Flood Tide

“We're not going to make it, are we?” she muttered the words dully.

“Hell yes, we're going to make it!” he answered as if he truly believed it. “I didn't interrupt my vacation and go to all the work of bringing you and these people this far to let it end now.”

She gazed at his dark, craggy face for a long moment, then shook her head in defeat. “I can't get off a straight shot if the ultralights stay more than a hundred yards away, not at that distance against a moving target from a boat that's bounding all over the place.”

“Do the best you can.” Hardly brilliant words of encouragement, Pitt conceded, but his mind was on other matters as he swerved around a series of large boulders protruding from the river. “Another ten minutes and we'll be home free.” “What if they both come at the same time?” “You can bet on it. Take your time and divide your fire, two shots at one then two shots at the other. Maintain a show of resistance, just enough to keep them from getting too cocky and coming in too close. The farther they stay away, the more difficult for the gunners to fire with any accuracy. I'll throw the boat all over the river to spoil their aim.”

Pitt had read Kung Chong's mind correctly. The Chinaman ordered his pilots to attack from a higher altitude. “I have lost one aircraft and two good men,” he dutifully reported to LoHan.

“How?” asked Lo Han simply.

“By gunfire from the boat.”

“Not inconceivable that professionals would carry automatic weapons.”

“I am ashamed to say, Lo Han, the defensive fire comes from a woman with one automatic pistol.”

“A woman!” Lo Han's voice came through Kung Chong's earpiece as angry as he ever heard it. “We have lost face, you and I. Conclude this unfortunate occasion and do it now.”

“Yes, Lo Han. I will faithfully carry out your orders.”

“I anxiously await your announcement of victory.”

“Soon, very soon,” Kung Chong said confidently. “Success or death. I promise you one or the other.”

During the next three miles, the tactics worked. The two remaining ultralights pressed home their attack, weaving violently from side to side to escape the few pathetic shells sent in their direction, but making it next to impossible for the gunners to train their machine pistols. Two hundred yards away from the Chris-Craft they split apart and closed in on the runabout from two sides. It was a shrewd maneuver that enabled them to converge their fire.

Julia took her time and fired a round whenever she saw an opportunity for a remote hit while Pitt madly twisted the wheel and sent the speeding runabout zigzagging from one bank to the other in an effort to escape the sporadic spray of bullets that splattered the water around them. He stiffened when he heard the thud of strikes behind him as one burst of gunfire cut across the mahogany hatch over the engine compartment between the dual cockpits. But the big Chrysler marine engine's throaty roar never slackened. On instinct his eyes swept the instrument panel, and he noted ominously that the needle on the oil-pressure gauge was suddenly falling into the red zone.

Sam Foley will be madder than hell when he gets his boat back, Pitt thought.

Two miles to go. The stench of scorched oil began to waft from the engine compartment. The engine revolutions were slowly dropping off, and Pitt mentally pictured metal grinding against metal from lack of oil. It was only a matter of minutes before the bearings burned out and the engine froze. All the ultralight pilots have to do now, Pitt savvied, is circle over the boat and blast everyone to bloody bits. He pounded the steering wheel in maddened frustration as they came at him together, wingtip to wingtip.

They came head-on with no deviation, and much lower this time, knowing time was running out, keenly aware that once the boat and its occupants broke into the open bay, there would be spectators to report the murders.

Then, magically, the pilot of the ultralight that rolled off to the left of the Chris-Craft suddenly slumped in his seat and his arms fell to his sides. One of Julia's bullets had taken the pilot in the chest and torn through his heart. The aircraft sheered off violently, its wingtip brushed the water and then it cartwheeled crazily across the wake of the boat before disappearing into the uncaring river.

There was no time to celebrate Julia's phenomenal shot. Their situation went from bad to worse as she fired her last shell. The pilot on the last ultralight, seeing the return fire slacken and finally die, and the Chris-Craft slow considerably with smoke beginning to curl from the engine compartment, threw caution to the winds and came at them no more than five feet above the water.

