Riptide

by Douglas Preston

  "So let's climb out the Pit! We cannot stay here." She began walking toward the array.

  Hatch pulled Bonterre roughly back into the tunnel.

  "We can't go out there," he hissed.

  "Why not?"

  Clay was now at their side, looking intently at the screen. Hatch glanced at him, briefly surprised at the look of suppressed excitement, almost triumph, on the minister's face.

  "According to this," Hatch said slowly, "that sword is so radioactive that even one second's exposure to it gives a lethal dose. Neidelman's out there now, and he's climbing toward us. If we so much as peek out into the main shaft, we're toast."

  "Then why is he not dead?"

  "He is dead. Even the most massive doses of radiation take time to kill. He was dead the moment he laid eyes on that sword. And we're dead, too, if we get within a sight line of it. Neutron radiation propagates through the air like light. It's vital that we keep rock and earth between him and us."

  He stared at the Radmeter. "He's maybe fifty feet below now, maybe less. Go back down this tunnel as far as you dare. With luck, he'll climb right past us."

  Over the uprushing of sound, Hatch heard an indistinct shout.

  Gesturing for the others to stay back, he crept forward, halting just before the mouth of the shaft. Beyond, the web of titanium struts shivered and swayed. A low-battery alarm began sounding on the Radmeter, and he looked down to check the display:

  3217.89 Rads/hour

  Fast neutron flux detected

  IMMEDIATE EVACUATION CRITICAL

  Christ, he thought, it's redlined. They were still within safety limits, shielded by the rock and dirt of the Water Pit. But Neidelman was closer now, and soon not even the intervening earth would—

  "Hatch!" came the hoarse, ragged voice.

  Hatch paused.

  "I found Lyle's body."

  Still Hatch said nothing. Could Neidelman know where he was? Or was he merely bluffing?

  "Hatch! Don't be coy, it doesn't suit you. I saw your light. I'm coming for you. Do you hear me?"

  "Neidelman!" he yelled in return.

  There was no answer. He glanced back at the Radmeter. The whitish blob on the screen kept ascending the grid, flickering in and out with the waning power of the battery.

  "Captain! Stop! We need to talk."

  "By all means. We'll have a nice little talk."

  "You don't understand!" Hatch cried, inching even closer to the edge. "The sword is highly radioactive. It's killing you, Captain! Get rid of it, now!"

  He waited, straining to hear above the uprushing roar.

  "Ah, the endlessly inventive Hatch," came Neidelman's voice, faint and unnaturally calm. "You planned this disaster very well."

  "Captain, for Chrissakes, drop the sword!"

  "Drop it?" came the answer. "You set this trap, wreck the Water Pit, kill my crew, deprive me of my treasure. And now you want me to drop the sword? I don't think so."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Don't be diffident. Take credit for your fine work. A few well-placed explosives did the trick, right?"

  Hatch rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling, searching for options. "You're a sick man, Captain," he called out. "If you don't believe me, ask your own body. The sword is a powerful emitter of fast neutron radiation. It's already stopped all cell mitosis and DNA synthesis in your body. Soon you'll be suffering from cerebral syndrome. The most severe form of radiation poisoning."

  He listened. Except for the roar of the great gulf beneath, the only sound he heard was the dying chirp of the Radmeter. He took a deep breath.

  "You're already in the prodromal period!" he called out. "First, you'll begin to feel nauseated. You probably do already, don't you? Next will come confusion, as inflammatory foci sprout up in your brain. Then tremors, ataxia, convulsions, and death."

  There was no answer.

  "For God's sake, Neidelman, listen to me!" he cried. "You're going to kill us all with that sword!"

  "No," came the voice from below. "No, I think I'll use my gun."

  Hatch sat up fast. The voice was closer now, very close: no more than fifteen feet away. He retreated down the tunnel to the others.

  "What is happening?" Bonterre cried.

  "He'll be here in a few seconds," Hatch replied. "He's not going to stop." As he spoke, he realized with grim finality that there was nothing they could do. They had no escape route. Another moment or two, and Neidelman would appear over the lip of the tunnel, sword in hand. And they would all be dead.

  "Is there no way to stop him?" Bonterre cried.

