one billion dollars in sales by a chemical company in Texas that was a subsidiary of the vast global chemical corporation in Jiangsu Province with headquarters in Shanghai. Without threatening trade sanctions against Chinese exported cotton goods, shoes, toys, radios, television sets and related items that totaled over fifty billion dollars a year, Wallace had zeroed in on the most essential commodity of all.

Qin Shang's green eyes briefly flashed with uneasiness. “I will relate your counsel to Premier Wu Kwong.”

Wallace stood, signaling an end to the discussion.

“Thank you, Mr. President. It was a privilege to meet with you again.”

“I'll accompany you to the reception room,” said Laird graciously, while diplomatically concealing his contempt for the financial criminal.

A few minutes later Laird returned to the Oval Office. Wallace did not look up as he signed a stack of bills sent over from Congress. “Well, Morton, it was obvious by the sour apple look on your face that you're not happy with my performance.”

“No, sir, I am not. I am appalled that you even talk to that murderer.”

“He's not the first ghoul from hell who has walked in this office since it was built. If not for Qin Shang and his influence with the Chinese government, I might not be sitting where lam.”

“You are being conned, sir. Conned by Qin Shang and his government up and down Pennsylvania Avenue. In the interest of political expediency, Mr. President, you've dug yourself a grave too deep to climb out of.”

“We're dealing with a country that has one-point-four billion people,” Wallace persisted. “This presents an incredible opportunity to sell billions of dollars' worth of American goods. Whatever sin I've committed was in the interest of the country.”

“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.”

“Not the least of which is Duncan Monroe's humble apology that he asked me to convey,” Harper said, making a show of penitence by pumping Pitt's and Giordino's hands. “I also wish to express my personal debt of gratitude to NUMA and to you gentlemen for ignoring our demands to disassociate yourselves from the investigation. Without your timely intervention at Bartholomeaux, our assault team would have found nothing but a dead INS agent and an empty sugar mill. The only unfortunate aspect was the killing of Ki Wong.”

“I suppose in hindsight I should have kneecapped him,”

Giordino said without remorse. “But he was not a nice man.”

“I fully realize your act was justified,” admitted Harper,“but with Ki Wong dead, we lost a direct link to Qin Shang.”

“Was he that essential to your case?” Captain Lewis queried Harper. “It seems to me you have more than enough proof to hang Qin Shang from the nearest tree. He was caught red-handed smuggling nearly four hundred illegal immigrants into Sungari and then up Bayou Teche to Bartholomeaux. All on vessels owned by his shipping company and by men on his payroll. What more could you want?”

“Proving the orders came directly from Qin Shang.”

Sandecker seemed as puzzled as Lewis. “Surely you have all the evidence you need to indict him now.”

“We can indict,” acknowledged Harper, “but whether we can convict is another story. We're looking at a long, drawn-out legal fight that federal prosecutors are not certain they can win. Qin Shang will counterattack with a task force of highly paid and respected Washington attorneys. He has the Chinese government and certain ranking members of Congress on his side, and also, I'm sorry to say, possibly the White House. When we look at all the political lOUs that he will undoubtedly call due, you can see that we are not getting in the ring with a lightweight, but rather a very powerful and highly connected man.”

“Wouldn't Chinese government leaders turn their backs on him if it meant a huge scandal?” inquired Frank Stewart.

Harper shook his head. “His services and influence in Washington cancel out any political liabilities that might result.”

“Surely, you have enough on Qin Shang to close down Sungari and cut off all shipping by Qin Shang Maritime into the United States,” probed General Montaigne, speaking for the first time.

“Yes, it's within our power,” answered Harper. “But the billions of dollars' worth of Chinese goods that are pouring into the United States are carried on Qin Shang Maritime ships, subsidized by their government. They'd be cutting their own throat if they sat by and remained silent while we slammed the door on Qin Shang's shipping line.” He paused to massage his temples. Harper was clearly a man who did not relish losing a battle to forces beyond his control. “At the moment all we can do is prevent his smuggling operations from succeeding and hope that he makes a colossal mistake.”

