“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 thousand dollars a head, and you're talking real money.”
“Ah” 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 Atchafa-laya 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 Stewart, 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.”