Текст книги "Flood Tide"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

Qin Shang turned over the photograph and began reading the data in the file, noting with amusement that he and the subject were born on the same day in the same year. There, any similarity ended. The subject was the son of Senator George Pitt of California. His mother was the former Barbara Knight. He attended Newport Beach High School in California and then the Air Force Academy in Colorado. Academically, he was above average, finishing thirty-fifth in his class. Played on the football team and won several athletic trophies. After flight training, he achieved a distinguished military career during the closing days of the "Vietnam War. Rose to the rank of major before transferring from the Air Force to the National Underwater and Marine Agency. Later promoted to lieutenant colonel.

A collector of old automobiles and aircraft, he kept them stored in an old hangar at the edge of Washington's National Airport. He lived in an apartment above the collection. His accomplishments at NUMA while serving as special projects director under his boss, Admiral James Sandecker, read like an adventure novel. From heading the project to raise the Titanic to discovering the long-lost artifacts from the Alexandria Library to stopping a red tide in the oceans that would have ultimately decimated life on earth, during the past fifteen years the subject was directly responsible for operations that either saved a great many lives or were of inestimable benefit to archaeology or the environment. The list of projects he directed to successful conclusions covered nearly twenty pages.

Qin Shang's agent had also included a list of men Pitt reportedly had killed. Qin Shang was stunned by several of the names. They consisted of men who were wealthy and powerful as well as common criminals and professional murderers. Su Zhong was correct in her evaluation. This man could be an extremely dangerous enemy.

After nearly an hour, Qin Shang laid aside the documents and picked up the photograph. He stared at the figure standing beside an old car intently, wondering what drove such a man. It became clearer with each passing minute that their paths would cross.

“So, Mr. Dirk Pitt, you are the man responsible for the disaster at Orion Lake,” said Qin Shang, speaking to the photograph as though Pitt were standing in the room before him.

“Your motive for destroying my immigrant staging area and yacht is as yet a mystery to me. But I have this to say to you: You have qualities that I respect, but you have come to the end of your career. The next addendum and final postscript to your file will be your obituary.”

ORDERS CAME DOWN FROM WASHINGTON FOR SPECIAL AGENT Julia Lee to be flown immediately from Seattle to San Francisco, where she was placed in a hospital for medical treatment and observation. The nurse assigned to her audibly gasped when she removed the hospital gown so the doctor could make his examination. There was hardly a square inch of Julia's body that wasn't black-and-blue or marked by reddish bruises. The expression in the nurse's eyes also made it evident that Julia's face was still grotesque from the swelling and discoloration, reinforcing Julia's determination not to look at herself in a mirror for at least a week.

“Did you know you had three cracked ribs?” asked the doctor, a jolly, rotund man with a bald head and closely cropped gray beard.

“I guessed from the stabbing pain every time I sat down and then stood after going to the bathroom,” she said lightheartedly. “Will you have to put a cast around my chest?”

The doctor laughed. “Binding fractured ribs went out with leeches and bleeding. Now we just let them mend on their own. You'll suffer some discomfort when you make sudden movements for the next few weeks, but that will soon diminish.”

“How about the rest of the damage? Is it reparable?”

“I've already set your nose back in place, medication will soon reduce the swelling and all signs of bruising should disappear fairly quickly. I predict that by this time next month you'll be voted queen of the prom.”

“All women should have a doctor like you,” Julia complimented him.

“Funny,” he said, smiling, “my wife never says that.” He squeezed her hand reassuringly. “If you're feeling up to it, you can go home the day after tomorrow. By the way, there's a couple of important characters from Washington on their way up from the reception desk to see you. They should be stepping off the elevator about now. In old movies visitors in a hospital are always told not to stay too long. But to my way of thinking, going back to work speeds the healing process. Just don't overdo it.”

“I won't, and thank you for your courtesy.”

“Not at all. I'll look in on you this evening.”

“Shall I stay?” asked the nurse.

The doctor shook his head as two somber-looking men carrying briefcases entered the room. “Official government business. You'll want to talk with Ms. Lee in private. Right, gentlemen?”

“Quite right, doctor,” said Julia's boss, Arthur Russell, director of the INS San Francisco district office. Russell was gray-haired, his body reasonably trim from daily workouts in a home exercise room. He smiled and looked at Julia through eyes warm with sympathy.

