Douglas Preston - Riptide

Hatch looked seaward. For a pregnant moment, all seemed still. Then an enormous geyser ripped out of the ocean, shot from within by orange light. A second later, the shock wave shivered the windows of the observation deck. The sound rumbled across the water, and thirty seconds later a faint answering rumble echoed back from the mainland. The geyser ascended in a strange kind of slow motion, followed by a haze of pulverized rock, mud, and seaweed. As it began falling back in a dirty plume, steep-walled waves spread out across the ocean, beating against the chop. Naiad, the nearer of the two boats, rocked crazily in the sudden swell.

"Fire two," Neidelman said, and a second explosion ripped the underwater reef a hundred yards from the first. One by one, he detonated the underwater explosives, until it seemed to Hatch that the entire southern coast of Ragged Island had been caught in a lashing waterstorm. Too bad it's not Sunday, he thought. We'd have done Clay a favor, waking all those people asleep at his sermon.

There was a brief pause while the water settled and dive teams examined the results. After receiving word that all five tunnel entrances were sealed, Neidelman turned to Magnusen. "Set the outflow valves on the pumps," he said. "Maintain a 20,000 GPM rate of flow out of the pit. Streeter, have your team stand by."

Radio in hand, he turned toward the group assembled in the tower.

"Let's drain the Water Pit," he said.

There was a roar on the southern shore as the pump engines came to life. Almost simultaneously, Hatch heard a great, reluctant throbbing from the Pit as water was sucked up from its depths. Looking down, he could see the thick hose stiffening as the water began its journey out of the Pit, across the island, and back to the ocean. Rankin and Bonterre were glued to the depth display, while Magnusen was monitoring the pump subsystem. The tower began to vibrate slightly.

A few minutes passed.

"Water level down five feet," Magnusen said.

Neidelman leaned toward Hatch. "Tidal displacement here is eight feet," he said. "Water never drops lower than eight feet in the Pit, even at the lowest low tide. Once we reach ten feet, we'll know we've won."

There was an endless, tense moment. Then Magnusen lifted her face from a dial.

"Water level down ten feet," she said matter-of-factly.

The team looked at each other. Then, suddenly, Neidelman broke into a broad grin.

In an instant, Orthanc's observation tower became a place of happy bedlam. Bonterre whistled loudly and jumped into the arms of a surprised Rankin. The technicians slapped each other's backs enthusiastically. Even Magnusen's lips twisted into what might have been a smile before she returned her gaze to the monitor. Amid the clapping and cheering, someone produced a bottle of Veuve Cliquot and some plastic champagne glasses.

"We did it, by God," Neidelman said, shaking hands around the room. "We're draining the Water Pit!" He reached for the champagne, tore off the foil, and popped the cork.

"This place got its name for a reason," he said, pouring glasses. Hatch thought he could detect an emotional tremor in the Captain's voice. "For two hundred years, the enemy has been the water. Until the Water Pit could be drained, there could be no recovery of the treasure. But my friends, as of tomorrow, this place will need a different name. My thanks and congratulations to you all." He raised his glass. Faint cheers resounded across the island.

"Water level down fifteen feet," Magnusen said.

Holding his champagne in one hand, Hatch walked toward the center of the room and looked down into the glass. It was unsettling, looking into the mouth of the Pit. Streeter's team was standing beside the enormous hose, monitoring the flow. As the water was pumped out at a rate of 20,000 GPM—one swimming pool's worth of water every two minutes—Hatch thought he could actually see the surface level dropping. It crept down the seaweed-covered beams, exposing, millimeter by millimeter, the barnacle- and kelp-encrusted walls. Perversely, he found himself struggling with a strange feeling of regret. It seemed anticlimactic, almost unfair, that they should accomplish in less than two weeks what two hundred years of pain, suffering, and death had been unable to achieve.

Neidelman was at the radio. "This is the Captain speaking." His voice echoed across the island and out over the dark water. "I am hereby exercising my right as acting commander of this venture. All nonessential personnel may have the afternoon off."

Another cheer went up, general across the island. Hatch glanced over at Magnusen, wondering what she was studying so intently.

"Captain?" Rankin said, staring at his own screen once again. Seeing his expression, Bonterre moved toward him, pressing her own face close to the monitor.

"Captain?" Rankin said in a louder tone.

Neidelman, in the midst of pouring more champagne, turned toward the geologist.

Rankin gestured toward the screen. "The water's no longer dropping."

There was a silence as all eyes turned to the glass floor.

A faint but continuous hissing began to rise from the Pit. The dark surface of the water swirled as bubbles came streaming out of the black depths.

Neidelman stepped away from the glass window. "Increase the pump rate to thirty," he said in a quiet voice.

"Yes, sir," Magnusen said. The roar from the southern end of the island grew stronger.

Without a word, Hatch joined Rankin and Bonterre at the geologist's screen. The blue band of water had dropped midway between the ten- and the twenty-foot marks. As they watched, the band wavered on the screen, then began creeping slowly, inexorably upward.

"The water's back to fifteen feet," Magnusen said.

"How can that be?" Hatch asked. "The flood tunnels have all been sealed. No water can get into the Pit."

Neidelman spoke into the radio. "Streeter, what's redline on those pumps?"

"Forty thousand is the rating, sir," came the response.

"I didn't ask what they were rated to. I asked where the redline was."

"Fifty thousand. But Captain—"

He turned to Magnusen. "Do it."

Outside, the roar of the pump engines became almost deafening, and the tower shook violently from their effort. Nobody spoke as all eyes were locked on the monitors. As Hatch watched, the blue line steadied once again, and wavered, almost seeming to drop a bit. He exhaled gradually, realizing he had been holding his breath.

"Grande merde du noir," Bonterre whispered. In disbelief, Hatch saw the level in the Pit begin to rise again.

"We're back at ten feet," Magnusen said implacably.

"Give me sixty on the pumps," Neidelman said.

"Sir!" the voice of Streeter crackled over the radio. "We can't push the—"

"Do it!" Neidelman barked at Magnusen, his voice hard, his lips compressed into narrow white lines. The engineer resolutely turned the dials.

Once again, Hatch found himself drawn to the observation port. Below, he could see Streeter's team, bolting additional metal straps around the pump hose, which was twitching and thrashing like a live thing. Hatch tensed, aware that if the hose burst, the water pressure at sixty thousand gallons per minute could cut a person in two.

The roar of the pumps had become a howl, a bansheelike cry that seemed to fill his head with its pressure. He could feel the island shuddering under his feet. Small bits of dirt shook free from the mouth of the Pit and dropped into the dark roiling water below. The green line wavered, but did not sink.

"Captain!" Streeter cried again. "The forward seal is beginning to fail!"

Neidelman stood motionless, staring into the Pit as if transfixed.

"Captain!" the voice of Streeter cried over the radio, struggling above the noise. "If the hose blows, it could take out Orthanc!"