by Peter Ackers
17
“Tell me a little about your employer, Marcellus,” Jacky said.
“No comment, officer. Want my lawyer!” Leo replied.
They were driving towards the location of the Money Pit, Oak Island, and Leo hadn’t yet irritated any other road users.
“Seriously, Leo.”
“What like? Big guy, moustache, forty-five, awesomely rich, and probably got a big dick, too.”
“Awesomely rich, yes. But how?”
“He inherited his money. His family’s been rolling in it since forever. Not like the rest of us who have to balance on tiptoe on top of it. He doesn’t own businesses and shares and things, doesn’t believe in it. That kind of money, he always says, is just noughts and ones inside a computer memory. And computers go apeshit now and then.”
“So he likes material things? Antiques?”
“Antiques don’t really interest him. It’s just because they’re valuable, physical things. He also owns hundreds of houses, most of them being used by his staff. That’s about it. Just buildings and cars and things.”
“So that if ever one day the world’s computers ‘go apeshit’ he can sell his buildings and cars?”
“’Bout the size of it. He’s mad on security, that’s all. Hates the idea of his world crashing down around him. He sees the future as his present, if you get what I mean. When his dad died recently, it devastated him, but not because of the personal loss. They didn’t really get on. What got him was that it proved how things can go belly-up for anyone, anytime. Also, he doesn’t want the family name to die. There’s just him and his son now, and you wouldn’t believe the stuff he does for his son, just to keep him safe. Doctors watching him all the time, never lets him do anything even remotely dangerous.”
“He really loves his son, then?”
“Sure.”
“What are you to him? Close?”
Leo swung a sharp right, and got a honk for her trouble. This time, only a raised middle finger exited the sunroof. “I was his son’s tae-kwon-do teacher when he didn’t have time to do it himself. But since he stopped his son doing physical stuff that might get him hurt, I’ve just been a handywoman. But since I’m a good friend, probably the only real friend he has, I get all the best jobs. Like driving gorgeous men around.”
Jacky ignored the remark, curious about something else she’d said. “Marcellus knows tae-kwon-do?”
“Knows? That’s like asking Einstein if he knows about physics. It’s all part of his self-preservation obsession, just like his vitamin injections and the quarantine-style oxygen tents he sleeps in. Crashing computers are one danger, and so is illness. Another is people coming at him. I always say, if someone wants to have a pop at him, their best weapon is to watch him in action first.”
“He has a special weakness?”
“No, because watching him, you’ll realise it’s suicide to go up against him.” Leo laughed at her own joke. “Marcellus is big on living forever, and he’s made sure nothing and no one gets in the way of that. You know, he ain’t as bad as you think. We all have a heart somewhere. It’s just that his is well guarded, just like his wallet and his face. Ain’t no girl gonna break that heart. That’s why he got a call girl in order get himself a son, then paid her off. Sent her to Australia, to make sure she didn't tell tales to the wrong people. He tells people that his the mother died. The only thing he does that resembles a sense of humour is invent a new death for her every time someone asks. Last one I heard, he said his wife died in a skiing accident. Try it. Ask him where his son's mother is. He'll probably say she fell down a lift shaft. Haven't heard that one yet.'th for her”
“Are we there yet?” Jacky asked, hoping the previous subject would be deflected. He had heard enough about Theodore Marcellus for now. He needed to keep his head on the job at hand.
“Unrealistically soon, babe,” Leo said.
Realistically soon afterwards, the BMW turned off the main road and into the car park of a small seafront hotel connected to a marina. On the grass behind the small building was a helicopter, engine turned off but with its pilot present, who was smoking and reading a newspaper in the cabin.
“Couldn’t get you a room here, sorry. Woulda been much easier, but they were all booked up with specialists from Diaz.” Leo shrugged.
“Diaz?” Jacky said.
“The drilling company. This is the closest hotel to Oak Island. It’s always booked up. Prices have trebled over the years with the interest in Oak Island, especially since Diaz Drilling Inc came in a few weeks ago. Anyway, enough of that. Let’s take a ride.”
