Riptide

by Douglas Preston

  Hatch smiled and said nothing.

  Dr. Horn picked up a mandible. "Evidently these pirates did not believe in flossing twice a day." He examined the teeth, stroked his face with a long, thoughtful finger, and straightened up. "All indications point to scurvy."

  Hatch could feel his face fall. "You figured that out a lot faster than I did."

  "Scurvy was endemic on sailing ships in past centuries. Common knowledge, I'm afraid."

  "Maybe it was rather obvious," said Hatch, a little crestfallen.

  The professor gave him a pointed look, but said nothing.

  "Come on, have a seat in the parlor," Hatch said. "Let me get you a cup of coffee."

  When he returned with a tray of cups and saucers a few minutes later, the professor had taken a seat in an easy chair and was idly flipping through one of the old mysteries Hatch's mother had so adored. She'd kept about thirty on the shelf—just enough, she'd said, so that by the time she'd finished the last, she would have forgotten the first, and could start over again. Seeing this man out of his own childhood, sitting in his front parlor and reading his mother's book, gave Hatch a sudden stab of bittersweet nostalgia so intense that he banged the tray harder than he intended onto the small table. The professor accepted a cup, and they sat for a moment drinking in silence.

  "Malin," the old man said, clearing his throat. "I owe you an apology."

  "Please," Hatch replied. "Don't even mention it. I appreciated your candor."

  "To hell with my candor. I spoke hastily the other day. I still think Stormhaven would be better off without that goddamned treasure island, but that's neither here nor there. I have no right to judge your motives. You do what you have to do."

  "Thanks."

  "As atonement, I've brought along a little something for show-and-tell this evening," he said, the old familiar gleam in his eye. He removed a box from his pocket and opened it to reveal a strange, double-lobed shell, a complicated pattern of dots and striations set into its surface. "What is it? You've got five minutes."

  "Siamese sea urchin," Hatch said, handing the shell back. "Nice specimen, too."

  "Damn. Well, if you refuse to be stumped, at least make yourself useful by explaining the circumstances surrounding that" The professor jerked a thumb in the direction of the dining room. "I want all details, no matter how trivial. Any oversights will be dealt with most harshly."

  Stretching out his legs and crossing his feet on the braided carpet, Hatch related how Bonterre found the encampment; the initial excavations; the discovery of the mass grave; the gold; the astonishing array of artifacts; the dense tangle of bodies. The professor listened, nodding vigorously, eyebrows alternately rising and falling at each fresh piece of information.

  "What surprises me most," Hatch concluded, "is the sheer body count. The teams had identified eighty individuals by the end of this afternoon, and the site isn't fully excavated yet."

  "Indeed." The professor fell into silence, his gaze resting vaguely in the middle distance. Then he roused himself, put down his cup, brushed the lapels of his jacket with a curiously delicate gesture, and stood up. "Scurvy," he repeated, almost to himself, and followed with a snort of derision. "Walk me to the door, will you? I've taken up enough of your time for one evening."

  At the door the professor paused, and turned. He gave Hatch a steady look, his eyes dancing with veiled interest. "Tell me, Malin, what are the dominant flora of Ragged Island? I've never been there."

  "Well," said Hatch, "it's a typical outer island, no trees to speak of, covered with sawgrass, chokecherries, burdock, and tea roses."

  "Ah. Chokecherry pie—delicious. And have you ever experienced the pleasure of rose hip tea?"

  "Of course," said Malin. "My mother drank lots of rose hip tea—for her health, she said. Hated the stuff myself."

  Professor Horn coughed into his hand, a gesture that Hatch remembered as one of disapproval. "What?" he asked defensively.

  "Chokecherries and rose hips," the professor said, "were a staple part of the diet along this coast in centuries past. Both are very good for you, extremely high in vitamin C."

  There was a silence. "Oh," said Hatch. "I see what you're getting at."

  "Seventeenth-century sailors may not have known what caused scurvy, but they did know that almost any fresh berries, fruits, roots, or vegetables cured it." The professor looked searchingly at Hatch. "And there's another problem with our hasty diagnosis."

  "What's that?"

  "It's the way those bodies were buried." The old man rapped his cane on the floor for emphasis. "Malin, scurvy doesn't make you toss fourscore people into a common grave and skedaddle in such a hurry that you leave gold and emeralds behind."

