Riptide

Chapter 15

There's something I'd like to show you," the Captain said. Without waiting for an answer, he set off at his usual terrific stride, his long legs sweeping through the grass, leaving a backwash of pipe smoke and confidence. Twice he was stopped by Thalassa employees, and he appeared to be directing several operations at once with cool precision. Hatch scrambled to keep up, barely having time to glance at all the changes around him. They were following a roped path, certified safe by the Thalassa surveyors. Here and there, short aluminum bridges spanned old pits and rotten areas of ground.

"Nice morning for a stroll," Hatch panted.

Neidelman smiled. "How do you like your office?"

"Everything's shipshape and Bristol fashion, thanks. I could service an entire village from it."

"In a sense, you're going to have to," came the reply.

The path climbed the island's incline toward the central hump of land, where most of the old shafts were clustered. Several aluminum platforms and small derricks had been placed over the muddy maws of shafts. Here, the main trail forked into several roped paths that wound around the ancient works. Nodding to a lone surveyor, Neidelman chose one of the central paths. A minute later, Hatch found himself standing at the edge of a gaping hole. Except for the presence of two engineers on the far side, taking measurements with an instrument Hatch didn't recognize, it seemed identical to a dozen other pits in the vicinity. Grass and bushes hung over the lip and sagged down into darkness, almost obscuring the edge of a rotting beam. Gingerly, Hatch leaned forward. Only blackness showed below. A flexible, metal-jointed hose of enormous circumference rose from the invisible depths, snaked across the muddy ground, and wound its way toward the distant western shore.

"It's a pit, all right," Hatch said. "Too bad I didn't bring along a picnic basket and a book of verses."

Neidelman smiled, removed a folded computer printout from his pocket, and handed it to Hatch. It consisted of a long column of dates, with numbers beside them. One of the pairs was highlighted in yellow: 1690±40.

"The carbon 14 tests were completed at the Cerberus's lab early this morning," Neidelman said. "Those are the results." He tapped his finger on the highlighted date.

Hatch took another look, then handed back the paper. "So what's it mean?"

"This is it," Neidelman said quietly.

There was a momentary silence. "The Water Pit?" Hatch heard the disbelief in his own voice.

Neidelman nodded. "The original. The wood used for the cribbing of this shaft was cut around 1690. All the other shafts date between 1800 and 1930. There can be no question. This is the Water Pit designed by Macallan and built by Ockham's crew." He pointed to another, smaller hole about thirty yards away. "And unless I'm mistaken, that's the Boston Shaft, dug 150 years later. You can tell because of its gradual incline, after the initial drop."

"But you found the real Water Pit so quickly!" said Hatch, amazed. "Why didn't anyone else think of carbon dating?"

"The last person to dig on the island was your grandfather in the late forties. Carbon dating wasn't invented until the next decade. Just one of the many technological advantages we'll be bringing to bear in the coming days." He waved his hand over the Pit. "We'll begin construction of Orthanc this afternoon. Its components are already down at the supplies dock, waiting for reassembly."

Hatch frowned. "Orthanc?"

Neidelman laughed. "It's something we created for a salvage job in Corfu last year. A glass-floored observation post built atop a large derrick. Somebody on last year's team was a Tolkien fanatic, and the nickname stuck. It's fitted with winches and remote sensing gear. We'll be able to look right down the throat of the beast, literally and electronically."

"And what's this hose for?" Hatch asked, nodding toward the pit.

"This morning's dye test. That hose is connected to a series of pumps on the west shore." Neidelman glanced at his watch. "In an hour or so, when the tide reaches the flood, we'll start pumping 10,000 gallons of seawater per minute through this hose into the Water Pit. Once a good flow is established, we'll drop a special, high-intensity dye. With the tide ebbing, the pumps will help push the dye down into Macallan's hidden flood tunnel, and back out to the ocean. Since we don't know which side of the island the dye will emerge on, we'll use both the Naiad and the Grampus, spotting on opposite sides of the island. All we have to do is keep an eye out for the place where the dye appears offshore, send divers to the spot, and seal the tunnel with explosives. With the seawater blocked, we can pump out the water and drain all the works. Macallan's pit will be defanged. By this time on Friday, you and I will be able to climb down in there with nothing more than a slicker and a pair of Wellingtons. Then we can make the final excavation of the treasure at our leisure."