They exited the car. Jacky had to shield his eyes against the sunlight and the wind coming in from across the Atlantic Ocean, for it carried miniscule amounts of grit from the car park.
Leo approached the helicopter, Jacky following. She spoke to the pilot.
“Jacky, meet Danny, our pilot. I know we said we’d lease you a chopper, it’s just that the people on Oak Island at the moment won’t allow civilians to come in alone. Danny’s one of theirs. And they’ve quite kindly allowed him to be borrowed out to us. And I’m sure it’s all down to their kind nature, and nothing at all to do with the grant Marcellus gave them for continued studying of the island.”
Danny and Leo slapped a high five, laughing. “Hop in, Jacky.”
18
Oak Island
“Tiny place,” Danny shouted over his shoulder, barely heard over the roar of the helicopter’s rotors, “about five miles long and one mile wide. If not for the Money Pit, it really wouldn’t be famous at all. Only one person lives there. It’s closed to the public now, but that doesn’t hurt tourism. No sir, because there’s no shops or anything on the island anyway. In fact, because of this, the tourists have to come to the mainland for shops and hotels and things.”
Staring out the window, Jacky appeared not to be listening, but he was. He was also taking in the scenery below. Between the mainland and Oak island, roughly half a mile, there was a causeway for easier access. It was along this causeway that the latest bunch of treasure-hunters had brought their vehicles and their heavy, modern, expensive drilling equipment.
“Norse adventurers found Nova Scotia about 400 years before Columbus discovered America,” Danny continued. “French explorers set up residence here in the fifteenth century. Since then . . . “
Jacky listened to Danny’s history of Nova Scotia and Oak Island, but had ceased to take things in. He was going over his own mental notes, what knowledge he had acquired over the years. Any archaeologist/treasure hunter worth his or her weight in ancient soil knew at least something about Oak Island’s Money Pit, and since accepting this mission, Jacky had sought to expand that knowledge by reading books and Internet articles on the subject. And with all due respect, he was sure it was information of a more advanced and correct nature than that of a cocky helicopter pilot who’d picked up snippets during a four-week chauffeuring contract.
There were many versions of the tale, and Jacky wasn’t sure which to believe, so he generally accepted the original story he’d heard. A group of boys had rowed out to the island after seeing fires. One of them, Danny McGinnis, had come across a circular depression in the ground, which he had begun digging at. This was 1795; the beginning of the Money Pit mystery.
“And as to who constructed the Pit,” Danny was saying, “that’s another enigma in itself. Personally, I think it was the Knights Templar. . .”
Eight years and a few more digging attempts later, the boys had returned with professional help to excavate the pit, now 30 or so feet deep. The professional help, the Onslow Company, increased that depth to 90 feet, then it became flooded by seawater and they were forced to dig a second pit nearby with plans to connect the two deep down via a horizontal shaft. This second pit reached a depth of over a hundred feet before it too became flooded. The Onslow Company promptly gave up after over half a year’s work.
“- forget army surplus, they know those beasts are gonna be shot down, so they don
’t keep ‘em in such good nick. You want class, you want quality, you try Canadian Department of Forestry surplus fire suppression helicopters. Bell 206 Jet Ranger, best helicopter going, carries a thousand pounds of water. And she’s all mine, oh yes -”
It was 45 years before the Money Pit was next tackled, this time by the Truro Company. They adopted a different technique after their first flooding out; core drilling to ascertain the contents of the pit before excavating it. Bizarre discoveries gained by core drilling forced their efforts to turn away from excavating the Pit as they sought to understand and then combat a new twist to the tale: that the Pit’s treasures were cleverly secured by a multitude of booby traps. These security systems would foil numerous companies that came on the scent of treasure; holes would be dug all over the place, the idea being to tackle the Money Pit from the side. Some of these alternative shafts would be even deeper than the Money Pit, but the Pit itself would not be excavated any deeper until 1897, close to a hundred years since its discovery, when the Oak island Treasure Company reached 111 feet.