The other man, with thinning blond hair, his gray eyes peering through rimless spectacles, was a stranger to Julia. There was no hint of sympathy in his eyes. If anything, he looked as if he was about to sell her an insurance policy.

“Julia,” said Russell, “I'd like to introduce Peter Harper. He flew in from Washington to debrief you.”

“Yes, of course,” said Julia, struggling to sit up in bed, wincing from the pain that shot through her chest. “You're the executive associate commissioner for field operations. I'm happy to meet you. Your reputation is a bit of a legend throughout the Service.”

“I'm flattered.” Harper shook Julia's outstretched hand and was surprised at the firmness of her grip. “You've had a tough time of it,” he said. “Commissioner Monroe sends his congratulations and thanks, and wishes me to say that the Service is proud of your performance.”

He makes it sound as if I was taking a curtain call after a play, Julia thought. “But for one man, I wouldn't be here to receive the compliment.”

“Yes, we'll come to him later. Right now, I'd like a verbal accounting of your mission to infiltrate the smugglers' operation.”

“We didn't mean to put you back in harness so soon,” interrupted Russell in a quiet voice. “A full written report of your activities can wait until you're up and about. But for now, we'd like you to tell us everything you've learned about the smugglers and their procedures.”

“From the time I became Ling T'ai and paid the smugglers for passage in Beijing?” Julia asked.

“From the beginning,” said Harper, taking a tape recorder from his briefcase and setting it on the bed. “Starting with your entry into China. We'd like to hear it all.”

Julia looked at Harper as she began. “As Arthur can tell you, I traveled to Beijing, China, with a group of Canadian tourists. After we arrived in the city I deserted the group during a walking tour of the city. Being of Chinese descent and speaking the language, I had no problem with melting into the people crowding the streets. After changing into more suitable clothes, I began making discreet inquiries about emigrating to a foreign country. As it turned out the newspapers ran stories and advertisements promoting emigration outside China's borders. I answered an ad by an outfit calling themselves Jingzi International Passages. Their offices, coincidentally, were on the third floor of a modern building owned by Qin Shang Maritime Limited. The price to be smuggled into the United States was the equivalent of thirty thousand American dollars. When I attempted to haggle, I was told in no uncertain terms to pay up or leave. I paid.”

Then Julia related the story of her terrible ordeal after boarding the outwardly luxurious cruise ship that became a hell ship. She told of the inhuman cruelty; the lack of food and sanitation facilities; the brutality of the enforcers; her interrogation and beating; the transfer of the able-bodied to boats that took them unknowingly to a life of slavery ashore while those of some wealth were diverted to the prison at Orion Lake and placed in cages until they could be squeezed for more money. The very young, the elderly and those who could not physically endure a life of servitude were quietly murdered by drowning in the lake.

She narrated in exacting detail the entire smuggling operation calmly and unemotionally, covering every foot of the mother ship and drawing illustrations of the smaller craft used to ferry the aliens into the U.S. Using her trained skills in identification, she described the facial features and approximate body measurements of every smuggler she came in contact with, supplying whatever names she was able to obtain.

She told how she, the elderly aliens and the family with two children were forced into the confining cabin of the black catamaran; how they were eventually bound and their feet tied with iron weights before being dropped through an open hatch into the lake. She told how a man in diving gear had miraculously appeared and cut them all loose before they drowned. Then she described how he herded everyone to the temporary safety of the shore; how he comforted and fed them at his cabin and provided a means of escape minutes before the arrival of the smugglers' security force. She told how that enduring man of iron killed five of the enforcers who were set on murdering the escaped immigrants, how he took a bullet in the hip and acted as if it never happened. She gave an account of his blowing up the dock and yacht at the retreat, the harrowing battle down the river to Grapevine Bay, her shooting the two ultralights out of the sky, and the indomitable courage of the man at the wheel of the runabout who threw his body over the children when it was thought they were about to be blasted out of the water.

Julia told them everything she had witnessed since leaving China. But she couldn't explain how or why the man from NUMA came to be under the catamaran at the exact moment she and the others were dropped into the cold waters of the lake, nor could she explain why he made a reconnaissance of the prison building on his own initiative. She did not know his incentive. It was as though Pitt's involvement was a dream sequence. How else could she explain his presence and actions on Orion Lake? Finally, she ended her account by saying his name, her voice trailing off into silence.