Hatch opened his mouth, then shut it again with a shake of his head.

"What?" Neidelman said, an amused smile on his face, his pale eyes glittering gold in the rising sun.

"I don't know. Things are moving so fast, that's all."

Neidelman drew a deep breath and looked around at the workings spread across the island. "You said it yourself," he replied after a moment. "We don't have much time."

They stood for a moment in silence.

"We'd better get back," Neidelman said at last. "I've asked the Naiad to come pick you up. You'll be able to watch the dye test from its deck." The two men turned and headed back toward Base Camp.

"You've assembled a good crew," Hatch said, glancing down at the figures below them on the supply dock, moving in ordered precision.

"Yes," Neidelman murmured. "Eccentric, difficult at times, but all good people. I don't surround myself with yes-men—it's too dangerous in this business."

"That fellow Wopner is certainly a strange one. Reminds me of an obnoxious thirteen-year-old. Or some surgeons I've known. Is he really as good as he thinks he is?"

Neidelman smiled. "Remember that scandal in 1992, when every retiree in a certain Brooklyn zip code got two extra zeros added to the end of their social security checks?"

"Vaguely."

"That was Kerry. Did three years in Allenwood as a result. But he's kind of sensitive about it, so avoid any jailbird jokes."

Hatch whistled. "Jesus."

"And he's as good a cryptanalyst as he is a hacker. If it wasn't for those on-line role-playing games he refuses to abandon, he'd be a perfect worker. Don't let his personality throw you. He's a good man."

They were approaching Base Camp, and as if on cue Hatch could hear Wopner's querulous voice floating out of Island One. "You woke me up because you had a feeling? I ran that program a hundred times on Scylla and it was perfect. Perfect. A simple program for simple people. All it does is run those stupid pumps."

Magnusen's answer was lost in the rumble of the Naiad's engine as it slid into the slip at the end of the dock. Hatch ran to get his medical kit, then jumped aboard the powerful twin-engine outboard. Beyond lay its sister, the Grampus, waiting to pick up Neidelman and assume its position on the far side of the island.

Hatch was sorry to see Streeter at the helm of the Naiad, expressionless and severe as a granite bust. He nodded and flashed what he hoped was a friendly smile, getting a curt nod in return. Hatch wondered briefly if he had made an enemy, then dismissed the thought. Streeter seemed like a professional; that was what counted. If he was still sore about what happened during the emergency, it was his problem.

Forward, in the half-cabin, two divers were checking their gear. The dye would not stay on the surface for long, and they'd have to act quickly to find the underwater flood tunnel. The geologist, Rankin, was standing beside Streeter. On seeing Hatch he grinned and strode over, crushing Hatch's hand in a great hairy paw.

"Hey, Dr. Hatch!" he said, white teeth flashing through an enormous beard, his long brown hair plaited behind. "Man, this is one fascinating island you've got."

Hatch had already heard several variants of this remark from other Thalassa employees. "Well, I guess that's why we're all here," he answered with a smile.

"No, no. I mean geologically."

"Really? I always thought it was like the others, just a big granite rock in the ocean."

Rankin dug into a pocket of his rain vest and pulled out what looked like a handful of granola. "Hell, no." He munched. "Granite? It's biotite schist, highly metamorphosed, checked, and faulted to an incredible degree. And with a drumlin on top. Wild, man, just wild."

"Drumlin?"

"A really weird kind of glacial hill, pointed at one side and tapered at the other. No one knows how they form, but if I didn't know better I'd say—"

"Divers, get ready," came Neidelman's voice over the radio. "All stations, check in, by the numbers."

"Monitoring station, roger," squawked the voice of Magnusen.

"Computer station, roger," said Wopner, sounding bored and annoyed even over the radio.

"Spotter alpha, roger."

"Spotter beta, roger."

"Spotter gamma, roger."

"Naiad, roger," Streeter spoke into the radio.

"Grampus affirms," came Neidelman's voice. "Proceed to position."