  There was a distant flash, then a roll of thunder far to the south. "But what would?" Hatch asked.

  Dr. Horn's only answer was an affectionate pat on the shoulder. Then he turned, limped down the steps, and hobbled away, the faint tapping of his cane sounding long after his form had disappeared into the warm enveloping darkness of Ocean Lane.

  Chapter 28

  Early the next morning, Hatch entered Island One to find the small command-and-control center jammed with an unusually large gathering. Bonterre, Kerry Wopner, and St. John were all talking at once. Only Magnusen and Captain Neidelman were silent: Magnusen quietly running diagnostics, and Neidelman standing in the center, lighting his pipe, calm as the eye of a hurricane.

  "Are you nuts or something?" Wopner was saying. "I should be back on the Cerberus, decrypting that journal, not frigging spelunking. I'm a programmer, not a sewer worker."

  "There's no other choice," Neidelman said, taking his pipe from his mouth and looking at Wopner. "You saw the numbers."

  "Yeah, yeah. What did you expect? Nothing works right on this damn island."

  "Did I miss something?" Hatch said, coming forward.

  "Ah. Good morning, Malin," Neidelman said, giving him a brief smile. "Nothing major. We've had a few problems with the electronics on the ladder array."

  "A few," Wopner scoffed.

  "The upshot is that we'll have to take Kerry along with us this morning on our exploration of the Pit."

  "The hell with that!" Wopner said petulantly. "I keep telling you, the last domino has fallen. That code is mine, believe you me. Scylla'll have the bad boy fully deciphered in a couple of hours."

  "If the last domino has fallen, then Christopher here can do the monitoring," Neidelman said, a little more sharply.

  "That's correct," St. John replied, his chest swelling slightly. "It's just a question of taking the output and making some character substitutions."

  Wopner looked from one to the other, his lower lip projecting in an exaggerated pout.

  "It's a simple matter of where you're most needed," Neidelman said. "And you're most needed on our team." He turned to Hatch. "It's imperative that we get these piezoelectric sensors in place throughout the Pit. Once they're linked to the computer network, they'll serve as an early warning system in case of structural failure anywhere underground. But so far, Kerry's been unsuccessful at calibrating the sensors remotely from Island One." He glanced at Wopner. "With the network acting flaky, that means he's going to have to come along with us and calibrate them manually, using a palmtop computer. Then he can download the information into the computer's registry. It's a nuisance, but there's nothing else for it."

  "A nuisance?" Wopner said. "A major pain in the ass is more like it."

  "Most of the crew would give half their shares to be along on the first penetration," St. John said.

  "Penetrate this," Wopner muttered as he turned away. Bonterre giggled.

  Neidelman turned to the historian. "Tell Dr. Hatch about the sentence you just deciphered from the second half of the journal."

  St. John cleared his throat self-importantly. "It's not a sentence, really," he said. "More of a sentence fragment: Ye who luste after the key to the, some word or other, Pitt shall find...."

  Hatch looked at
the Captain in amazement. "So there is a secret key to the Water Pit."

  Neidelman smiled, rubbing his hands together with anticipation. "It's almost eight," he said. "Assemble your gear and let's get started."

  Hatch returned to his office for his medical field kit, then met up with the group as they were trekking up the rise of the island toward Orthanc. "Merde, it's cold," Bonterre said, blowing on her hands and hugging herself. "What kind of a summer morning do you call this?"

  "A summer morning in Maine," Hatch replied. "Enjoy it. The air will put hair on your chest."

  "That is something I have little need of, monsieur le docteur." She jogged ahead, trying to keep warm, and as Hatch followed he realized that he, too, was shivering slightly; whether from the cold or the anticipation of the coming descent he wasn't sure. The tattered edge of a front had at last begun to cast a long shadow across the island, swiftly followed by ranks of piling thunderheads.

  As he reached the crest of the island, Hatch could see the tall form of Orthanc, bundles of multicolored cable streaming from its dark underbelly down into the maw of the Water Pit. Only it was no longer the Water Pit: Now it was drained, accessible, its innermost secrets waiting to be plumbed.

