Riptide (9 page)

Before checking out of the hotel in Southport the day before, he’d received a note from Neidelman: a single sentence, asking
him to rendezvous off Ragged Island at sunset this evening. That gave Hatch an entire day to himself. At first, he’d been
afraid this meant a day alone with his memories. He’d thought of dragging out the watercolors he dabbled with on weekends
and hazarding a sketch of the shoreline. But the intention fell away unpursued. Somehow, here on the water, he felt a torpid
kind of peace. He had come home to Stormhaven. He’d even approached Ragged Island. He had gazed upon the beast and survived.

He checked his watch: almost 7:30. Time to get started.

He cranked the engine and was pleased to hear the big diesel turn over obediently. The deep vibration underfoot, the
blub-blub
of exhaust fumes, was like a siren song out of the past, at once sweet and painful. He put the boat in gear with a thrust
of his hand and pointed the big bow in the direction of Ragged Island.

The day was clear, and as the boat cut through the water Hatch watched its shadow flitting on ahead of him, draped across
the water by the afternoon sun. The ocean was deserted except for a lone lobster boat, hauling traps off the coast of Hermit
Island. He had come on deck a few times during the day to scan the horizon, half-expecting to see activity of some sort in
the direction of Ragged Island. Seeing nothing but sea and sky each time, he hadn’t been sure whether he was disappointed
or relieved.

Past the harbor, the air turned cool. But instead of throttling down and grabbing his windbreaker, Hatch found himself cranking
the boat faster, turning his face into the wind, opening his mouth to the occasional salt spray as the
Plain Jane
slapped through the chop. It was somehow cleansing, alone out here; he felt almost as if the wind and water might begin to
shake loose the accumulated cobwebs and dirt of a quarter century.

Suddenly, a dark shadow appeared ahead, low on the eastern horizon. Hatch throttled back, feeling the old, familiar trepidation
return. The fog around the island was thinner today, but the outlines were still vague and forbidding, the derricks and winches
protruding dimly like the ruined minarets of some alien city. Hatch turned the boat to port, keeping his distance, preparing
to circle.

Then, on the lee side of the island, he saw an unfamiliar boat, moored perhaps a quarter mile offshore. As he approached,
he could see it was an antique fireboat, built of rich brown wood, mahogany or teak. The name
GRIFFIN
was painted across its stern in severe gold letters. And below, smaller:
MYSTIC, CONNECTICUT.

Hatch considered coming alongside, then changed his mind and cut the
Plain Jane’s
engine about a hundred yards off. The boat appeared empty. Nobody came on deck to acknowledge his arrival. For a moment he
wondered if it belonged to some tourist or trophy hunter, but it was now almost sunset; the coincidence seemed too strong.

He stared curiously at the boat. If it was Neidelman’s command craft, it was an unusual but practical choice. What the thing
lacked in speed it made up for in stability: Hatch felt sure it would ride out any but the heaviest sea, and with fore-and-aft
engines it would be highly maneuverable. The hose reels and monitors had been removed, freeing up a lot of deck space. The
davits, tower, and searchlights had been retained, and a computer-controlled crane was retrofitted onto the stern. Hatch’s
eyes traveled up to the capacious pilothouse and flying bridge. Above, there was the usual cluster of electronic antennae,
loran, and radar, along with additional gear not especially nautical: a microwave horn, satellite dish, air-search radar,
and VLF antennae.
Impressive rig,
Hatch thought. He dropped one hand to the instrument panel, ready to give a blast of his air horn.

Then he hesitated. Beyond the silent boat, and beyond the mist-shrouded island, he could make out a deep throbbing sound,
so low in pitch it was almost beneath the audible spectrum. His hand dropped away as he listened. In a minute, he was certain:
a boat engine, distant but approaching fast. Hatch scanned the horizon until he picked up a smudge of gray to the south. As
he watched, he saw a momentary flash as the setting sun hit some article of polished metal on the distant craft.
Probably a Thalassa boat,
he thought,
swinging up from Portland.

Then, slowly, Hatch saw the smudge separate into two, then three, then six distinct shapes. He waited in disbelief as a veritable
invasion fleet approached the tiny island. A huge sea barge steamed toward him, its dark red underbelly revealed as bow waves
pulled back across the waterline. In its wake labored a tug, its bow-net mossy and glistening, a hundred-ton floating crane
towed behind. Next came a brace of powerboats, sleek and muscular-looking, bristling with electronics. A supply boat followed,
heavy with cargo and low in the water. From its masthead flew a small flag of white and red. Hatch noticed that the design
on the flag matched the insignia he’d seen on Neidelman’s portfolio cover, just days before.

Last came an elegant vessel, large and fantastically equipped. The name
CERBERUS
was stenciled on its bows in blue letters. Hatch gazed in awe over the gleaming superstructure, the harpoon gun on the foredeck,
the smoked-glass portholes.
Fifteen-thousand tonner, minimum,
he thought.

In a kind of silent ballet, the vessels nosed up to the
Griffin.
The larger ships came to a stop on the far side of the fireboat, while the smaller craft came to rest beside the
Plain Jane.
There was a rattling of chains and singing of hawsers as anchors ran out. Gazing at the powerboats straddling his port and
starboard sides, Hatch could see the occupants staring back. A few smiled and nodded. In the closest boat, Hatch noticed a
man with iron-gray hair and a plump white face looking at him with an expression of polite interest. He wore a bulky orange
life preserver over a carefully buttoned suit. Next to him lounged a young man with long greasy hair and a goatee, dressed
in Bermuda shorts and a flowered shirt. He was eating something out of a white paper wrapper, and he gazed back at Hatch with
a kind of insolent disinterest.