  Before Hatch could answer, Clay spoke. "Yes," he said, in a strong, clear voice. "Yes, there is."

  Hatch turned. The look on Clay's cadaverous face was not only triumphant—it was ecstatic, beatific, otherworldly.

  "What—?" Hatch began, but Clay had already brushed past him, light in hand. In a flash, Hatch understood.

  "Don't do it!" he cried, grabbing for Clay's sleeve. "It's suicide! The sword will kill you!"

  "Not until I've done what I came to do." Clay jerked his arm free and raced to the lip of the tunnel. Then—skirting Rankin's body—he leaped across the metal bridge to the array and descended quickly out of view.

  Chapter 61

  Clinging to the rings of the array, Clay climbed down a few feet, then paused to steady himself. A great roar was coming from the depths of the Pit: the sounds of collapsing caverns and thunderous water, of violent chaos churning in the unguessable depths. An uprush of damp air tugged and worried at the collar of his shirt.

  He angled his flashlight downward. The ventilation system had shut down when the emergency power failed, and the air was heavy. The shaking spars were dripping with condensation, striped with clots of falling dirt. The beam licked through the fog, settling at last on the form of Neidelman, perhaps ten feet below.

  The Captain was toiling painfully up the ladder, grasping each rung in the crook of his arm before hauling himself up to the next, his face contorted with effort. With every shudder of the ladder he paused, hugging the rungs in both hands. Tucked into Neidelman's back harness, Clay saw the flash of a jeweled hilt.

  "Well, well," croaked Neidelman, staring up toward the flashlight. "Et lux in tenebris lucet. The light does shine in the darkness, indeed. Why am I not surprised to find the good reverend part of this conspiracy?" His voice dissolved into a hacking cough and he clung to the ladder with both hands through another nasty shudder.

  "Toss the sword," Clay said.

  Neidelman's answer was to reach into his belt and remove a handgun. Clay ducked to the far side of the array as the gun roared.

  "Out of my way," Neidelman rasped.

  Clay knew he couldn't confront Neidelman on these narrow rungs: he'd have to find a place with better footing. Quickly, he scanned the array with his flashlight. A few feet below, at the 110-foot mark, was a narrow maintenance spar. He put the flashlight in his pocket and used the darkness to descend one rung, then another. The array was trembling more violently now. Clay knew that Neidelman couldn't climb as long as he held the gun. But he also knew that the shaking came in waves, and as soon as the vibration ended Neidelman would put a bullet in him.

  He dropped two more rungs in the blackness, feeling his way with his hands and feet as the shaking eased. A faint flare of reflected lightning showed Neidelman a few feet below him, hoisting himself toward the maintenance spar with one hand. He was already off balance and Clay, with a desperate movement, dropped another rung and with all his energy kicked out at the Captain's hand. There was a roar and a clatter as his foot connected and the gun fell away into darkness.

  Clay slid down onto the spar, his feet slipping on the narrow metal grating. Neidelman, dangling below, howled with inarticulate rage. With a sudden flurry of energy he scrambled onto the narrow platform. Keeping the frame of the array between them, Clay took out his flashlight and shone it at the Captain.

  Neidelman's face was str
eaked with sweat and dirt, skin frighteningly pallid, eyes sunken in the pitiless beam of the light. He seemed wasted, drawn, his body fueled only by the hard core of some inner will, and his hand trembled slightly as he reached behind him and drew out the sword.

  Clay stared at it with a mixture of dread and wonder. The hilt was mesmerizingly beautiful, studded with huge gemstones. But the blade itself was an ugly, mottled violet, a pitted and scarred piece of metal.

  "Step aside, Reverend," the Captain croaked. "I'm not going to waste my energy with you. I want Hatch."

  "Hatch isn't your enemy."

  "Did he send you to say that?" Neidelman coughed again. "I had Macallan soundly defeated. But I underestimated Hatch's treachery. Him and his operatives. No wonder he wanted Truitt on the dig team. And I suppose your protest was a ruse to distract my attention." He stared at Clay, eyes glittering.

  "You're a dead man," Clay said calmly. "We're both dead men. You can't save your body. But perhaps you can still save your soul. That sword is a weapon of the devil. Cast it into the depths where it belongs."

