Flood Tide Page 20

  Pitt walked outside onto the bridge wing and viewed the incredible carnival of colored lights of Kowloon and Hong Kong as the ship slipped through the channel to her assigned anchorage northwest of the central harbor. Along the waterfront of Victoria Harbor, the skyscrapers were illuminated like a forest of giant Christmas trees. In appearance, the city had changed little after it was taken over in 1997 by the People's Republic of China. For most of the residents life went on as before. It was the wealthy, along with many of the giant corporations, who had moved, primarily to the West Coast of the United States.

  He was joined by Giordino as the ship closed on Qin Shang's dock terminal. The transatlantic ocean liner that was once the pride of America's maritime fleet appeared and grew larger.

  During the flight to Manila he and Giordino had studied a lengthy report on the United States. The brainchild of the famed ship designer William Francis Gibbs, she was built by the Newport News Ship Building & Dry Dock Company, who laid her keel in 1950. Gibbs, a genius and a genuine character, was to marine engineering and design what Frank Lloyd Wright was to dry-land architecture. His dream was to create the fastest and most beautiful passenger liner yet built. He achieved his dream, and his masterpiece became the pride and apex of America during the age of great liners. She was truly the ultimate in elegant refinement and speed.

  Gibbs was fanatical about weight and fireproofing. He insisted on using aluminum whenever possible. From the 1.2 million rivets driven into her hull to the lifeboats and their oars, stateroom furnishings and bathroom fixtures, baby's high chairs, even coat hangers and picture frames, all had to be aluminum. The only wood on the entire ship was a fireproof Steinway piano and the chef's butcher block. In the end, Gibbs had reduced the weight of the superstructure by 2,500 tons. The result was a ship of remarkable stability.

  Considered huge then and now with a gross tonnage of 53,329 and measuring 990 feet in length with a 101-foot beam, she was not the world's largest liner. At the time of her construction the Queen Mary outweighed her by over 30,000 tons and the Queen Elizabeth was forty-one feet longer. The Cunard Line Queens may have provided a more ornate and baroque atmosphere, but the American ship's lack of rich wood paneling and fancy decor in favor of tasteful restraint, and her speed and safety were the elements that set the United States apart from her contemporaries. Unlike foreign competing liners, the Big U, as her crew had affectionately called her, gave her passengers 694 unusually spacious staterooms and air conditioning. Nineteen elevators carried passengers between the decks. Besides the usual gift shops, they could enjoy three libraries and two cinemas and could worship in a chapel.

  But her two greatest assets were a military secret at the time of her building and operation. Not until several years later did it become known that she could be converted into a military transport capable of carrying 14,000 troops within a few weeks. Powered by eight massive boilers creating superheated steam, her four Westinghouse-geared turbines could put out 240,000 horsepower, 60,000 for each of her four propeller shafts, and drive her through the water just under fifty miles an hour. She was one of the few liners that could slip through the Panama Canal, charge across the Pacific to Singapore and back to San Francisco without refueling. In 1952, the United States won the prestigious Blue Riband, awarded for the fastest speed across the Atlantic. No liner has won it since.

  A decade after she left the shipyard, she had become an anachronism. Commercial airplanes were already becoming competition to the famed greyhounds of the sea. By 1969, rising operating costs and the public's desire to reach their destination in the shortest time possible by air, spelled the end for America's greatest ocean liner. She was retired and laid up for thirty years at Norfolk, Virginia, before eventually finding her way to China.

  Borrowing a pair of binoculars, Pitt studied the huge ship from the bridge of the Oregon. Her hull was still painted black, her superstructure white, her two great, magnificent funnels red, white and blue. She looked as magnificent as the day she broke the transatlantic record.

  He was puzzled to see her ablaze with light. The sounds of activity echoed across the water. It puzzled him that Qin Shang's shipyard crews were working on her around the clock without any attempt at secrecy. Then, curiously, all sounds and activity suddenly stopped.

  The pilot nodded at Cabrillo, who rang the ancient telegraph to STOP ENGINES. Unknown to the pilot, the telegraph was nonfunctional and Cabrillo muttered orders through a hand-held radio. The vibration died, and the Oregon went as quiet as a tomb as she slowly moved forward under her own momentum. Then the command came for slow astern, followed shortly by all stop.

  Cabrillo gave the order to let go the anchor. The chain rattled, and it fell with a splash into the water. Then he shook hands with the pilot after signing the usual affidavits and logging the mooring. He waited until the pilot was on board the pilot boat before motioning to Pitt and Giordino. "Come join me in the chartroom and we'll go over tomorrow's program."

  "Why wait another twenty-four hours?" asked Giordino.

  Cabrillo shook his head. "Tomorrow after dark is soon enough. We still have customs officials due aboard. No sense in alerting suspicions."

  Pitt said, "I think we have a breakdown in communications."

  Cabrillo looked at him. "You see a problem?"

  "We have to go during daylight. We have no visibility at night."

  "Can't you use underwater lights?"

  "In black water any bright light stands out like a beacon. We'd be discovered ten seconds after we switched on our floods."

