Flood Tide

  What made Sungari different from most port facilities was its architecture. No gray concrete buildings shaped in austere rectangles. The warehouses and office structures were constructed in the shape of pyramids, all covered with a gold galvanized material that blazed like fire when struck by the sun. The effect was electrifying, especially to planes flying overhead, and its glow could be seen from ships forty miles out in the Gulf.

  A light rap came on the door behind Gunn. He stepped across the ship's conference room, used for meetings between the ship's scientists and technicians, and opened the door. General Frank Montaigne stood in the passageway outside, looking dapper in a gray suit with vest and leaning on his cane.

  "Thank you for coming, General. I'm Rudi Gunn."

  "Commander Gunn," said General Montaigne affably, "I've looked forward to meeting you. After my briefing by officials from the White House and INS, I'm delighted to find that I'm not the only one who believes Qin Shang to be a deviously clever menace."

  "We seem to be members of a growing club."

  Gunn showed the general to a chair beside the three-dimensional image of Sungari. Montaigne leaned toward the projected diorama, his hand and chin resting on the leaping frog atop his cane. "I see NUMA also uses holographic imagery to demonstrate their marine projects."

  "I've heard the Army Corp of Engineers takes advantage of the same technology."

  "It comes in handy to convince Congress to increase our funding.

  The only difference is, our unit is designed to show fluid motion. When we brief the various committees in Washington, we like to impress them with a demonstration on the horrors of a disastrous flood."

  "What's your opinion of Sungari?" asked Gunn.

  Montaigne seemed lost in the image. "It's as if an alien culture came down from space and built a city in the middle of the Gobi Desert. It's all so pointless and unnecessary. I'm reminded of the old saying, All dressed up and no place to go."

  "You're not impressed with it."

  "As a shipping terminus, I find it about as useful as a second belly button on my forehead."

  "Hard to believe Qin Shang got the necessary approval and permits for such a vast project with no profitable future," said Gunn.

  "He submitted a comprehensive development plan that was approved by the Louisiana state legislature. Naturally, politicians will jump on any industrial development they think will increase employment and revenue that won't tap the taxpayers' pockets. With no obvious downside, who can blame them? The Army Corps also approved their permits for dredging because we saw no interruption in the natural flow of the Atchafalaya River. The environmentalists raised hell, of course, because of the virtual destruction of a vast area of wetlands. But all their objections and those of my own engineers concerning the future alteration of the Atchafalaya Delta were quickly brushed aside when Qin Shang's lobbyists sweet-talked Congress into fully authorizing the project. I've yet to meet a financial analyst or port-district commissioner who did not think Sungari was a failure before its plans came out of the computers."

  "And yet, all permits were approved," said Gunn.

  "Blessings were given by high officials in Washington, including President Wallace, who greased the path," conceded Montaigne. "Much of the acceptance was based around the new trade deals with China. Congress didn't want to upset the apple cart when Chinese trade reps threw Sungari into their proposals. And to be sure, there must have been heavy payoffs under the table by Qin Shang Maritime up and down the line."

  Gunn moved around the three-dimensional projection and stared through a porthole at the actual complex two miles upriver from the Marine Denizen. The golden buildings were turning orange with the setting sun. But for two ships, the long docks were empty. "We're not dealing with a man who bets on a horse with long odds. There has to be a method to the madness for Shang to spend over a billion dollars to develop a terminus for overseas trade in such an impractical location."

  "I wish someone would enlighten me as to what it is," Montaigne said cynically, "because I haven't a clue."

  "And yet, Sungari does have access to State Highway 90 and the Southern Pacific rail line," Gunn pointed out.

  "Wrong," snorted Montaigne. "

  resently, there is no access. Qin Shang has refused to build a link to the main rail line and a paved thoroughfare to the highway. He says he's done enough. He insists that it is up to the state and federal governments to build access to his transportation network. But because of voter unrest and new budget restrictions, state bureaucrats are balking."

  Gunn turned and looked at Montaigne, puzzled. "No means of ground transportation in and out of Sungari? That's insane."

  Montaigne nodded at the holographic image. "Take a good look at your fancy display. Do you see an arterial roadway traveling north to Highway 90 or rail spurs connecting with the Southern Pacific tracks? The Intracoastal Waterway runs past a few miles north, but it's used mostly by pleasure craft and limited barge traffic."

  Gunn studied the image closely and saw that the only access for freight up the Atchafalaya River to the north was by barge traffic. The entire port was surrounded by marshland. "This is crazy. How did he build and develop such a vast complex without construction materials trucked or shipped in by rail?"

  "No materials came out of the United States. Virtually everything you see was shipped in from overseas on Qin Shang Maritime ships. The building materials, the construction equipment, all came from China, as did the engineers, supervisors and workmen. No American, Japanese or European had a hand in Sungari's development. The only material that didn't arrive from China was the landfill that came from an excavation sixty miles up the Atchafalaya."

  "Couldn't he find landfill closer to the development?" asked Gunn.

  "A mystery," replied Montaigne. "Qin Shang's builders barged millions of cubic yards of fill downriver by excavating a canal through the marshlands that goes nowhere."