A knock came at the door, and Lieutenant Stowe entered. He silently handed Captain Lewis a message and just as quietly departed. Lewis scanned the wording and looked over the table at Frank Stewart. "A communication from your first officer,

Captain. He said you wished to be kept informed on any new developments concerning the old luxury liner the United States."

Stewart nodded at Pitt. “Dirk is the one who is monitoring the ship's passage up the Mississippi.”

Lewis handed the message to Pitt. “Pardon me for reading it, but it simply says the United States has passed under the Crescent City Connection and greater New Orleans bridges and is approaching the city's commercial waterfront, where it will be docked as a permanently floating hotel and casino.”

“Thank you, Captain. Another puzzling project with Qin Shang's tentacles wrapped around it.”

“Quite a feat just sailing it up the river from the Gulf,” said Montaigne. “You might compare it with dropping a pin through a straw without it touching the sides.”

“I'm glad you're here, General,” said Pitt. “I have nagging questions that only you, as an expert on the river, can answer.”

“I'll be glad to try.”

“I have a crazy theory that Qin Shang built Sungari where he did because he intends to destroy a section of the levee and divert the Mississippi into the Atchafalaya, making it the most important port on the Gulf of Mexico.”

It would be an overstatement to say that the men and one woman seated in the wardroom all accepted Pitt's fanciful scenario—all, that is, except General Montaigne. He nodded his head like a professor who threw a trick question at a student and received the correct answer. “It may surprise you to learn, Mr. Pitt, that I've had the same notion bouncing around inside my own head for the past six months.”

“Divert the Mississippi,” Captain Lewis said in a careful sort of voice. “There are many, myself included, who would say that's unthinkable.”

“Unthinkable, perhaps, but not unimaginable to a man with Qin Shang's diabolic mind,” Giordino said evenly.

Sandecker looked thoughtfully into the distance. “You've hit upon a rationale that should have been obvious from the first day of Sungari's construction.”

Every eye was drawn to General Montaigne when Harper asked the obvious question. “Is it possible, General?”

“The Army Corps has been fighting Nature for over a hundred and fifty years to keep her from accomplishing the same cataclysm,” answered Montaigne. “We all live with the nightmare of a great flood, greater than ever recorded since the first explorers saw the river. When that happens, the Atchafalaya River will become the main stream of the Mississippi. And that section of 'Old Man River' that presently runs from the northern border of Louisiana to the Gulf will become a silted-in tidal estuary. It's happened in the ancient past and it will happen again. If the Mississippi wants to head west, we can't stop her. The event is only a matter of time.”

“Are you telling us that the Mississippi changes course on a set schedule?” asked Stewart.

Montaigne rested his chin on the head of his cane. “Not predictable by the hour or year, but it has wandered back and forth across Louisiana seven times in the past six thousand years. Had it not been for man, and especially the Army Corps of Engineers, the Mississippi would probably be flowing down the Atchafalaya Valley, over the sunken ruins of Morgan City and into the Gulf as we speak.”

“Let us suppose Qin Shang destroys the levee and opens a vast spillway from the Mississippi into the canal he's had dredged into the Atchafalaya,” Pitt speculated. “What would be the result?”

“In one word, catastrophic,” answered Montaigne. “Pushed by a spring runoff current of seven miles an hour, a turbulent flood tide twenty, maybe thirty feet high would explode down the Mystic Canal and rage across the valley. The lives of two hundred thousand residents living on three million acres will be endangered. Most of the marshlands will become permanently inundated. The wall of water will sweep away whole towns, causing a tremendous death toll. Hundreds of thousands of animals, cows, horses, deer, rabbits, family dogs and cats swept away as though they'd never been born. Oyster beds, shrimp nurseries and catfish farms will be destroyed by the sudden decrease in salinity due to the overpowering flow of fresh water. Most of the alligator population and water life will vanish.”

“You paint a grim picture, General,” said Sandecker.

“That's only the pitiful part of the forecast,” said Montaigne. "On the economic side, the surge would collapse the highway and railroad bridges that cross the valley, closing down all transportation from east to west. Generating plants and high-voltage lines will likely be undermined and destroyed, disrupting electrical service for thousands of square miles. The fate of Morgan City would be sealed. It will cease to exist. Interstate gas pipelines will rupture, cutting off major portions of natural gas to every state from Rhode Island and Connecticut to the Carolinas and Florida.

