Douglas Preston - Riptide

Early the next morning, he wandered up the trail to the mouth of the Water Pit. The pace was obviously frantic—even Bonterre, emerging from the Pit with a handheld laser for measuring distances, barely had time for more than a nod and a smile. But a remarkable amount of work had been accomplished. The ladder array was now fully braced from top to bottom, and a small lift had been attached to one side for quick transport into the depths. A technician told him that the soundings and measurements of the Pit's interior were now almost complete. Neidelman was nowhere to be found, but the technician said the Captain had gone practically without sleep for the last three days, closeted in Orthanc, directing the gridding-out of the Pit.

Hatch found himself speculating on what the Captain would do next. It wasn't surprising, his throwing himself into his work in the wake of Wopner's death. But now the obvious tasks were almost done: the ladder array was complete, and the Pit would soon be fully mapped. Nothing remained except to descend the Pit and dig—with extreme caution—for the gold.

Hatch stood silently for a minute, thinking about the gold and what he would do with his share. A billion dollars was a stupendous amount of money. Perhaps it was unnecessary to put the entire sum into the Johnny Hatch Foundation. It would be hard even to give away such a sum. Besides, it would be nice to have a new boat for his berth in Lynn. And he found himself recalling a beautiful, secluded house on Brattle Street, close to the hospital, that was for sale. He also shouldn't forget that someday he would have children. Was it right to deprive them of a generous inheritance? The more he thought about it, the more it made sense to keep back a few million, perhaps as much as five, for personal use. Maybe even ten, as a cushion. Nobody would object to that.

He stared down into the Pit a moment longer, wondering if his old friend Donny Truitt was on one of the teams working somewhere in the dark spaces beneath his feet. Then he turned and headed back down the path.

Entering Island One, he found Magnusen in front of the computer, her fingers moving rapidly over a keyboard, mouth set in a disapproving line. The ice-cream sandwich wrappers and discarded circuit boards were gone, and the crowded racks of computer equipment, along with their fat looping cables and multicolored ribbons, had been placed in severe order. All traces of Wopner had vanished. Looking around, Hatch had the illogical feeling that the rapid cleanup was, in some strange way, a slight against the programmer's memory. As usual, Magnusen continued her work, completely ignoring Hatch.

He looked around another minute. "Excuse me!" he barked at last, feeling unaccountably gratified at the slight jump she gave. "I wanted to pick up a plaintext transcript of the journal," he explained as Magnusen stopped typing and turned to look at him with her curiously empty face.

"Of course," she said evenly. Then she sat, waiting expectantly.

"Well?"

"Where is it?" she replied.

This made no sense. "Where is what?" Hatch asked.

For a moment, Hatch was certain a look of triumph flitted over the engineer's face before the mask descended once again. "You mean you don't have the Captain's permission?"

His look of surprise was answer enough. "New rules," she went on. "Only one hardcopy of the decrypted journal is to be kept in Stores, not to be signed out without written authorization from the Captain."

Momentarily, Hatch found himself left without a response. "Dr. Magnusen," he said as calmly as possible, "that rule can't apply to me."

"The Captain didn't mention any exceptions."

Without a word, Hatch stepped over to the telephone. Accessing the island's phone network, he dialed the number for Orthanc and asked for the Captain.

"Malin!" came the strong voice of Neidelman. "I've been meaning to drop by to find out how everything went on the mainland."

"Captain, I'm here in Island One with Dr. Magnusen. What's this about me needing authorization to access the Macallan journal?"

"It's just a security formality," came the reply. "A way to keep the plaintext accounted for. You and I talked about the need for that. Don't take it personally."

"I'm afraid I do take it personally."

"Malin, even I am signing out the journal text. It's to protect your interests as much as Thalassa's. Now, if you'd put Sandra on, I'll explain to her that you have permission."

Hatch handed the phone to Magnusen, who listened for a long moment without comment or change of expression. Wordlessly she hung up the phone, then reached into a drawer and filled out a small yellow-colored chit.

"Hand this to the duty guard over in Stores," she said. "You'll need to put your name, signature, date, and time in the book."

Hatch placed the chit in his pocket, wondering at Neidelman's choice of guardian. Wasn't Magnusen on the Captain's shortlist of saboteur suspects?

But in any case, in the cold light of day the whole idea of a saboteur seemed very far-fetched. Everyone on the island was being extremely well paid. Some stood to gain millions. Would some saboteur jeopardize a sure fortune over a larger, but very uncertain one? It made no sense.

The door swung open again and the tall, stooped form of St. John entered the command center. "Good morning," he said with a nod.

Hatch nodded back, surprised at the change that had come over the historian since Wopner's death. The plump white cheeks and the cheerful, smug look had given way to slack skin and bags beneath reddened eyes. The requisite tweed jacket was unusually rumpled.

St. John turned to Magnusen. "Is it ready yet?"

"Just about," she said. "We're waiting for one more set of readings. Your friend Wopner made rather a mess of the system, and it's taken time to straighten everything out."

A look of displeasure, even pain, crossed St. John's face.

Magnusen nodded at the screen. "I'm correlating the mapping teams data with the latest satellite images."

Hatch's eyes traveled to the large monitor in front of Magnusen. It was covered with an impossible tangle of interconnected lines, in various lengths and colors. A message appeared along the bottom of the screen:

Restricted video feed

commencing 11:23 EDT on Telstar 704

Transponder 8Z (KU Band)

Downlink frequency 14,044 MHZ

Receiving and Integrating

The complex tangle on the screen refreshed itself. For a moment, St. John stared at the screen wordlessly. "I'd like to work with it for a while," he said at last.

Magnusen nodded.

"Alone, if you don't mind."

Magnusen stood up. "The three-button mouse operates the three axes. Or you can—"

"I'm aware of how the program works."

Magnusen left, closing the door to Island One behind her without another word. St. John sighed and settled into the now-vacant chair. Hatch turned to leave.

"I didn't mean for you to go," St. John said. "Just her. What a dreadful woman." He shook his head. "Have you seen this yet? It's remarkable, really."

"No," Hatch said, "What is it?"

"The Water Pit and all its workings. Or rather, what's been mapped so far."

Hatch leaned closer. What looked like a nonsensical jumble of multicolored lines was, he realized, a three-dimensional wireframe outline of the Pit, with depth gradations along one edge. St. John pressed a key and the whole complex began to move, the Pit and its retinue of side shafts and tunnels rotating slowly in the ghostly blackness of the computer screen.

"My God," Hatch breathed. "I had no idea it was so complex."

"The mapping teams have been downloading their measurements into the computer twice a day. My job is to examine the Pit's architecture for any historical parallels. If I can find similarities to other constructions of the time, even other works of Macallan's, it may help us figure out what booby traps remain and how they can be defused. But I'm having a difficult time. It's hard not to get swept away by the complexity. And despite what I said a minute ago, I have only the faintest conception of how this contraption works. But I'd rather swing from a gibbet than ask that woman for help."