The Chris-Craft was limping along at less than ten miles an hour. The race for survival was almost over. Pitt looked up and saw the Chinese gunner in the inner ultralight. The eyes were covered by stylish sunglasses, and his lips stretched in a tight grin. He waved a salute and lifted his weapon, finger tightening on the trigger.

In a final act of defiance, Pitt shook his fist in the air and raised the third digit. Then he threw his body over Julia and the two children in what he knew was a futile effort to use his body as a shield. He tensed, waiting for the bullets to tear into his back.

THE OLD MAN WITH THE SCYTHE, TO PlTT'S GREAT RELIEF, either decided he had urgent business at a catastrophe elsewhere, or Pitt wasn't worth taking and threw him back. The bullets Pitt expected to feel plowing through his flesh never came because they were never fired.

He firmly believed the last sound he was about to hear in this life was the soft report of a suppressed machine pistol. Instead, the rapid beat of rotor blades reverberated in the air, rotor blades whirling at top speed, drowning out the exhaust and unpleasant noises from inside the big Chrysler. With a thundering roar accompanied by a great gust of wind that flattened every hair on every head, a huge shadow flashed over the Chris-Craft. Before anyone comprehended what was happening, a big t irquoise helicopter with the letters NUMA painted on its tail boom, swept down the river straight at the yellow ultralight like an avenging hawk swooping on a canary.

“Oh God no!” Julia moaned.

“Never fear!” Pitt shouted jubilantly. “This one's on our side.”

He recognized the McDonnell Douglas Explorer, a fast, no-tail rotor helicopter with twin engines and a top speed in excess of 170 miles an hour, as a craft he'd often flown. The forward fuselage looked like those on most rotorcraft, but the tail boom, with its dual vertical stabilizers, extended to the rear like a thin corona cigar.

“Where did it come from?”

“My ride showed up early,” Pitt said, swearing to put the pilot in his will.

Every pair of eyes in the runabout and on the remaining ultralight were trained on the intruder as it charged through the air. Two figures could be seen through the transparent bow of the helicopter. The copilot was wearing a baseball cap turned backward and peered through horn-rim glasses. The pilot wore a reed hat like those woven on tropical beaches and a brightly flowered Hawaiian aloha shirt. A gargantuan cigar was clenched between his teeth.

Kung Chong was no longer grinning. His expression was one of abject shock and fear. It flashed through his mind that the new bully on the playground wasn't about to back off. He took stock and saw that the runabout, though barely making headway, would soon reach the mouth of the river leading into Grapevine Bay. From his height he could already see a small fleet of fishing boats heading out to sea around the final bend in the river. Houses on the outskirts of a town perched along the shoreline. People walked along the beaches. His chance for terminating the escaped immigrants and the devil responsible for the chaos at Orion Lake had evaporated. Kung Chong had no choice but to order his pilot to break off the attack. In an attempt to dodge its attacker, the ultralight pulled up sharply and curled a turn so tight its wing tipped on a vertical angle.

The pilot of the NUMA helicopter had been there before. He easily second-guessed his opponent. There was never a flicker of pity or indecision. The face was expressionless as he easily matched the ultralight's steep turn and closed the distance between them. Then came a crunching sound as the landing skids of the helicopter ripped through the ultralight's flimsy wing.

The men in the open seats froze as their craft twisted in maddened torment, seeking desperately, hopelessly to cling to the sky. Then the shredded wing folded in the middle, and the little craft dove and crashed into a shoreline filled with large rocks. There was no explosion, as only a small cloud of dust and debris sprayed the air. All that remained was a distorted mass of wreckage with two bodies fused amid the shattered struts and tubing.

The helicopter hovered over the crippled Chris-Craft as the pilot and the man sitting in the copilot's seat both leaned out the cockpit windows and waved.

Julia waved back and threw them kisses. “Whoever those wonderful men are, they saved our lives.”

“Their names are Al Giordino and Rudi Gunn.”

“Friends of yours?”

“For many, many years,” Pitt said, beaming like a lighthouse.

