Riptide

by Douglas Preston

  Suddenly, it became overwhelmingly clear.

  Hatch stood up quickly.

  "Oh, Jesus—" he began.

  As the pieces flew into place he stood, thunderstruck, horrified at the implications.

  "Excuse me a minute," he said to Truitt, pulling the blanket up and turning away. He looked at his watch: seven o'clock. Just a couple of hours until Neidelman reached the treasure chamber.

  Hatch took a few deep breaths, waiting for a good ground of control to settle beneath his feet. Then he went to the phone and dialed the number for the island's automated cellular routing center.

  It was down.

  "Shit," he muttered to himself.

  Reaching into his medical bag, he pulled out the emergency radio communicator. All Thalassa channels were awash in static.

  He paused a minute, thinking quickly, trying to sort out his options. Just as quickly, he realized there was only one.

  He stepped into the kitchen. The professor had spread out a dozen arrowheads on the kitchen table and was describing coastal Indian sites to Bonterre. She looked up excitedly, but her face fell when she saw Hatch.

  "Isobel," he said in a low voice, "I have to go to the island. Will you make sure Donny gets on the ambulance and goes to the hospital?"

  "Going to the island?" Bonterre cried. "Are you mad?"

  "No time to explain," Hatch said on his way to the hall closet. Behind him, he could hear the rustle of chairs being pushed back as Bonterre and the professor rose to follow him. Opening the closet door, he pulled out two woolen sweaters and began shrugging into them.

  "Malin—"

  "Sorry, Isobel. I'll explain later."

  "I will come with you."

  "Forget it," Hatch said. "Too dangerous. Anyway, you have to stay here and see that Donny gets to the hospital."

  "I ain't going to no hospital," rose the voice from the sofa.

  "See what I mean?" Hatch pulled on his oilskin and stuffed a sou'wester into one pocket.

  "No. I know the sea. It will take two to get across in this weather, and you know it." Bonterre began pulling clothes out of the closet: heavy sweaters, his father's old slicker.

  "Sorry," Hatch said, tugging into a pair of boots.

  He felt a hand laid on his arm. "The lady is right," the professor said. "I don't know what this is all about. But I do know you can't steer, navigate, and land a boat in this weather by yourself. I can get Donny on the ambulance and to the hospital."

  "Did you hear me?" Donny called. "I ain't getting in no ambulance."

  The professor turned and fixed him with a stern look. "One more word out of you and you'll be clapped on a stretcher and strapped down like a madman. One way or another, you are going."

  There was a brief pause. "Yes, sir," Truitt answered.

  The professor turned back and winked.

  Hatch grabbed a flashlight and turned to look at Bonterre, her determined black eyes peering out from under an oversized yellow sou'wester.

  "She's as capable as you are," the professor said. "More so, if I were being honest."

  "Why do you need to do this?" Hatch asked quietly.

  In answer, Bonterre slipped her hand around his elbow. "Because you are special, monsieur le docteur. You are special to me. I would never forgive myself if I stayed behind and something bad happened to you."

  Hatch paused a moment to whisper Truitt's treatment instructions to the professor, then they raced out into the driving rain. In the last hour the storm had picked up dramatically, and above the howling wind and lashing trees Hatch could hear the boom of Atlantic rollers pounding the headland, so low and powerful it registered more in the gut than in the ear.

  They dashed through streaming streets full of shuttered houses, lights gleaming in the premature dark. Within a minute Hatch was drenched despite the slicker. As they neared the wharf there was an immense flash of blue light, followed immediately by a thunderous crash. In the aftermath, Hatch could hear the pop of a transformer failing at the head of the harbor. Instantly, the town was plunged into blackness.

  They made their way along the wharf, carefully stepping down the slick gangplank to the floating dock. All the dinghies had been lashed to the shaking structure. Pulling his knife from a pocket, Hatch cut the Plain Jane's dinghy loose, and with Bonterre's help slid it into the water.

  "It might swamp with two," said Hatch, stepping in. "I'll come back and pick you up."

  "You had better," Bonterre said, comic in the oversized sweater and slicker.

