Riptide

by Douglas Preston

  "Wopner here."

  "Are the monitoring systems on-line?"

  "Yes, everything's hunky-dory." Wopner sounded dejected.

  "Good. Advise me of any changes."

  "Captain, why am I here?" the voice complained. "The tower's fully networked, and you're gonna be running the pumps manually. Anything you need to do, you can do there. I should be working on that damn code."

  "I don't want any more surprises," Neidelman replied. "We'll set off the charges, seal the flood tunnels, then pump the water out of the Pit. You should be curled up with that journal again in no time."

  There was a flurry of activity below, and Hatch could see Streeter directing a team into position around the pump hose. Bonterre came back in from the deck, her hair streaming behind her. "How long until the fireworks start?" she asked.

  "Five minutes," said Neidelman.

  "How exciting! I love a big explosion." She looked at Hatch with a wink.

  "Dr. Magnusen," Neidelman said. "A final check, if you please."

  "Certainly, Captain." There was a brief silence. "Everything's green. Comm signals are good. Pumps primed and idling."

  Rankin gestured Hatch over and pointed toward a screen. "Check it out."

  The screen showed a cross section of the Pit, marked in ten-foot intervals down to one hundred feet. A blue column sat inside the cross section, level with the surface.

  "We were able to snake a miniature depth meter into the Pit," he said excitedly. "Streeter sent a dive team down earlier, but they couldn't get farther than thirty feet because of all the debris clogging the works. You wouldn't believe how much junk has collected down there." He nodded at the screen. "With this, we'll be able to monitor the water level drop from here."

  "All stations, listen up," Neidelman said. "We'll blow in series."

  A silence fell in the observation tower.

  "Arming one through five," Magnusen said quietly, her stubby fingers moving across a console.

  "Ten seconds," Neidelman murmured. The atmosphere deepened.

  "Fire one."

  Hatch looked seaward. For a pregnant moment, all seemed still. Then an enormous geyser ripped out of the ocean, shot from within by orange light. A second later, the shock wave shivered the windows of the observation deck. The sound rumbled across the water, and thirty seconds later a faint answering rumble echoed back from the mainland. The geyser ascended in a strange kind of slow motion, followed by a haze of pulverized rock, mud, and seaweed. As it began falling back in a dirty plume, steep-walled waves spread out across the ocean, beating against the chop. Naiad, the nearer of the two boats, rocked crazily in the sudden swell.

  "Fire two," Neidelman said, and a second explosion ripped the underwater reef a hundred yards from the first. One by one, he detonated the underwater explosives, until it seemed to Hatch that the entire southern coast of Ragged Island had been caught in a lashing waterstorm. Too bad it's not Sunday, he thought. We'd have done Clay a favor, waking all those people asleep at his sermon.

  There was a brief pause while the water settled and dive teams examined the results. After receiving word that all five tunnel entrances were sealed, Neidelman turned to Magnusen. "Set the outflow valves on the pumps," he said. "Maintain a 20,000 GPM rate of flow out of the pit. Streeter, have your team stand by."

  Radio in hand, he turned toward the group assembled in the tower.

  "Let's drain the Water Pit," he said.

  There was a roar on the southern shore as the pump engines came to life. Almost simultaneously, Hatch heard a great, reluctant throbbing from the Pit as water was sucked up from its depths. Looking down, he could see the thick hose stiffening as the water began its journey out of the Pit, across the island, and back to the ocean. Rankin and Bonterre were glued to the depth display, while Magnusen was monitoring the pump subsystem. The tower began to vibrate slightly.

  A few minutes passed.

  "Water level down five feet," Magnusen said.

  Neidelman leaned toward Hatch. "Tidal displacement here is eight feet," he said. "Water never drops lower than eight feet in the Pit, even at the lowest low tide. Once we reach ten feet, we'll know we've won."

  There was an endless, tense moment. Then Magnusen lifted her face from a dial.

  "Water level down ten feet," she said matter-of-factly.

  The team looked at each other. Then, suddenly, Neidelman broke into a broad grin.