As the Naiad picked up speed beneath him, Hatch checked his watch: 8:20. The tide would turn shortly. As he stowed his medical kit, the two divers came out of the cabin, laughing at some private joke. One was a man, tall and slender, with a black mustache. He wore a wetsuit of thin neoprene so tight it left no anatomical feature to the imagination.

The other, a woman, turned and saw Hatch. A playful smile appeared on her lips. "Ah! You are the mysterious doctor?"

"I didn't know I was mysterious," said Hatch.

"But this is the dreaded Island of Dr. Hatch, non?" she said pointing, with a peal of laughter. "I hope you will not be hurt if I avoid your services."

"I hope you avoid them too," said Hatch, trying to think of something less inane to say. Drops of water glistened on her olive skin, and her hazel eyes sparkled with little flecks of gold. She couldn't be more than twenty-five, Hatch decided. Her accent was exotic—French, with a touch of the islands thrown in.

"I am Isobel Bonterre," she said, pulling off her neoprene glove and holding out her hand. Hatch took it. It was cool and wet.

"What a hot hand you have!" she cried.

"The pleasure is mine," Hatch replied belatedly.

"And you are the brilliant Harvard doctor that Gerard has been talking about," she said, gazing into his face. "He likes you very much, you know."

Hatch found himself blushing. "Glad to hear it." He had never really thought about whether Neidelman liked him, but he found himself unaccountably pleased to hear it. He caught, just out of the corner of his eye, a glance of hatred from Streeter.

"I am glad you are aboard. It saves me the trouble of tracking you down."

Hatch frowned his lack of understanding.

"I will be locating the old pirate encampment, excavating it." She gave him a shrewd look. "You own this island, non? Where would you camp, if you had to spend three months on it?"

Hatch thought for a moment. "Originally, the island was heavily wooded in spruce and oak. I imagine they would have cut a clearing on the leeward side of the island. On the shore, near where their boats were moored."

"The lee shore? But would that not mean they could be seen from the mainland on clear days?"

"Well, I suppose so, yes. This coast was already settled in 1696, though sparsely."

"And they would need to keep watch on the windward shore, n'est-ce pas? For any shipping that might chance on them."

"Yes, that's right," Hatch said, secretly nettled. If she knows all the answers, then why is she asking me? "The main shipping route between Halifax and Boston went right past here, across the Gulf of Maine." He paused. "But if this coast was settled, how would they have hidden nine ships?"

"I too thought of that question. There is a very deep harbor two miles up the coast, shielded by an island."

"Black Harbor," said Hatch.

"Exactement."

"That makes sense," Hatch replied. "Black Harbor wasn't settled until the mid seventeen hundreds. The work crew and Macallan could have lived on the island, while the ships sheltered unseen in the harbor."

"The windward side, then!" Bonterre said. "You've been most helpful. Now I must get ready." Any lingering annoyance Hatch felt melted away under the archaeologist's dazzling smile. She balled up her hair and slid the hood over it, then donned her mask. The other diver sidled over to adjust her tanks, introducing himself as Sergio Scopatti.

Bonterre glanced up and down the man's suit appraisingly, as if seeing it for the first time. "Grande merde du noir," she muttered fervently. "I did not know Speedo made wetsuits."

"Italians make everything fashionable," Scopatti laughed. "And molto svelta."

"How's my video working?" Bonterre called over her shoulder to Streeter, tapping a small camera mounted on her mask.

Streeter ran his hand down a bank of switches and a video screen popped to life on the control console, showing the jiggling, grinning face of Scopatti.

"Look somewhere else," said Scopatti to Bonterre, "or you'll break your camera."

"I shall look at the doctor then," said Bonterre, and Hatch saw his own face appear on the screen.

"That wouldn't just break the camera, it would implode the lens," Hatch said, wondering why this woman kept him at a loss for words.

"Next time, I get the comm set," said Scopatti, in a joking whine.

"Never," said Bonterre. "I am the famous archaeologist. You are just cheap hired Italian labor."

Scopatti grinned, not at all put out.

Neidelman's voice broke in: "Five minutes to the turn of the tide. Is the Naiad in position?"

