Riptide

by Douglas Preston

  "What a hot hand you have!" she cried.

  "The pleasure is mine," Hatch replied belatedly.

  "And you are the brilliant Harvard doctor that Gerard has been talking about," she said, gazing into his face. "He likes you very much, you know."

  Hatch found himself blushing. "Glad to hear it." He had never really thought about whether Neidelman liked him, but he found himself unaccountably pleased to hear it. He caught, just out of the corner of his eye, a glance of hatred from Streeter.

  "I am glad you are aboard. It saves me the trouble of tracking you down."

  Hatch frowned his lack of understanding.

  "I will be locating the old pirate encampment, excavating it." She gave him a shrewd look. "You own this island, non? Where would you camp, if you had to spend three months on it?"

  Hatch thought for a moment. "Originally, the island was heavily wooded in spruce and oak. I imagine they would have cut a clearing on the leeward side of the island. On the shore, near where their boats were moored."

  "The lee shore? But would that not mean they could be seen from the mainland on clear days?"

  "Well, I suppose so, yes. This coast was already settled in 1696, though sparsely."

  "And they would need to keep watch on the windward shore, n'est-ce pas? For any shipping that might chance on them."

  "Yes, that's right," Hatch said, secretly nettled. If she knows all the answers, then why is she asking me? "The main shipping route between Halifax and Boston went right past here, across the Gulf of Maine." He paused. "But if this coast was settled, how would they have hidden nine ships?"

  "I too thought of that question. There is a very deep harbor two miles up the coast, shielded by an island."

  "Black Harbor," said Hatch.

  "Exactement."

  "That makes sense," Hatch replied. "Black Harbor wasn't settled until the mid seventeen hundreds. The work crew and Macallan could have lived on the island, while the ships sheltered unseen in the harbor."

  "The windward side, then!" Bonterre said. "You've been most helpful. Now I must get ready." Any lingering annoyance Hatch felt melted away under the archaeologist's dazzling smile. She balled up her hair and slid the hood over it, then donned her mask. The other diver sidled over to adjust her tanks, introducing himself as Sergio Scopatti.

  Bonterre glanced up and down the man's suit appraisingly, as if seeing it for the first time. "Grande merde du noir," she muttered fervently. "I did not know Speedo made wetsuits."

  "Italians make everything fashionable," Scopatti laughed. "And molto svelta."

  "How's my video working?" Bonterre called over her shoulder to Streeter, tapping a small camera mounted on her mask.

  Streeter ran his hand down a bank of switches and a video screen popped to life on the control console, showing the jiggling, grinning face of Scopatti.

  "Look somewhere else," said Scopatti to Bonterre, "or you'll break your camera."

  "I shall look at the doctor then," said Bonterre, and Hatch saw his own face appear on the screen.

  "That wouldn't just break the camera, it would implode the lens," Hatch said, wondering why this woman kept him at a loss for words.

  "Next time, I get the comm set," said Scopatti, in a joking whine.

  "Never," said Bonterre. "I am the famous archaeologist. You are just cheap hired Italian labor."

  Scopatti grinned, not at all put out.

  Neidelman's voice broke in: "Five minutes to the turn of the tide. Is the Naiad in position?"

  Streeter acknowledged.

  "Mr. Wopner, is the program running properly?"

  "No problemo, Captain," came the nasal voice over the channel. "Running fine now. Now that I'm here, I mean."

  "Understood. Dr. Magnusen?"

  "The pumps are primed and ready to go, Captain. The crew reports that the dye bomb is suspended over the Water Pit, and the remote's in place."

  "Excellent. Dr. Magnusen, you'll drop the bomb on my signal."

  The people on the Naiad fell silent. A pair of guillemots whirred past, flying just above the surface of the water. On the far side of the island, Hatch could make out the Grampus, riding the even swell just beyond the ledges. The air of excitement, of something about to happen, increased.

  "Mean high tide," came Neidelman's quiet voice. "Start the pumps."

  The throb of the pumps came rumbling across the water. As if in response, the island groaned and coughed with the reversal of the tide. Hatch shuddered involuntarily; if there was one thing that still gave him a shiver of horror, it was that sound.

  "Pumps at ten," came Magnusen's voice.

  "Keep it steady. Mr. Wopner?"

  "Charybdis responding normally, Captain. All systems within normal tolerances."