  In an instant, Orthanc's observation tower became a place of happy bedlam. Bonterre whistled loudly and jumped into the arms of a surprised Rankin. The technicians slapped each other's backs enthusiastically. Even Magnusen's lips twisted into what might have been a smile before she returned her gaze to the monitor. Amid the clapping and cheering, someone produced a bottle of Veuve Cliquot and some plastic champagne glasses.

  "We did it, by God," Neidelman said, shaking hands around the room. "We're draining the Water Pit!" He reached for the champagne, tore off the foil, and popped the cork.

  "This place got its name for a reason," he said, pouring glasses. Hatch thought he could detect an emotional tremor in the Captain's voice. "For two hundred years, the enemy has been the water. Until the Water Pit could be drained, there could be no recovery of the treasure. But my friends, as of tomorrow, this place will need a different name. My thanks and congratulations to you all." He raised his glass. Faint cheers resounded across the island.

  "Water level down fifteen feet," Magnusen said.

  Holding his champagne in one hand, Hatch walked toward the center of the room and looked down into the glass. It was unsettling, looking into the mouth of the Pit. Streeter's team was standing beside the enormous hose, monitoring the flow. As the water was pumped out at a rate of 20,000 GPM—one swimming pool's worth of water every two minutes—Hatch thought he could actually see the surface level dropping. It crept down the seaweed-covered beams, exposing, millimeter by millimeter, the barnacle- and kelp-encrusted walls. Perversely, he found himself struggling with a strange feeling of regret. It seemed anticlimactic, almost unfair, that they should accomplish in less than two weeks what two hundred years of pain, suffering, and death had been unable to achieve.

  Neidelman was at the radio. "This is the Captain speaking." His voice echoed across the island and out over the dark water. "I am hereby exercising my right as acting commander of this venture. All nonessential personnel may have the afternoon off."

  Another cheer went up, general across the island. Hatch glanced over at Magnusen, wondering what she was studying so intently.

  "Captain?" Rankin said, staring at his own screen once again. Seeing his expression, Bonterre moved toward him, pressing her own face close to the monitor.

  "Captain?" Rankin said in a louder tone.

  Neidelman, in the midst of pouring more champagne, turned toward the geologist.

  Rankin gestured toward the screen. "The water's no longer dropping."

  There was a silence as all eyes turned to the glass floor.

  A faint but continuous hissing began to rise from the Pit. The dark surface of the water swirled as bubbles came streaming out of the black depths.

  Neidelman stepped away from the glass window. "Increase the pump rate to thirty," he said in a quiet voice.

  "Yes, sir," Magnusen said. The roar from the southern end of the island grew stronger.

  Without a word, Hatch joined Rankin and Bonterre at the geologist's screen. The blue band of water had dropped midway between the ten- and the twenty-foot marks. As they watched, the band wavered on the screen, then began creeping slowly, inexorably upward.

  "The water's back to fifteen feet," Magnusen said.

  "How can that be?" Hatch asked. "The flood tunnels have all been sealed. No water can get into the Pit."

  Neidelman spoke into the radio. "Streeter, what's redline on those pumps?"

  "Forty thousand is the rating, sir," came the response.

  "I didn't ask what they were rated to. I asked where the redline was."

&
nbsp; "Fifty thousand. But Captain—"

  He turned to Magnusen. "Do it."

  Outside, the roar of the pump engines became almost deafening, and the tower shook violently from their effort. Nobody spoke as all eyes were locked on the monitors. As Hatch watched, the blue line steadied once again, and wavered, almost seeming to drop a bit. He exhaled gradually, realizing he had been holding his breath.

  "Grande merde du noir," Bonterre whispered. In disbelief, Hatch saw the level in the Pit begin to rise again.

  "We're back at ten feet," Magnusen said implacably.

  "Give me sixty on the pumps," Neidelman said.

  "Sir!" the voice of Streeter crackled over the radio. "We can't push the—"

  "Do it!" Neidelman barked at Magnusen, his voice hard, his lips compressed into narrow white lines. The engineer resolutely turned the dials.

  Once again, Hatch found himself drawn to the observation port. Below, he could see Streeter's team, bolting additional metal straps around the pump hose, which was twitching and thrashing like a live thing. Hatch tensed, aware that if the hose burst, the water pressure at sixty thousand gallons per minute could cut a person in two.