“I dunno why, but girls just like me. Louise blames me for that, like I’m supposed to wear a bag over my head or scar my face or something. She’s too jealous, I can’t help it if women find me -”
The Money Pit was by this time considered too unsafe to excavate any further until it was known fully just how deep the treasure was buried and what that treasure was. Numerous companies would come and they would drill deeper and deeper, making many discoveries, some of them good, some of them bad. By 1939, drilling had reached 190 feet. By 1976, it had reached 230 feet. This was achieved using Borehole 10-X, a steel tube 237 feet long driven into the ground to the northeast of the Money Pit. Four weeks ago, Diaz Drilling Inc. had gained permission to attempt the defeat the Money Pit. Two weeks ago they had begun to excavate a new pit nearby.
“And here we are,” Danny said, and Jacky snapped out of his reverie.
The helicopter had barely touched ground and Jacky was out already Jacky and jogging across the land of Oak Island towards a series of huts on a hill, eager to battle this 200 year-old enemy that had defeated all challengers so far.
19
The three people who met them halfway up the hill introduced themselves. The handsome young one was the technical expert, Alan Bates from England. The middle-aged man was project supervisor, Mike Becker from Germany, home of Diaz Drilling, Inc. The smartly dressed young woman was the company’s legal representative, Sally Beaumont from Ireland. Without being told why Beaumont was here, Jacky knew. 78% of Oak Island belonged to Triton Alliance, as well as a licence granting the company 90% of any treasures buried there. But sure as hell Diaz Drilling, Inc. weren’t here just to dig up and hand over the Money Pit’s treasures to them. The fact that Beaumont was Irish like Marcellus also hinted that she was here to protect his interests, too.
“Glad to have a fellow Brit here,” Bates said, shaking Jacky’s hand.
“Glad to be here. Where do we start?”
With an almost impatient wave of the hand, follow-me-style, Becker turned and walked back up the hill. Instantly Jacky knew this guy didn’t want him here.
“We haven’t been told much about why you’re here, Jacky,” Bates said as they all followed the tall German.
“Simply to assist. I’m an archaeologist.”
“They all are,” Becker mumbled.
“He hates everyone at first by default,” Bates whispered. Jacky smiled. “You’ll grow on him.”
They reached the top of the hill, where Jacky was finally able to see the site that had lured so many people over the last 202 years. It really didn’t look like much. In fact, apart from machinery and vehicles, he couldn’t see anything.
Sensing this, or reading the frown on Jacky’s face, Bates stepped beside him. He pointed.
“The Money Pit. It’s just a hole a few feet deep now, nothing special. The only proof it’s there is metal supports around the lip. It was filled in the sixties. Today we use two different shafts, one of which you might have heard of, Borehole 10-X, which is just over there, look. See?”
“It looks plain. Don’t get me wrong, I am used to archaeological sites. They lack the charm associated with unearthing history, but . . .”
“I don’t feel that any more. The Money Pit is the buried treasure, the chamber it’s in. Or whatever is buried there, if anything. The hole dug to reach it is just a hole.”
“Can we get inside, please?” Becker said impatiently. He was holding open the door to a hut made completely of corrugated iron that was buckled and weather-worn and seemed totally unworthy of the electronic keypad on the door handle’s lock.
They filed inside. Danny brought up the rear, and just when he was lifting his boot to step over the threshold he got a palm in front of his face, like a bus conductor saying there was no more room.
“No civilians,” Becker said.
“You’re joking, Mike,” Danny replied, shocked. They were supposed to be friends.
“No civilians, Danny. You know that.”
The door was shut on him. Jacky heard the pilot cursing, then his footsteps receding.