  "Foolish man," Neidelman hissed, advancing. "A weapon of the devil, you say? Hatch may have cost me the treasure. But I still have this. The sword I've spent the better part of my life preparing to claim."

  "It's been the instrument of your death," Clay replied evenly.

  "No, but it may be the instrument of yours. For the last time, Reverend, stand aside."

  "No," said Clay, clinging to the shaking platform.

  "Then die," cried Neidelman, bringing the heavy blade around and swinging it toward Clay's head.

  Chapter 62

  Hatch tossed the now-dead Radmeter away and peered out into the darkness, toward the mouth of the tunnel and the vertical shaft of the Water Pit beyond. There had been vague sounds of voices; the flare of Clay's flashlight, silhouetting the metal skeleton of the ladder array; a gunshot, sharp and clear above the cavernous roar. He waited in an agony of uncertainty, the temptation to creep forward and take a brief look over the edge almost overwhelming. But he knew that even an instant's exposure to St. Michael's Sword meant lingering death.

  He glanced back toward Bonterre. He could feel the tension in her body, hear her choppy breathing.

  Suddenly, the sounds of a furious struggle erupted. There was the sound of metal striking metal, a hideous cry—whose?—followed by a strangled gibbering; then another great blow and clang of metal. Next came a terrible cry of pain and despair that receded until it, too, died into the roar of the Pit.

  Hatch crouched, riveted in place by the horrifying sounds. Then came more: ragged breathing, the slap of a hand against metal, a grunt of effort. A flashlight beam flared upward, searched the wall around them, then stopped, pinpointing the mouth of their tunnel.

  Someone was climbing.

  Hatch tensed, options racing through his mind. He realized there was only one. If Clay had failed, somebody else had to stop Neidelman. And he was determined it would be himself.

  In the darkness beside him he felt Bonterre gathering herself to move, and he realized the same thought was in her mind as well.

  "Don't even think about it," he said.

  "Ferme-la!" she cried. "I will not let you—"

  Before Bonterre could scramble to her feet Hatch jumped forward, half running, half stumbling toward the mouth of the tunnel. He poised on the brink, steeling himself, hearing her feet behind him. He leaped forward onto the metal bridge, ready to grab Neidelman and carry him into the roaring maw beneath.

  Three feet down the ladder, Clay was struggling upward, his sides heaving, a large gash across one temple.

  The minister wearily placed a hand on the next rung of the array. Hatch bent down, hauling him onto the platform as Bonterre arrived. Together, they helped him into the shelter of the tunnel.

  The minister stood silently, leaning forward, head lolling, arms supported on his thighs.

  "What happened?" Hatch asked.

  Clay looked up.

  "I got the sword," he said in a faraway voice. "I threw it into the Pit."

  "And Neidelman?"

  "He ... he decided to go after it."

  There was a silence.

  "You saved our lives," Hatch said. "My God, you—" He paused and took a breath. "We'll get you to a hospital—"

  Clay waved his hand wearily. "Doctor, don't. Please dignify my death with the truth."

  Hatch looked at him a moment. "There's nothing medicine can do except make it less painful."

  "I wish there was some way to repay your sacrifice," Bonterre said, voice husky.

  Clay smiled, a strange smile that seemed partly rueful, partly euphoric. "I knew exactly what I was doing. It wasn't a sacrifice. It was a gift."

  He looked at Hatch. "I have one favor to ask you. Can you get me to the mainland in time? I'd like to say good-bye to Claire."

  Hatch turned his face away. "I'll do my best," he murmured.

  It was time to go. They left the tunnel and crossed the shaking metal catwalk to the array. Hatch heaved Bonterre onto the ladder and waited as she began climbing into the darkness. As he looked up, lightning blazed across the sky and illuminated Orthanc, a dim specter far above, almost lost among the tracery of supports and beams. Curtains of rain, metal, and soil washed down, ricocheting through the complex matrix of the array.

  "Now you!" Hatch shouted to Clay.

  The minister handed him the flashlight, then turned wearily to the ladder and began to climb. Hatch watched him for a moment. Then, taking a careful grip, he leaned out over the edge of the platform and shone the flashlight down into the Pit.

