Riptide

by Douglas Preston

  A sudden flicker of white on the island briefly caught his eye before disappearing again into the mists. Somewhere, he knew, crews were already on the move, locating old pits, roping safe trails, tagging ancient junk hidden by the tall brush for later removal. "Tall nettles," Hatch quoted to himself,

  Cover up, as they have done These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough Long worn out, and the roller made of stone.

  Other teams, he knew, were taking corings from beams in the countless cribbed shafts. These corings would be carbon 14 dated in the Cerberus lab to determine their age in an attempt to pinpoint which shaft was the original Water Pit. He pulled out his binoculars and swung them slowly across the terrain until he located one of the teams, pale apparitions in the mist. They were spread out in a ragged line, moving slowly, hacking away at the chokecherries with brush hooks and axes, stopping occasionally to take photographs or scribble notes. One man swept a metal detector in an arc ahead of him; another probed the ground with a long, narrow instrument. At the head of the group, he noticed a German shepherd, diligently sniffing the ground. Must be trained to smell high explosive, Hatch thought to himself.

  There were, all told, perhaps fifty people bustling on and around the island. All Thalassa employees, and all highly paid: Neidelman had told him that—outside of the core half-dozen or so that would receive actual shares of the profits instead of salary—the average worker would earn twenty-five thousand dollars. Not bad, considering that the majority would be gone from the island within a fortnight, once the various installations were complete and the island stabilized.

  Hatch continued scanning the island. At the safe northern end of the island—the only area one could walk without fear—a pier and dock had gone up. Beside it, the tug was off-loading a welter of equipment: crated generators, acetylene tanks, compressors, electronic switching equipment. Already onshore were orderly piles of angle iron, corrugated tin, lumber, and plywood. A tough-looking little all-terrain vehicle with bulbous tires was towing a trailerload of equipment up the improvised path. Nearby, a group of technicians was beginning the work of wiring an island phone system, while another was erecting Quonset huts. By tomorrow morning, one of them would be Hatch's new office. It was amazing how fast things were happening.

  Still, Hatch was in no hurry to set foot on Ragged Island. Tomorrow's plenty soon enough, he thought.

  A loud clatter echoed toward him as a heavy piece of equipment was loaded onto the pier. Sound carried well across water. Hatch knew that, even without Bud Rowell's assistance, all of Stormhaven must now be buzzing with news of his return and the sudden flurry of activity on the island. He felt a little guilty that he hadn't been able to tell Bud the whole story two days before. By now, he'd certainly figured it out. Idly, Hatch wondered what people were saying. Perhaps some of the townspeople suspected his motives. If so, let them; he had nothing to be ashamed of. Even though his grandfather's bankruptcy had relieved his family of legal responsibility, his father had paid off—painfully, over many years—all the family's local debts. There had been no finer man than his father. And that fineness of character made his grotesque, pathetic end that much more painful. . . . Hatch turned away from the island, refusing to follow the line of thought any further.

  He checked his watch. Eleven o'clock: the Maine lunch hour. He went belowdecks, raided the gas-powered refrigerator, and returned with a lobster roll and a bottle of ginger ale. Climbing into the captain's chair, he propped his feet on the binnacle and dug avidly into the roll. Funny thing about sea air, he thought to himself. Always makes you hungry. Maybe he ought to research that particular nugget for the Journal of the American Medical Association. His lab assistant Bruce could use a good dose of salt air. Or any air, for that matter.

  As he ate, a seagull landed on the thrumcap and eyed him quizzically. Hatch knew lobstermen hated seagulls—called them wharf rats with wings—but he'd always had a fondness for the loudmouthed, garbage-swilling birds. He flicked a piece of lobster into the air; the gull caught it and then soared off, chased by two other gulls. Soon, all three had returned and were perched on the taffrail, staring him down with hungry black eyes. Now I've done it, Hatch thought, good-naturedly plucking another piece of lobster from the roll and tossing it toward the middle bird.

  In an instant, all three birds tore into the air with a desperate beating of wings. Hatch's amusement turned to surprise as he noticed they weren't after the lobster, but were instead fleeing the boat as fast as they could, heading toward the mainland. In the sudden hush left by their departure, he heard the chunk of lobster hit the deckboards with a soft splat.