  Not bothering to start the dinghy's engine, Hatch ran the oars through the oarlocks and rowed out to the Plain Jane. The harbor waters were still relatively calm, but the wind had raised a steep chop. The dinghy was flung up and down, slapping the troughs with unwholesome shudders. As he rowed, his back to the sea, Hatch could see the outlines of the town, dim against the dark sky. He found his eyes drawn toward the narrow, tall structure of the rectory, a wooden finger of blackness. There was a flash of livid lightning, and in the brief glare Hatch saw, or thought he saw, Claire—dressed in a yellow skirt, one hand on the open doorframe of the house, staring out to sea toward him—before darkness descended once again.

  There was a thump as the dinghy nudged alongside his boat. Clipping it to a sternbolt, Hatch clambered aboard, primed the engine, then said a brief prayer and cranked the starter. The Plain Jane sprang to life. As he drew the anchor chain up through the hawsehole, Hatch was once again grateful to have secured such a weatherly craft.

  He goosed the engine and made a passing swipe at the dock, pleased to see Bonterre leap aboard with a seaman's agility despite the bulky clothing. She strapped on the life jacket Hatch tossed her, then tucked her hair under the sou'wester. Hatch checked the binnacle and turned his gaze seaward, toward the two light buoys midchannel and the peppercan bell buoy at the mouth of the bay.

  "When we hit the open ocean," he said, "I'm going to head diagonally into the sea at half throttle. It's going to buck like hell, so keep hold of something. Stay close by, in case I need your help with the wheel."

  "You are foolish," said Bonterre, nerves turning her good humor testy. "Do you think storms are found only off Maine? What I want to know is what this insane trip is all about."

  "I'll tell you," Hatch said, staring out to sea. "But you're not going to like it."

  Chapter 45

  Clay peered through the screaming murk, gripping the wheel with aching arms. The boat struck each towering wave with a crashing shudder, water bursting over the bows, wind tearing foam from the crests. Every wave smothered the pilothouse windows in white as the dragger tipped and began its sickening descent into the trough. For a moment there would be sudden, windless silence; then the craft would lift with, a sickening lurch and begin the cycle over again.

  Ten minutes earlier, when he'd tried the forward searchlight, he learned the boat had blown some fuses and lost most of its electrical power. The backup batteries were dead, too—he hadn't checked them, as he knew he should. But he'd been busy with other things: Earlier, without warning, the Cerberus had raised anchor and gotten underway, ignoring his horn, the vast white bulk moving inexorably into the black, lashing sea. Alone, violently tossed, he had followed it for a time, fruitlessly hailing, until it disappeared into the furious darkness.

  He looked around the cabin, trying to assess the situation. It had been a serious mistake to follow the Cerberus, he realized that now. If they had not heeded him before, they certainly would not stop to heed him now. Besides, out of the lee of Ragged Island, the ocean was literally boiling: the eastbound swell was beating against the outbound tide, creating a viciously steep cross-sea. The Loran was dead, leaving him with the compass in the binnacle as his only navigational tool. He was trying to steer by the compass, using dead reckoning. But Clay knew he was no navigator, and with no light he could read the compass only by lightning flashes. There was a flashlight in his pocket, but Clay desperately needed both hands to steer.

  Burnt Head Lig
ht was socked in, and the screaming wind and surf were so loud he'd practically have to run over the bell buoy to hear it. Clay wrapped both elbows around the wheel and leaned against it, trying desperately to think. The island was less than a half mile away. Clay knew even a superb mariner would have a difficult job bringing the boat in through the reefs to Thalassa's dock in this weather. But—even if his fierce determination to land on Ragged Island had wavered—it would have been more difficult still to cross the six miles of hell to Stormhaven.

  Twice, he thought he heard the deep-throated sound of the Cerberus's engines. But it made no sense: first it was heading east, later heading west, as if searching—or waiting—for something.