  The roar of the pumps had become a howl, a bansheelike cry that seemed to fill his head with its pressure. He could feel the island shuddering under his feet. Small bits of dirt shook free from the mouth of the Pit and dropped into the dark roiling water below. The green line wavered, but did not sink.

  "Captain!" Streeter cried again. "The forward seal is beginning to fail!"

  Neidelman stood motionless, staring into the Pit as if transfixed.

  "Captain!" the voice of Streeter cried over the radio, struggling above the noise. "If the hose blows, it could take out Orthanc!"

  As Hatch opened his mouth to speak, Neidelman turned abruptly toward Magnusen. "Kill the pumps," he said.

  In the descending silence that followed, Hatch could hear the groans and whispers of the Water Pit beneath them.

  "Water level returning to normal, sir," Magnusen said without turning from her console.

  "This is bullshit, man," Rankin muttered, snapping through sonar readings. "We sealed all five tunnels. This is going to be one hell of a problem."

  Neidelman half turned his head at this, and Hatch could see the chiseled profile, the hard glitter in the eyes. "It's not a problem," he said in a low, strange voice. "We'll simply do what Macallan did. We'll cofferdam the shore."

  Chapter 20

  At quarter to ten that evening, Hatch emerged from the boarding hatch of the Cerberus and walked across the gangway to his own boat. At the end of the working day, he'd motored over to the big ship to inspect the CBC machine he'd be using if blood work was needed for any of the expedition members. While on board, he'd struck up a conversation with Thalassa's quartermaster, and in short order had been invited to stay for dinner in the ship's galley and to meet the half-dozen occupants. At last, full of vegetable lasagna and espresso, he'd said his farewells to the easygoing crewmen and lab technicians and headed back through the white corridors toward the exit hatch. Along the way, he'd passed the door to Wopner's stateroom. For a moment, he'd considered checking in with the programmer, but decided the unpleasant reception he was sure to get outweighed the benefits of a status report.

  Now, back on the Plain Jane, he powered up the engine, cast off the lines, and pointed the boat into the warm night. The distant lights of the mainland were strung out across the dark, and a nearer cluster on Ragged Island glowed softly through the mantle of mist. Venus hung low over the western horizon, reflected in the water as a wavering thread of white. The motor ran a little roughly, but eased as Hatch moved the throttle forward. A glowing trail of phosphorescence sprang from the boat's stern: sparks swirling from a green fire. Hatch sighed contentedly, looking forward to the placid journey ahead despite the lateness of the hour.

  Suddenly the roughness returned. Quickly, Hatch cut the motor and let the boat drift. Feels like water in the fuel line, he thought. With a sigh, he went forward for a flashlight and some tools, then returned to the cockpit and pulled up the deckpads, exposing the engine beneath. He licked the beam about, searching for the fuel-water separator. Locating it, he reached in and unscrewed the small bowl. Sure enough, it was full of dark liquid. Emptying it over the side, he bent forward again to replace it.

  Then he stopped. In the silence left by the killing of his engine, Hatch could make out a sound, coming toward him out of the nocturnal stillness. He paused and listened, uncomprehending for a moment. Then he recognized it: a woman's voice, low and melodious, singing an enchanting aria. He stood up and turned involuntarily in the direction of the voice. It floated across the dark waves, bewitchingly out of place, ravishing in its note of sweet suffering.

  Hatch waited, listening as if transfixed. As he looked across the expanse of water, he saw it was coming from the dark form of the Griffin, its running lights extinguished. A single point of red glowed out from Neidelman's vessel: through his binoculars he could see it was the Captain, smoking his pipe on the forward deck.

  Hatch closed the deckpads, then tried the engine again. It sprang to life on the second crank, running sweet and clear. Hatch eased the throttle forward and, on an impulse, moved slowly toward the Griffin.

  "Evening," said the Captain as he approached, the quiet voice unnaturally clear in the night air.

  "And to you too," said Hatch, putting the Plain Jane into neutral. "I'd bet my eyeteeth that's Mozart, but I don't know the opera. The Marriage of Figaro, perhaps?"

  The Captain shook his head. "It's 'Zeffiretti Lusinghieri.'"

  "Ah. From Idomeneo."