  As he gazed after the birds, frowning, he felt a convulsive shudder pass under his feet. He leaped out of the chair, thinking the anchor cable had parted and the Plain Jane had run aground. But the cable was still taut. Except for the thin veil of mist that girdled the island, the sky overhead was clear; there was no lightning. Quickly, he scanned the surroundings for any unusual activity. Had they been dynamiting? No, it was too early for that. . . .

  Then his eyes fell on a patch of ocean, just inside the reef about a hundred yards away.

  In an area some thirty feet in diameter, the placid surface of the water had suddenly broken into chop. A roiling mass of bubbles crested the surface. There was a second shudder, another explosion of bubbles. As they died away, the surface of the water began to move counterclockwise: slowly at first, then faster. A dimple appeared in its center, almost immediately imploding into a funnel. A whirlpool, Hatch thought. What the hell—?

  A burst of static on the scanner brought Hatch to the railing. There was hysterical shouting on the bands: first from one, then many voices. ". . . Man down!" broke through the riot of sounds. "... Get the rope around him!" cried another voice. Then: "Look out! Those beams are about to go!"

  Suddenly, Hatch's private radio burst to life. "Hatch, do you copy?" came Neidelman's clipped tones. "We've got a man trapped on the island."

  "Understood," Hatch said, firing up the big diesels. "I'm bringing the boat to the pier now." As a puff of wind blew shreds of mist from the island, he could make out a cluster of white-suited men near the island's center, scurrying frantically.

  "Forget the pier," Neidelman broke in again, a fresh note of urgency coloring his voice. "No time. He'll be dead in five minutes."

  Hatch glanced around for a desperate moment. Then he cut the engines, grabbed his medical bag, and pulled the Plain Jane's dinghy alongside. Tearing the rope free of its cleat, he tossed it into the dinghy, then leaped over the side after it. The dinghy heeled crazily under his sudden weight. Half-kneeling, half-falling onto the stern seat, Hatch pulled at the starter rope. The outboard leaped into life with an angry buzz. Grabbing the throttle, he pointed the little boat toward the circle of reefs. Somewhere near the south end, there were two narrow gaps in the jagged underwater rocks. He hoped to hell he remembered where they were.

  As the shoreline drew nearer, Hatch watched the water beneath the bow turning from a bottomless gray to green. If only there was a bigger swell, he thought, I could see the rocks through the breaking water. He glanced at his watch: no time to play it safe. Taking a deep breath, he opened the throttle wide with a flick of his wrist. The boat sprang forward eagerly, and the green outline of the submerged reefs grew lighter as the water became rapidly shallower. Hatch braced himself against the throttle, preparing himself for the impact.

  Then he was past the reef and the ocean floor sank away again. He aimed the boat at a small pebbled area between the two Whalebacks, keeping the throttle wide open until the last second. Then he cut the engine and swiveled the outboard upward, raising the propeller above the wake. He felt the shock as the bow of the dinghy hit the shore and skidded up across the shingles.

  Before the boat came to a halt, Hatch had grabbed his kit and was scrambling up the embankment. He could now hear the shouts and cries directly ahead. At the top of the rise, he stopped. Ahead stretched an unbroken mass of sawgrass and f
ragrant tea roses, swaying in the breeze, concealing the deadly ground below. This wild southern end of the island had not yet been mapped by the Thalassa team. It's suicide to run across there, he thought even as his legs began to move and he was crashing through the brush, jumping over old beams and skittering across rotten platforms and around gaping holes.

  In a minute he was among the group of white-suited figures clustered around the ragged mouth of a pit. The smell of seawater and freshly disturbed earth rose from its dark maw. Several ropes were wrapped around a nearby winch. "Name's Streeter," shouted the nearest figure. "Team leader." He was the same man who had stood behind Neidelman during his speech—a lean figure with compressed lips and a marine-style haircut.

  Without a word, two of the others began buckling a Swiss Seat harness around Hatch.

  Hatch glanced into the pit, and his stomach contracted involuntarily. Dozens of feet down—it was impossible to tell exactly how far—he could see the yellow lances of flashlight beams. Two roped figures were frantically working at a thick beam. Beneath the beam, Hatch was horrified to see another figure, moving feebly. Its mouth opened. Over the roar of water, Hatch thought he could hear an anguished scream.

