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 waterline 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.
Giordino shook his head sadly. "I've slept on bus benches that had more class than this. Kick me the next time I complain about my motel room."
"Oh, ye of little faith, stop griping. Keep telling yourself that it didn't cost us anything."
"I've got to admit that it has character."
Pitt aimed the chronically complaining Giordino toward the shantyboat. "Go load up the equipment and check out the engine. I'll go over to the store and buy some groceries."
"I can't wait to see our motive power," Giordino groused. "Ten to one it doubles as an eggbeater."
Pitt walked a boardwalk through a boatyard leading down the bank into the river. A worker was giving a wooden fishing boat set inside a cradle on rails a new coat of antifouling paint on the keel and hull. Next door, Pitt came to a wooden structure under a sign that proclaimed WHEELER'S LANDING. A long porch ran around the building, which was raised off the ground by rows of short pilings. The walls were painted a bright green with yellow shutters framing the windows. Inside, Pitt found it incredible that so much merchandise could be crammed in so small a space. Boating parts took up one end of the store, fishing and hunting supplies the other. The center was devoted to groceries. A compact refrigerator stocked with five times as much beer as soft drinks and dairy products stood against one wall.
Pitt picked up a hand basket and made out very well, selecting enough foodstuffs to feed him and Giordino three or four days, and, as with most men, he probably bought more than they could eat, especially specialty items and condiments. Setting the overloaded basket on the counter by the cash register, he introduced himself to the portly owner of the store who was busily stocking canned goods.
"Mr. Wheeler. My name is Dirk Pitt. My friend and I have charted the Bayou Kid's shantyboat."
Wheeler brushed his thick mustache with the light touch of a finger and stuck out his hand. "Been expectin' you. The Kid said you'd be by this mornin'. She's all ready to go. Fuel tank filled, battery charged and topped off with oil."
"Thank you for your trouble. We should be back in a few days."
"I hear y'all is goin' up to the canal them Chinks built."
Pitt nodded. "Word travels."
"Y'all got charts of the river?" asked Wheeler.
"I was hoping you might supply them."
Wheeler turned and checked the labels taped on a slotted cabinet hanging on the wall containing rolled nautical charts of the local waterways and topographical maps of the surrounding marshlands. He pulled out several and spread them on the counter. "Here's a chart showing depths of the river and a few topo maps of the Atchafalaya Valley. One of them shows the area around the canal."
"You're a great help, Mr. Wheeler," said Pitt sincerely. "Thank you."
"I guess y'all know the Chinks won't let you on the canal. They've got it chained off."
"Is there another way in?" asked Pitt.
"Sure, at least two of them." Wheeler took a pencil and began marking the maps. "You can take either Hooker's or Mortimer's bayous. Both run parallel to the canal and empty into it about eight miles from the Atchafalaya. Y'all'll find Hooker's to be the easiest to navigate the shantyboat."
"Does Qin Shang Maritime own the property around Hooker's Bayou, too?"
Wheeler shook his head. "Their borders only run a hundred yards on either side of the canal."
"What happens if you cross the barrier?"
"Local fishermen and hunters sneak in sometimes. More often than not, they're caught and thrown out by an armed boatload of automatic rifle-totin' Chinks who patrol the canal."
"Then security is tight," said Pitt.
"Not so much at night. Y'all could probably get in, see what y'all want to see, since we're havin' a quarter moon for the next two nights before it wanes, and get out before they know y'all been there."
"Has anyone reported seeing anything strange in and around the canal?"
"Nothin' worth writin' home about. Nobody can figure why the fuss to keep people out of a ditch through a swamp."
"Any barge or boat traffic in and out?"
Wheeler shook his head. "None. The chain barrier is fixed in place and can't be opened unless ya blast it with TNT."