  "We'll be inconspicous when we're under the keel," Giordino added. "It's when we're inspecting the hull on the sides below the waterline that we're vulnerable to detection from above."

  "What about the darkness caused by the shadow of the hull?" asked Cabrillo. "What if underwater visibility is lousy? What then?"

  "We'd have to rely on artificial lighting, but it would be imperceptible to anyone staring over the side of the dock with sun over their head."

  Cabrillo nodded. "I understand your dilemma. Romantic adventure novels say it's darkest before dawn. We'll drop you and your submersible over the side and tow you within spitting distance of the United States, putting you on station before sunup."

  "Sounds good to me," Pitt said gratefully.

  "Can I ask you a question, Mr. Chairman?" inquired Giordino.

  "Go right ahead."

  "If you carry no cargo, how do you justify entering and exiting a port?"

  Cabrillo gave Giordino a canny look. "The empty wooden crates you see on the deck and the ones in the cargo holds above our concealed cabins and galley are stage props. They will be off-loaded onto the dock, then consigned to an agent who works for me and transported to a warehouse. After a proper length of time, the crates are re-marked with different descriptions, returned to the dock and loaded back on board. As far as the Chinese are concerned, we dumped one cargo and took on another."

  "Your operation never ceases to amaze," said Pitt.

  "You were given a tour of our computer compartment in the bow of the ship," said Cabrillo. "So you know that ninety percent of the Oregon's operation is under the command of computer-automated systems. We go manual when entering and departing a port."

  Pitt handed the binoculars to Cabrillo. "You're an old pro at stealth and covert activities. Doesn't it strike you odd that Qin Shang is converting the United States into a first-class smugglers' transport right out in the open under the eyes of anyone looking on? Crewmen on cargo ships, passengers on ferries and tour boats?"

  "It does seem peculiar," Cabrillo admitted. He lowered the glasses momentarily in thought, puffed on his pipe, and peered through the lenses again. "It's also peculiar that all work on the ship appears to have stopped. No sign of tight security either."

  "Tell you anything?" asked Giordino.

  "It either tells Qin Shang is uncommonly careless or our renowned intelligence agencies have been outsmarted by him," said Cabrillo quietly.

/>   "We'll know better after we check out the ship's bottom," said Pitt. "If he intends to smuggle illegal aliens into foreign countries under the noses of their immigration officials, he'd have to have a technique for removing them off the ship undetected. That can only mean some kind of watertight passage beneath the waterline to shore or even possibly a submarine."

  Cabrillo tapped his pipe on the rail, watching as the ashes spiraled down into the harbor. Then he looked thoughtfully across the water at the former pride of America's passenger fleet, her superstructure and two rakish funnels brilliantly lit like a movie set. When he spoke it was slowly and solemnly. "You fully realize, I assume, that if something should go wrong, a minor mishap, an overlooked detail, and you are caught in what is considered an act of espionage by the People's Republic of China, you will be treated accordingly."

  "Like being tortured and shot," said Giordino.

  Cabrillo nodded. "And without anyone in our government so much as lifting their little finger to stop the execution."

  "Al and I are fully aware of the consequences," said Pitt. "But you're placed in the hazardous position of risking your entire crew and your ship. I wouldn't fault you for a second if you wanted to toss us in the bay and steam off into the sunset."

  Cabrillo stared at him and smiled craftily. "Are you serious? Skip out on you? I'd never consider it. Certainly not for the enormous sum of money a certain secret government fund is paying me and the crew. As far as I'm concerned, this has far less risk man robbing a bank."

  "In excess of seven figures?" Pitt asked.

  "More like eight," replied Cabrillo, suggesting a fee of over ten million dollars.

  Giordino looked over at Pitt sadly. "When I think of what our pitiful monthly stipend from NUMA adds up to, I can't help wondering where we went wrong."

  17

  UNDER THE COVER of predawn darkness, the submersible Sea Dog II, with Pitt and Giordino inside, was lifted from her crate by the loading crane, swung over the side of the ship and slowly lowered into the water. A crewman standing on top of the submersible unhooked the cable and was hauled back on board. Then the Oregon's shore launch pulled alongside and attached a towline. Giordino stood in the open hatch that was raised three feet above the water while Pitt continued ticking off the instrument and equipment checklist.

  "Ready when you are," announced Max Hanley from the launch.

  "We'll descend to ten feet," said Giordino. "When we reach that level you can get under way."

  "Understood."

  Giordino closed the hatch and stretched out beside Pitt in the submersible, which had the appearance of a fat Siamese cigar with stubby wings on each side that curved to vertical on the tips. The twenty-foot long, eight-foot wide, 3,200-pound vehicle may have looked ungainly on the surface, but underwater she dived and turned with the grace of a baby whale. She was propelled with three thrusters in the twin tail section that impelled water through the front intake and expelled it out the rear. With a light touch on the two handgrips, one controlling pitch and dive, the other banks and turns, along with the speed-control lever, the Sea Dog II could glide smoothly a few feet under the surface of the sea or dive to a depth of two thousand feet in a matter of minutes. The pilots, who lay prone with their heads and shoulders extending into a single transparent glass bow, had a much wider range of visibility than provided by most submersibles with only small viewing ports.