The hut was obviously the brain of Diaz Drilling Inc.’s Oak Island project. A large file cabinet in the corner had papers filling the drawers, which were open. Two walls were covered with photographs of Oak Island, most of them aerial views, all of them marked in red felt-tipped pen. A third wall was plastered with charts and graphs and more photos, these taken from inside the Money Pit and various other shafts. The fourth wall was covered with a giant pin board, upon which were hundreds of little notes and more photos, most of these pictures of various items found inside the Money Pit and at various other locations on the island.
Bates went to this wall as the others seated themselves in plastic chairs, all of which were facing that wall. He reached up and drew down a projection screen. That was when Jacky noticed the ceiling-mounted projector.
“Is this show going to be just for little ol’ me?” he said.
“It certainly is,” Bates replied.
“Get on with it. Waste of our time,” Becker mumbled. He moved his chair over to a desk and started writing in a pad.
Bates moved to a wall and killed the lights. Using a remote control, he switched on the projector.
“Since he got his dad’s diary, Marcellus has been monitoring everything and anything about this place,” Leo whispered into Jacky’s ear. “I understand that a piece of jewellery you found in France was connected to Nova Scotia. That’ll be how he found you.”
“I did wonder,” Jacky whispered back.
“Any e-mails or anything else, phone calls, anything that can be snatched out of space. Cost him a lot of money to get that aid from the governments of the world, but it worked.”
“And his part in Diaz’s presence here?”
“Eavesdropped on an e-mail. Since the bosses at Triton Alliance fell out and started a court battle against each other, they’ve gone cold on the digging front. Dan Blakenship of Triton still lives here, the only guy who does, but he’s away on a holiday paid for by us. Plenty of other companies have tried to muscle in. Diaz was one of them. Charles Diaz has long wanted to try digging here but never really got round to it. Marcellus helped. Marcellus offered to finance this project and to smooth things over with Triton, who basically needed the money he offered. Now, Marcellus told these people you were coming, but they don’t know the truth. To them, you’re a top-class archaeologist here to advise. You’re scientific support, basically.”
“And you?”
“Just a pretty face. But one Marcellus insisted is present at all times, no questions.”
“You’re here to keep an eye on things, right? I’ll bet as soon as some breakthrough is made, this project will suddenly be terminated. But why not send his own crew?”
“They might wonder at his interest. This way, he’s just a guy helping out. And yes, as soon as I report there’s been a breakthrough, Marcellus will pick up the
phone and his men will swoop in and kick Diaz Drilling out the country.”
“Nice.”
During this exchange, Bates had prepared everything, and now he was stood by the projection screen with a wooden pointer, ready to go.
“Ready, Jacky?”
“Only missing the popcorn,” Jacky answered.
The projector whirred. Slides were displayed; each was jabbed with the pointer and Bates’ voice explained facts. First, a little geography of Oak Island. Here was Smuggler’s Cove, also known as Smith’s Cove; the swamp in the centre of the island; and of course the Money Pit. Next, Smuggler’s Cove in close-up. The pointer jabbed at the map.
“1803. McGinnis and the Onslow Company dig to 90 odd feet in the Money Pit, and there they lift up a wooden platform. After that, water seeps into the pit, quickly filling it to sea level, making the Pit in effect only 33 feet deep. Can’t pump it out, so they quickly realise the water is coming from the sea. I mean, where else? Next year, dig another pit and try to then tunnel across to the Money Pit. Fills with water again. Pit abandoned. 46 years later, 1850, the Truro Company discover five channels cut into the land below this beach at Smuggler’s Cove. Only visible during low tide. Lined with rocks, covered with eelgrass and coconut fibre to create a kind of filter that stops debris clogging them. These channels meet at a bigger channel deeper inside the island. This larger channel slops downwards slightly, meeting the Money Pit, some 500 feet away, at a depth of about 100 feet. Effect? This ingenious trap would flood any hole dug into it, which included the Money Pit. Here, the remains of the cofferdam the Truro Company tried to build to block the water; here, remains of an older dam found when they were building it, proving someone earlier had made the same discovery and the same analysis.”