  He stared after the beam, almost dreading what he might see. But the sword—and Neidelman—were gone. Hatch could see a roiling cloud of mist cloaking the roaring gulf far beneath.

  There was another sickening lurch, and he turned back to the array and began to climb. All too soon he caught up with Clay; the minister was clutching a titanium rung, gasping for breath. Another great wave shook the ladder, shivering the remaining struts and filling the Pit with the protest of deforming metal.

  "I can't go any farther," Clay gasped. "You go on ahead."

  "Take the light!" Hatch shouted. "Then wrap an arm around my neck."

  Clay began to shake his head in protest.

  "Do it!"

  Hatch started upward again, hauling the minister up each rung. In the gleam of the flashlight he could see Bonterre above them, concern visible on her face as she looked down.

  "Go, go!" he urged, willing himself upward, one rung at a time. He gained the fifty-foot platform and continued, not daring to stop for a rest. Above, he could now make out the mouth of the Water Pit, dark black against the gray of the stormy sky. His muscles screamed as he forced himself upward, lifting Clay with each step.

  Then the array gave another great lurch, and a blast of wet air and spray burst up from below. With a high-pitched tearing sound, a huge piece of the array came loose below them. Knocked against the metal railing, Hatch could see the cribbing on either side of the shaft begin to split and unravel. Beside him, Clay gasped, fighting to hold on.

  Hatch scrambled upward again, fear and adrenaline sending new strength coursing through him. Directly above now, Bonterre was clambering up the array, her sides heaving. He followed, hoisting Clay along, sucking air into his lungs as fast as he could.

  The rungs of the ladder grew slicker. Here, nearer the surface, the roar and shriek of the collapsing Pit mingled with the howl of the storm. Rain began to lash his face, warm after the foul chill of the tunnel. There was a violent tremor from deep within the Pit, and the array gave an almost human shriek as countless supports gave way. Torn from its anchors, the ladder swung violently from side to side, slashing through a forest of twisted metal.

  "Go!" Hatch roared, pushing Bonterre in front of him. As he turned to follow he saw, with horror, the bolts along the central spine of the ladder begin to burst, unzipping like a jacket. Another massive tremor and the anchor su
pports of Orthanc began to buckle above their heads. There was a loud popping sound and one of the great observation windows dissolved into shards, raining down into the Pit.

  "Look out!" Hatch cried, closing his eyes as the rain of glass and debris came crashing past. He felt the world begin to tilt and he opened them again to see the ladder array folding in on itself. With a lurch that brought his gut into his throat, the entire structure dropped several feet, accompanied by a chorus of twisting and snapping. Clay almost broke free, his legs swinging over the void.

  "Onto the cribbing!" Hatch cried. He inched across a pair of struts, still supporting Clay. Bonterre followed. Grabbing Clay around the middle, Hatch hoisted him onto a titanium anchor bolt, then onto the old wooden cribwork that braced the sides of the Pit.

  "Can you make it?" he asked.

  Clay nodded.

  Hatch clambered up below the minister, searching for handholds along the slimy, rotten face, urging Clay on. A piece of cribbing gave way beneath Hatch's feet, then another, and he scrabbled furiously for a moment before finding another purchase. He reached up, grabbed the bottom of the staging platform, and with Bonterre's help managed to haul the minister onto the platform and then to the grassy bank beyond.

  Hatch clambered to his feet. To the south, he could see the dim shape of the rising tide pouring through a gap in the cofferdam. Bloated rainclouds scudded across the shrouded moon. All around the reefs the sea had been whipped white, the riptide carrying the line of foam as far as the horizon.

  A thunderous clang from above spun him around. Freed from its foundations, Orthanc was twisting around, folding in on it-self.

  "To the dock!" Hatch shouted.

  He grabbed Bonterre and they ran, supporting Clay between them, down the muddy trail toward Island One. Hatch glanced back to see the observation tower plunging downward, punching through the staging platform on its way into the Pit. Then the crash of a freight train gusted up from below, followed by a roar of water and a strange crackling sound: the snapping of countless wooden timbers as they pulled away from the loosening walls. A cloud of mist and water, mingled with yellow vapors and atomized mud, shot from the Pit and billowed into the night sky.