  Gunn sighed in exasperation. "How in the world does he expect to ever show a profit?"

  "Until now, the cargoes of the few Chinese merchant ships that dock at Sungari have been carried inland by barge and towboat," explained Montaigne. "Even if he gave in and built a transportation system in and out of his dream port, who but the Chinese would come? Terminal facilities on the Mississippi have far superior access to major highways, rail links and an international airport. No shipping-company CEO with half a brain would divert vessels of his merchant fleet from New Orleans to Sungari."

  "Could he barge cargo up and down the Atchafalaya and Red rivers to a transportation center farther north?"

  "A losing proposition," Montaigne replied. "The Atchafalaya may be an inland navigable waterway, but it doesn't contain half the flow of the Mississippi. It's considered a shallow-draft artery and barge traffic is limited, unlike the Mississippi, which can accommodate great tow-boats with ten thousand horsepower pushing as many as fifty barges tied together in rows like a marching column stretching nearly a third of a mile. The Atchafalaya is a treacherous river. It may look calm and peaceful, but that is a mask that hides its true, ugly face. It waits like a gator with only its eyes and nostrils showing, ready to strike the unwary river pilot or pleasure-boat operator out for a weekend cruise. If Qin Shang thought he could build a commercial waterborne empire to support freight traffic up and down the Atchafalaya or across the Intra-coastal Waterway, he was sadly mistaken. Neither channel has been improved to handle heavy barge traffic."

  "The White House and Immigration Service suspect the chief purpose behind the building of Sungari is for a dispersal point for smuggling illegal immigrants, drugs and illegal weapons."

  Montaigne shrugged. "So I was told. But why sink tons of money into a facility capable of handling millions of tons of ship cargoes and then use it only to smuggle illicit contraband? I fail to see the logic."

  "There is big money in alien smuggling alone," said Gunn. "One thousand illegals brought in on one boat and ferried across the country at thirty thous
and dollars a head, and you're talking real money."

  "All right, if Sungari is a front for immigrant smuggling," said Montaigne, "I'd be interested in knowing how Qin Shang is going to get the immigrants and goods from point A to point B without some sort of underground transportation system. U.S. Customs and Immigration comb every ship docking at Sungari. All barge traffic inland is carefully monitored. It would be impossible for undocumented aliens to slip through their fingers."

  "The reason NUMA is here." Gunn picked up a metal pointer and tapped the point inside the image of the Atchafalaya River that divided Sungari East from Sungari West. "Because there is no way for him to send human and drug cargo over land and water, he must be shipping them under the surface."

  Montaigne sat erect and stared at Gunn through skeptical eyes. "By submarine?"

  "Submarines capable of carrying large numbers of passengers and cargo are a possibility we can't ignore."

  "Forgive me for saying so, but there is no way in hell you can get a submarine up the Atchafalaya River. The shoals and bends are a nightmare for experienced river pilots. Navigating below the surface upriver against the current is unthinkable."

  "Then perhaps Shang's engineers have carved out hidden underwater-passage systems that we're not aware of."

  Montaigne gave a negative shake of his head. "No way they could have excavated a tunnel network without discovery. Government building experts scrutinized every square inch of the site during construction to make sure the approved plans were followed to the letter. Qin Shang's contractors were incredibly cooperative and either complied with our criticisms or took as gospel any and all suggested changes without argument. In the end it was almost as if we had all been in on the design stage. If Qin Shang dug a tunnel under the noses of men and women whom I consider the best engineering and structural inspectors in the South, he could get himself elected Pope."

  Gunn held up a pitcher and a glass. "Can I interest you in a glass of iced tea?"

  "You wouldn't happen to have a bottle of bourbon lying about?"

  Gunn smiled. "Admiral Sandecker follows Navy tradition and has a rule against alcohol on board NUMA research vessels. However, in honor of your presence, I do believe a bottle of Jack Daniels' Black Label whiskey somehow slipped on board."

  "You, sir, are a saint," said Montaigne, his eyes gleaming in anticipation.

  Gunn poured a glass. "Ice?"

  "Never!" Montaigne held up the glass and studied the amber contents, then sniffed the aroma as if pondering a fine wine before sipping it. "Because nothing suspicious was observed above ground, I was told at my briefing that you're going to try your luck with an underwater search."

  Gunn nodded. "I'm sending in an autonomous underwater vehicle for an exploratory search first thing in the morning. If anything questionable is recorded by its cameras, divers will investigate."

  "The water is murky and running with silt, so I doubt if you'll see much."

  "With high resolution and digital enhancement, our cameras can distinguish objects in murky water up to twenty feet. My only concern is Qin Shang's underwater security."

  Montaigne laughed. "If it's anything like the security around the port," Montaigne said with a chuckle, "you can forget it. A ten-foot-high fence runs around the perimeter, but there is only one gate that leads to nowhere in the swamp with no guard. Any passing vessel, especially fishing boats out of Morgan City, are welcome to tie up at a dock. And there is an excellent helicopter landing pad with a small terminal building on the north end. I never heard of Shang's security turning away anybody who dropped in for a guided tour. They go out of their way to make the place accessible."

