Douglas Preston - Riptide

Hatch opened his mouth, then shut it again with a shake of his head.

"What?" Neidelman said, an amused smile on his face, his pale eyes glittering gold in the rising sun.

"I don't know. Things are moving so fast, that's all."

Neidelman drew a deep breath and looked around at the workings spread across the island. "You said it yourself," he replied after a moment. "We don't have much time."

They stood for a moment in silence.

"We'd better get back," Neidelman said at last. "I've asked the Naiad to come pick you up. You'll be able to watch the dye test from its deck." The two men turned and headed back toward Base Camp.

"You've assembled a good crew," Hatch said, glancing down at the figures below them on the supply dock, moving in ordered precision.

"Yes," Neidelman murmured. "Eccentric, difficult at times, but all good people. I don't surround myself with yes-men—it's too dangerous in this business."

"That fellow Wopner is certainly a strange one. Reminds me of an obnoxious thirteen-year-old. Or some surgeons I've known. Is he really as good as he thinks he is?"

Neidelman smiled. "Remember that scandal in 1992, when every retiree in a certain Brooklyn zip code got two extra zeros added to the end of their social security checks?"

"Vaguely."

"That was Kerry. Did three years in Allenwood as a result. But he's kind of sensitive about it, so avoid any jailbird jokes."

Hatch whistled. "Jesus."

"And he's as good a cryptanalyst as he is a hacker. If it wasn't for those on-line role-playing games he refuses to abandon, he'd be a perfect worker. Don't let his personality throw you. He's a good man."

They were approaching Base Camp, and as if on cue Hatch could hear Wopner's querulous voice floating out of Island One. "You woke me up because you had a feeling? I ran that program a hundred times on Scylla and it was perfect. Perfect. A simple program for simple people. All it does is run those stupid pumps."

Magnusen's answer was lost in the rumble of the Naiad 's engine as it slid into the slip at the end of the dock. Hatch ran to get his medical kit, then jumped aboard the powerful twin-engine outboard. Beyond lay its sister, the Grampus, waiting to pick up Neidelman and assume its position on the far side of the island.

Hatch was sorry to see Streeter at the helm of the Naiad, expressionless and severe as a granite bust. He nodded and flashed what he hoped was a friendly smile, getting a curt nod in return. Hatch wondered briefly if he had made an enemy, then dismissed the thought. Streeter seemed like a professional; that was what counted. If he was still sore about what happened during the emergency, it was his problem.

Forward, in the half-cabin, two divers were checking their gear. The dye would not stay on the surface for long, and they'd have to act quickly to find the underwater flood tunnel. The geologist, Rankin, was standing beside Streeter. On seeing Hatch he grinned and strode over, crushing Hatch's hand in a great hairy paw.

"Hey, Dr. Hatch!" he said, white teeth flashing through an enormous beard, his long brown hair plaited behind. "Man, this is one fascinating island you've got."

Hatch had already heard several variants of this remark from other Thalassa employees. "Well, I guess that's why we're all here," he answered with a smile.

"No, no. I mean geologically."

"Really? I always thought it was like the others, just a big granite rock in the ocean."

Rankin dug into a pocket of his rain vest and pulled out what looked like a handful of granola. "Hell, no." He munched. "Granite? It's biotite schist, highly metamorphosed, checked, and faulted to an incredible degree. And with a drumlin on top. Wild, man, just wild."

"Drumlin?"

"A really weird kind of glacial hill, pointed at one side and tapered at the other. No one knows how they form, but if I didn't know better I'd say—"

"Divers, get ready," came Neidelman's voice over the radio. "All stations, check in, by the numbers."

"Monitoring station, roger," squawked the voice of Magnusen.

"Computer station, roger," said Wopner, sounding bored and annoyed even over the radio.

"Spotter alpha, roger."

"Spotter beta, roger."

"Spotter gamma, roger."

"Naiad, roger," Streeter spoke into the radio.

"Grampus affirms," came Neidelman's voice. "Proceed to position."

As the Naiad picked up speed beneath him, Hatch checked his watch: 8:20. The tide would turn shortly. As he stowed his medical kit, the two divers came out of the cabin, laughing at some private joke. One was a man, tall and slender, with a black mustache. He wore a wetsuit of thin neoprene so tight it left no anatomical feature to the imagination.

The other, a woman, turned and saw Hatch. A playful smile appeared on her lips. "Ah! You are the mysterious doctor?"

"I didn't know I was mysterious," said Hatch.

"But this is the dreaded Island of Dr. Hatch, non ?" she said pointing, with a peal of laughter. "I hope you will not be hurt if I avoid your services."

"I hope you avoid them too," said Hatch, trying to think of something less inane to say. Drops of water glistened on her olive skin, and her hazel eyes sparkled with little flecks of gold. She couldn't be more than twenty-five, Hatch decided. Her accent was exotic—French, with a touch of the islands thrown in.

"I am Isobel Bonterre," she said, pulling off her neoprene glove and holding out her hand. Hatch took it. It was cool and wet.

"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.