  "Very well," said Neidelman. "Let's proceed. Naiad, are you ready?"

  "Affirmative," said Streeter into the mike.

  "Hold steady and keep an eye out for the spot where the dye appears. Spotters ready?"

  There was another chorus of ayes. Looking toward the island, Hatch could see several teams ranged along the bluffs with binoculars.

  "First one who spots the dye gets a bonus. All right, release the dye bomb."

  There was a momentary silence, then a faint crump sounded from the vicinity of the Water Pit.

  "Dye released," said Magnusen.

  All hands peered across the gently undulating surface of the ocean. The water had a dark, almost black, color, but there was no wind and only the faintest chop, making conditions ideal. Despite the growing rip current, Streeter kept the boat stationary with an expert handling of the throttles. A minute passed, and another, the only sound the throb of the pumps pouring seawater into the Water Pit, driving the dye down into the heart of the island and out to sea. Bonterre and Scopatti waited in the stern, silent and alert.

  "Dye at twenty-two degrees," came the urgent voice of one of the spotters on the island. "One hundred forty feet offshore."

  "Naiad, that's your quadrant," said Neidelman. "The Grampus will come over to assist. Well done!" A small cheer erupted over the frequency.

  That's the spot I saw the whirlpool, Hatch thought.

  Streeter swung the boat around, gunning the engine, and in a moment Hatch could see a light spot on the ocean about three hundred yards away. Both Bonterre and Sergio had their masks and regulators in place and were already at the gunwales, bolt guns in their hands and buoys at their belts, ready to go over the side.

  "Dye at 297 degrees, one hundred feet offshore," came the voice of another spotter, cutting through the cheering.

  "What?" came Neidelman's voice. "You mean to say that dye is appearing in another place?"

  "Affirmative, Captain."

  There was a moment of shocked silence. "Looks like we've got two flood tunnels to seal," said Neidelman. "The Grampus will mark the second. Let's go."

  The Naiad was closing in on the swirl of yellow dye breaking the surface just inside the reefs. Streeter cut the throttle and sent the boat in a circling idle as the divers went over the side. Hatch turned eagerly to the screens, shoulder-to-shoulder with Rankin. At first the video image consisted only of clouds of yellow dye. Then the picture cleared. A large, rough crack appeared at the murky bottom of the reef, dye jetting out of it like smoke.

  "Le voila!" came Bonterre's excited voice over the comm channel. The image jiggled wildly as she swam toward the crack, shot a small explosive bolt into the rock nearby, and attached an inflatable buoy. It bobbed upward and Hatch looked over the rail in time to see it surface, a small solar cell and antenna bobbing at its top. "Marked!" said Bonterre. "Preparing to set charges."

  "Look at that," breathed Rankin, swiveling his gaze from the video to the sonar and back again. "A radiating fault pattern. All they had to do was tunnel along existing fractures in the rock. Still, incredibly advanced for seventeenth-century construction—"

  "Dye at five degrees, ninety feet offshore," came another call.

  "Are you certain?" Di
sbelief mixed with uncertainty in Neidelman's voice. "Okay, we've got a third tunnel. Naiad, it's yours. Spotters, for God's sake keep your scopes trained in case the dye spreads before we can get to it."

  "More dye! Three hundred thirty-two degrees, seventy feet offshore."

  And then the first voice again: "Dye appearing at eighty-five degrees, I repeat, eighty-five degrees, forty feet offshore."

  "We'll take the one at 332," said Neidelman, a strange tone creeping into his voice. "Just how many tunnels did this bloody architect build? Streeter, that makes two for you to deal with. Get your divers up as soon as possible. Just mark the exits for now and we'll set the plastique later. We've only got five minutes before that dye dissipates."

  In another moment Bonterre and Scopatti were up and in the boat, and without a word Streeter spun the wheel and took off at a roar. Now Hatch could see another cloud of yellow dye boiling to the surface. The boat circled as Bonterre and Scopatti went over the side. Soon another buoy had popped up; the divers emerged, and the Naiad moved to the spot where the third cloud of dye was appearing. Again Bonterre and Scopatti went over the side, and Hatch turned his attention to the video screen.