The struggling old Chrysler marine engine almost carried them to the end of their harrowing voyage, but not quite. Its bearings and pistons finally froze from lack of oil, and it gave up the ghost only two hundred yards from the dock that extended from the main street of the seaside village of Grapevine. A young teenager with an outboard boat towed the battered Chris-Craft and its weary passengers to the dock, where two men and one woman waited. None of the tourists strolling the wooden pier nor any of the local residents fishing over the railings would have guessed by the casual clothing that the three people standing at the end of the dock were INS agents about to collect a group of illegal immigrants.

“Your people?” Pitt asked Julia.

She nodded. “I've never met him but I assume one of them is the district director of investigations.”

Pitt held up the little boy, made a funny face and was rewarded with a smile and a laugh. “What will happen to these people now?”

“They're illegal aliens. Under the law they must be sent back to China.”

He looked at her and scowled. “After what they've endured, it would be a crime to send them back.”

“I agree,” said Julia. “But my hands are tied. I can fill out the required paperwork and recommend they be allowed to stay. But their final disposition is beyond my control.”

“Paperwork!” Pitt nearly spat the word. “You can do better than that. The minute they step foot in their homeland, Shang's people will have them killed, and you damned well know it. They wouldn't be alive if you hadn't shot down the ultralights. You know the rule, save someone's life and you're forever responsible for them. You can't wash your hands of them and not care about their fate.”

“I do care,” Julia said firmly. She looked at Pitt the way women usually look at men when they feel as if they're talking to the village idiot. “And I'm not about to wash my hands of them. And because it is entirely possible, as you suggest, that they might be murdered if they returned to the Chinese mainland, it goes without saying that they'll be given every opportunity to apply for political asylum. There are laws, Mr. Pitt, whether you or I like them or not. But they're for a purpose and must be followed. I promise you that if it is humanly possible for these people to become United States citizens, it shall be.”

“I'll hold you to that promise,” Pitt said quietly. “Believe me,” she said earnestly, “I'll do everything in my power to help them.”

“Should you run into problems, please contact me through NUMA. I have a bit of political influence and might arrange for the Senate to back their cause.”

She looked at him skeptically. “How could a marine engineer with NUMA possibly have political influence in the Senate?”

“Would it help if I told you my father is Senator George Pitt of California?”

“Yes,” she murmured, properly awed. “I can see you might prove useful.”

The boy in the outboard cast off the towline, and the Chris-Craft bumped against the dock pilings. The Chinese immigrants were all smiles. They were happy at not being shot at any longer, and elated to have at last reached safety in America. Any apprehension about their fate was set aside for the moment. Pitt passed up the little boy and girl to the waiting hands of the INS agents and then turned to help the mother and father step up to the dock.

A tall, jovial-looking man with twinkling eyes stepped up to Julia and put his arm around her. The look on his face was one of compassion at seeing the bruised and swollen face with blood caked around the split lips. “Ms. Lee, I'm George Sim-mons.”

“Yes, the assistant district director. I spoke to you over the phone from the cabin.”

“You don't know how happy we are to see you alive, how grateful for your information.”

“Not as happy as I am,” she said, wincing with pain as she tried to crack a smile.

“Jack Farrar, the district director, would have greeted you himself, but he's directing the cleanup operation on Orion Lake.”

“It's started?”

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

“The prisoners inside the building?”

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

“The security guards?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you going back to Washington?”

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

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

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

“Are you a good kisser?”

“Girls come from miles around to kiss me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Smugglers of illegal aliens.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There is one more thing,” said Pitt.

The two men stared at him expectantly.

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

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

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

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

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

“Say it isn't true.”

“You have a problem?” Giordino asked.

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

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

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

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

“Who built and developed the port?”

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

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

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

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

“You're kidding,” said Giordino.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Say again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I accept all blame for my mismanagement.”

“Can you make good your escape?”

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

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

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

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

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

“This, then, is our final communication.”

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

“Do not fail,” the voice demanded coldly.

“Good-bye, Lotus II.”

“Good-bye, Bamboo VI.”

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