  "Definitely not your ordinary Qin Shang operation."

  "So I've been told."

  "As a port," Gunn continued, "Sungari must have offices for customs and immigration agents?"

  Montaigne laughed. "Like the Maytag man, they're the loneliest men in town."

  "Dammit!" Gunn abruptly burst. "This has to be a gigantic scam. Qin Shang built Sungari to conduct criminal activities. I'd stake my government pension on it."

  "If it was me, and my aim was to conduct an illegal operation, I'd have never designed the port to stand out like a Las Vegas casino."

  "Nor I," Gunn conceded.

  "There was, come to think of it," Montaigne said thoughtfully, "an odd bit of construction that puzzled inspecting engineers."

  "What was that?"

  "Shang's contractor built the upper level of their docks a good thirty feet higher than necessary from the water's surface. Instead of walking down a gangway to the dock from the deck of a ship, you actually have to negotiate a slight incline."

  "Could it be insurance against hurricane tides or a hundred-year flood down the river?"

  "Yes, but they magnified the threat," explained Montaigne. "Oh sure, there have been flood stages on the Mississippi that have reached huge heights, but not on the Atchafalaya. Ground level at Sungari was raised to a level far beyond anything that nature could throw at it."

  "Qin Shang wouldn't be where he is by gambling with the elements."

  "I suppose you're right." Montaigne finished off the Jack Daniels. He waved a hand at the image of Sungari. "So there it sits, a grand edifice to one man's ego. Look across the water. Two ships in a port built to take a hundred. Is that any way to run a profitable business?"

  "No way that I'm aware of," said Gunn.

  The general rose to his feet. "I should be on my way. It'll be dark soon. I think I'll instruct my pilot to go upriver to Morgan City and tie up there for the night before heading back to New Orleans."

  "Thank you, General," Gunn said sincerely. "I appreciate you taking the time to see me. Please don't be a stranger."

  "Not at all," Montaigne replied jovially. "Now that I know where to go for a free shot of good whiskey, rest assured, you'll see me again. And good luck on your investigation. Anytime you require the services of the Corps, you have but to call me."

  "Thank you, I will."

  Long after General Montaigne returned to his survey boat, Gunn sat staring at the holographic image of Sungari, his mind seeking answers that never revealed themselves.

  "If you're worried about their security hassling us," said Frank Stew-art, captain of the Marine Denizen, "we can conduct our survey from the middle of the river. They may own the buildings and land on both sides of the Atchafalaya, but free passage between the Gulf and Morgan City is guaranteed under maritime law."

  Stewart, with brown hair cut short and slickly combed with a precision part on the right side, was a mariner from the old school. He still shot the sun with his sextant and figured latitude and longitude the old-fashioned way when a quick scan of his geophysical positioning system could tell him within a yard of where he was standing. Slim and tall with deep-set blue eyes, he was a man without a wife whose mistress was the sea.

  Gunn stood beside the helm, staring through the wheelhouse windows at the deserted port. "We'd look as obvious as a wart on a movie star's nose if we anchored in the river between their docks and warehouses. General Montaigne said that security around Sungari was no heavier than any other port facility on the East and West coasts. If he's right, I see no reason to play cagey. Let's simply call the port master and request dock space to make repairs, and work in their backyard."

  Stewart nodded and hailed the port master over a satellite phone, which had all but replaced ship-to-shore radio. "This is NUMA research ship Marine Denizen. We request dock space to make repairs to our rudder."

  The port master was most congenial. He gave his name as Henry Pang and readily gave permission. "Sure, maintain your position and I'll send a boat to lead you to dock seventeen, where you can tie up. If there's one thing we've got, it's vacant moorings."

  "Thank you, Mr. Pang," acknowledged Stewart.

  "You guys looking for weird fish?" asked Pang.

  "No, we're studying Gulf currents. We bumped over an unmarked shoal off the coast and damaged our rudder. It res
ponds but not to its full arc."

  "Enjoy your stay," said Pang politely. "If you need a marine mechanic or parts, please let me know."

  "Thank you," said Stewart. "Standing by for your guide boat."

  "General Montaigne was right," said Gunn. "So much for tight security."

  A rainsquall rolled in and out during the night, leaving the decks of the Marine Denizen gleaming under the rising sun. Stewart had two of his crew lowered on a small platform over the rudder to act as though they were making repairs. The performance hardly seemed necessary. The docks and cranes were as dead as a football stadium in the middle of the week. Both of the Chinese cargo ships Gunn had observed the evening before had slipped out during the night. The Marine Denizen had the entire port to herself.

  Inside the center section of the Denizen's hull was a cavernous compartment called the moon pool. Two sliding divisions parted like horizontal elevator doors, allowing water to flow inside the moon pool until it leveled out after rising six feet. This was the heart of the research vessel, where divers could freely enter the water without being knocked about by waves, where submersibles could be lowered to explore the depths, and where scientific equipment that monitored and captured sea life could be raised for study in the ship's labs.