“And then we have the unrepairable damage to what's left of the Mississippi,” he continued. “Baton Rouge would become a ghost town. All barge and water traffic would cease. The Great American Ruhr Valley, with its industrial magnitude of oil refineries, petrochemical plants and grain elevators, could no longer operate efficiently beside a polluted creek. Without fresh water, without the river's ability to scour a channel, it would soon build a wasteland of silt. Isolated from interstate commerce, New Orleans would go the way of Babylon, Angkor Wat and Pueblo Bonito. And like it or not, all oceangoing shipping would be diverted from New Orleans to Sungari. The terrible loss to the economy alone would be measured in the tens of billions of dollars.”

“There's a thought that brings on a migraine,” muttered Giordino.

“Speaking of relief.” Montaigne looked at Captain Lewis. “I don't suppose you have a bottle of whiskey on board?”

“Sorry, sir,” replied Lewis with a slight shake of the head. “No alcohol allowed on a Coast Guard ship.”

“It never hurts to ask.”

“How would the new river compare to the old?” Pitt asked the general.

“At the present time we control the flow of the Mississippi at the Old River Control Structure located about forty-five miles upriver from Baton Rouge. Our purpose is to maintain a distribution of thirty percent into the Atchafalaya and seventy percent into the Mississippi. When the two rivers merge with their full potential of a hundred-percent flow along a straighter path at half the distance to the Gulf compared to the channel through New Orleans, you're going to have one hell of a big river with current flowing at a great rate of speed.”

“Is there no way to plug the gap should it occur?” asked Stewart.

Montaigne thought for a moment. “With the right preparation, there are any number of responses the Corps can make, but the longer it takes to get our equipment in place, the more time the flood widens the hole in the levee. Our only salvation is that the dominant current of the Mississippi would continue in the channel until the levee erodes far enough to accept the entire flow.”

“How long do you think that would take?”

“Difficult to project. Perhaps two hours, perhaps two days.”

“Would the process be speeded up if Qin Shang sank barges diagonally across the Mississippi to divert the main flow?” queried Giordino.

Montaigne thought a moment, then said, “Even if a tow unit consisting of enough barges to block the entire width of the river could be pushed into the correct position and sunk—not an easy maneuver even by the best towboat pilots—the river's main current would still flow over the barges due to their low profile. Sitting on the riverbed, their upper cargo roofs would still have a good thirty to thirty-five feet of water flowing over them. As a diversionary dam, the concept would not prove practical.”

“Is it possible for you to begin preparations for an all-out effort?” asked Captain Lewis. “And have your men and equipment in position ready to go if and when Qin Shang destroys the levee?”

“Yes, it's possible,” answered Montaigne. “It won't come cheap to the taxpayers. The problem I face in issuing the order is that it's based simply on conjecture. We may suspect Qin Shang's motives, but without absolute proof of his intentions, my hands are tied.”

Pitt said, “I do believe, ladies and gentlemen, we've fallen into the 'close the barn door after the horse has escaped' syndrome.”

“Dirk is right,” Sandecker said solidly. “We'd be far better off to stop Qin Shang's operation before it takes place.”

“I'll contact the St. Mary Parish sheriff's department and explain the situation,” volunteered Harper. “I'm sure they will cooperate and send deputies to guard the levee.”

“A sound proposition,” agreed Montaigne. “I'll go one step further. My West Point classmate, General Oskar Olson, commands the National Guard in Louisiana. He'll be glad to send a contingent of troops to back up the sheriff's deputies if I make it a personal request.”

“The first men on the scene should search out and disarm the explosives,” said Pitt.

“They'll need equipment to torch open the iron door to a tunnel that Dirk and I discovered that runs under the highway and levee,” suggested Giordino. “Inside the tunnel is where the explosives are likely stored.”

“If Qin Shang wants to cut a wide breach,” said Montaigne, “he'd have to pack additional explosives into side tunnels that branch out for at least a hundred yards.”

