Riptide

Chapter 10

The group that gathered around the antique maple table in the pilothouse of the Griffin the following morning was a far cry from the noisy, eager crowd that had encircled the boat with their cheers three evenings before. As Hatch walked in for the scheduled meeting, he found most of the small group looking subdued, even demoralized, after the accident.

He looked around at the nerve center of Neidelman's boat. The curving sweep of windows gave an unimpeded view of island, sea, and land. The pilothouse was constructed of Brazilian rosewood and brass, beautifully restored, with intricate bead-board ceilings. What looked like an eighteenth-century Dutch sextant stood in a glass case next to the binnacle, and the wheel itself was carved of an exotic black wood. Rosewood cabinets on either side of the wheel held a discreet array of high-tech equipment, including loran and sonar screens and a geo-positioning satellite grid. The back wall of the pilothouse housed a massive array of unrecognizable electronics. The Captain himself had not yet emerged from his private quarters below: a low wooden door, set into the electronics of the back wall, was closed. An old horseshoe hung upside down on a nail above the doorway, and a brass plaque on the door itself read PRIVATE in discreet but unmistakable letters. The only sounds in the room were the creaking hawsers and the soft slap of water against the hull.

Taking a seat at the table, Hatch glanced at the people around him. He had met a few of them informally the first night, but others remained strangers. Lyle Streeter, the crew foreman, looked pointedly away from Hatch's smile of greeting. Obviously, he was not a man who enjoyed being yelled at. Hatch made a mental note to remember that although every first-year resident knew that yelling, screeching, and cursing during a medical emergency was standard procedure, the rest of humanity did not.

There was a sound from below, then the Captain stooped through the pilothouse door. All eyes shifted as he walked to the head of the table and leaned on it with both hands, looking into each person's face in turn. There was a noticeable decrease in tension, as if everyone was drawing strength and control from his arrival. When Neidelman's eyes landed on Hatch, he spoke. "How is Ken?"

"Serious, but stable. There's a small chance of an embolism, but it's being monitored closely. I guess you know they couldn't recover the legs."

"So I understand. Thank you, Dr. Hatch, for saving his life."

"I couldn't have done it without the help of Mr. Streeter and his crew," Hatch replied.

Neidelman nodded, letting a silence build. Then he spoke, quiet and assured. "The survey crew was following my orders, taking every precaution I deemed necessary. If anyone is to blame for the accident, it is myself, and we have overhauled our safety procedures as a result. There can be sorrow at this unfortunate development. There can be sympathy for Ken and his family. But there are to be no recriminations."

He stood up and placed his hands behind his back. "Every day," he said in a louder voice, "we'll be taking risks. All of us. Tomorrow, you or I could lose our legs. Or worse. The risks are very real, and they are part of what we do. If it were easy to lift two billion from a watery grave, it would have been done years ago. Centuries ago. We are here because of the danger. And already, we've been dealt a blow. But we must not allow this to dampen our resolve. No treasure has ever been buried with such skill and cunning. It will take even more skill and cunning to retrieve it."

He walked to the nearest window, gazed out for a moment, then turned. "I'm sure most of you know the details of the accident by now. As his crew was moving across the island, Ken Field broke into a boarded-over shaft, probably dug in the mid-nineteenth century. His safety rope stopped his fall before he reached the bottom. But as he was being pulled out, his rope became caught in an exposed beam whose underpinnings were rotted by time. The tug of the rope dislodged the beam, triggering a cave-in and breaching the adjoining flooded shaft."

He paused. "We know what lessons can be learned from this. And I think we all know what our next duties must be. Tomorrow, we begin preparations for dye-testing the Water Pit in order to locate the hidden flood tunnel to the sea. We'll need to have the primary computer systems up and running by that point. The hardbody sonar array, the seismometers, tomographic systems, and the proton magnetometers must be assembled before work begins. The diving equipment should be inspected and ready to go by fifteen hundred hours. Most importantly, I want the tandem pumps up and ready for testing by end of day."

Neidelman glanced briefly at each in turn. "As my core team, each person at this table will receive a share in the treasure instead of salary. You know that if we succeed, each of you will become enormously wealthy. That may not seem bad for four weeks' work, until you consider what happened to Ken Field. If any of you are contemplating leaving, now is the time to do it. You'll get the standard Thalassa compensation package, but no share. There will be no bad feelings, no questions asked. But don't come to me later, saying you've changed your mind. We're seeing this through, no matter what. So speak now."

The Captain turned to a cabinet and extracted an old briar pipe. He removed a tin of Dunhill tobacco from the cabinet, pinched out a bowlful and placed it in the pipe, tamped it thoughtfully, and lit up with a wooden match. All this was done with deliberate slowness, while the silence around the table deepened. Outside, the omnipresent Ragged Island mist had grown denser, curling around the Griffin with an almost sensuous caress.

At last, the Captain looked back and spoke through a wreath of blue smoke. "Very good. Before we adjourn, I'd like to introduce you all to the newest member of the expedition." He glanced at Hatch. "Doctor, I was hoping to have you formally meet my senior staff under more pleasant circumstances." He took in the group with a sweep of his hand. "As most of you know, this is Malin Hatch, owner of Ragged Island and partner in this operation. He will be our medical officer."

Neidelman turned. "Dr. Hatch, this is Christopher St. John, the expedition's historian." He was the plump-faced man Hatch had seen looking back at him from the launch two nights before. A shock of unruly gray hair topped his round head, and the man's rumpled tweed suit displayed the telltale traces of several breakfasts. "You'll find him an expert on all areas of Elizabethan and Stuart history, including piracy and the use of codes. And this"— Neidelman indicated the slovenly looking man in Bermuda shorts, who was picking at his nails with a look of intense boredom, one leg thrown over an arm of the chair—"is Kerry Wopner, our computer expert. Kerry is highly adept at network design and cryptanalysis." He stared hard at the two men. "I don't need to tell you the paramount importance of cracking the second half of the journal, especially in light of this tragedy. Macallan must not keep any more of his secrets from us."

Neidelman continued around the table. "You met our team foreman, Lyle Streeter, yesterday. He's been with me ever since our days cruising the Mekong. And here"—he pointed to a small, severe, prickly looking woman in sensible clothes—"is Sandra Magnusen, Thalassa's chief engineer and remote sensing specialist. At the end of the table is Roger Rankin, our geologist." He indicated a broad, hirsute brute of a man who sat in a chair that looked two sizes too small for him. His eyes met Hatch's, his blond beard parted in a spontaneous grin, and he tipped two fingers to his forehead.

"Dr. Bonterre," Neidelman continued, "our archaeologist and dive leader, has been delayed and should arrive late this evening."

He paused a moment. "Unless there are any questions, that's all. Thank you, and I'll see you all again tomorrow morning."

As the group broke up, Neidelman came around the table to Hatch. "I've kept a special team on the island, preparing the net grid and the Base Camp," he said. "Your medical area will be stocked and ready by dawn."

"That's a relief," said Hatch.

"You're probably eager for some more background on the project. This afternoon would be a good time. How about coming by the Cerberus around fourteen hundred hours?" A thin smile appeared on his lips. "Starting tomorrow, things are liable to get a little busy around here."