Hung-chang's dark amber eyes gleamed. “Please keep your speed within the limit. We can allow curiosity, but we cannot afford to arouse suspicion, not for the next several hours.”
Hung-chang was chosen by Qin Shang's personal orders to captain the United States upriver to New Orleans. Not only did Qin Shang trust him explicitly, but his decision was also based on expediency. Having a captain at the helm who was experienced in ocean liners was not a necessity. By selecting a snip's captain and his crew who were already in America and within a short helicopter flight of the approaching liner, Qin Shang saved time and the expense of sending a crew from Hong Kong. His ulterior motive was that he did not believe more experienced cruise-ship chief officers were as expendable as the captain and crew of the Sung Lien Star.
Hung-chang's duties consisted of little more than greeting the customs inspectors and immigration officials and acting the conquering hero to the crowds of people lining the riverbanks. His true function was mostly for ornamentation. Besides twenty heavily armed security men on Qin Shang's payroll, his crew of fifteen was primarily made up of demolition experts mixed in with a few engineers to stand by in case there was a call for emergency repairs if the ship was attacked.
He turned a blind eye to the dangerous part of the journey. Twenty-four hours, that was all the time Qin Shang had requested of his services. His evacuation, when the moment came, was well timed and organized. Helicopters were standing by to swoop in and pick up the fighting men and crew once the charges were detonated and the ship was scuttled in precisely the right spot. Qin Shang had given his assurances that Hung-chang would be a rich man when he returned home, providing, of course, the operation went as conceived.
He sighed. All that troubled him now was navigating the sharp bends in the river, avoiding other ships and passing under the six bridges that faced him after New Orleans. The distance from the Head of Passes to the city was ninety-five miles. Although the navigation channel for oceangoing traffic in the lower reaches of the river averaged more than forty feet deep by one thousand feet wide, no ship the size of the United States had ever traveled on the Mississippi before. The narrow inland waterway channel was not dredged for a vessel of her huge bulk and restricted maneuverability.
After passing Venice, the last town on the west bank that was accessible by highway, the levees were lined with thousands of people who had turned out to see the grand spectacle of the great liner's passage up the river. Students had been temporarily let out of schools to witness an event that had never before taken place and would not again. Hundreds of small private boats trailed after the ship, tooting and honking their horns, and were kept a safe distance away from her churning wake by two escorting Coast Guard boats that had appeared after the United States had emerged from the Head of Passes.
They all stood, many in awed silence, others waving and cheering, as the United States negotiated the sharp bends of the river, her bow brushing the edge of the channel on the west bank, her stem and slowly turning propellers thrashing past the east bank that protruded around the bend. This was late April going on May, and the spring runoff far to the north that came flowing down from the Mississippi's tributaries had raised the water level above the base of the levees. Hung-chang was thankful for extra water between the keel and river bottom. It gave him an extra margin for success.
He readjusted the buckle on the strap of his binoculars, squared the cap on his head, then stepped out onto the bridge wing. He ignored the compass mounted on a stand that responded to the ship's every change of direction as it moved over the curling river. He was glad the waterway had been emptied of traffic in anticipation of the big ship's passage. It would be a different story after New Orleans, but he would deal with that problem when the time came.
He looked up at the sky and was relieved to see the weather had cooperated. The day was warm with only a whisper of a breeze. A twenty-mile-an-hour wind against the gigantic hull of the ship could have caused disaster by pushing her broadside into the bank during navigation of a sharp river bend. The azure-blue cloudless sky and the sunlight reflected off the water surface, giving it a green, almost clean, look. Because he was ascending the river the green channel buoys swayed aimlessly on his left while the red navigation buoys rolled to his right.
He waved back at the people standing on the levee amid a sea of parked cars and pickup trucks. From his height nine stories above the water he looked down on the horde and saw the flat marsh and farmlands beyond. Li Hung-chang felt like a spectator watching someone else play his role in a drama.
He began to speculate on the reception waiting along the waterfront in New Orleans, and he smiled to himself. Millions of Americans would remember this day, he mused, but not for the reasons they had expected.
RUDI GUNN WAS WAITING FOR PITT AND GIOROINO WHEN they returned the shantyboat to Doug Wheeler's dock late the same afternoon. His eyes were red from lack of sleep caused by sitting up most of the night waiting for Pitt's sporadic reports. He wore khaki shorts and a white T-shirt with the words
ST. MARY PARISH, GOOD OLD FASHION SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY
printed across the back.
After replacing the fuel they had used and loading their equipment in the Marine Denizen's launch, Put and Giordino bade a fond farewell to Romberg, who raised his head from the deck and gave them a lethargic goodbye “Woof,” before promptly falling back to sleep.
As they cleared the dock, Giordino stood beside Gunn at the helm. “I'd say we could all use some dinner and a good night's sleep.”
“I'll second the motion,” Pitt yawned.
“All you get is a thermos of coffee with chicory,” said Gunn. “The admiral flew into town along with Peter Harper of the Immigration Service. Your presence has been requested on board the Coast Guard cutter Weehawken.”
“Last I saw of her,” said Pitt, “she was anchored just above Sungari.”
“She's now tied up at the Coast Guard dock near Morgan City,” Gunn enlightened him.
“No dinner?” asked Giordino sadly.
“No time,” Gunn replied. “Maybe if you act like good little boys, you can get a fast bite from the Weehawken's galley.”
“I promise to be good,” Giordino said with a wily shift to his eyes.
Pitt and Gunn exchanged disbelieving looks. “Never happen,” Gunn sighed.
“Not in our lifetime,” Pitt agreed.
Peter Harper, Admiral Sandecker, Captain Lewis and Julia Lee were waiting for them in the wardroom of the Weehawken when they climbed on board. Also present were Major General Frank Montaigne of the Army Corps of Engineers and Frank Stewart, captain of the Marine Denizen. Lewis cordially asked if there was anything he could get them. Before Giordino could open his mourn, Gunn said, “We had coffee on the ran from Wheeler's dock, thank you.”
Pitt shook hands with Sandecker and Harper before giving Julia a light kiss on the cheek. “How long has it been since we've seen each other?” “All of two hours.”
“Seems like an eternity,” he said with his devilish grin. “Stop,” she said, pushing him away. “Not here.” “I suggest we get on with it,” said Sandecker restlessly. “We have a lot of ground to cover.”
“Not the least of which is Duncan Monroe's humble apology that he asked me to convey,” Harper said, making a show of penitence by pumping Pitt's and Giordino's hands. “I also wish to express my personal debt of gratitude to NUMA and to you gentlemen for ignoring our demands to disassociate yourselves from the investigation. Without your timely intervention at Bartholomeaux, our assault team would have found nothing but a dead INS agent and an empty sugar mill. The only unfortunate aspect was the killing of Ki Wong.”