“I'm certain Qin Shang's engineers have figured out what it will take to blow a giant hole in the levee,” said Pitt grimly.

“It feels good,” Sandecker sighed, “to finally have a grip on Qin Shang's testicles.”

“Now all we need to know is the scumbag's time schedule,” said Giordino.

At that moment Lieutenant Stowe reentered the wardroom and handed Captain Lewis another communication. As he read the message, his eyes narrowed. Then he peered at Pitt. “It seems the pieces of the puzzle that were missing have appeared.”

“If the message is for me,” said Pitt, “please read it aloud for everyone.”

Lewis nodded and began reading. “ 'To Mr. Dirk Pitt, NUMA, on board Coast Guard ship Weehawken. Please be advised that the former passenger liner United States has not stopped at New Orleans. I repeat, has not stopped at New Orleans. With total disregard to scheduled docking procedures and welcoming ceremonies, the ship has continued upriver toward Baton Rouge. The captain has refused to answer all radio calls.' ” Lewis looked up. “What do you make of it?”

“Qin Shang never intended to make the United States into a New Orleans hotel and gambling casino,” Pitt explained dryly. “He plans to use it as a diversionary dam. Once the ship's nine-hundred-ninety-foot hull with its height of ninety feet is scuttled diagonally across the river, it will block ninety percent of the Mississippi's flow, sending one enormous flood tide through the shattered levee into the Atchafalaya.”

“Ingenious,” murmured Montaigne. “Then there would be no stopping the full force of the surge once it broke through. Nothing in this world could stop it.”

“You know the Mississippi better than anyone here, General,” Sandecker said to Montaigne. “How long do you think it will take the United States to reach the Mystic Canal below Baton Rouge?”

“Depends,” the general replied. “She'd have to slow to jockey her immense bulk around several sharp turns in the river, but she could use her top speed on the straighter reaches. From New Orleans to where the Mystic Canal stops, just short of the Bayou Goula bend of the Mississippi, is about a hundred miles.”

“With her interior an empty steel shell,” said Pitt, “she rides high in the water, adding to her potential speed. With all her boilers fired up, she can conceivably cut water at close to fifty miles an hour.”

“A band of angels would be powerless to help any barge or pleasure-craft traffic that's caught in her wash,” said Giordino.

Montaigne turned to Sandecker. “She could arrive on site in less than three hours.”

“We haven't a minute to lose in alerting the state emergency services to spread the alarm and begin evacuating every resident of the Atchafalaya Valley,” said Lewis, his face grave.

“Almost five-thirty,” Sandecker said, studying his watch. “We have only until eight-thirty this evening to stop a disaster of incalculable magnitude.” He paused to rub his eyes. “If we fail, hundreds, maybe thousands of innocent people will die and their bodies will be swept out into the Gulf and never found.”

After the meeting was over and everyone had left the wardroom, Pitt and Julia stood alone.

“It seems we're always saying good-bye,” she said, standing with her arms at her sides, her forehead pressed into Pitt's chest.

“A bad habit we have to break,” he said softly.

“I wish I didn't have to return to Washington with Peter, but Commissioner Monroe has ordered me to serve on the task force to indict Qin Shang.”

“You're an important lady for the government's case.”

“Please come home soon,” she whispered as the tears began to form.

He embraced and held her tightly. “You can stay at my hangar. Between my security system and the bodyguards to protect you from harm, you'll be safe until I get there.”

A mischievous twinkle came into her eyes through the tears. “Can I drive your Duesenberg?”

He laughed. “When was the last time you drove a stick shift?”

“Never,” she said, smiling. “I've always owned cars with automatic transmissions.”

“I promise that as soon as I can get there, we'll take the Duesy and go on a picnic.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

He stood back and stared downward at her through his opaline-green eyes. “Try to be a good girl.”

Then he kissed her and they both turned away, neither looking back as they walked apart.