“Dirk Pitt, the special projects director for NUMA?” Harper blurted.

Russell turned to Harper, who was staring at Julia in disbelief. “It's true. Pitt was the one who helped reveal the retreat as a prison and provided the people in our district office in Seattle with vital information to conduct the raid. Without his timely appearance and exceptional courage, Agent Lee would have died and the mass killing at Orion Lake would have gone on indefinitely. Thanks to him, the macabre operation was exposed, enabling our Seattle district office to shut it down.”

Harper looked at Julia steadily. “A man materializes in the dead of night underwater who is not a trained undercover agent nor a member of the Special Forces but a marine engineer with the National Underwater and Marine Agency and singlehand-edly kills the crew of a murder boat and destroys a yacht and an entire dock. Then he leads you through a gauntlet of smugglers who strafe a boatload of illegal immigrants from light aircraft while they're speeding down a river in a seventy-year-old boat. An incredible story, to say the least, Ms. Lee.”

“And every word of it true,” said Julia firmly.

“Commissioner Monroe and I met with Admiral Sandecker of NUMA only a few nights ago, asking for their help in combating Qin Shang's smuggling operation. It seems unimaginable that they could have acted so quickly.”

“Although we never had time to compare notes, I'm certain Dirk acted on his own without orders from his superior.”

By the time Harper and Russell had asked her a barrage of questions and changed the cassette in the recorder four times, Julia was fighting a losing battle with fatigue. She had journeyed far beyond the call of duty, and now all she wanted was sleep. After her face returned to an assemblage of normality, she hoped to see her family, but not before.

Almost in a trancelike state, she wondered how Dirk Pitt would have described the events had he been there. She smiled, knowing that he would have probably reacted by making a joke out of the whole exploit, making light of his actions and participation. How odd, she thought, that I can predict his reactions and thoughts when I knew him for less than a few hours.

“You've been through more than any of us had any right to expect,” said Russell, seeing that Julia was having a hard time keeping her eyes open.

“You're a credit to the service,” Harper said sincerely as he switched off the recorder. “A fine report. Because of you an important link in the smuggling of illegal immigrants is history.”

“They'll just pop up somewhere else,” said Julia, stifling a yawn.

Russell shrugged. “Too bad we don't have enough evidence to convict Qin Shang in an international court of law.”

Julia suddenly became alert. “What are you saying? Not enough evidence? I have proof the phony cruise ship, filled with illegal aliens, was registered to Qin Shang Maritime Limited. That alone, plus the bodies lying in Orion Lake, should be enough to indict and convict Qin Shang.”

Harper shook his head. “We checked. The ship was legally registered to an obscure shipping company in Korea. And though Shang's representatives handled all real-estate transactions, the Orion Lake property is in the name of a holding company in Vancouver, Canada, by the name of Nanchang Investments. Offshore corporations with one dummy corporation leading to another in different countries is quite common, and makes it tough to trace the thread to the mother company and its owner, directors and stockholders. As rotten as it sounds, no international court of law would convict Qin Shang.”

Julia looked vacantly through the window of her room. Between two buildings she could just make out the gray, ominous buildings of Alcatraz, the famous and now abandoned prison. “Then everything,” she said disgustedly, “the sacrifice of innocent people in the lake, my ordeal, Pitt's heroic efforts, the raid on the retreat—all for nothing. Qin Shang will laugh up his sleeve and go on operating as if it was all a minor inconvenience.”

“On the contrary,” Harper assured her. “Your information is invaluable. Nothing comes easy, and it will take time, but sooner or later we're going to put Qin Shang and his kind out of business.”

“Peter is right,” added Russell. “We've only won a minor skirmish in the war, but we've cut off an important tentacle of the octopus. We also have a new insight into China's smuggling-operations policy. Our jobs have become a bit easier now that we know which back alleys to investigate.”

Harper gathered up his briefcase and headed for the door. “We'll be on our way and let you rest.”

Russell patted her gently on the shoulder. “I wish I could send you on extended leave, courtesy of the INS, but headquarters wants you in Washington as soon as you're up and about.”

