Pitt could find no way to enter, certainly not from the water. He was about to give up and swim back to the shantyboat when he spotted a small round portal embedded in the stone breakwater. The portal was above the surface of the water but just below the planking on the wharf. It was covered by an iron door that was secured by three dog levers. Its purpose eluded him. A sewer outlet? A drainage pipe? A maintenance tunnel? A closer inspection of the lettering stamped by the manufacturer on the iron door cleared up the mystery.
MANUFACTURED BY THE ACADIA CHUTE COMPANY NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
It was a chute that was used when the mill was in operation to load the raw sugar onto barges. The old wharf had been demolished and a new one constructed that was five feet higher to accommodate the passage of illegal immigrants under the water without being visible on the surface. The newer, raised wharf now sat a good foot over the early loading chute.
The dog levers were badly rusted and probably hadn't been opened in eighty years. But the bayou water did not have the salt content of the sea. The corrosion was not deep. Pitt gripped a dog lever with both hands, positioned his feet against the upper planks of the wharf and pulled downward.
To his delight, the lever gave and moved an inch on the first try. The next heave took it three inches; then it turned more easily. Finally, he twisted it out against its stop. The second dog lever came slightly easier, but the third fought him every inch of the way. Gasping and panting, Pitt rested for a minute before pulling the door open. It fought too. He had to put both feet against the breakwater and pull with every ounce of strength he had left.
At last the iron door grudgingly squeaked open on its rusting hinges. Pitt peered inside, but all he could see was darkness. He turned and swam under the wharf, stopping just before he reached the shantyboat's hull. He called up softly. "Al, are you there?"
His only response came from Romberg. Curious, the hound strolled onto the wharf and sniffed through the cracks in the planking just above Pitt's head. "Not you. I want Giordino."
Romberg began wagging his tail. He stretched out his front paws, and lay down on the wharf and playfully tried to dig through the wooden planking.
Inside the guard shack, Giordino turned every minute or two and stared at the shantyboat for an indication of Pitt's return. Seeing Romberg pawing and scratching on the wharf for something underneath made him curious. He slowly walked through the gate and stopped by the dog. "What are you sniffing at?" he asked.
"Me!" Pitt whispered through the planking.
"Jeez!" muttered Giordino. "For a second I thought Romberg could talk."
Pitt stared up between the cracks in the planks. "Where did you get the uniform?"
"The guard decided to take a nap, and charitable, benevolent fellow that I am, I offered to stand his watch."
"Even with my limited view I can tell it's a lousy fit."
"You might be interested to learn," said Giordino, facing away from the sugar mill and rubbing a two-day-whiskered chin to cover his lip movements, "this place is owned by the Butterfield Freight Corporation, not Qin Shang Maritime. Also, the guard may have Asian ancestry, but I figure he went to school in either L.A. or San Francisco."
"Butterfield has to be a corporate front used by Shang to move people in and out of here. There's a submerged vehicle connected to the bottom of the barge that has the capacity to transport close to four hundred bodies."
"Then we've found the mother lode."
"We'll know shortly, just as soon as I get inside."
"How?" asked Giordino simply.
"I found a chute that was used to load sugar onto barges. It appears to lead toward the main building."
"Watch your step and make it fast. I don't know how much longer I can fool whoever is monitoring me."
"They have a camera on you?" asked Pitt.
"I've counted three and suspect there may be a few more around the perimeter I haven't spotted yet," Giordino answered.
"Can you drop my forty-five over the side? I don't want to go in naked."
"I'll lower it over the side."
"You're okay, Al. I don't care what they say about you," said Pitt.
"If I hear a gunshot," said Giordino as he walked toward the shantyboat, "Romberg and I will come running."
"That should be a sight to behold."
Giordino entered the shantyboat, took Pitt's Colt automatic and shiftily lowered it on a string through a window until it hung just above the water surface opposite the wharf. He felt a sharp tug on the line and the gun was gone. Then he slowly made his way back to the guard shack, where he unholstered the impressive Wesson Firearms .357 Magnum revolver that he'd taken off the unconscious guard, and waited for something to happen.
Pitt dropped his air tank, weight belt and the rest of the dive gear below the shantyboat. Clad only in his wet suit and carrying the Colt above his head to keep it dry, he stroked under the wharf to the chute portal and climbed inside. It was a tight squeeze, and he had to pull his body along a few inches at a time. The Colt he slipped under the collar of his wet suit against his upper chest, making it easy merely to bend his arm and retrieve it should an unpleasant occasion arise. The light decreased the farther he penetrated the chute, his body blocking off a fair share of it. But he could still see well enough to pick out any obstacles that lay ahead. He fervently hoped he wouldn't run up against a poisonous snake. With almost no room to maneuver, he would either have to club it to death with the old Colt or shoot it. One event risked a bite from fangs, the other detection by security guards.