Streeter acknowledged.

"Mr. Wopner, is the program running properly?"

"No problemo, Captain," came the nasal voice over the channel. "Running fine now. Now that I'm here, I mean."

"Understood. Dr. Magnusen?"

"The pumps are primed and ready to go, Captain. The crew reports that the dye bomb is suspended over the Water Pit, and the remote's in place."

"Excellent. Dr. Magnusen, you'll drop the bomb on my signal."

The people on the Naiad fell silent. A pair of guillemots whirred past, flying just above the surface of the water. On the far side of the island, Hatch could make out the Grampus, riding the even swell just beyond the ledges. The air of excitement, of something about to happen, increased.

"Mean high tide," came Neidelman's quiet voice. "Start the pumps."

The throb of the pumps came rumbling across the water. As if in response, the island groaned and coughed with the reversal of the tide. Hatch shuddered involuntarily; if there was one thing that still gave him a shiver of horror, it was that sound.

"Pumps at ten," came Magnusen's voice.

"Keep it steady. Mr. Wopner?"

"Charybdis responding normally, Captain. All systems within normal tolerances."

"Very well," said Neidelman. "Let's proceed. Naiad, are you ready?"

"Affirmative," said Streeter into the mike.

"Hold steady and keep an eye out for the spot where the dye appears. Spotters ready?"

There was another chorus of ayes. Looking toward the island, Hatch could see several teams ranged along the bluffs with binoculars.

"First one who spots the dye gets a bonus. All right, release the dye bomb."

There was a momentary silence, then a faint crump sounded from the vicinity of the Water Pit.

"Dye released," said Magnusen.

All hands peered across the gently undulating surface of the ocean. The water had a dark, almost black, color, but there was no wind and only the faintest chop, making conditions ideal. Despite the growing rip current, Streeter kept the boat stationary with an expert handling of the throttles. A minute passed, and another, the only sound the throb of the pumps pouring seawater into the Water Pit, driving the dye down into the heart of the island and out to sea. Bonterre and Scopatti waited in the stern, silent and alert.

"Dye at twenty-two degrees," came the urgent voice of one of the spotters on the island. "One hundred forty feet offshore."

"Naiad, that's your quadrant," said Neidelman. "The Grampus will come over to assist. Well done!" A small cheer erupted over the frequency.

That's the spot I saw the whirlpool, Hatch thought.

Streeter swung the boat around, gunning the engine, and in a moment Hatch could see a light spot on the ocean about three hundred yards away. Both Bonterre and Sergio had their masks and regulators in place and were already at the gunwales, bolt guns in their hands and buoys at their belts, ready to go over the side.

"Dye at 297 degrees, one hundred feet offshore," came the voice of another spotter, cutting through the cheering.

"What?" came Neidelman's voice. "You mean to say that dye is appearing in another place?"

"Affirmative, Captain."

There was a moment of shocked silence. "Looks like we've got two flood tunnels to seal," said Neidelman. "The Grampus will mark the second. Let's go."

The Naiad was closing in on the swirl of yellow dye breaking the surface just inside the reefs. Streeter cut the throttle and sent the boat in a circling idle as the divers went over the side. Hatch turned eagerly to the screens, shoulder-to-shoulder with Rankin. At first the video image consisted only of clouds of yellow dye. Then the picture cleared. A large, rough crack appeared at the murky bottom of the reef, dye jetting out of it like smoke.

"Le voila!" came Bonterre's excited voice over the comm channel. The image jiggled wildly as she swam toward the crack, shot a small explosive bolt into the rock nearby, and attached an inflatable buoy. It bobbed upward and Hatch looked over the rail in time to see it surface, a small solar cell and antenna bobbing at its top. "Marked!" said Bonterre. "Preparing to set charges."

"Look at that," breathed Rankin, swiveling his gaze from the video to the sonar and back again. "A radiating fault pattern. All they had to do was tunnel along existing fractures in the rock. Still, incredibly advanced for seventeenth-century construction—"

"Dye at five degrees, ninety feet offshore," came another call.