  He checked the compass in a flash of lightning, holding the wheel with weakening arms, while the boat sagged into yet another trough. He made a slight correction to his course, heading now almost directly into the sea. The boat shuddered its way into another comber and a sheer wall of black-and-gray water rose off the bows, higher and higher, and he realized that the correction was in fact a mistake. As the wave toppled back down upon the pilothouse, the entire boat was jammed downward with a wrenching twist. The tremendous force of the water popped one of the windows from its frame and seawater slammed into Clay. He had just enough time to brace against the wheel and cling with all his might against the blast.

  The boat shuddered, pressing lower and lower into the boiling sea, and just when he thought she would founder he again felt the grateful surge of buoyancy. The boat rose until the seas parted and rolled off the deck. As the boat crested and the lightning flashed, he had a brief glimpse of a heaving, storm-flecked ocean. Ahead lay a shadow of calmer water: the lee of Ragged Island.

  Clay looked up into the black sky and a few words escaped his lips: Oh Lord, if it be Thy will—and then he was fighting the sea again, turning the boat diagonally and leaning against the wheel as another surge of water came crashing through the open window. He rode the swell down, the boat shuddering as it slid into calmer water.

  Before Clay had time to draw a relieved breath, he realized that the water was calm only in comparison to the tempest that raged beyond. A heavy swell warped around the island from both sides, making a confused sea, but at least now he could turn directly toward the mooring. He pushed the throttle up a tick and listened to the responding rumble of the engine.

  The increased speed seemed to give the boat a little more stability. It ploughed ahead, plunging, surging upward, then plunging again. With the window out and the searchlight dead, he had trouble navigating in those brief moments of vision at the top of the swells. He realized, dimly, that it might be wise to throttle back, just in case the—

  There was a stunning crash as the boat bottomed itself against the reef. Clay was thrown violently forward into the wheel, breaking his nose; then he was tossed back against the far wall of the pilothouse. Surf, surging over the reef, slewed the boat sideways, then a second roller spun the boat full broadside. Clay fought his way back to the wheel, snorting blood and brine, trying to clear his head. Then a third wave slammed the boat over on its beam ends, and he was thrown free of the deck into a perfect chaos of water and wind.

  Chapter 46

  Hatch swung the nose of the Plain Jane into the channel. Behind came a rattling symphony of lines slapping masts as the boats bobbed hysterically at their moorings. The wind was cold, the sky thick with water. He took a taste: as much salt as it was fresh. He'd seen seas like this before in his childhood. But he'd never been foolhardy enough to venture out in them.

  He took one final look back at the shore, then turned to sea and throttled up. They passed the floating 5 MPH and NO WAKE signs, so thrashed by the sea that they hung sideways, as if admitting defeat.

  Bonterre came up beside him, clinging to the instrument housing with both hands.

  "Well?" she screamed in his ear.

  "Isobel, I've been a damn fool," he shouted back. "I've seen those same basic symptoms a thousand times. It was staring me right in the face. Anyone who's ever undergone radiation treatment for cancer knows what it's all about."

  "Radiation treatment?"

  "Yes. What happens to those patients? They get nauseated. They lose their energy. Their hair. White cell counts go through the floor. Among all the weird ailments I've seen this last week, every one had those points in common."

  Bonterre hesitated, eyes wide despite the blinding surf.

  "St. Michael's Sword is radioactive. Think about it. Long-term exposure to radioactivity kills your bone marrow cells, basically stops cell division. It cripples the immune system, makes you an easy mark. That's why the Thalassa crew had all those exotic diseases that kept distracting me. But the lack of cell division also stops the healing process, causes hair loss. Look at how my own hand has been so slow to heal. Severe exposure leads to osteoporosis and loss of teeth. Symptoms similar to scurvy."

  "And it might also explain the computer problems."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Stray radiation causes havoc with microelectronics." Bonterre squinted at him, rain and seawater streaming across her face. "But why go out in this murderous storm?"

  "We know the sword is radioactive. But that's all we know about it. The thing's been shut up in a lead box, and yet it's still killed everyone who's come in contact with it over the last seven hundred years. God only knows what would happen if Neidelman took it out of the casket. We can't allow that to happen."