  Hatch shivered again and moved forward. From this vantage point, he could see the gray crescent of the cofferdam, tracing an arc into the sea around the southern end of the island. It was a bizarre sight. On the far side of the cofferdam lay the dark blue expanse of ocean, disappearing into the perpetual veiling mist; on the closer side, the stony seabed lay exposed almost obscenely, scattered with pools of stagnant water. Here and there on the dry ocean floor, Hatch could see markers placed in rocky outcroppings: the flood tunnel entrances, tagged for later examination and analysis. On the beach beside the cofferdam there were several piles of rusted junk, waterlogged wood, and other debris grappled up from the depths of the Pit, cleared for their expedition.

  Streeter and his crew were standing at the staging area beside the mouth of the Pit, pulling up some cables, dropping others. Approaching, Hatch saw what looked like the end of a massive ladder peering over the top of the Pit. The siderails of the ladder were made from thick gleaming tubes of metal, with two sets of rubber-covered rungs in between. Hatch knew it had taken the team much of the night to bolt the sections together and work them down, maneuvering past invisible obstacles and the remaining snarls of junk caught on the bracing timbers that crisscrossed the shaft.

  "That's what I call a ladder on steroids," he said, whistling.

  "It's more than a ladder," Neidelman replied. "It's a ladder array. Those tubular siderails are made from a titanium alloy. It'll serve as the backbone for the Pit's support structure. In time, we'll build a radiating web of titanium struts from the array, which will brace the walls and timbers and keep the Pit stable while we dig. And we'll attach a platform lift to the ladder, like an elevator."

  He pointed toward the ladder struts. "Each tube is wired with fiber-optic, coax, and electrical cable, and every rung has a kick light. Eventually, every part of the structure will be computer controlled, from the servos to the monitoring cameras. But so far, friend Wopner has not been entirely successful in bringing the installation under remote control. Hence, his invitation to join us." He tapped the upper works with one foot. "Built to Thalassa specifications at a cost of nearly two hundred thousand dollars."

  Wopner, overhearing, came over with a grin. "Hey, Captain," he said. "I know where you can pick up some really nice $600 toilet seats, too."

  Neidelman smiled. "Glad to see your mood improving, Mr. Wopner. Let's get geared up."

  He turned to the group. "Our most important task today is to attach these piezoelectric stress sensors into the cribbing and shoring beams of the Pit." He pulled one from his pack and handed it around. It was a small strip of metal, with a computer chip in its center, sealed in hard, clear plastic. At each end, sticking out at right angles, was a half-inch tack. "Just tap or press it into the wood. Mr. Wopner will calibrate and register it into his palmtop database."

  While Neidelman talked, a technician approached Hatch and helped him shrug into a harness. Then the man handed him a helmet and showed him how to use the intercom and halogen headlamp. Next, he was handed a satchel containing a quantity of the piezoelectric sensors.

  As he arranged his medical kit, Hatch saw Neidelman motioning him toward the railing. He stepped forward, and the Captain spoke into the mike attached to his helmet. "Magnusen, restore power to the array."

  As Hatch watched, a string of lights snapped on along the ladder, illuminating in a brilliant yellow light the entire ghastly length of the Water Pit. The triple row of glowing struts descended into the earth like some pathway to hell.

  For the first time, Hatch could see just what the Pit looked like. It was a ragged square, perhaps ten feet across, cribbed on all four sides with heavy logs, which were notched and mortised into massive vertical beams at each corner. Every ten feet, the shaft was crisscrossed by four smaller beams that met in the middle of the Pit, evidently bracing the sides and preventing them from collapsing inward. Hatch was struck by how overengineered the Pit seemed to be: It was as if Macallan had built it to last a millennium, instead of the few years it would take for Ockham to return and retrieve his treasure.

  Staring down the descending rows of lights, Hatch finally realized, in his gut, just how deep the Pit was. The lights seemed to stretch toward a pinpoint of darkness, so far below that the rails of the ladder almost converged in the murky depths. The Pit was alive, rustling with the sounds of ticking, dripping, and creaking, along with indeterminate whispers and moans.