"Are you certain?" Disbelief mixed with uncertainty in Neidelman's voice. "Okay, we've got a third tunnel. Naiad, it's yours. Spotters, for God's sake keep your scopes trained in case the dye spreads before we can get to it."

"More dye! Three hundred thirty-two degrees, seventy feet offshore."

And then the first voice again: "Dye appearing at eighty-five degrees, I repeat, eighty-five degrees, forty feet offshore."

"We'll take the one at 332," said Neidelman, a strange tone creeping into his voice. "Just how many tunnels did this bloody architect build? Streeter, that makes two for you to deal with. Get your divers up as soon as possible. Just mark the exits for now and we'll set the plastique later. We've only got five minutes before that dye dissipates."

In another moment Bonterre and Scopatti were up and in the boat, and without a word Streeter spun the wheel and took off at a roar. Now Hatch could see another cloud of yellow dye boiling to the surface. The boat circled as Bonterre and Scopatti went over the side. Soon another buoy had popped up; the divers emerged, and the Naiad moved to the spot where the third cloud of dye was appearing. Again Bonterre and Scopatti went over the side, and Hatch turned his attention to the video screen.

Scopatti swam ahead, his form visible on Bonterre's headset, a ghostly figure among the billowing clouds of dye. They were already deeper than at any point on the first two dives. Suddenly, the jagged rocks at the bottom of the reef became visible, along with a square opening, much larger than the others, through which the last tendrils of dye were now drifting.

"What's this?" Hatch heard Bonterre say in a voice of disbelief. "Sergio, attends!"

Suddenly Wopner's voice crackled over the radio. "Got a problem, Captain."

"What is it?" Neidelman responded.

"Dunno. I'm getting error messages, but the system reports normal function."

"Switch to the redundant system."

"I'm doing that, but. . . Wait, now the hubs getting... Oh, shit."

"What?" came Neidelman's sharp voice.

At the same time Hatch heard the sound of the pumps on the island faltering.

"System crash," said Wopner.

There was a sudden, sharp, garbled noise from Bonterre. Hatch glanced toward the video screen and saw it had gone dead. No, he corrected himself: not dead, but black. And then snow began to creep into the blackness until the signal was lost in a howling storm of electronic distortion.

"What the hell?" Streeter said, frantically punching the comm button. "Bonterre, can you hear me? We've lost your feed. Bonterre!"

Scopatti broke the surface ten feet from the boat and tore the regulator from his mouth. "Bonterre's been sucked into the tunnel!" he gasped.

"What was that?" Neidelman cried over the radio.

"He said, Bonterre's been sucked—" Streeter began.

"Goddammit, go back after her!" Neidelman barked, his electronic voice rasping across the water.

"It's murder down there!" Scopatti yelled. "There's a massive backcurrent, and—"

"Streeter, give him a lifeline!" Neidelman called. "And Magnusen, bypass that computer control, get the pumps started manually. Losing them must have created some kind of backflow."

"Yes, sir," said Magnusen. "The team will have to reprime them by hand. I'll need at least five minutes, minimum."

"Run," came Neidelman's voice, hard but suddenly calm. "And do it in three."

"Yes, sir."

"And Wopner, get the system on-line."

"Captain," Wopner began, "the diagnostics are telling me that everything's—"

"Stop talking," snapped Neidelman. "Start fixing."

Scopatti clipped a lifeline around his belt and disappeared again over the side.

"I'm clearing this area," Hatch said to Streeter as he began to spread towels over the deck to receive his potential patient.

Streeter played the lifeline out, helped by Rankin. There was a sudden tug, then steady tension.

"Streeter?" came Neidelman's voice.

"Scopatti's in the backflow," said Streeter. "I can feel him on the line."

Hatch stared at the snow on the screen with a macabre sense of deja vu. It was as if she had disappeared, vanished, just as suddenly as...

He took a deep breath and looked away. There was nothing he could do until they got her to the surface. Nothing.

Suddenly there was a noise from the island as the pumps roared into life.

"Good work," came Neidelman's voice from the comm set.

"Line's gone slack," said Streeter.