More slides. Jacky watched. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Leo playing with the calculator on her watch.
“The next idea was to intercept this flood channel by digging a new hole. It didn’t work. The Oak Island Association missed the flood channel and gave up. When they next tried to tunnel over to the Money Pit from a new shaft, both filled with water. Then came the Oak Island Treasure Company. They worked on a second pit, called the Cave-in Pit, which they thought might have been a vent shaft designed by the Money Pit’s creators. This flooded at 55 feet. They then tried to dynamite the flood channel, hoping to block it that way. No such luck.”
“Hey, get this!” Leo whispered, pleased at something. “If you fill the screen with eight ones and times it by one, it counts up to eight and back down to one. Same with nine ones and ten ones. Or four, or five. Wow! Cool!”
Jacky smirked. Such a kid.
“1899 and a second flood channel is found. Oh yippee. It surely meant that the first was not a fluke, not a natural occurrence, although the design of it kind of proved that anyway. Second channel at South Shore Cove. Lots more holes, lots more failures.”
“I’ve been alive for roughly 489,600 hours,” Leo said. “Cool.”
Jacky quickly did the maths, an approximation. “28, eh? So was I last year.”
More slides go past. “1965 rolls around and Bob Dunfield builds the causeway connecting Oaky to Novy and brings in bulldozers and a big crane to try to block off the water, while trying to dig into and block off the South Shore flood channel. And to dig a whopping hole which might have destroyed buried treasure. He discovers a shaft that has been refilled, one not previously known about. Refilled by the designers, maybe? At first thought 45 feet deep, later it is deepened to 90 by Daniel Blakenship, who set up Triton Alliance, who we have to thank for Borehole 10-X. During digging of this shaft, they find cavities. Now, limestone is known for producing holes underground, but these cavities were artificial.”
Leo thrust her watch into Jacky’s face, blocking his view of the projection screen. It was upside down, the dial illuminated. She had typed in the numbers 07734; read upside-down, and in that particular font, they spelled the word HELLO.
“Hello you, too,” Jacky whispered.
“1997 and the former owners, Triton Alliance, sell up to the Canadian Government. And in comes Diaz Drilling Inc. to fix up Borehole 10-X, extend it, and hunt treasure.”
No one had noticed Becker rise from his seat and cross the room. As soon as Bates was done talking, Becker snapped on the light, which stung everyone’s eyes, and hauled open the door.
“I have calls to make. Why don’t you show him around?” He meant Bates and Jacky, Bates and Jacky realised.
“Sure thing,” Bates said.
Jacky told Bates to wait a minute and went after Backer. He caught the German striding away down the hill. Called his name, and was up close and personal by the time Becker had turned to face him. Their faces were inches away.
"I don't want grief from you, Becker. Are you the school bully, asserting himself from day one? We're here for the same job, and I'm not even getting paid."
"I've heard of you, Adam Jackson. I've heard about some of the archaeological finds you've made and the way you sometimes risk your life to do it. If it weren't for your embarrassing social actions, I'd probably shake your hand. But you're like the Sid Vicious of the archaeological world. And I'm not going to shake your hand because I think you'll eventually bring the wrong kind of media attention to this island. So do your unpaid job and don't hinder mine."
Becker turned and left, and Jacky was left standing there. He'd planned to put Becker in his place with a few barbed sentences, but it was Jacky who felt like a reprimanded child. And gutted. Sid Vicious of the archaeological world? He'd always imagined himself more of a Jim Morrison.
20
Becker remained in the hut, making calls. Beaumont went off to another hut to read files. Leo went off for a walk and to make a cell phone call to Marcellus, who would be requiring an update. That left Jacky and Bates alone to walk around the area that had seen so much activity over the last two hundred years. Back then it had been a lush land of oak trees, but now it was a life-barren landscape filled with machines and the holes those machines and others had dug. Fencing and signposts littered the area, as if this were some prize exhibit in a museum. Apart from the museum part, it was.
