“The storm,” Zhao said. He shifted his gaze away from David and out to the water. “It was bad. We were here like this—outside. We tie ourselves to”—the man struggled to find the word, gave up, and pointed to the railing. He brought his eyes back to David. “People wash away. I see it with my own eyes. Jie Fok—he was a farmer near Guangzhou. Some others too—I don’t know their names.”
“And the crew?”
“They are yelling. They are saying the ship is going down. And then this boat comes. We think it has come for us. But it is small. The captain, the others, they get in a saving boat.”
“A lifeboat?”
“Yes, lifeboat. They get in that boat and they go down to the water. They have a rope to pull them to the other boat. Even so, I see some of those men wash away too. Then that other boat, it just goes away.” Zhao paused. “You think we are going down soon? You think someone comes before the next storm?”
“Everything’s going to be all right.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Every night another storm comes. This ship is going down.”
David ignored this and asked, “Who did you contract with to come on this trip? What are the names of the crewmen?” But Zhao had turned away and was no longer listening. David stood up again and headed back toward the helicopter. Why would anyone expose himself to this danger, David wondered, and what sort of men would want to profit from this misery?
David knew the answers. The immigrants—like most immigrants—wanted freedom. These days, freedom was synonymous with money. The men and women on this ship were coming to America to make their fortunes. Since most of the immigrants didn’t have money to begin with, they contracted with the triads—a free trip, room, and board in exchange for years of indentured servitude. These people would work in sweatshops and restaurants, as prostitutes and drug runners. Once they’d earned back their contracted price, they would be free. The problem was that it was almost impossible to meet their contractual obligations.
The triads, of course, were also motivated by money. A ship the size of the China Peony could carry about four hundred people in relative comfort. For this voyage, the boat had been loaded with five hundred passengers. Each of these people had contracted for an average of $20,000 apiece to get to the United States. Some—like Zhao—had probably agreed to pay back as much as $30,000 for the privilege of a seat on the deck in the fresh air. Less fortunate travelers would have agreed to between $10,000 and $12,000 to be crowded below. Altogether the gross revenues would total about $10 million.
The rub for the U.S. government was that this “catch” was insignificant. The INS and the State Department estimated that for every Chinese who came to this country legally, another three arrived illegally. At least a hundred thousand illegal Chinese crossed the border each year, by every means imaginable—from airplanes to fishing boats to freighters like this one.
As David considered all this, he realized there was something about the China Peony’s situation that didn’t sit right with him. Why had the Rising Phoenix walked—sailed—away from $10 million?
He was halfway back to the chopper when Gardner found him. The young man looked awfully green. “I know,” David said. “The crew’s gone. You tell Campbell?”
“Yeah, I told him. He’s on the radio now.”
“I need to talk to him. We’ve got to get these people off of this thing.”
The men and women who clustered around the helicopter created an aisle as the two Caucasians approached. Campbell and the pilot sat in the chopper with the doors shut, both with their headsets on, both taking turns shouting into the radio and scribbling down notes. Every once in a while they would look at each other and grimace. Finally Campbell pulled off his headphones in disgust and opened the door.
“I’ve got nothing but bad news. The storm’s coming in faster than the weather service expected. We can’t take off because we won’t beat the bastard back to shore. The Coast Guard won’t be here until tomorrow morning. They’re going back to the harbor! And I don’t know about you guys, but I doubt this sucker will make it through the night.”
This last bit of news sent Gardner to the railing, where he promptly puked. Campbell reached back into the chopper, then handed David a couple of Dramamine. “You’ll have to swallow them dry. I don’t think you want to drink any of the water on board—if there is any water on board.”
David took the tablets and swallowed. Campbell went on. “Gardner’s out of it for a while. So I guess that leaves you, me, and Jim here to work things out.” Campbell’s black face wrinkled into a broad grin. He held up the piece of paper with his notes. “Here are our instructions to keep this tub afloat. Let’s see if they’ll work.”
By six, darkness had settled and rain had begun to spot the deck. David and Jack Campbell had found a few people—including Zhao—who spoke a smattering of English. These men were conscripted as translators. “We need to find someone who knows something about ships,” Campbell told them. “Anybody—a sailor, a fisherman. Find them.” Miraculously, they found an electrician and a mechanic. These two men—Wei and Lau—went below to see if they could get the engines started. Immediately they sent word back. The ship was in trouble; there was too much water in the bilge and the pumps were out.
For the first time, David went below decks, where conditions were even worse than outside. The air was thick, hot, humid, and eye-stingingly pungent. In the vast holds of the ship, David found dozens of people weakened by seasickness, lack of fresh water, and meager rations. Some of the men had vomited or defecated right where they lay. Most of the women were too weak to stand, let alone go out on deck to see what all the commotion had been about. A few people appeared delirious; others seemed to have fallen into a deep sleep. Adding to the misery was the strong sense of fear that permeated these dank rooms. These people knew they were finished; their dream of finding a new life in America was ruined.
Again, David had the feeling that there was something more here. These immigrants—at least the healthy ones—seemed more frightened than those he’d seen detained and deported in the past. Perhaps they feared the Rising Phoenix. The organization was known to be obsessed with retribution and brutal punishment. But this didn’t make sense, because the profiteers themselves had abandoned their valuable cargo. Perhaps the immigrants were just afraid the ship would sink. Just afraid the ship would sink! David himself was terrified.
For the ship to stay afloat through the night, everyone needed to help. Some of the stronger men—those from above decks—wrapped pieces of cloth around their noses and mouths, then created a line from the first open-air deck down to the lowest part of the ship. Buckets were passed from hand to hand—slowly, painstakingly removing the water from the hold and throwing it overboard. Not knowing what else he could do, David took a place in the line.
As the sea became rougher, men fell ill and vomited where they stood. But no one left the line. The only relief came when every twenty minutes or so the line would rotate up. Those who had been at the very bottom would move twenty paces closer to the fresh air; those who were at the top took their turns down at the very bottom where the water—scummed with oil and who knew what else—seemed never to diminish. No one spoke. The men—their faces set in tight lines of determination—grimly continued their work.
Every so often they heard the choke of the engine. It would catch for a moment, then fall silent again. The men only intensified their labor. After five hours, one hold had been emptied. The men showed David where there were others. He felt lost under here. The air was vile with oil fumes, human waste, and what David could only surmise were dead rats. Corners melted into darkness. Iron stairs seemed to go nowhere. Hallways ended abruptly. He would walk with a group of five or six, get partway down a hallway, then the group would break into loud, intense arguing. The men screamed at each other in their harsh voices, gesticulated wildly at David, and refused to let him pass. Zhao would finally speak a few words in English. “This is not the way. We go othe
r way.” And they would all turn around and go back the way they had come. It seemed to David that they were walking in circles, and yet, they had found five more holds that were waist deep in icy water.
Around midnight as the storm buffeted the Peony, the engine sputtered and came to life. Throughout the ship a collective cheer went up, but even this was short-lived. They still had so much to do. Within minutes, the pumps were started. Against their steady drone, David abandoned the men he’d been working with to look for Campbell. He found the FBI agent in the engine room. The older man was sweaty and grease stained, but neither his energy nor his humor had ebbed.
“You look like shit,” Campbell said, and laughed.
For the first time, David looked down at his suit. Sometime this evening he’d taken off the jacket and left it somewhere. His shirt was smudged and a sleeve had a tear along the shoulder seam. His pants—wet with the fouled water from the hold—clung to his legs. David couldn’t help but grin himself, but the moment of levity quickly dissipated.
“Okay, this is where we are,” Campbell said. “We’ve got the engines going…”