THE RIVER SOUNDS WERE MUTED BY A LIGHT MIST THAT HUNG over the dark water like a diaphanous quilt. The egrets and herons that walked silently along the shorelines, their long, curved beaks dipping into the silt for food, were the first to sense something not of their world moving toward them out of the night. It began as a slight tremor through the water that increased to a sudden rush of air and a loud throb that sent the startled birds flapping into the air.

The few bystanders strolling the levees after dinner and watching the lights of the boats on the water were startled by the sudden appearance of the monstrous shadow. And then the leviathan materialized from the mist with her towering raked bows slicing through the water with incredible ease for an object of such massive proportions. Although her four bronze screws were throttled down to negotiate the sharp bend at Nine Mile Point, she still threw a massive wake that rolled up the levees nearly to the roads running along their crests, crushing small vessels anchored along the shore and sweeping a dozen people into the water. Only after she maneuvered into a straight reach did her engines go on full throttle and thrust her up the river at an incredible rate of speed.

Except for a white light on the stub of her once-tall foremast and the red and green running lights, the only other illumination was an eerie glow that came from her wheelhouse. No movement could be seen on her decks, and only the occasional flicker of silhouettes on the bridge wings offered any signs of life. For the brief minutes it took for her to pass she seemed like a colossal dinosaur charging across a shallow lake. Her white superstructure was a shadow in the gloom, her black hull all but invisible. She flew no flag, her only identification the raised letters of her name on the bows and stern.

Before the mist shrouded her again, her decks seemed to come to life as men scurried about setting up weapons stations and arming an array of portable missile launchers against possible attack by American law enforcement. These were not foreign mercenaries or amateur terrorists. Despite their casual clothing, they were an elite team of fighters—ruthless, trained and disciplined for this mission. If captured alive, they were prepared to commit suicide or die fighting. If the operation went according to plan without interference, they would all be evacuated by helicopters before the ship was scuttled.

Captain Hung-chang had been right about the surprise and shock shown by the thousands of spectators lining the waterfront of New Orleans waiting to welcome the United States, After racing past the all-steel, stern-wheel steamboat called the Natchez IX, he had ordered full speed, watching amused as the great liner left the city behind her stern while crushing a small cabin cruiser and its occupants that had happened to get in the path of her sharp bow. He had laughed when he viewed the faces of the official welcoming committee, consisting of the Louisiana governor, the mayor of New Orleans and other dignitaries, through his binoculars. They looked absolutely stricken when the United States failed to stop and raced on past the dock where she was to be moored and refurbished with plush rooms, restaurants, gift shops and gambling tables.

For the first thirty miles, a fleet of yachts, outboards and fishing boats followed in the liner's wake. A Coast Guard cutter also raced in pursuit up the river, along with sheriff and police patrol cars that tore along parallel highways with sirens screaming and red lights flashing. Helicopters from New Orleans television news channels swarmed around the ship, cameras aimed at the grand scene being enacted below. Hung-chang ignored all orders demanding the ship come to a stop. Unable to match the great ship's incredible speed on the straight runs of the river, the private craft and Coast Guard cutter soon fell back.

As darkness fell, the first real problem Hung-chang faced was not the narrowing of the shipping channel between New Orleans and Baton Rouge that decreased from one thousand to five hundred feet. He was reasonably safe with the forty-foot depth. Her hull was only 101 feet at its widest point, narrowing considerably toward the waterline. If she could pass through the Panama Canal, Hung-chang reasoned, the two-hundred-foot clearance on either side provided just enough leeway through the tight turns. It was clearing the six bridges that spanned the banks of the river that gave him his greatest concern. The spring runoff had added nearly fourteen feet to the height of the river, making for a tight passage.

The United States narrowly slipped under both the Crescent City Connection bridges, and the Huey P. Long Bridge, scraping the lower span with the tops of her towering funnels. The next two bridges, the Luling and Gramercy, provided a slim gap of less than twelve feet of space. Only the Sunshine Bridge at Donaldsonville remained, and Hung-chang had carefully calculated the United States could safely pass under with six feet to spare. After that, the liner was free of all obstructions on her dash to the Mystic Canal except for river traffic.

