Douglas Preston - Riptide

Wopner, overhearing, came over with a grin. "Hey, Captain," he said. "I know where you can pick up some really nice $600 toilet seats, too."

Neidelman smiled. "Glad to see your mood improving, Mr. Wopner. Let's get geared up."

He turned to the group. "Our most important task today is to attach these piezoelectric stress sensors into the cribbing and shoring beams of the Pit." He pulled one from his pack and handed it around. It was a small strip of metal, with a computer chip in its center, sealed in hard, clear plastic. At each end, sticking out at right angles, was a half-inch tack. "Just tap or press it into the wood. Mr. Wopner will calibrate and register it into his palmtop database."

While Neidelman talked, a technician approached Hatch and helped him shrug into a harness. Then the man handed him a helmet and showed him how to use the intercom and halogen headlamp. Next, he was handed a satchel containing a quantity of the piezoelectric sensors.

As he arranged his medical kit, Hatch saw Neidelman motioning him toward the railing. He stepped forward, and the Captain spoke into the mike attached to his helmet. "Magnusen, restore power to the array."

As Hatch watched, a string of lights snapped on along the ladder, illuminating in a brilliant yellow light the entire ghastly length of the Water Pit. The triple row of glowing struts descended into the earth like some pathway to hell.

For the first time, Hatch could see just what the Pit looked like. It was a ragged square, perhaps ten feet across, cribbed on all four sides with heavy logs, which were notched and mortised into massive vertical beams at each corner. Every ten feet, the shaft was crisscrossed by four smaller beams that met in the middle of the Pit, evidently bracing the sides and preventing them from collapsing inward. Hatch was struck by how overengineered the Pit seemed to be: It was as if Macallan had built it to last a millennium, instead of the few years it would take for Ockham to return and retrieve his treasure.

Staring down the descending rows of lights, Hatch finally realized, in his gut, just how deep the Pit was. The lights seemed to stretch toward a pinpoint of darkness, so far below that the rails of the ladder almost converged in the murky depths. The Pit was alive, rustling with the sounds of ticking, dripping, and creaking, along with indeterminate whispers and moans.

A distant rumble of thunder rolled over the island, and a sudden wind pressed down the sawgrass around the Pit. Then a hard rain followed, drowning bracken and machine alike. Hatch stood where he was, partly sheltered by the massive bulk of Orthanc. Within a matter of minutes, he thought, they would simply mount the ladder and climb to the bottom. Once again, the perverse feeling returned that everything was too easy—until he felt the Pit exhale the cold odor of the mudflat: a powerful smell of saltwater mingled with suppuration and decay, the outgassing of dead fish, and rotting seaweed. A sudden thought rushed into his mind: Somewhere in that warren of tunnels is Johnny's body. It was a discovery he both wanted and dreaded with all his soul.

A technician handed Neidelman a small gas-monitoring meter, and he slipped it around his neck. "Remember, we're not going down for a leisurely stroll," Neidelman said, glancing at the team. "The only time you are to be undipped from the array is when it becomes necessary to place a sensor. We'll set them, calibrate them, and get out quickly. But while we're at it, I want everyone to make as many observations as possible: the condition of the cribbing, the size and number of the tunnels, anything that seems pertinent. The bottom itself is still deep in mud, so we'll be concentrating on the walls and the mouths of the side tunnels." He paused, adjusting his helmet. "Okay. Clip on your lifelines and Let's go."

The lifelines were snapped onto their harnesses. Neidelman moved among them, double-checking the karabiners and testing each line.

"I feel like a frigging telephone repairman," Wopner complained. Hatch glanced over at the programmer, who, in addition to his satchel of piezoelectric sensors, had two palmtop computers dangling from his belt.

"Why, Kerry," said Bonterre teasingly. "For the first time, you look like a man."

By now, much of the crew still on the island had gathered behind the staging area. A cheer went up. Hatch looked around at the elated faces: this was the critical moment they—and he— had been waiting for. Bonterre was grinning widely. Even Wopner seemed affected by the growing excitement: he arranged his equipment and tugged on his harness with a self-important air.

Neidelman took a last look around, waving at the assembled group. Then he stepped to the rim of the staging area, buckled his line to the ladder array, and began to descend.

Chapter 29

Hatch was the last to set foot on the ladder. The others were already stretched out for twenty feet below him. The lights on their helmets played through the murk as they descended hand over hand. A sense of vertigo passed over him, and he looked up, grabbing at the rung. The ladder was rock solid, he knew; even if he fell, the lifeline would keep him from tumbling far.

As they went deeper, a curious hush fell over the team and among the Orthanc crew, monitoring the mission over the live channel. The incessant sounds of the settling Pit, the soft creakings and tickings, filled the air like the whispered teeming of invisible sea creatures. Hatch passed the first cluster of terminal hubs, electrical outlets, and cable jacks that had been set into the ladder at fifteen-foot intervals.

"Everyone all right?" came Neidelman's low voice over the intercom. Positive responses came back, one by one.

"Dr. Magnusen?" Neidelman asked.

"Instruments normal," came the voice from inside Orthanc. "All boards are green."

"Dr. Rankin?"

"Scopes inactive, Captain. No sign of any seismic disturbances or magnetic anomalies."

"Mr. Streeter?"

"All systems on the array are nominal," the laconic voice replied.

"Very well," Neidelman said. "We'll continue descending to the fifty-foot platform, placing sensors as necessary, then stop for a breather. Be careful not to catch your lifelines on any beams. Dr. Bonterre, Dr. Hatch, Mr. Wopner, keep your eyes open. If you see anything strange, I want to know."

"You kidding?" came Wopner's voice. "The whole place is strange."

As he followed the group, Hatch felt almost as if he was sinking into a deep pool of brackish water. The air was clammy and cold, redolent of decay. Each exhalation condensed into a cloud of vapor that hung in the supersaturated air, refusing to dissipate. He looked about, the light on his helmet swiveling with his head. They were now in the tidal zone of the Pit, where the water had formerly risen and fallen twice a day. He was surprised to see the same bands of life he'd observed countless times among rocks and tidal pools at the sea edge: first barnacles, then seaweed, then mussels and limpets; followed by a band of starfish; next, sea cucumbers, periwinkles, sea urchins, and anemones. As he continued to descend, he passed strata of coral and seaweed. Hundreds of whelks still clung pitifully to the walls and beams, hoping in vain for a return of the tide. Now and then a whelk would at last lose its grip and fall into the echoing vastness.

Though an immense amount of flotsam and jetsam had already been removed from the drained Pit, an obstacle course of ancient junk remained. The ladder array had been deftly threaded through rotting beams, tangles of metal, and discarded pieces of drilling apparatus. The team stopped as Neidelman tapped a sensor into a small opening on one side of the Pit. As they waited for Wopner to calibrate the sensor, Hatch found his spirits beginning to flag in the mephitic atmosphere. He wondered if the rest of the team shared the feeling, or if he was simply laboring under the additional knowledge that, somewhere in this cold, dripping labyrinth, lay his brother's body.