“I'd like to ask a favor,” said Julia, stopping both men at the door.

“Name it,” said Russell.

“Except for a brief visit with my mother and father here in San Francisco, I would like to return to duty by the beginning of next week. I formally request that I remain on the investigation of Qin Shang.”

Russell looked at Harper, who smiled. “That goes without saying,” said Russell. “Why do you think they want you in Washington? Who in INS knows more about Shang's alien-smuggling operation than you?”

After they left, Julia made one last effort to fight off creeping drowsiness. She picked up the bedside phone, dialed an outside line and then the area code and number for long-distance information. Obtaining the number, she called the NUMA headquarters building in Washington and asked for Dirk Pitt.

She was put through to his secretary, who informed her that Pitt was out on vacation and had not returned to work yet. Julia hung up the phone and settled her head into the pillows. In some odd manner she felt transformed. Here I am acting like a brazen hussy, she thought, pursuing a man I hardly know. Why, she wondered, of all the men in all the world, why did someone like Dirk Pitt have to walk into my life?

PlTT AND GlORDINO NEVER MADE IT BACK TO WASHINGTON. When they returned the helicopter to the NUMA marine-science laboratory in Bremerton through a rainstorm, they found Admiral Sandecker waiting for them. Most men in Sandecker's position would have remained in a dry office, sitting comfortably on a couch drinking coffee, making others come to him. But he did not march to the same drummer as most. Sandecker stood outside in a misting rain, raising his arm to shield his face from the clouds of spray that swirled beneath the rotor blades of the aircraft. He remained standing until the blades spun to a stop before stepping toward the hatch. He waited patiently until Gunn swung it open and dropped to the ground, followed by Giordino.

“I expected you over an hour ago,” grunted Sandecker.

“We weren't forewarned you'd be here, Admiral,” said Gunn. “When last we spoke, you elected to remain in Washington.”

“I changed my mind,” Sandecker said gruffly. Not seeing anyone left in the cockpit, he looked at Giordino. “Didn't you bring Dirk with you?”

“He slept like a rock between Grapevine Bay and here,” answered Giordino without his usual grin. “He's not in the best of shape. As if he wasn't already a classic case of battle fatigue when he arrived at Orion Lake, he had to go and get himself shot again.”

“Shot?” Sandecker's face clouded. “Nobody told me he'd been shot. How bad is it?”

“Not serious. Luckily, the bullet just missed the pelvis, going hi and coming out the upper side of his right buttock. A doctor in Grapevine examined and dressed the wound. He insisted that Dirk shouldn't be up and running around, but our friend laughed and demanded we find a bar, claiming a couple shots of tequila would make him as good as new.”

“Did two shots of tequila do it?” Sandecker asked cynically.

“More like four.” Giordino turned as Pitt emerged from the helicopter. “See for yourself.”

Sandecker looked up and found himself looking at a man dressed like a backwoods hiker, thin and played out, as if he'd been existing on little else but berries in a forest. His hair was tangled in every direction, face drawn and haggard but split by a smile as broad as a highway billboard with eyes clear and intense.

“By God, it's the admiral,” Pitt boomed. “You're the last man I expected to see standing out in the rain.”

Sandecker wanted to laugh, but he fixed a frown on his face and spoke as if angered. “I thought it might be nice to demonstrate my charitable disposition and save you a five-thousand-mile round trip.”

“You don't want me back at my desk?”

“No. You and Al are leaving for Manila.”

“Manila,” said Pitt, puzzled. “That's in the Philippines.”

“It hasn't been moved that I was aware of,” Sandecker said.

“When?”

“Within the hour.”

“Within the hour?” Pitt stared at him.

“I've booked you on a commercial flight across the Pacific. You and Al will be on it.”

“What are we supposed to do once we get to Manila?”

“If you'll come in out of the rain before we drown, I'll tell you.”

After Pitt was ordered to drink two cups of coffee, Sandecker gathered his finest team of ocean engineers in the privacy of an aquarium. Sitting among tanks filled with North Pacific sea life under study by NUMA marine biologists, the admiral briefed Pitt and Giordino on the meeting he and Gunn had with the President and officials of the Immigration and Naturalization Service.

