Douglas Preston - Riptide

As they descended toward the base of the shaft, Hatch realized the dank, rotten smell of the Water Pit was now mixed with something else: the stench of smoke and hot metal.

The ladder array ended at the base of the Pit. The walls were narrower here, the air thick despite the ventilation systems. In the center was the narrow shaft of freshly dug earth that led down to the treasure chamber itself. Streeter gestured for Hatch to climb down the ladder. Clinging to the rails, Hatch clambered past the complex tracery of titanium struts and braces. From below came the crack and fizzle of acetylene.

Then he was at the bottom of the shaft, at the very heart of the island, swaying on uncertain feet. Streeter dropped to the ground behind him. Hatch could see that the earth before him had been cleared away from the top of a massive, rusted plate of iron. As he stared, the last ember of hope died away. Gerard Neidelman was kneeling before the plate, angling an acetylene torch into a narrow cut about three feet square. A bolt had been welded to the top of the plate, and from it a cable was fixed to the large bucket. In the far corner of the shaft stood Magnusen, arms folded, staring at Hatch with a mixture of cold hatred and contempt.

There was an angry hiss as Neidelman cut the flame on the torch. Laying it aside, he stood up and raised his visor, staring expressionlessly at Hatch.

"You're a sorry sight," he said simply.

He turned to Streeter. "Where did you find him?"

"He and Bonterre were trying to come back to the island, Captain. I caught up with him in the Boston Tunnel."

"And Bonterre?"

"Their dinghy was crushed on the reef. There's a chance she survived drowning, too, but the odds are against it."

"I see. Pity she had to get involved in this. Still, you've done well."

Streeter flushed with the praise. "May I borrow your sidearm for a moment, Captain?"

Neidelman slid the pistol from his belt and handed it to Streeter, an inquiring expression on his face. Streeter pointed it at Hatch and gave his own gun to Neidelman. "Could you reload that for me, sir? I ran out of ammo."

He gave Hatch a crooked smile. "You missed your opportunity, Doctor. There won't be another."

Hatch turned to Neidelman. "Gerard, please. Hear me out."

The Captain slapped a fresh clip into the gun, then snugged it into his belt. "Hear you out? I've been hearing you out for weeks now, and it's getting rather tedious." He shrugged the visor from his head and handed it to Magnusen. "Sandra, take over the torch, please. The island's battery system will only last two hours, maybe three, and we can't waste any time."

"You have to listen," Hatch said. "St. Michael's Sword is radioactive. It'll be suicide to open that casket."

A weary look crossed Neidelman's face. "You never give up, do you. Wasn't a billion dollars enough?"

"Think," Hatch went on urgently. "Think past the treasure for a moment, think of what's been happening on this island. It explains everything. The problems with the computers, the system acting flaky. Stray radiation from the treasure chamber would cause the anomalies Wopner described. And the rash of illnesses we've had. Radiation suppresses the immune system, lowers the white blood count, allows opportunistic diseases to intrude. I'll bet that we'd find the worst cases among those who spent their time in this Pit, day after day, digging and setting braces."

The Captain stared at him, his gaze unreadable.

"Radiation poisoning causes hair loss, makes your teeth drop out. Just like those pirate skeletons. What else could be the cause of that mass grave? There were no signs of violence on the skeletons. Why else would the rest of the pirates have left in such a hurry? They were running from an invisible killer they didn't understand. And why do you suppose Ockham's ship was found derelict, the crew all dead? Because they'd received, over time, a fatal dose of radiation, leaking from the casket that held St. Michael's Sword."

Streeter dug the gun barrel cruelly into his ear, and Hatch tried vainly to twist free. "Don't you get it? God knows just how radioactive that sword is. It must be hot as hell. If you expose it, you'll kill not only yourself, but who knows how many others. You—"

"I've heard enough," Neidelman said. He looked at Hatch. "Funny. I never thought it would be you. When I was selling the idea of this dig to our backers, juggling numbers for risk analysis, you were the one stable factor in the equation. You hated the treasure. You'd never let anyone dig on your island. Hell, you'd never even been back to Stormhaven. If I could only secure your cooperation, I knew I'd never have to worry about greed." He shook his head. "It pains me to think how much I misjudged you."

There was a final hiss of steel, then Magnusen stood up. "Done, Captain," she said, removing the visor and reaching for the electrical box that controlled the winch. There was a whine as the cable went taut. With a thin metallic protest, the plate was lifted from the iron slab. Magnusen angled it to the far corner of the shaft floor, settled it to the earth, then unhooked the cable from the base of the large bucket.

Almost despite himself, Hatch found his eyes traveling toward the ragged square that had been cut into the iron plate. The dark opening to the treasure chamber exhaled the faint perfume of ambergris, frankincense, and sandalwood.

"Lower the light," the Captain said.

Her heavy body trembling with suppressed excitement, Magnusen plucked a basket lamp from the ladder and swung it down into the hole. Then Neidelman dropped to his hands and knees. Slowly, carefully, he peered inside.

There was a long silence, punctuated only by the dripping of water, the faint hiss of the forced air system, and the distant sound of thunder. At last the Captain rose to his feet. He staggered slightly, then caught himself. His face had become rigid, almost masklike, and his damp skin was white. Struggling with suppressed emotion, he mopped his face with a handkerchief and nodded to Magnusen.

Magnusen dropped quickly, pressing her face into the hole. Hatch could hear her involuntary gasp echo up, strangely hollow, from the chamber beneath. She remained at the opening in the floor, rigid, for several long minutes. Finally, she stood up and moved to one side.

Neidelman turned to Hatch. "Now it's your turn."

"My turn?"

"That's right. I'm not without feeling. These riches would have been half yours. And it's because of you we were able to dig here. For that I remain grateful, despite all the trouble you've caused. Surely you want to see what we've worked so hard for."

Hatch took a deep breath. "Captain, there's a Geiger counter in my office. I'm not asking you to believe without seeing—"

Neidelman slapped him across the jaw. It was not hard, but the pain that shot through Hatch's mouth and ear was so unbearable he sank to his knees. He was dimly aware that the Captain's features had suddenly turned crimson, contorted into a look of intense anger.

Wordlessly, Neidelman gestured toward the iron plate. Streeter grabbed Hatch by the hair and twisted his head downward into the opening.

Hatch blinked once, then twice, as he struggled to comprehend. The light swung back and forth, sending shadows across the vault. The metal chamber was about ten feet square, the iron walls furred with rust but still intact. As he stared, Hatch forgot the pain in his head; forgot Streeter's hands twisting sadistically in his hair; forgot Neidelman; forgot everything.

As a boy, he had once seen a photograph of the antechamber to King Tutankhamen's tomb. Staring at the casks, boxes, chests, crates, and barrels that lined the walls of the chamber beneath him, the memory of that photo came rushing back.

He could see the treasure had once been carefully wrapped and stored by Ockham and his men. But time had taken its toll. The leather sacks had rotted and split, pouring out streams of gold and silver coins that mixed and mingled in small rivers. From the wormy, sprung staves of the casks spilled great uncut emeralds, rubies dark as pig's blood, sapphires winking in the flickering light, topazes, carved amethysts, pearls, and everywhere the scintillating rainbows of diamonds, cut and uncut, large and small. Against one wall lay bundles of elephant tusks, narwhal horns, and boar's ivory, yellowed and cracked. Against another were enormous bolts of a material that had clearly once been silk; now it had rotted into lumps of decaying black ash, shot through with masses of gold threads.