  Scopatti swam ahead, his form visible on Bonterre's headset, a ghostly figure among the billowing clouds of dye. They were already deeper than at any point on the first two dives. Suddenly, the jagged rocks at the bottom of the reef became visible, along with a square opening, much larger than the others, through which the last tendrils of dye were now drifting.

  "What's this?" Hatch heard Bonterre say in a voice of disbelief. "Sergio, attends!"

  Suddenly Wopner's voice crackled over the radio. "Got a problem, Captain."

  "What is it?" Neidelman responded.

  "Dunno. I'm getting error messages, but the system reports normal function."

  "Switch to the redundant system."

  "I'm doing that, but. . . Wait, now the hubs getting... Oh, shit."

  "What?" came Neidelman's sharp voice.

  At the same time Hatch heard the sound of the pumps on the island faltering.

  "System crash," said Wopner.

  There was a sudden, sharp, garbled noise from Bonterre. Hatch glanced toward the video screen and saw it had gone dead. No, he corrected himself: not dead, but black. And then snow began to creep into the blackness until the signal was lost in a howling storm of electronic distortion.

  "What the hell?" Streeter said, frantically punching the comm button. "Bonterre, can you hear me? We've lost your feed. Bonterre!"

  Scopatti broke the surface ten feet from the boat and tore the regulator from his mouth. "Bonterre's been sucked into the tunnel!" he gasped.

  "What was that?" Neidelman cried over the radio.

  "He said, Bonterre's been sucked—" Streeter began.

  "Goddammit, go back after her!" Neidelman barked, his electronic voice rasping across the water.

  "It's murder down there!" Scopatti yelled. "There's a massive backcurrent, and—"

  "Streeter, give him a lifeline!" Neidelman called. "And Magnusen, bypass that computer control, get the pumps started manually. Losing them must have created some kind of backflow."

  "Yes, sir," said Magnusen. "The team will have to reprime them by hand. I'll need at least five minutes, minimum."

  "Run," came Neidelman's voice, hard but suddenly calm. "And do it in three."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And Wopner, get the system on-line."

  "Captain," Wopner began, "the diagnostics are telling me that everything's—"

  "Stop talking," snapped Neidelman. "Start fixing."

  Scopatti clipped a lifeline around his belt and disappeared again over the side.

  "I'm clearing this area," Hatch said to Streeter as he began to spread towels over the deck to receive his potential patient.

  Streeter played the lifeline out, helped by Rankin. There was a sudden tug, then steady tension.

  "Streeter?" came Neidelman's voice.

  "Scopatti's in the backflow," said Streeter. "I can feel him on the line."

  Hatch stared at the snow on the screen with a macabre sense of deja vu. It was as if she had disappeared, vanished, just as suddenly as...

  He took a deep breath and looked away. There was nothing he could do until they got her to the surface. Nothing.

  Suddenly there was a noise from the island as the pumps roared into life.

  "Good work," came Neidelman's voice from the comm set.

  "Line's gone slack," said Streeter.

  There was a tense silence. Hatch could see the last bits of dye boiling off as the flow came back out the tunnel. And suddenly the video screen went black again, and then he heard gasping over the audio line. The black on the screen grew lighter until, with a flood of relief, he saw a green square of light growing across the screen: the exit to the flood tunnel.

  "Merde," came Bonterre's voice as she was ejected from the opening, the view from the camera tumbling wildly.

  Moments later, there was a swirl at the surface. Hatch and Rankin rushed to the side of the boat and lifted Bonterre aboard. Scopatti followed, stripping off her tanks and hood as Hatch laid her down on the towels.

  Opening her mouth, Hatch checked the airway: all clear. He unzipped her wetsuit at the chest and placed a stethoscope. She was breathing well, no sound of water in the lungs, and her heartbeat was fast and strong. He noticed a gash in the suit along her stomach, skin and a ribbon of blood swelling along its edge.

  "Incroyable," Bonterre coughed, trying to sit up, waving a chip of something gray.

  "Keep still," Hatch said sharply.

  "Cement!" she cried, clutching the chip. "Three-hundred-year-old cement! There was a row of stones set into the reef—"

  Hatch felt quickly around the base of her skull, looking for evidence of a concussion or spinal injury. There were no swellings, cuts, dislocations.

  "Ca suffit!" she said, turning her head. "What are you, a phrenologiste?"

  "Streeter, report!" Neidelman barked over the radio.