  A distant rumble of thunder rolled over the island, and a sudden wind pressed down the sawgrass around the Pit. Then a hard rain followed, drowning bracken and machine alike. Hatch stood where he was, partly sheltered by the massive bulk of Orthanc. Within a matter of minutes, he thought, they would simply mount the ladder and climb to the bottom. Once again, the perverse feeling returned that everything was too easy—until he felt the Pit exhale the cold odor of the mudflat: a powerful smell of saltwater mingled with suppuration and decay, the outgassing of dead fish, and rotting seaweed. A sudden thought rushed into his mind: Somewhere in that warren of tunnels is Johnny's body. It was a discovery he both wanted and dreaded with all his soul.

  A technician handed Neidelman a small gas-monitoring meter, and he slipped it around his neck. "Remember, we're not going down for a leisurely stroll," Neidelman said, glancing at the team. "The only time you are to be undipped from the array is when it becomes necessary to place a sensor. We'll set them, calibrate them, and get out quickly. But while we're at it, I want everyone to make as many observations as possible: the condition of the cribbing, the size and number of the tunnels, anything that seems pertinent. The bottom itself is still deep in mud, so we'll be concentrating on the walls and the mouths of the side tunnels." He paused, adjusting his helmet. "Okay. Clip on your lifelines and Let's go."

  The lifelines were snapped onto their harnesses. Neidelman moved among them, double-checking the karabiners and testing each line.

  "I feel like a frigging telephone repairman," Wopner complained. Hatch glanced over at the programmer, who, in addition to his satchel of piezoelectric sensors, had two palmtop computers dangling from his belt.

  "Why, Kerry," said Bonterre teasingly. "For the first time, you look like a man."

  By now, much of the crew still on the island had gathered behind the staging area. A cheer went up. Hatch looked around at the elated faces: this was the critical moment they—and he— had been waiting for. Bonterre was grinning widely. Even Wopner seemed affected by the growing excitement: he arranged his equipment and tugged on his harness with a self-important air.

  Neidelman took a last look around, waving at the assembled group. Then he stepped to the rim of the staging area, buckled his line to the ladder array, and began to descend.

  Chapter 29

  Hatch was the last to set foot on the l
adder. The others were already stretched out for twenty feet below him. The lights on their helmets played through the murk as they descended hand over hand. A sense of vertigo passed over him, and he looked up, grabbing at the rung. The ladder was rock solid, he knew; even if he fell, the lifeline would keep him from tumbling far.

  As they went deeper, a curious hush fell over the team and among the Orthanc crew, monitoring the mission over the live channel. The incessant sounds of the settling Pit, the soft creakings and tickings, filled the air like the whispered teeming of invisible sea creatures. Hatch passed the first cluster of terminal hubs, electrical outlets, and cable jacks that had been set into the ladder at fifteen-foot intervals.

  "Everyone all right?" came Neidelman's low voice over the intercom. Positive responses came back, one by one.

  "Dr. Magnusen?" Neidelman asked.

  "Instruments normal," came the voice from inside Orthanc. "All boards are green."

  "Dr. Rankin?"

  "Scopes inactive, Captain. No sign of any seismic disturbances or magnetic anomalies."

  "Mr. Streeter?"

  "All systems on the array are nominal," the laconic voice replied.

  "Very well," Neidelman said. "We'll continue descending to the fifty-foot platform, placing sensors as necessary, then stop for a breather. Be careful not to catch your lifelines on any beams. Dr. Bonterre, Dr. Hatch, Mr. Wopner, keep your eyes open. If you see anything strange, I want to know."

  "You kidding?" came Wopner's voice. "The whole place is strange."

  As he followed the group, Hatch felt almost as if he was sinking into a deep pool of brackish water. The air was clammy and cold, redolent of decay. Each exhalation condensed into a cloud of vapor that hung in the supersaturated air, refusing to dissipate. He looked about, the light on his helmet swiveling with his head. They were now in the tidal zone of the Pit, where the water had formerly risen and fallen twice a day. He was surprised to see the same bands of life he'd observed countless times among rocks and tidal pools at the sea edge: first barnacles, then seaweed, then mussels and limpets; followed by a band of starfish; next, sea cucumbers, periwinkles, sea urchins, and anemones. As he continued to descend, he passed strata of coral and seaweed. Hundreds of whelks still clung pitifully to the walls and beams, hoping in vain for a return of the tide. Now and then a whelk would at last lose its grip and fall into the echoing vastness.