Riptide (16 page)

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H
atch throttled down the diesels of the
Plain Jane
, then dropped anchor twenty yards off the lee shore of Ragged Island. It was 6:30, and the sun had just topped the sea horizon,
throwing a gauzy gold light across the island. For the first time since Hatch had returned to Stormhaven, the island’s protective
mist had lifted completely. He clambered into the dinghy and motored toward the navy-issue prefabricated pier at Base Camp.
Already the day was warm and humid, and there was a certain heaviness in the air that presaged bad weather.

As he gazed across the scene, his old apprehensions began to ease. Over the last forty-eight hours, Ragged Island had grown
comfortingly unrecognizable. An enormous amount of work had been accomplished, more than he could have believed possible. Yellow
“crime scene” tape had been strung around the unstable areas of the island, with safe corridors delineated for walking. The
meadows above the narrow strip of shingle beach had been transformed from a place of deserted silence to a miniature city.
Trailers and Quonset huts were arranged in a tight circle. Beyond, a brace of massive generators thrummed, wafting diesel
fumes into the air. Beside them sat two enormous fuel tanks. Bundles of white PVC pipe flowed across the muddy ground, shielding
date lines and power cords from the elements and unwary feet. In the midst of the chaos stood Island One, the command center,
a double-wide trailer festooned with communications gear and transmitters.

Securing the dinghy, Hatch jogged along the pier and up the rough path beyond. Arriving at Base Camp, he walked past the Stores
shed and stepped into the Quonset hut marked
MEDICAL
, curious to see his new office. It was spartan but pleasant, smelling of fresh plywood, ethyl alcohol, and galvanized tin.
He walked around, admiring the new equipment, surprised and pleased that Neidelman had purchased the best of everything. The
office was fully equipped, from a locked storeroom full of equipment and drug cabinets to an EKG machine. Almost too equipped,
in fact: Among the medical supplies in the lockers, Hatch found a colonoscope, a defibrillator, a fancy electronic Geiger
counter, and a variety of expensive-looking high-tech gadgets he couldn’t identify. The Quonset hut itself was larger than
it looked. There was an outer office, an examination room, even a two-bed infirmary. In the rear of the structure was a small
apartment, where Hatch could spend the night during inclement weather.

Stepping outside again, Hatch headed for Island One, carefully avoiding the ruts and furrows left behind by the treads of
heavy equipment. Inside the command center, he found Neidelman, Streeter, and the engineer, Sandra Mag-nusen, bending over
a screen. Magnusen was like a small, intense bug, her face blue in the outwash of the computer terminal, scrolling lines of
data reflecting on her thick glasses. She seemed all business, all the time, and Hatch got the distinct feeling that she didn’t
like most people, doctors included.

Neidelman looked up and nodded. “Data transfer from Scylla finished several hours ago,” he said. “Just completing the pump
simulation now.” He moved aside to give Hatch a view of the terminal.

Magnusen’s brow furrowed.

“Is everything all right?” Neidelman asked.

“Yes.” The engineer sighed. “No. Well, I don’t know. The computer seems to be acting flaky.”

“Tell me about it,” Neidelman said quietly.

“It’s running a little sluggishly, especially when the emergency interrupts were tested. And look at those deviation numbers.
The island network itself shows everything normal. But there’s a deviation from the simulation that we ran on the
Cerberus
system. And there’s even more of a deviation from the run we did last night.”

“But it’s within tolerances?”

Magnusen nodded. “It might be some anomaly in the checksum algorithms.”

“That’s a polite way of saying it’s a bug.” Neidelman turned to Streeter. “Where’s Wopner?”

“Asleep on the
Cerberus
.”

“Wake him up.” Neidelman turned to Hatch and nodded toward the door. They walked out into the hazy sunlight.

T
here’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.”