Flood Tide

“Very possible,” said Qin Shang, the latent hostility reflected hi his voice. “The devil has proven far more destructive than I ever conceived.” A few seconds passed hi silence. Then he said, “Inform Gavrovich that he is to be given full authority and an unlimited budget to uncover and stop any covert operation against Qin Shang Maritime.”

“And Dirk Pitt?”

“Tell Gavrovich to postpone killing Pitt until he returns.”

“To Manila?”

Qin Shang was breathing quickly, his mouth a thin white line. “No, when he returns to Washington.”

“How can you be sure he'll go straight to the American capital?”

“Unlike you, Su Zhong, who can read people from photographs, I've studied the man's history from the time he was born until he devastated my operation at Orion Lake. Trust me when I say he will return to his home at the first opportunity.”

Su Zhong shuddered slightly, knowing what was about to come. “Are you speaking of the aircraft hangar where he lives with his old car collection?”

“Exactly,” Qin Shang hissed like a serpent. “Pitt will watch in horror as his precious automobiles go up in flames. I may even take the time and watch him burn with them.”

“Your calendar does not put you in Washington next week. You're scheduled for meetings with your company directors in Hong Kong and government officials in Beijing.”

“Cancel them,” Shang said with an indifferent wave of one hand. “Set up meetings with my friends in Congress. Also arrange a meeting with the President. It's time I soothed any misgivings they might have about Sungari.” He paused, and his lips tightened in a sinister smile. “Besides, I think it appropriate that I be on hand when Sungari becomes the premier shipping port in North America.”

AS THE SUN ROSE THE OREGON BOUNDED ACROSS A CALM SEA under clear skies at a speed of thirty knots. With her ballast tanks pumped dry to raise her hull out of the water to reduce drag, she made a strange sight with her stern dug deep in water thrashed white by wildly turning screws, her bows lifted nearly free of the troughs before bursting aside the crest of the next rolling swell. During the night the cargo deck had been cleared of debris while the ship's surgeon worked nonstop to bind wounds and operate on those who were seriously injured. The Oregon lost only one man, who had the misfortune of being struck hi the head by fragments from the hundred-millimeter shell when it smashed into the upper section of the stern. None of the wounded were critical. The surgeon also managed to save all but six of the Chinese marines. Both officers had died and were dropped over the side with their men who had not survived.

The women who served aboard the Oregon quickly turned into angels of mercy, assisting the surgeon and tending to the wounded. Pitt's unlucky curse held tight. Instead of an attractive nurse to bandage his hip wound, his luck of the draw was the ship's quartermaster or mistress (her actual title in Cabrillo's corporate structure was supply and logistics coordinator), who stood six feet and weighed two hundred pounds if she weighed an ounce. Her name was Monica Crabtree, and she was as bright and resourceful as they came.

After she finished, she gave Pitt a slap on his exposed tail. “All finished. And may I say that you've got a nice set of buns.”

“Why is it,” Pitt said, pulling up his boxer briefs, “women always take advantage of me?”

“Because we're smart enough to see through that steely exterior and know that inside beats the heart of a sentimental slob.”

Pitt looked at her. “Do you read palms, or more correctly, buns?”

“No, but I'm a whiz with tarot cards.” Crabtree paused and gave him a come-hither smile. “Come over to my quarters sometime and I'll give you a reading.”

Pitt would have rather rushed off for a root canal. “Sorry, knowing the future might upset my stomach.”

Pitt limped through the open doorway to the chairman's cabin. No bunk for the chairman of the board. Cabrillo was lying in a king-size bed with a Balinese carved headboard on top of clean green sheets. Bottles on a stand containing clear fluids flowed into him through tubes. Considering his ordeal, he looked reasonably healthy as he sat propped up by pillows reading damage reports while smoking a pipe. Pitt was saddened to see that his leg had been amputated below the knee. The stump was elevated on a pillow, a red stain having spread through the bandage.

“Sorry about your leg,” said Pitt. “I had hoped the surgeon might have somehow reattached it.”

“Wishful thinking,” said Cabrillo with extraordinary grit. “The bone was too shattered for the doc to glue it back on.”

“I guess there is no sense in asking how you feel. Your constitution seems to be firing on all cylinders.”

Cabrillo nodded at his missing limb. “Not so bad. At least it's below the knee. How do you think I'd look with a peg leg?”

Pitt looked down and shrugged. “Somehow I can't picture the chairman of the board stomping about the deck like some lecherous buccaneer.”

“Why not? That's what I am.”

“It's obvious,” Pitt said, smiling, “that you don't need any sympathy.”

“What I need is a good bottle of Beaujolais to replace my blood loss.”

Pitt eased into a chair beside the bed. “I hear you've given orders to bypass the Philippines.”

Cabrillo nodded. “You heard correct. All hell must have broken loose when the Chinese learned we sank one of their cruisers along with its crew. They'll use every arm-twisting scheme in the diplomatic book to have us arrested and the ship impounded the minute we sail into Manila.”

“What then is our destination?”

“Guam,” answered Cabrillo. “We'll be safe in American territory.”

“I'm deeply sorry about the death and injuries to your crew and damage to your ship,” said Pitt sincerely. “The blame belongs on my shoulders. If I hadn't insisted you delay your departure from Hong Kong to search inside the liner, the Oregon might have gotten clear.”

“Blame?” Cabrillo said sharply. “You think you're the cause of all that's happened? Don't flatter yourself. I wasn't ordered by Dirk Pitt to covertly search the United States. I made a contract with the U.S. government to fulfill a mission. All decisions relating to the search were mine and mine alone.”

“You and your crew paid a high price.”

“Maybe so, but the corporation was damn well rewarded for it. In fact, we're already guaranteed a fat bonus.”

“Still—”

“Still, hell. The mission would have been a bust if you and Giordino hadn't learned what you did. To someone, somewhere in the hallowed halls of our intelligence agencies the information will be considered vital to the nation's interest.”

“All we really learned,” said Pitt, “is that a former ocean liner, gutted of every nonessential piece of equipment and owned by a master criminal, is sailing without a crew to a port in the United States owned by the same master criminal.”

“I'd say that's quite a store of information.”

“What good is it if we've yet to fathom the motivation?”

“I have confidence you'll divine the answer when you get back to the States.”

“We probably won't learn anything solid until Qin Shang tips his hand.”

“The Ancient Mariner and the Hying Dutchman had ghostly crews.”

“Yes, but they were works of classic fiction.”

Cabrillo set his pipe in an ashtray; he was begi

“Like the old lend-lease destroyer during a commando raid at Saint-Nazaire, France, in World War II,” said Pitt.

“The Campbeltown. I remember. The British packed her with several tons of explosives and rammed her into the big dry dock at the Saint-Nazaire shipyard so the Nazis couldn't use it to refit the Tirpitz. With the help of a timing device, she blew to pieces several hours later, destroying the dry dock and killing over a hundred Nazis who came to stare at her.”