The last engine was cut, and a strange, almost spectral silence fell over the gathering. Hatch looked from boat to boat, and
noticed that everyone’s eyes were gravitating toward the empty deck of the fireboat in the center.

A minute passed, then two. At last a door in the side of the pilothouse opened and Captain Neidelman emerged. Silently, he
walked to the edge of the railing and stood, ramrod-straight, gazing out at the company that surrounded him. The setting sun
gave a burgundy cast to his sunburned face, and kindled his fair, thinning hair into gold. It was amazing, Hatch thought,
how his slender presence projected out over the water and the circle of boats. As the silence gathered, another man, small
and wiry, stepped unobtrusively out of the door behind Neidelman and remained standing in the background, hands folded.

For a long moment, Neidelman remained silent. At last he started to speak, in a voice that was low, almost reverent, yet carried
easily over the water.

“We live in an era,” Neidelman began, “when the unknown is known, and most of earth’s mysteries have been solved. We have
gone to the North Pole, scaled Everest, flown to the Moon. We have broken the bonds of the atom and mapped the abyssal plains
of the oceans. Those who tackled these mysteries often endangered their lives, squandered their fortunes, and risked everything
they held dear. A great mystery can only be solved at a high price—sometimes the highest price.”

He gestured in the direction of the island. “Here—a mere hundred yards away—lies one of those great riddles, perhaps the greatest
still left in North America. Look at it. It looks like nothing, a hole in a patch of dirt and rock. And yet this hole—this
Water Pit—has sucked the living marrow from the bones of everyone who tried to plumb its secrets. Many millions of dollars
have been spent. Lives have been ruined and even lost. There are those among us today that have felt firsthand just how sharp
the teeth of the Water Pit can be.”

Neidelman looked around at the company, gathered on the assembled boats. His eyes met Hatch’s. Then he began again.

“Other enigmas of the past—the monoliths of Sac-sahuamán, Easter Island’s statues, the standing stones of Britain—cloak their
meaning in mystery. Not so the Water Pit. Its location, its purpose, even its history is known. It lies here before us, a
brazen oracle, daring to take on all comers.”

He paused another moment. “By 1696 Edward Ockham had become the most feared pirate cruising the high seas. The ships in his
treasure fleet were swollen with accumulated loot, sluggish, low in the water. The next storm, even an unlucky meeting with
a man-of-war, could deal his fleet a mortal blow. He had held off hiding his treasure and he was now desperate. A chance encounter
with a certain architect provided the answer.”

Neidelman leaned on the rail, the wind stirring his hair. “Ockham seized that architect and charged him with designing a pit
to house the treasure. A pit so fearfully impregnable that it would stymie even the most well-equipped treasure hunter. Everything
went according to plan. The pit was built, the treasure stored. And then, as the pirate set out for another round of murder
and depredation, providence struck. Red Ned Ockham died. Since that day, his treasure has slumbered at the bottom of the Water
Pit, waiting for the time when technology and human resolve would finally bring it once again into the world.”

Neidelman took a deep breath. “Despite the enormous value of this treasure, the best efforts of one man after another have
failed to pluck anything of value from the pit. Anything but this!” And suddenly the Captain held his arm aloft, something
gripped between his fingers. The light of the setting sun winked and played so dazzlingly across it that his fingertips seemed
to burn. Murmurs of wonder and surprise rippled across the company.

Hatch leaned over the railing to get a better look.
My God,
he thought,
that must be the gold cored up by the Gold Seekers’drill over a hundred years ago.

Neidelman held the curl of gold over his head, motionless, for what seemed a long time. Then he spoke again. “There are some
who say there is no treasure at the bottom of the Water Pit. To those doubters, I say: Gaze upon
this.
”

As the dying sun lit water and vessel a dusky rose, he turned to face the forward windows of the
Griffin’s
pilothouse. Picking up a small hammer, he placed the piece of gold against the roofline of the pilothouse and, with a single
blow, drove it against the wood with a nail. He stepped away to face the company once again, the gold glittering from the
superstructure.

“Today,” he said, “the rest of Ockham’s treasure remains at the bottom of the pit, unvexed by sun or rain, undisturbed for
three hundred years. But tomorrow marks the beginning of the end of that long rest. Because the key that was lost has been
found again. And before the summer is over, the treasure will sleep no longer.”

He paused to survey the crowd of vessels. “There is much to do. We must remove the litter of past failure and make the island
safe again. We must determine the location of the original pit. We must then find and seal the hidden underwater channel that
allows seawater to enter. We must pump the existing water from the shaft, and secure it for the excavation of the treasure
chamber. The challenge is vast. But we come equipped with technology more than adequate to handle the challenge. We’re dealing
with perhaps the most ingenious creation of the seventeenth-century mind. But the Water Pit is no match for twentieth-century
tools. With the help of all who are assembled here today, we will make this the greatest—and most famous—salvage in history.”

A cheer began to break out, but Neidelman silenced it with an open hand. “We have among us today Dr. Malin Hatch. It is through
his generosity this endeavor was allowed to proceed. And he, more than anyone, knows that we’re here today for more than just
gold. We’re here for history. We’re here for knowledge. And we’re here to make sure that—at long, long last—the ultimate sacrifices
of those brave souls who came before us will not have been in vain.”

He bowed his head a brief moment, then stepped back from the railing. There was a scattering of applause, a thin waterfall
of sound skipping over the waves, and then in an instant the company erupted into a spontaneous cheer, arms lifted above heads,
caps thrown in the air, a cry of excitement and eagerness and jubilation rising in a joyous circle around the
Griffin.
Hatch realized he was cheering too, and as a single tear trickled down his cheek he had the absurd feeling that Johnny was
peering over his shoulder, watching the proceedings with wry interest, longing in his youthful way to finally be laid to rest.