They walked to the Money Pit. A small hole, not even fifteen feet wide, in the side of a tiny hill. Strangely, the most heavily fenced-off area wasn't the actual site of the Money Pit. It actually contained the Heddon shaft, named after its excavator. The real Money Pit was to its right and didn’t have half its decoration. Perhaps, Jacky thought, this was to fool anyone who might come to destroy the shaft as a publicity stunt.
Jacky tried to imagine a 200+ foot shaft inside that hole; tried to picture a treasure being lowered into it by the Knights Templar, or thieving pirates, or men hired by Francis Bacon, then remembered Marcellus’ story and snapped out of it. A hoax; a decoy no less.
Bates was talking. “Right here stood the tree that intrigued Danny McGinnis to dig here. A branch overhung the depression, a branch with rubbing marks on it, as if made by a pulley system used for lowering and raising from the Pit. Two hundred odd years ago a group of highly skilled people came to this island carrying treasure. They spent what would have been weeks digging a pit, then hid their riches in the bottom and covered over it, laying a series of platforms and sealants. Then they built a flood channel to foil anyone hunting the treasure. Then they carefully cleared away their tools, just as carefully as they had worked, for they left no trampled land, no clue at all, all of it designed to give the impression that nothing had happened here. Then they somehow cleared out as secretly as they had come and worked. This island was not undiscovered back then, it was actually split into plots, this one called Lot 18. A masterful plan, executed with perfection, a treasure hidden from the world. But why bury it over 200 feet deep? Why leave a stone 90 feet deep with an inscription claiming two million pounds was buried below? Why put an oak platform ten feet deep, when this would surely make someone think something was below? Why build flood tunnels that would stop them getting their treasure
back? Why go to so much trouble to hide it, yet leave a depression that looks as if digging has gone on, and a mark on a tree branch that even nosey kids would be curious at?
Jacky looked at him. “Are you a sceptic?”
“I’m a scientist, not a treasure hunter. They see fantasy, I see fact. We have books and files for you to read. Read them, and then we’ll see what you think?”
“You don’t even think just a hoax then? You think there’s nothing here?”
“The hoax may have been the original wooden platform at 10 feet. But I would have left a better clue, and not dug so deep. No, I think three boys started digging because they thought there might be treasure, and their minds played on it, and when they came back as men, their adult brains believed the story their kid minds had created. It grew from there. You’ve surely heard all the theories. Everything from the Incas to the Vikings. Each explorer who comes here believes one or the other or invents a new one. Currently there’s Mike Becker. He’s opted for the Francis Bacon one.”
“What’s that?” Jacky knew already, but wanted a fresh voice to tell it
“That Shakespeare’s plays were actually written by Francis Bacon. He buried them here to stop people finding this out. I mean, how daft? But say that to Becker, and all he says in return is some crap about how the original manuscripts were never found. I mean, if that’s how it works, we’ll soon have people here looking for Shergar.
“Read the files. Read my own analysis of the soil of this island, the limestone bedrock, and the sea. Then we’ll see what you think. Now, come on, let’s go meet the lads; they’re due to start the next phase soon.”
As Jacky followed him away from the Money Pit, back towards the huts, he thought Bates might just have a point. But then what did that say about Marcellus?
21
Borehole 10-X was situated 180 feet north of the Money Pit. 60 feet east of Borehole 10-X was a new shaft, simply called Lucy. Charles Diaz had named it after his daughter’s newborn baby, just a week old now. He didn’t know that it was a joke amongst the workmen, who delighted in the quips like, “Going into Lucy’s hole today” every chance they got.
Lucy had been excavated directly above one of the artificial cavities discovered away from the Money Pit. These days, Borehole 10-X was unstable, becoming increasingly so, and leaks had been discovered recently, seawater seeping in, a scary thought for the men who went down the 230 foot shaft. A decision was made not to tunnel into the cavity from the bottom of Borehole 10-X and instead to concentrate on obtaining it via a new shaft. Hence Lucy’s birth.
