December 10, 1948 Unknown Waters

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.