  "Yes. Sylvia McNair sings it beautifully, doesn't she? Are you a fan of opera?"

  "My mother was. Every Saturday afternoon, the radio would fill our house with trios and tuttis. I've only learned to appreciate it these last five years or so."

  There was a moment of silence. "Care to come aboard?" Neidelman asked suddenly.

  Hatch tied the Plain Jane to the rail, killed the engine, and hopped over, the Captain giving him a hand up. There was a glow from the pipe, and Neidelman's face was briefly illuminated with a reddish aura, accentuating the hollows of his cheeks and eyes. A wink of precious metal shone from the pilothouse as the curl of gold reflected the moonlight.

  They stood at the rail, silent, listening to the final dying notes of the aria. When it ended and the recitative began, Neidelman breathed deeply, then rapped out his dottle on the side of the boat. "Why haven't you ever asked me to quit smoking?" he asked. "Every doctor I've ever known has tried to get me to quit, except you."

  Hatch considered this. "It seems to me I'd be wasting my breath."

  Neidelman gave a soft laugh. "You know me well enough, then. Shall we go below for a glass of port?"

  Hatch shot a surprised glance at the Captain. Just that night, in the galley of the Cerberus, he'd heard that nobody was ever invited below on the Griffin; that nobody, in fact, even knew what it looked like. The Captain, although personable and friendly with his crew, always kept his distance.

  "Good thing I didn't start lecturing you on your vices, isn't it?" Hatch said. "Thanks, I'd love a glass of port."

  He followed Neidelman into the pilothouse, then down the steps and under the low door. Another narrow half-flight of metal stairs, another door, and Hatch found himself in a large, low-ceilinged room. He looked around in wonder. The paneling was a rich, lustrous mahogany, carved in Georgian style and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Delicate Tiffany stained glass was set into each porthole, and leather banquettes were placed against the walls. At the far end, a small fire glowed, filling the cabin with warmth and the faint, fragrant smell of birch. Glass-fronted library cabinets flanked either side of the mantelpiece; Hatch could see bound calfskin and the gleam of gold stamping. He moved forward to examine the titles: Hakluyt's Voyages, an early copy of Newton's Principia. Here and there, priceless illuminated manuscripts and other incunabula were arranged face outward; Ha
tch recognized a fine copy of Les Tres Riches Heures du Duc de Berry. There was also a small shelf devoted to original editions of early pirate texts: Lionel Wafer's Batchelor's Delight, Alexander Esquemelion's Bucaniers of America, and A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the most notorious Pyrates, by Charles Johnson. The library alone must have cost a small fortune. Hatch wondered if Neidelman had furnished the boat with earnings from prior salvages.

  Beside one of the cabinets was a small seascape in a gilt frame. Hatch moved in for a closer look. Then he drew in his breath sharply.

  "My God," he said. "This is a Turner, isn't it?"

  Neidelman nodded. "It's a study for his painting, Squall Off Beachy Head, 1874"

  "That's the one in the Tate?" Hatch said. "When I was in London a few years back, I tried sketching it several times."

  "Are you a painter?" Neidelman asked.

  "I'm a dabbler. Watercolors, mostly." Hatch stepped back, glancing around again. The other pictures that hung on the walls were not paintings, but precise copperplate engravings of botanical specimens: heavy flowers, odd grasses, exotic plants.

  Neidelman approached a small baize-covered dry sink, laid with cut-glass ship's decanters and small glasses. Pulling two tumblers from their felt-covered moorings, he poured a few fingers of port in each. "Those engravings," he said, following Hatch's gaze, "are by Sir Joseph Banks, the botanist who accompanied Captain Cook on his first voyage around the world. They're plant specimens he collected in Botany Bay, shortly after they discovered Australia. It was the fantastic variety of plant specimens, you know, that caused Banks to give the bay its name."

  "They're beautiful," murmured Hatch, accepting a glass.

  "They're probably the finest copperplate engravings ever made. What a fortunate man he was: a botanist, given the gift of a brand-new continent."

  "Axe you interested in botany?" Hatch asked.

  "I'm interested in brand-new continents," Neidelman said, staring into the fire. "But I was born a little too late. All those have been snapped up." He smiled quickly, covering what seemed like a wistful gleam in his eyes.