Douglas Preston - Riptide

Streeter stepped forward and grasped Hatch's arm.

Taking a step to the side, Hatch balled his right hand into a fist and shot his knuckles into the man's solar plexus. It was not a hard blow, but it was placed with anatomical exactness. Streeter dropped to his knees, mouth gaping, the wind knocked out of him.

"Touch me again," Hatch said to the gasping figure, "and you'll be carrying your balls around in a cup."

Streeter struggled to his feet, violence in his eyes.

"Mr. Streeter, I don't think force will be necessary," said Neidelman sharply, as the team leader moved forward menacingly. "Dr. Hatch will return to his boat peaceably. He realizes there is absolutely nothing he can do here to stop us, now that we've smoked out his plan. And I think he realizes how foolish it would be to try."

He turned back to Hatch. "I'm a fair man. You took your best shot, and you failed. Your presence is no longer required on Ragged Island. If you leave, and allow me to finish as we agreed, you'll still get your share of the treasure. But if you try to stop me..." Silently, he swept his hands back and placed them on his hips, pulling his slicker aside in the process. Hatch could clearly see the handgun snugged into his belt.

"Well, what do you know," Hatch said. "The Captain's strapped."

"Get going," said Streeter, stepping forward.

"I can find my own way." Hatch backed up to the far wall, and then—without taking his eyes off the Captain—he climbed out of the excavation to the base of the array, where the lift was already depositing the first diggers of the next shift.

Chapter 41

The rising sun tore free of a distant bar of cloud and cast a brilliant trail across the ocean, illuminating a crowd of boats packing Stormhaven's small harbor from channel entrance to piers.

Chugging slowly through a gap in the center of the crowd was a small dragger, Woody Clay standing at its wheel. The boat veered and almost brushed the peppercan buoy at the head of the channel before steadying and resuming its outward course; Clay was an indifferent sailor.

Reaching the harbor entrance, he turned the boat and cut the motor. Raising a battered megaphone, he shouted instructions to the surrounding crowd, his voice full of such conviction that even the ancient, buzzing amplification could not distort it. He was answered by a series of coughs and roars as numerous engines came to life. The boats at the front of the harbor cast off their moorings, pulled through the channel, and throttled up. They were followed by more, then still more, until the bay filled with long spreading wakes of the fleet as it headed in the direction of Ragged Island.

Three hours later and six miles to the southeast, the light struggled down through the mist into the vast, damp labyrinth of braces and cribbing that made up the Water Pit. It threw a dim, spectral illumination over the complex workings that filled the Pit's mouth.

At the lowest depths of the Pit, 180 feet down, neither day nor night had any relevance. Gerard Neidelman stood beside a small staging platform, watching the crew dig feverishly beneath him. It was a few minutes short of noon. Faintly, above the grumble of the air ducts and the clank of the winch chain, Neidelman could just make out a clamor of air horns and boat cannon on the surface.

He listened for a moment. Then he reached for his portable telephone.

"Streeter?"

"Here, Captain," came the voice from Orthanc, 200 feet above, faint and gravelly through a wash of static.

"Let's have your report."

"About two dozen boats in all, Captain. They've formed a ring around the Cerberus, trying to set up a blockade. Guess they think that's where everyone is." There was a further crackle of static that might have been a laugh. "Only Rogerson's on board to hear them. I sent the rest of the research team ashore last night."

"Any signs of sabotage or interference?"

"No, Captain, they're pretty tame. A lot of noise, but nothing to worry about."

"Anything else?"

"Magnusen's picking up a sensor anomaly at the sixty-four foot level. It's probably nothing, the secondary grid shows nothing unusual."

"I'll take a look." Neidelman thought for a moment. "Mr. Streeter, I'd like you to meet me there."

"Aye, aye."

Neidelman climbed up the ladder from the dig site to the base of the electric lift, his movements lithe and fluid despite his lack of sleep. He took the lift up to the sixty-foot level, then moved out onto the platform and climbed carefully down the spars to the errant sensor. He verified the sensor was operational and returned to the platform just as Streeter completed the descent down the far side of the array.

"Any problems?" Streeter asked.

"Not with the sensor," Neidelman reached over and switched off Streeter's comm link to Orthanc. "But I've been thinking about Hatch."

There was a squeal of gears, then a mechanical groan from below, as the powerful winch pulled another load of dirt and mud up from the dig site. The two men watched as the large iron bucket rose from the depths, condensation gleaming under the harsh lights.

"Only eight more feet to the treasure chamber," Neidelman murmured as he watched the bucket recede into the circle of light overhead. "Ninety-six inches."

He turned to Streeter. "I want all nonessential personnel off the island. Everyone. Say whatever you want, use that protest or the storm as excuses, if you like. We don't want a lot of extra bodies around rubbernecking during the actual extraction. When the shift changes at two, send the diggers home, too. This next shift should see the job finished. We'll winch the treasure up in the bucket, and I'll carry the sword myself. We need to get it out as soon as possible. Can Rogerson be trusted?"

"He'll do what I tell him, sir."

Neidelman nodded. "Bring the Cerberus and my command vessel close to the island, but keep them well clear of the reef. We'll use the launches and split the treasure between the two boats, as a precaution." He fell silent a moment, his eyes far away.

"I don't think we're through with him," he began again in a low voice, as if his thoughts had never left Hatch. "I've underestimated him all along and I may be underestimating him now. Once he gets home, he's going to start thinking. He'll realize it might take days, even weeks, to get a legal injunction against us. And possession is nine tenths of the law. He could cry clause nineteen until he's blue in the face. But by that point, everything would be academic."

He touched Streeter's lapel. "Who would have thought a billion dollars wouldn't be enough for the greedy bastard? He's going to think of a plan. I want you to find out what that plan is, and stop it. We're only hours away from Ockham's treasure, and, by God, I don't want any nasty surprises before we get to it." He gripped the lapel suddenly. "And for Chrissake, whatever you do, don't let Hatch set foot on this island again. He could do a lot of damage."

Streeter looked back impassively. "Any particular way you want him handled?"

Neidelman released the lapel and took a step back. "I've always found you to be a creative and resourceful seaman, Mr. Streeter. I leave the matter to your discretion."

Streeter's eyebrows rose momentarily in what might have been anticipation, or perhaps merely a muscle spasm.

"Aye, aye, sir," he said.

Neidelman leaned forward and switched the comm set back on. "Keep in touch, Mr. Streeter."

Then he was back on the lift and descending once again. Streeter turned back toward the ladder array. In a moment, he, too, was gone.

Chapter 42

Hatch stood on the wide old porch of the house on Ocean Lane. What had been merely a weatherman's threat the day before was fast becoming reality. To the east, a heavy swell was coming in over the sea, creating a torn line of breakers on the reefs of Breed's Point. On the opposite side of the harbor, beyond the channel buoys, the surf flung itself again and again up the granite cliffs beyond Burnt Head Light, the boom of the rollers carrying across the bay in measured cadences. The sky was slung across with the ugly underbelly of a massive foul-weather front, the clouds churning and coiling as they raced across the water. Farther offshore, an evil patch of surf seethed about Old Hump. Hatch shook his head; if the swell was already smothering the bald rock, it was going to be a hell of a blow.