  "They're aboard, sir," Streeter said. "Bonterre seems to be fine."

  "I am fine, except for this meddlesome doctor!" she cried, struggling.

  "Just a moment while I look at your stomach," Hatch said, gently restraining her.

  "Those stones, they looked like the foundation to something," she continued, lying back. "Sergio, did you see that? What could it be?"

  With a single movement, Hatch unzipped the wetsuit down to her navel.

  "Hey!" cried Bonterre.

  Ignoring the outcry, Hatch quickly explored the cut. There was a nasty scrape below her ribs, but it seemed superficial along its entire length.

  "It is just a scratch," protested Bonterre, craning her neck to see what Hatch was doing.

  He snatched his hand from her belly as a distinctly unprofessional stirring coursed through his loins. "Perhaps you're right," he said a little more sarcastically than he intended, fishing in his bag for a topical antibiotic ointment. "Next time let me play in the water, and you can be the doctor. Meanwhile, I'm going to apply some of this anyway, in case of infection. You had a close call." He rubbed ointment into the scrape.

  "That tickles," said Bonterre.

  Scopatti had stripped off his suit to the waist, and stood with his arms crossed, his tanned physique gleaming in the sun, grinning fondly. Rankin stood next to him, hirsute and massive, watching Bonterre with a distinct gleam in his eyes. Everyone, thought Malin, is in love with this woman.

  "I ended up in a big underwater cavern," she was saying. "For a moment I couldn't find the walls, and I thought that was the end. Fin."

  "A cavern?" Neidelman asked doubtfully over the open channel.

  "Mais oui. A big cavern. But my radio was dead. Why would that be?"

  "The tunnel must have blocked the transmission," Neidelman said.

  "But why the backcurrent?" Bonterre said. "The tide was going out."

  There was a brief silence. "I don't have an answer to that,"
Neidelman's voice came at last. "Perhaps once we've drained the Pit and its tunnels, we'll learn why. I'll be waiting for a full report. Meanwhile, why don't you rest? Grampus out."

  Streeter turned. "Markers set. Returning to base."

  The boat rumbled to life and planed across the water, riding the gentle swells. Hatch stowed his gear, listening to the chatter on the radio bands. Neidelman, on the Grampus, was talking to Island One.

  "I'm telling you, we've got a cybergeist," came the voice of Wopner. "I just did a ROM dump on Charybdis, and ran it against Scylla. Everything's messed up nine ways to Sunday. But that's burned-in code, Captain. The goddamn system's cursed. Not even a hacker could rewrite ROM—"

  "Don't start talking about curses," said Neidelman sharply.

  As they approached the dock, Bonterre peeled off her wetsuit, packed it into a deck locker, wrung out her hair, and turned toward Hatch. "Well, Doctor, my nightmare came true. I did need your services, after all."

  "It was nothing," said Hatch, blushing and furiously aware of it.

  "Oh, but it was very nice."

  Chapter 16

  The stone ruins of Fort Blacklock stood in a meadow looking down on the entrance to Stormhaven harbor. The circular fort was surrounded by a large meadow dotted with white pines, which fell away to farmers' fields and a "sugarbush," a thick stand of sugar maples. Across the meadow from the old fort a large yellow-and-white pavilion had been erected, decorated with ribbons and pennants that fluttered merrily in the breeze. A banner over the pavilion proclaimed in hand-painted letters: 71ST ANNUAL STORMHAVEN LOBSTER BAKE!!!

  Hatch headed apprehensively up the gentle slope of the grassy hill. The lobster bake was the first real opportunity for him to meet the town at large, and he wasn't at all sure what kind of reception to expect. But there was little doubt in his mind about what kind of reception the expedition itself would receive.

  Although Thalassa had been in Stormhaven little more than a week, the company's impact had been considerable. Crew members had taken most of the available rental houses and spare rooms, sometimes paying premium prices. They had filled the tiny bed-and-breakfast. The two restaurants in town, Anchors Away and The Landing, were packed every night. The gas station at the wharf had been forced to triple its deliveries, and business at the Superette—though Bud would never admit to it—was up at least fifty percent. The town was in such a fine mood about the Ragged Island treasure hunt that the mayor had hastily made Thalassa the collective guest of honor at the lobster bake. And Neidelman's quietly picking up half the tab—at Hatch's suggestion—had simply been icing on the cake.