  "What the hell happened?" Hatch cried, grabbing a medical kit from his bag.

  "One of the dating team fell into this shaft," Streeter replied. "His name's Ken Field. We sent a rope down, but it must have snagged on a beam. Triggered some kind of cave-in. His legs are pinned by the beam, and the water's rising fast. We've got three minutes, no more."

  "Get him a scuba tank!" Hatch yelled as he signaled the winch operator to lower him into the pit.

  "No time!" came Streeter's reply. "The divers are too far offshore."

  "Nice way to lead the team."

  "He's already roped," Streeter continued after a moment. "Just cut him loose and we'll haul him up."

  Cut him loose? Hatch thought just as he was shoved off the edge of the pit. Before he could think, he was swinging in space, the roar of water almost deafening in the confines of the shaft. He dropped for a moment in near free fall, then the Swiss Seat jerked him to a rude halt beside the two rescuers. Swinging around, he found a purchase, then glanced down.

  The man lay on his back, the massive beam lying diagonally across his left ankle and right knee, pinning him tightly. As Hatch watched, the man opened his mouth again, crying out with pain. One rescuer was scrabbling rocks and dirt away from the man, while the other was chopping at the beam with a heavy ax. Chips flew everywhere, filling the pit with the smell of rotten wood. Beneath them, Hatch could see the water, rising at a terrifying rate.

  He knew immediately that it was hopeless; they could never chop through the beam in time. He glanced at the rising water and made a quick mental calculation: no more than two minutes before the man would be covered, even less than Streeter had guessed. He mentally reviewed his options, then realized there were none. No time for painkiller, no time for an anaesthetic, no time for anything. He rummaged desperately through his kit: a couple of scalpels long enough for a hangnail repair, but that was it. Tossing them aside, he began shrugging out of his shirt.

  "Make sure his rope's secure!" he shouted to the first rescuer. "Then take my kit and get yourself topside!"

  He turned to the other. "Stand by to hoist this man up!" He ripped his shirt in half. Twisting one sleeve, he tied it around the trapped man's left leg, about five inches below the knee. The other sleeve went around the fat part of the man's right thigh. He knotted first one sleeve, then the other, jerking them as tight as possible.

  "Give me the ax!" he cried to the remaining rescuer. "Then get ready to pull!"

  Wordlessly, the man handed him the ax. Hatch positioned himself astride the trapped man. Bracing his own legs, he raised it above his head.

  The trapped man's eyes widened in sudden understanding. "No!" he screamed. "Please, don't—"

  Hatch brought the ax down on the man's left shin with all his might. As the blade drove home, it felt to Hatch for a curious instant as though he was chopping the green trunk of a young sapling. There was a moment of resistance, then a sudden give. The man's voice ceased instantly, but his eyes remained open, straining, the cords of his neck standing out. A wide, ragged cut opened in the leg, and for a moment the bone and flesh lay exposed in the weak light of the pit. Then the rising water roiled up around the cut and it filled with blood. Quickly, Malin drove the ax home again and the leg came free, the water frothing red as it churned across the beam. The man threw his head back and opened his jaws wide in a soundless scream, the fillings in his molars shining dully in the glow of the flashlight.

  Hatch stepped back a moment, and took several deep breaths. He clamped down hard on the trembling that was beginning in his wrists and forearms, then repositioned himself around the man's right thigh. This was going to be worse. Much worse. But the water was now bubbling above the man's knee and there was no time to waste.

  The first blow hit home in something softer than wood, but rubbery and resistant. The man slumped to one side, unconscious. The second blow missed the first, cutting a sickening gash across the knee. Then the water was boiling around the thigh, heading for the man's waist. Estimating where the next blow had to fall, Hatch positioned the ax behind his head, hesitated, then swung it down with a tremendous effort. As it plunged into the water he could feel it strike home, slicing through with a crack and give of bone.

  "Pull him up!" Hatch screamed. The rescuer gave two tugs on the rope. Immediately, it went taut. The man's shoulders straightened and he was pulled into a sitting position, but the massive timber still refused to release him. The leg had not been completely severed. The rope slackened once more and the man slumped backward, the black water creeping up around his ears, nose, and mouth.