“The man whose criminal operation you screwed up at Orion Lake directs a vast smuggling empire that traffics in illegal immigrants, transporting them into nearly every country of the world. He literally smuggles millions of Chinese into North, Central, South America and Europe. Under a shroud of secrecy, he is supported and often funded by the Chinese government. The more people he can remove from the over-populated country and place in positions of influence overseas, the better the potential to achieve international power bases working under directives from the mother country. It is a worldwide conspiracy with incredible consequences if Qin Shang continues unchecked.”

“The man is responsible for hundreds of dead bodies lying on the bottom of Orion Lake,” said Pitt angrily. “You're telling me he can't be charged with mass murder and hanged?”

“Charging him and convicting him are different sides of the street,” answered Sandecker. “Qin Shang has more corporate barriers around him than waves pounding a shore. I'm told by the commissioner of INS, Duncan Monroe, that Qin Shang is so far removed, politically and financially, there is no direct evidence linking him to the mass murders on Orion Lake.”

“The man seems impregnable,” said Gunn.

Pitt said in a measured tone, “No man is impregnable. We all have an Achilles' heel.”

“How do we nail the bastard?” Giordino asked bluntly.

Sandecker answered partially by explaining the two objectives the President had ordered NUMA to investigate, the old ocean liner United States and Qin Shang's shipping port of Sungari in Louisiana. He concluded by saying, “Rudi here will be in charge of a special team for an underwater probe of Sungari. Dirk and Al will examine the former ocean liner.”

“Where do we find the United States?” asked Pitt.

“Until three days ago, she was at Sevastopol in the Black Sea undergoing a refit. But according to satellite surveillance photos, she's left dry dock and passed through the Dardanelles on her way to the Suez Canal.”

“That's covering a lot of territory for a fifty-year-old ship,” said Giordino.

“Not unusual,” said Pitt, staring at the ceiling as if retrieving something once cataloged in his mind. “The United States could leave the best of them in her wake. She beat the Queen Mary's best time across the Atlantic by an amazing ten hours. On her maiden voyage she set a speed record between New York and England, averaging thirty-five knots, that still stands.”

“She must have been fast,” said Gunn admiringly. “That works out to about forty-one miles an hour.”

Sandecker nodded. “She's still faster than any commercial ship built before or since.”

“How did Qin Shang get his hands on her?” asked Pitt. “It was my understanding that the U.S. Maritime Administration would not sell her unless she remained under the American flag.”

“Qin Shang easily got around that by purchasing the ship through an American company who in turn could then sell it to a buyer who represented a friendly nation. In this case a Turkish businessman. Too late, American authorities discovered that a Chinese national bought the ship, posing as the Turkish buyer.”

“Why would Qin Shang want the United States?” Pitt asked, still in the dark.

“He's in league with the Chinese People's Liberation Army,” replied Gunn. “The deal he struck with them gives him the right to operate the ship, possibly to smuggle illegal aliens under the guise of a cruise ship. The Chinese military, for their purposes, has the option of commandeering the ship and quickly converting it to a troop transport.”

“You'd have thought our defense department would have seen the light and converted her years ago,” said Giordino. “She could have moved an entire division of troops from the States to Saudi Arabia during the Gulf War in less than five days.”

Sandecker stroked his beard in thought. “Airlifts are the thing to transport men these days. Ships are used primarily to haul in supplies and equipment. Any way you look at it, the former pride of the transatlantic greyhounds was way past her prime.”

“So what's our job?” Pitt asked with diminishing forbearance. “If the President wants to prevent the United States from smuggling aliens into the country, why doesn't he order a nuclear submarine to quietly put a couple of Mark XII torpedoes into her side.”

“And give the Chinese military a bona fide excuse to retaliate by blasting a cruise ship filled with American tourists out of the water?” Sandecker said sharply. “I don't think so. There are more practical and less hazardous ways of cutting Qin Shang off at the knees.”

“Like what?” Giordino asked guardedly.

“Answers!” Sandecker snapped back. “There are perplexing questions that must be answered before the INS can take action.”

“We're not undercover specialists,” said Pitt, unmoved by it all. “What does he expect us to do? Pay our ticket, reserve a stateroom and then send questionnaires to the captain and crew?”

