Douglas Preston - Riptide

"Now here is another mystery," said Bonterre. "In the seventeenth century, sailors never buried people with their clothes on. Because on board ship, tu sais, clothes were extremely valuable. But if you did bury them clothed, you would at least search them, non? That packet of gold in the boot was worth a fortune to anyone, even a pirate. And then, why did they leave all these other things behind? Pistols, cutlasses, cannon, spikes—these were the heart's blood of a pirate. And a backstaff, the very means of finding your way home? None would leave such things behind willingly."

At that moment St. John appeared. "Some more bones are appearing, Isobel," he said, touching her elbow lightly.

"More? In a different grid? Christophe, how exciting!"

Hatch followed them back to the site. The workers had cleared the second grid down to bone, and were now feverishly working on a third. As Hatch looked down at the new excavation, his excitement gave way to unease. Three more skulls were exposed in the second grid, along with a careless riot of other bones. Turning, he watched the workers in the third grid brush the damp dirt away with bristled brushes. He saw the cranium of one skull appear; and then another. They continued to work, the virgin soil yielding up brown: a long bone, then the talus and calcaneus of a heel, pointing skyward as if the corpse had been placed in the earth facedown.

"Teeth gripping the ground soil," Hatch murmured.

"What?" St. John started.

"Nothing. A line from the Iliad."

No one buried their dead facedown, at least not respectfully. A mass grave, Hatch thought. The bodies thrown in willy-nilly. It reminded him of something he had once been called to examine in Central America, peasant victims of a military death squad.

Even Bonterre had fallen silent, her high spirits fading fast. "What could have happened here?" she asked, looking around.

"I don't know," Hatch said, a strange, cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"There do not appear to be signs of violence on the bones."

"Violence sometimes leaves only subtle traces," Hatch replied. "Or they might have died of disease or starvation. A forensic examination would help." He looked back over the grisly sight. Masses of brown bones were now coming to light, the skeletons stacked three deep in places, sprawled across each other, their tattered bits of rotten leather darkening in the light rain.

"Could you do such an examination?" Bonterre asked.

Hatch stood at the edge of the grave, not answering for a moment. It was nearing the close of day and the light was fading. In the rain, mist, and growing twilight, against the mournful sound of the distant surf, everything seemed to turn gray and lifeless, as if the vitality itself was being sucked out of the landscape.

"Yes," he said after a moment.

There was another long silence.

"What could have happened here?" Bonterre repeated to herself, in a whisper.

Chapter 26

At dawn the next morning, the senior crew gathered in the pilothouse of the Griffin. The atmosphere was far different than the subdued, demoralized atmosphere Hatch remembered after Ken Fields accident. Today there was electricity in the air, a kind of pregnant expectation. At one end of the table, Bonterre was talking to Streeter about transporting the excavation findings to the storage facility, while the team leader listened silently. At the other end, a remarkably disheveled and unkempt-looking Wopner was whispering animatedly to St. John, punctuating his sentences with wild hand gestures. As usual, Neidelman was not to be seen, remaining in his private quarters until all had assembled. Hatch helped himself to a cup of hot coffee and a massive, greasy donut, then settled into a chair next to Rankin.

The door to the cabin opened and Neidelman emerged. As he came up the steps, Hatch could tell instantly that the Captain's mood matched that of the rest of the pilothouse. He motioned Hatch to the door of the cabin.

"I want you to have this, Malin," he said in a low tone, pressing something heavy into Hatch's hand. With surprise, Hatch recognized the massive gold doubloon Bonterre had uncovered the day before. He looked at the Captain, mutely questioning.

"It's not much," Neidelman said with a slight smile. "The smallest fraction of your eventual share. But it's the first fruit of our labors. I wanted you to have it as a token of our thanks. For making such a difficult choice."

Hatch mumbled his thanks as he slipped the coin into his pocket, feeling unaccountably awkward as he walked back up the steps and took a seat at the table. Somehow, he felt an aversion to taking the doubloon off the island, as if it would be bad luck to do so before the rest of the treasure had been found. Am I growing superstitious, too? he wondered half-seriously, making a mental note to lock the coin up in the medical hut.

Neidelman strode to the head of the table and contemplated his crew, emanating a remarkable nervous energy. Neidelman looked impeccable: showered, shaved, dressed in pressed khakis, the skin tight and clean across his bones. His gray eyes looked almost white in the warm light of the cabin.

"I believe there's a lot to report this morning," he said, glancing around the table. "Dr. Magnusen, let's start with you."

"The pumps are primed and ready, Captain," the engineer replied. "We've set up additional sensors in some secondary shafts, as well as inside the cofferdam to monitor water depth during draining."

Neidelman nodded, his sharp, eager eyes moving down the table. "Mr. Streeter?"

"The cofferdam's complete. All tests for stability and structural integrity are positive. The grappling hook's in place, and the excavating team is standing by on the Cerberus, awaiting instructions."

"Excellent." Neidelman looked toward the historian and the programmer. "Gentlemen, I believe you have news of a rather different nature."

"Indeed we have," St. John began. "As—"

"Let me handle this, Chris baby," Wopner said. "We've cracked the second code."

There was an audible intake of breath around the table. Hatch sat forward, his grip on the armrests tightening involuntarily.

"What does it say?" Bonterre blurted out.

Wopner held up his hands. "I said we'd cracked it. I didn't say we'd deciphered it. We've found some repeating letter sequences, we've set up an electronic contact sheet, and we've deciphered enough words that match the first half of the journal to know we're on track."

"That is all?" Bonterre slumped back in her chair.

"Whaddya mean, that's all?" Wopner looked incredulous. "That's the whole ball of wax! We know what kind of code it is: a polyalphabetic, using somewhere between five and fifteen cipher alphabets. Once we know the exact number, it's just a question of letting the computer do its thing. Using 'probable word' analysis, we should know that in a matter of hours."

"A polyalphabetic cipher," Hatch repeated. "That was Christopher's theory all along, wasn't it?" This elicited a grateful look from St. John and a dark glare from Wopner.

Neidelman nodded. "And the programs for the ladder array?"

"I've tested the simulation on the Cerberus computer," Wopner said, flinging back a lock of limp hair. "Smooth as butter. Of course, the thing isn't in the Pit yet," he added significantly.

"Very well." Neidelman stood and moved to the arc of window, then turned to face the group. "I don't think there's much I need add. Everything is ready. At ten hundred hours, we will start the pumps and begin draining the Water Pit. Mr. Streeter, I want you to keep a close watch on the cofferdam. Alert us at the first sign of any problem. Keep Naiad and Grampus nearby, just in case. Mr. Wopner, you'll be monitoring the situation from Island One, running final tests on the ladder array. Dr. Magnusen will direct the overall pumping process from Orthanc."