  "Give me your brush hook!" Hatch yelled to the rescuer. Grabbing the stubby, machetelike implement, he took a deep breath and dove below the surface of the surging water. Feeling his way in the blackness, he worked his way down the right leg, located the cut, and quickly sliced through the remaining hamstring muscle with the hook.

  "Try again!" he coughed the moment his head broke the surface. The rope jerked and this time the unconscious man came bursting out from under the water, blood and muddy water running from the stumps of his legs. The rescuer went next, and then a moment later Hatch felt himself hoisted toward the surface. Within seconds he was out of the dark, damp hole and crouching next to the man in a swale of matted grass. Quickly, he felt for the vitals: the man was not breathing, but his heart was still beating, fast and faint.

  Despite his improvised tourniquets, blood was oozing from the savaged stumps of the legs.

  ABC, Hatch recited under his breath: airway, breathing, circulation. He opened the man's mouth, cleared out mud and vomit with a hook of his finger, then rolled him on his left side, squeezing him into a fetal position. To Hatch's great relief a thin stream of water came from the man's mouth, along with a sigh of air. Hatch immediately began a stabilizing pattern: a ten count of mouth-to-mouth, then a pause to tighten the tourniquet around the left leg; ten more breaths; a pause to tighten the other tourniquet; ten more breaths; then a pulse check.

  "Get my bag!" he yelled at the stunned group. "I need a hypo!"

  One of the men grabbed the bag and began rummaging through it.

  "Dump it out on the ground, for Chrissakes!" The man obeyed and Hatch fished through the scatter, pulling out a syringe and a bottle. Sucking one cc of epinephrine into the hypo, he administered it sub cu in the victim's shoulder. Then he returned to mouth-to-mouth. At the five count, the man coughed, then drew a ragged breath.

  Streeter came forward, a cellular phone in his hand. "We've called in a medevac helicopter," he said. "It'll meet us at Storm-haven wharf."

  "The hell with that," Hatch snapped.

  Streeter frowned. "But the medevac—"

  "Flies from Portland. And no half-assed medevac pilot can lower a basket while hovering."

  "But
shouldn't we get him to the mainland—?"

  Hatch rounded on him. "Can't you see this man won't survive a run to the mainland? Get the Coast Guard on the phone."

  Streeter pressed a number in the phone s memory, then handed it over wordlessly.

  Hatch asked to speak to a paramedic, then quickly began describing the accident. "We've got a double amputation, one above, one below the knee," he said. "Massive exsanguination, deep shock, pulse is thready at fifty-five, some water in the lungs, still unconscious. Get a chopper out here with your best pilot. There's no landing spot and we'll need to drop a basket. Hang a bag of saline, and bring some unmatched O negative if you have it. But get your ass out here, that's the most important thing. This'll be a scoop and run." He covered the phone and turned to Streeter. "Any chance of getting those legs up in the next hour?"

  "I don't know," Streeter said evenly. "The water will have made the pit unstable. We might be able to send a diver down to reconnoiter."

  Hatch shook his head and turned back to the phone. "You'll be flying the patient straight through to Eastern Maine Medical. Alert the trauma team, have an OR standing by. There's a possibility we may recover the limbs. We'll need a micro-vascular surgeon on tap, just in case."

  He snapped the phone shut and handed it back to Streeter. "If you can recover those legs without risk of life, do it."

  He turned his attention back to the injured man. The pulse was lousy but holding steady. More importantly, the man was beginning to regain consciousness, thrashing feebly and moaning. Hatch felt another wave of relief; if he'd stayed unconscious much longer, the prognosis would have been poor. He sorted through his kit and gave the man five milligrams of morphine, enough to give him some relief but not enough to lower his pulse any further. Then he turned to what remained of the legs. He winced inwardly at the raggedness of the wounds and the shattered ends of bone; the dull blade of the ax was nothing like the nice, neat saws of the operating room. He could see some bleeders, especially the femoral artery of the right leg. Sorting among the refuse of his medical kit, he grabbed a needle and some thread and began tying off the veins and arteries.