Douglas Preston - Riptide

"Well," said Hatch, "it's a typical outer island, no trees to speak of, covered with sawgrass, chokecherries, burdock, and tea roses."

"Ah. Chokecherry pie—delicious. And have you ever experienced the pleasure of rose hip tea?"

"Of course," said Malin. "My mother drank lots of rose hip tea—for her health, she said. Hated the stuff myself."

Professor Horn coughed into his hand, a gesture that Hatch remembered as one of disapproval. "What?" he asked defensively.

"Chokecherries and rose hips," the professor said, "were a staple part of the diet along this coast in centuries past. Both are very good for you, extremely high in vitamin C."

There was a silence. "Oh," said Hatch. "I see what you're getting at."

"Seventeenth-century sailors may not have known what caused scurvy, but they did know that almost any fresh berries, fruits, roots, or vegetables cured it." The professor looked searchingly at Hatch. "And there's another problem with our hasty diagnosis."

"What's that?"

"It's the way those bodies were buried." The old man rapped his cane on the floor for emphasis. "Malin, scurvy doesn't make you toss fourscore people into a common grave and skedaddle in such a hurry that you leave gold and emeralds behind."

There was a distant flash, then a roll of thunder far to the south. "But what would?" Hatch asked.

Dr. Horn's only answer was an affectionate pat on the shoulder. Then he turned, limped down the steps, and hobbled away, the faint tapping of his cane sounding long after his form had disappeared into the warm enveloping darkness of Ocean Lane.

Chapter 28

Early the next morning, Hatch entered Island One to find the small command-and-control center jammed with an unusually large gathering. Bonterre, Kerry Wopner, and St. John were all talking at once. Only Magnusen and Captain Neidelman were silent: Magnusen quietly running diagnostics, and Neidelman standing in the center, lighting his pipe, calm as the eye of a hurricane.

"Are you nuts or something?" Wopner was saying. "I should be back on the Cerberus, decrypting that journal, not frigging spelunking. I'm a programmer, not a sewer worker."

"There's no other choice," Neidelman said, taking his pipe from his mouth and looking at Wopner. "You saw the numbers."

"Yeah, yeah. What did you expect? Nothing works right on this damn island."

"Did I miss something?" Hatch said, coming forward.

"Ah. Good morning, Malin," Neidelman said, giving him a brief smile. "Nothing major. We've had a few problems with the electronics on the ladder array."

"A few," Wopner scoffed.

"The upshot is that we'll have to take Kerry along with us this morning on our exploration of the Pit."

"The hell with that!" Wopner said petulantly. "I keep telling you, the last domino has fallen. That code is mine, believe you me. Scylla'll have the bad boy fully deciphered in a couple of hours."

"If the last domino has fallen, then Christopher here can do the monitoring," Neidelman said, a little more sharply.

"That's correct," St. John replied, his chest swelling slightly. "It's just a question of taking the output and making some character substitutions."

Wopner looked from one to the other, his lower lip projecting in an exaggerated pout.

"It's a simple matter of where you're most needed," Neidelman said. "And you're most needed on our team." He turned to Hatch. "It's imperative that we get these piezoelectric sensors in place throughout the Pit. Once they're linked to the computer network, they'll serve as an early warning system in case of structural failure anywhere underground. But so far, Kerry's been unsuccessful at calibrating the sensors remotely from Island One." He glanced at Wopner. "With the network acting flaky, that means he's going to have to come along with us and calibrate them manually, using a palmtop computer. Then he can download the information into the computer's registry. It's a nuisance, but there's nothing else for it."

"A nuisance?" Wopner said. "A major pain in the ass is more like it."

"Most of the crew would give half their shares to be along on the first penetration," St. John said.

"Penetrate this," Wopner muttered as he turned away. Bonterre giggled.

Neidelman turned to the historian. "Tell Dr. Hatch about the sentence you just deciphered from the second half of the journal."

St. John cleared his throat self-importantly. "It's not a sentence, really," he said. "More of a sentence fragment: Ye who luste after the key to the, some word or other, Pitt shall find. ..."

Hatch looked at the Captain in amazement. "So there is a secret key to the Water Pit."

Neidelman smiled, rubbing his hands together with anticipation. "It's almost eight," he said. "Assemble your gear and let's get started."

Hatch returned to his office for his medical field kit, then met up with the group as they were trekking up the rise of the island toward Orthanc. "Merde, it's cold," Bonterre said, blowing on her hands and hugging herself. "What kind of a summer morning do you call this?"

"A summer morning in Maine," Hatch replied. "Enjoy it. The air will put hair on your chest."

"That is something I have little need of, monsieur le docteur." She jogged ahead, trying to keep warm, and as Hatch followed he realized that he, too, was shivering slightly; whether from the cold or the anticipation of the coming descent he wasn't sure. The tattered edge of a front had at last begun to cast a long shadow across the island, swiftly followed by ranks of piling thunderheads.

As he reached the crest of the island, Hatch could see the tall form of Orthanc, bundles of multicolored cable streaming from its dark underbelly down into the maw of the Water Pit. Only it was no longer the Water Pit: Now it was drained, accessible, its innermost secrets waiting to be plumbed.

Hatch shivered again and moved forward. From this vantage point, he could see the gray crescent of the cofferdam, tracing an arc into the sea around the southern end of the island. It was a bizarre sight. On the far side of the cofferdam lay the dark blue expanse of ocean, disappearing into the perpetual veiling mist; on the closer side, the stony seabed lay exposed almost obscenely, scattered with pools of stagnant water. Here and there on the dry ocean floor, Hatch could see markers placed in rocky outcroppings: the flood tunnel entrances, tagged for later examination and analysis. On the beach beside the cofferdam there were several piles of rusted junk, waterlogged wood, and other debris grappled up from the depths of the Pit, cleared for their expedition.

Streeter and his crew were standing at the staging area beside the mouth of the Pit, pulling up some cables, dropping others. Approaching, Hatch saw what looked like the end of a massive ladder peering over the top of the Pit. The siderails of the ladder were made from thick gleaming tubes of metal, with two sets of rubber-covered rungs in between. Hatch knew it had taken the team much of the night to bolt the sections together and work them down, maneuvering past invisible obstacles and the remaining snarls of junk caught on the bracing timbers that crisscrossed the shaft.

"That's what I call a ladder on steroids," he said, whistling.

"It's more than a ladder," Neidelman replied. "It's a ladder array. Those tubular siderails are made from a titanium alloy. It'll serve as the backbone for the Pit's support structure. In time, we'll build a radiating web of titanium struts from the array, which will brace the walls and timbers and keep the Pit stable while we dig. And we'll attach a platform lift to the ladder, like an elevator."

He pointed toward the ladder struts. "Each tube is wired with fiber-optic, coax, and electrical cable, and every rung has a kick light. Eventually, every part of the structure will be computer controlled, from the servos to the monitoring cameras. But so far, friend Wopner has not been entirely successful in bringing the installation under remote control. Hence, his invitation to join us." He tapped the upper works with one foot. "Built to Thalassa specifications at a cost of nearly two hundred thousand dollars."