There was a tense silence. Hatch could see the last bits of dye boiling off as the flow came back out the tunnel. And suddenly the video screen went black again, and then he heard gasping over the audio line. The black on the screen grew lighter until, with a flood of relief, he saw a green square of light growing across the screen: the exit to the flood tunnel.

"Merde," came Bonterre's voice as she was ejected from the opening, the view from the camera tumbling wildly.

Moments later, there was a swirl at the surface. Hatch and Rankin rushed to the side of the boat and lifted Bonterre aboard. Scopatti followed, stripping off her tanks and hood as Hatch laid her down on the towels.

Opening her mouth, Hatch checked the airway: all clear. He unzipped her wetsuit at the chest and placed a stethoscope. She was breathing well, no sound of water in the lungs, and her heartbeat was fast and strong. He noticed a gash in the suit along her stomach, skin and a ribbon of blood swelling along its edge.

"Incroyable," Bonterre coughed, trying to sit up, waving a chip of something gray.

"Keep still," Hatch said sharply.

"Cement!" she cried, clutching the chip. "Three-hundred-year-old cement! There was a row of stones set into the reef—"

Hatch felt quickly around the base of her skull, looking for evidence of a concussion or spinal injury. There were no swellings, cuts, dislocations.

"Ca suffit!" she said, turning her head. "What are you, a phrenologiste?"

"Streeter, report!" Neidelman barked over the radio.

"They're aboard, sir," Streeter said. "Bonterre seems to be fine."

"I am fine, except for this meddlesome doctor!" she cried, struggling.

"Just a moment while I look at your stomach," Hatch said, gently restraining her.

"Those stones, they looked like the foundation to something," she continued, lying back. "Sergio, did you see that? What could it be?"

With a single movement, Hatch unzipped the wetsuit down to her navel.

"Hey!" cried Bonterre.

Ignoring the outcry, Hatch quickly explored the cut. There was a nasty scrape below her ribs, but it seemed superficial along its entire length.

"It is just a scratch," protested Bonterre, craning her neck to see what Hatch was doing.

He snatched his hand from her belly as a distinctly unprofessional stirring coursed through his loins. "Perhaps you're right," he said a little more sarcastically than he intended, fishing in his bag for a topical antibiotic ointment. "Next time let me play in the water, and you can be the doctor. Meanwhile, I'm going to apply some of this anyway, in case of infection. You had a close call." He rubbed ointment into the scrape.

"That tickles," said Bonterre.

Scopatti had stripped off his suit to the waist, and stood with his arms crossed, his tanned physique gleaming in the sun, grinning fondly. Rankin stood next to him, hirsute and massive, watching Bonterre with a distinct gleam in his eyes. Everyone, thought Malin, is in love with this woman.

"I ended up in a big underwater cavern," she was saying. "For a moment I couldn't find the walls, and I thought that was the end. Fin."

"A cavern?" Neidelman asked doubtfully over the open channel.

"Mais oui. A big cavern. But my radio was dead. Why would that be?"

"The tunnel must have blocked the transmission," Neidelman said.

"But why the backcurrent?" Bonterre said. "The tide was going out."

There was a brief silence. "I don't have an answer to that," Neidelman's voice came at last. "Perhaps once we've drained the Pit and its tunnels, we'll learn why. I'll be waiting for a full report. Meanwhile, why don't you rest? Grampus out."

Streeter turned. "Markers set. Returning to base."

The boat rumbled to life and planed across the water, riding the gentle swells. Hatch stowed his gear, listening to the chatter on the radio bands. Neidelman, on the Grampus, was talking to Island One.

"I'm telling you, we've got a cybergeist," came the voice of Wopner. "I just did a ROM dump on Charybdis, and ran it against Scylla. Everything's messed up nine ways to Sunday. But that's burned-in code, Captain. The goddamn system's cursed. Not even a hacker could rewrite ROM—"

"Don't start talking about curses," said Neidelman sharply.

As they approached the dock, Bonterre peeled off her wetsuit, packed it into a deck locker, wrung out her hair, and turned toward Hatch. "Well, Doctor, my nightmare came true. I did need your services, after all."

"It was nothing," said Hatch, blushing and furiously aware of it.

"Oh, but it was very nice."