  As the boat came out of the lee of Burnt Head, the sea slammed into the Plain Jane's hull with brutal ferocity. Hatch shut up abruptly and spun the wheel, trying to take the heading sea at a diagonal. The air around the boat was filled with pulverized water and spindrift. He checked the binnacle, corrected course, and scanned the loran.

  Bonterre gripped the rails with both hands, lowering her head against the driving rain. "But what is the sword, then?"

  "God only knows. Whatever it is, it's hot as hell. I for one don't want to—"

  He fell silent abruptly, staring ahead. A white line loomed out of the murk, towering over the top of the boat. For a moment, he wondered if it was a large ship.

  "Jesus," he muttered, distantly surprised by the matter-of-fact tone in his own voice. "Look at that."

  It was no ship. He realized, with horror, that it was the breaking top of a massive wave. "Help me hold the wheel!" he yelled.

  Leaning forward, Bonterre clapped both hands on the wheel while he worked desperately at the throttle. The boat rose along the almost vertical face while Hatch gingerly increased the throttle, trying to keep the boat aligned. As the breaking top of the comber struck, there was an explosion of white and a tremendous hollow roar; he braced himself against the mass of water and held his breath.

  The boat seemed suspended for a moment inside the wave; then it suddenly broke free and tipped over the crest with a violent corkscrew motion. He quickly eased up on the throttle and the boat sank into the following trough at a sickening speed. There was a moment of perverse, eerie calm as the boat was protected from the wind in the hollow between the waves. Then the next great face of green water, honeycombed with foam, rose up out of the dark before them.

  "It'll get even worse beyond Wreck Island," he yelled.

  Bonterre didn't bother to answer, clinging to the wheel as the boat lurched toward another crest with a jarring crash.

  Glancing at the loran screen, Hatch saw the boat was being carried southeastward by a riptide at a good four knots. He corrected course to compensate, one hand on the throttle and the other on the wheel. Bonterre helped steady the helm through the dips.

  "The professor was right," Hatch shouted. "I couldn't have done this without you."

  The spray and wind had pulled Bonterre's long hair loose from her sou'wester, and it streamed behind her in a ravishing tangle of black. Her face was flushed, whether from fear or excitement he could not tell.

  Another comber swept over the boat and he turned his eyes back to the fury.

  "How will y
ou convince Neidelman the sword is radioactive?" Bonterre hollered.

  "When Thalassa set up my office, they included all kinds of crazy equipment. Including a radiologist's Radmeter. A high-tech Geiger counter. I never even turned the damn thing on." Hatch shook his head as they began to climb another wave. "If I had, it would have gone nuts. All those sick diggers, coming in covered with radioactive dirt. It doesn't matter how much Neidelman wants the sword. He won't be able to argue with that meter."

  He could just barely hear, over the sound of the wind and his own shouting voice, the distant thudding of surf off the starboard side: Wreck Island. As they came out of the lee, the wind increased in intensity. Now, as if on cue, he could see a massive white line, far bigger than any previous wave, rising up above the Plain Jane. It loomed over their heads, water hissing along its crest. The boat fell into the silent trough and began to rise. His heart hammering in his chest, Hatch gave the boat a little more acceleration as he felt the swell begin to lift them once again.

  "Hang on!" he yelled as the top of the wave reached them. Goosing the throttle, he pointed the boat straight into the roiling mass of water. The Plain Jane was thrown violently backward into a strange twilight world where both air and sea were made of water. Then, suddenly, they were through, the propeller whining helplessly as the prow fell down the foamy backside of the wave. As they slid into another glassy trough, Hatch saw a second white line materializing out of the gloom ahead, churning and shifting like a mad thing.

  He struggled with the panic and despair that rose within him. That last hadn't been a freakish wave. It was going to be like this for the next three miles.

  He began to feel an ominous sensation at each twist of the boat: a funny vibration, a tug at the wheel. The boat felt weighty and overballasted. He peered aft through the lashing wind. The bilge pumps had been running at full capacity since they left the harbor, but the old Plain Jane had no well meter. There was no way of knowing the depth of water in the hold without checking it himself.