A myriad of uneasy thoughts began to fade from Hung-chang's mind. There was no strong wind to push the ship off course. Ming Lin guided the ship through the intricate river bends with practiced mastery. And, most important of all, surprise was on his side. Before the Americans realized what was happening, it would be too late. Hung-chang would have the ship in the precise spot to divert the water through the breach blasted in the levee before he and his crew scuttled the ship and were to be in the air and on their way back to the safety of Sungari and the Sung Lien Star which was prepared to cast off immediately and head out to sea. The closer the United States steamed to the scuttling point, the more distant such worries became.

He felt an unexpected shudder through the deck and tensed, looking quickly at Ming Lin, searching for a sign of an error, a tiny mistake in judgment. All he could detect was a few beads of sweat on the helm master's forehead and a tight set to the lips. Then the decks became placid again, except for the beat of the engines, as they again went to full speed up a straight reach of the river.

Hung-chang stood with both legs braced apart. He had never felt such incredible strength from a ship before: 240,000 horsepower, 60,000 each to drive her massive propellers, which in turn hurled her up the river at the incredible speed of fifty miles an hour, speed that Hung-chang could not imagine from a ship under his command. He studied his image in the front storm windows of the bridge and saw a face calm and poised with no stress lines. He smiled as the ship passed a large waterfront home with a tall pole flying the stars and bars of the Confederate flag. Soon, very soon, the flag would no longer be flapping in the wind over the mighty Mississippi, but over a muddy creek.

The bridge was strangely quiet. There was no need for Hung-chang to call out orders for course and speed changes. Ming Lin was in complete command of the ship's passage, his hands locked on the wheel, his eyes staring into a large monitor that displayed the vessel and its relation to the river in a three-dimensional image that was transmitted by infrared cameras j mounted on the bow and funnels. Through the medium of digital science, a display across the bottom of the monitor also gave him recommended course deviations and velocity instructions, providing him with far better mastery over the ship's progress than if he had piloted by eye during daylight.

“We have a towboat pushing ten grain barges coming up ahead,” announced Ming Lin.

Hung-chang picked up the ship's radiophone. “Captain of the towboat approaching St. James Landing. We are overtaking you. We are one-half mile behind and will overtake you on the Cantrelle Reach, passing on your starboard. We have a hundred-foot beam and suggest you give us a wide berth.”

There was no response from the unknown towboat captain, but when the United States turned into Cantrelle Reach, Hung-chang could see through his night-vision glasses that the tow-boat was slowly turning to port, too slowly. The towboat captain had not followed the news from New Orleans and could never imagine that a giant behemoth the size of the United States was bearing down on him at unbelievable speed.

“He's not going to make it in time,” Ming Lin certified calmly.

“Can we slow?” asked Hung-chang.

“If we don't pass him on a straight reach, it will be impossible after we enter the next series of bends.”

“Then it's now or never.”

Ming Lin nodded. “For us to deviate from our computer-programmed passage might very well imperil the operation.”

Hung-chang picked up the radiophone. “Captain, please veer away quickly or we may run you down.”

The towboat captain's voice came back angrily. “You don't own the river, Charlie Brown. Who the hell do you think you're threatening?”

Hung-chang shook his head wearily. “I think you had better look over your stern.”

The reply came like a choked gasp. “Jeezez! Where did you come from?”

Then the towboat and her barges quickly veered to port. Although the move came in time, the great wash from the superliner, her hull displacing over forty thousand tons of water with her passing, cascaded over the towboat and barges, sweeping them sideways and depositing them high and dry on the bank of the levee.

In another ten minutes the ship rounded Point Houmas, named for a tribe of Indians who once lived there, before rushing past the town of Donaldsonville and successfully clearing the Sunshine Bridge. As the lights of the bridge faded around the last bend in the river, Hung-chang allowed himself the luxury of a cup of tea.

“Only twelve more miles until we're there,” said Ming Lin. His words were not a report but came as casually as a statement that the weather was mild. “Twenty minutes, twenty-five at most.”

Hung-chang was just finishing his tea when a crewman who was standing watch on the starboard bridge wing leaned through the door of the wheelhouse. “Aircraft, Captain. Approaching from the north. Sounds like helicopters.”