Jacky, Bates, Becker and Leo were by Lucy’s side now, watching the men work. There were about fifteen of them, all highly skilled drillers, yes, but not a one of them with knowledge of archaeology. That was left to the resident bone digger, Dr. Abraham Ritch, another German and possibly the only man who got on well with and was respected by Becker.
The drill they were all fussing over was a customised CP-50 Skid Mounted Core Drill. Powered by a Duetz BF6M-1013DX engine, it towered almost 15 feet above Lucy, penetrating her to a current depth of 133 feet, at 1250 rpm, and she bore its 65,000 lbs of weight well, without a groan.
Three men were grouped around a monitor, pointing at something.
“The cavity seems to be empty,” Bates said to Jacky. He was studying the feed from a camera deep in the earth, but the quality was poor.“But it may be flooded. It seems wooden-based at the top and bottom, but the sides are free. Easier to come in from the side, because the roof would hold. That’s the problem doing it this way. If the roof is drilled through any wider, it may collapse and fill the cavity. I’m not a big fan of this idea.”
“You’re technical adviser,” Jacky said. “Say something.”
Bates didn't look happy about this idea. Jacky suspected it was Bates' fear of Becker. “Angled tunnelling isn’t something Diaz drilling can do. They don’t have the equipment. They could do it laterally from the bottom of Borehole 10-X, but she’s on her last legs. That’s why Triton gave up on her.”
“And you say this is a fresh shaft, not one that was dug and filled in?”
“That’s right. Most likely, the wooden floor and roof are naturally deposited. See, that’s something else people haven’t thought about. All these artefacts that have been found, they’ve all been assumed as property belonging to the designers of the pit. We have coins, tools, all sorts of stuff. But it could just be debris from previous attempts to dig up the treasure. Things gets dropped all the time. Hell, I lost my watch here yesterday. Will that turn up in fifty years’ time?"
Jacky looked around. At the machinery, at the men. It suddenly annoyed him that nothing seemed to move quickly. He wanted things to happen. He wanted to go make them happen. But he tried to calm himself and focussed again on what Bates was saying.
“The soil deep in this island isn’t solid. Natural cavities occur in the limestone, and hydrostatic pressure from the sea can force water into them, force them to collapse, which in turn might force open other holes - after all, the soil that fills one hole must come from somewhere else. It can happen miles inland, and the Money Pit is only 500 feet from the sea. So perhaps debris from other excavations has been swirling and moving about down there. The wood could just be coincidentally placed after a shift, that’s all. Hell, perhaps whatever treasure there might have been has also been shifting about. It could be a hundred feet that way, or this way.”
“Could be,” Jacky mused. He recalled what Bates had said earlier, about hunting fact, not fantasy. Jacky too was logical, not a dreamer; however, he was also, like most who came here, a treasure hunter, and therefore often liked to dream. He just didn’t want to believe such a fable as the Money Pit was just that: a fable.
“Christ!” came a sudden shout from one of the men before the monitor. Then came equally upset sounds from the massive drill, which promptly began to shiver. Something was wrong. Men quickly moved about and it was shut down. Becker rushed over to them, shouting, demanding to know what was wrong. Jacky and Bates approached.
“Cheap piece of shit!” Becker exploded, storming off.
“What is it?” Bates asked one of the men.
“Camera dropped out. Drilled right through flex. Caused a short.”
Bates turned to Jacky; they moved away, letting the men work.
“There’s a hollow shaft through the centre of the bit for feeding wires. This morning we encountered a small hole so we dropped the camera down, out through the jaws so it could move around. Nothing special down there. They’ve just continued drilling, but the head of the bit was left open. Three jaws that should have been closed must have been open slightly, and the camera must have fallen ahead of the bit, probably because it hit another hole, and now the drill has gone right into it.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means the show is over for today.”