“I am aware that you find this uninspiring,” said Sandecker, seeing that both Pitt and Giordino were regarding their mission with a marked lack of enthusiasm, “but I'm dead serious when I say that the information you're to obtain is vital to the future welfare of the country. Illegal immigration cannot continue hi an uncontrolled flood. Sleaze like Qin Shang are conducting modern versions of the slave trade.” Sandecker paused and gazed at Pitt. “From what I've been told, you saw an example of their inhumanity with your own eyes.”

Pitt nodded almost imperceptibly. “Yes, I saw the horror.”

“There must be something the government can do to rescue these people from bondage,” said Gunn.

“You can't protect people who are illegally in your country if they've disappeared and gone underground after they were smuggled in,” Sandecker replied.

“Can't a task force be formed to search them out, free them and release them into society?” Gunn persisted.

“The INS has sixteen hundred investigators in the fifty states, not counting those working in foreign countries, who made over three hundred thousand arrests of illegal aliens engaged in criminal activities. It would take twice that number of investigators just to stay even.”

“How many illegals are coining into the Unites States each year?” asked Pitt.

“There is no way to achieve an accurate count,” answered Sandecker. “Estimates run as high as two million aliens who poured in last year from China and Central America alone.”

Pitt stared out the window at the calm waters of Puget Sound. The rain had passed, and the clouds were becoming scattered. A rainbow slowly formed over the docks. “Has anybody a clue to where it will all end?”

“With a hell of a lot of people,” Sandecker said. “The last census put the U.S. population at roughly two hundred and fifty million. With the coming increase in births and immigration, legal and illegal, the population will soar to three hundred and sixty million by the year twenty fifty.”

“Another hundred million in the next fifty years,” said Giordano dolefully.

“I hope I'm gone by then.” Gunn said thoughtfully, “Hard to imagine the changes in store for the country.”

“Every great nation or civilization either fell by corruption from within or was altered forever by foreign migration,” said Sandecker.

Giordino's face registered indifference. The future was of little concern to him. Unlike Pitt, who found pleasure in the past, Giordino lived only for the present. Gunn, contemplative as ever, stared down at the floor, trying to picture the problems a population increase of fifty percent would bring with it.

Pitt said dryly, “And so the President in his infinite wisdom expects us to plug the dike with our fingers.”

“Just how are we supposed to conduct this crusade?” asked Giordino, carefully removing a huge cigar from a cedar wrapper and slowly, very slowly, rolling the end over the flame from a lighter.

Sandecker stared at the cigar, his face reddening as he recognized it as one from his private cache. “When you arrive in Manila at the international airport, you will be met by a man named John Smith—”

“That's original,” Giordino muttered. “I've always wanted to meet the guy whose signature I see above mine on motel registers.”

To a stranger sitting in on the discussion, it would seem none of the NUMA men had the slightest respect for one another, and that there was a cloud of animosity hanging over them. Nothing could be further from the truth. Pitt and Giordino had nothing but total and unabridged admiration for Sandecker. They were as close to him as to their own fathers. Without the slightest hesitation, they had on more than one occasion risked their own lives to save his. The give-and-take was a game they had played many times over the years. The apathy was a sham. Pitt and Giordino were too wildly independent to accept instructions without a display of rebellion. Nor were they known to jump up and salute before dashing out the door to do their duty with an overabundance of fervor. It was a scene of puppets pulling the strings of puppets with an underlying sense of humor.

“We land in Manila and wait for a John Smith to make himself known,” said Pitt. “I hope there's more to the plan than that.”

Sandecker went on. “Smith will escort you to the dock area, where you'll board a tired old intercoastal freighter. A singularly uncommon vessel, as you will discover. By the time you set foot on the deck, NUMA's Sea Dog II submersible will be secured aboard. Your job, when the opportunity arises, will be to inspect and photograph the hull of the United States below the waterline.”

Pitt shook his head, his expression one of incredulity. “We cruise around, examining the bottom of a ship that's the length of three football fields. Shouldn't take more than forty-eight hours of downtime. Naturally, Qin Shang's security people wouldn't think of dropping sensors around the hull for just such an intrusion.” He looked at Giordino. “How do you see it?”

“Like giving a nipple to a baby,” Giordino said casually. “My only problem is, how does a submersible with a top speed of four knots keep up with a ship that cruises at thirty-five knots?”