  Visibility beneath the surface was nil. The water enclosed the sub like a thick quilt. Looking up and ahead, they could just barely make out the shadowy outline of the launch. Then came a deep rumble as Cabrillo increased the rpms of the powerful Rodeck 539-cubic-inch, 1,500-horsepower engine that drove the big double-ender launch. The propeller thrashed the water, the stern dug in and the launch strained before surging forward with the bulky submersible in tow. Like a diesel locomotive pulling a long train up a grade, the launch struggled to gain momentum, finally increasing its speed until it was dragging the deadweight below the water at a respectable eight knots. Unknown to Pitt and Giordino, Cabrillo had the throttle of the powerful engine set at only one-third power.

  During the short journey from the Oregon to the United States, Pitt programmed the on-board computer analyzer that automatically set and monitored the oxygen level, electronics and the depth control systems. Giordino activated the manipulator arm by running it through a series of exercises.

  "Is the communications antenna up?" Pitt asked him.

  Lying next to him, Giordino nodded slightly. "I let out the cable to a maximum length of sixty feet as soon as we entered the water. She's dragging on the surface behind us."

  "How did you disguise it?"

  Giordino shrugged. "Another cunning ploy of the great Albert Giordino. I encased it in a hollowed-out cantaloupe."

  "Stolen from the chef, no doubt."

  Giordino gave Pitt a hurt look. "Waste not, want not. It was overripe and she was going to throw it in her garbage collector."

  Pitt spoke into a tiny microphone. "Chairman Cabrillo, do you read me?"

  "Like you were sitting next to me, Mr. Pitt," Cabrillo came back quickly. Like the other five men in the launch, he was dressed as a local fisherman.

  "As soon as we reach our drop zone, I'll release the communications-relay antenna so we can remain in contact after you've returned to the Oregon. When I drop the antenna, its weighted line will settle into the silt and it will act as a buoy."

  "What is your range?"

  "Underwater, we can transmit and receive up to fifteen hundred yards."

  "Understood," said Cabrillo. "Stand by, we're only a short distance away from the liner's stern. I won't be able to come in much closer than fifty yards."

  "Any sign of a security force?"

  "The whole ship and dock look as dead as a crypt in winter."

  "Standing by."

  Cabrillo was better than his word. He slowed the launch until it barely maintained headway and steered it almost directly under the stern of the United States. The sun was coming up as a diver slipped over the side and descended down the towline to the submersible. "Diver is down," Cabrillo announced.

  "We see him," answered Pitt, looking up through the transparent nose. He watched as the diver released the connection mechanism mounted on top of the submersible between the twin tubes and gave the familiar "okay" sign with one hand before disappearing up the towline. "We are free."

  "Make a turn forty degrees to your starboard," directed Cabrillo. "You are only eighty feet west of the stern."

  Giordino gestured up through the murky depth at the immense shadow that gave the illusion it was passing over them. The seemingly unending shape was enhanced by the sunlight filtering between the dock and the gigantic hull. "We have her."

  "You're on your own. Rendezvous will be at four-thirty. I'll have a diver waiting at your antenna mooring."

  "Thank you, Juan," said Pitt, feeling free to use the chairman's first name. "We couldn't have done it without you and your exceptional crew."

  "I wouldn't have it any other way," Cabrillo came back cheerfully.

  Giordino gazed in awe at the monstrous rudder looming overhead and pressed the lever that dropped the antenna's anchor into the silt on the bottom. From their position the hull seemed to travel off into infinity. "She appears to be riding high. Do you recall her draft?"

  "I'd have to make a wild guess," said Pitt. "Somewhere around forty feet, give or take?"

  "Judging from the look of her, your guess is a good five feet on the low side."

  Pitt made Cabrillo's course correction and dipped the Sea Dog IIs bows into deeper water. "I'd better be careful or we'll bump our heads."

  Pitt and Giordino had worked as a team on countless dives into the abyss and operated a score of submersibles on various NUMA projects.

  Without any discussion each man spontaneously assumed his well-practiced responsibilities. Pitt acted as pilot while Giordino kept an eye on the systems monitor, operated the video camera and worked the ma
nipulator arm.

  Pitt gently eased the throttle lever forward, directing the sub's movement by angling and tilting the three thrusters with the handgrip controls, dodging beneath the giant rudder and banking around the two starboard screws. Like some nocturnal flying machine, the submersible slipped around the three-bladed bronze propellers that spanned the watery gloom like great, beautifully curved fans. The Sea Dog II continued silently through the water, which became an eerie opaque green.

  The bottom appeared as distant land through a fog. Assorted trash dumped off ships and the dock over the years lay partially embedded in the silt. They soared over a rusting deck grate that was home to a small school of squid that drifted in and out of the parallel rows of square openings. Pitt guessed that it had simply been dumped by dockyard workers sometime in the past. He stopped the thrusters and settled the craft into the soft bottom beneath the liner's stern. A small cloud of silt filtered up and outward like a brown vapor, momentarily obscuring any view through the forward canopy.