Clive Cussler - Flood Tide

“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.