Douglas Preston - Riptide

Yes, yes, he nodded to himself. With such a sword, he could cleanse the world; he could sweep away the spiritual bankruptcy, give the fatal thrust to the world's decaying religions and their dying priesthoods, establish something new for a new millennium. His holding the sword was no accident; he had won it with his sweat and his blood; he had proven himself worthy of it. The sword was the proof he had been longing for his entire life: his treasure, above any other.

With trembling arm he rested the heavy weapon on the open lid of the casket. Once again he found himself astonished by the contrast between the supernatural loveliness of the hilt and the twisted ugliness of the blade. But now it had a kind of wonderful awfulness; a delicious, an almost holy kind of hideousness.

It was his now. And he had all the time in the world to consider—and perhaps, in time, comprehend—its strange and terrible beauty.

He carefully slid the blade back into its scabbard, glancing over at the casket as he did so. He would bring it to the surface, as well; the casket had its own importance, bound up inseparably with the sword's history. Looking over his shoulder, he was pleased to see that Magnusen had at last lowered the bucket into the chamber and was loading it with sacks of coins, slowly, like an automaton.

He returned his attention to the casket, and the one iron band that remained, rusted in place around one side. It was a strange way to strap down such a casket. Surely it would have been easier to bolt the straps to the floor of the treasure chamber, instead of running them underneath. What were they attached to below?

He backed up and kicked the last iron band, freeing the casket. The band broke away and shot down through the hole with amazing force, as if it had been attached to a great weight.

Suddenly there was a shudder, and the treasure chamber gave a great lurch. The right end of the floor dropping sickeningly, like an airplane plunging in violent turbulence. Rotten crates, canvas bags, and kegs tumbled from their positions along the left-hand wall, bursting upon the floor, showering gemstones, gold dust, and pearls. Stacks of gold bars leaned over heavily, then toppled in a great crash. Neidelman was thrown against the casket and he reached out for the hilt of the sword, ears ringing with Magnusen's screams, his eyes wide with astonishment.

Chapter 58

The lift's electronic motor whined as it sank into the Pit. Streeter stood in one corner, gun in hand, forcing Rankin and Bonterre close to the opposite edge.

"Lyle, you must listen," Bonterre pleaded. "Roger says there is a huge void underneath us. He saw everything on the sonar screen. The Pit and the treasure chamber are built on top of—"

"You can tell your friend Hatch about it," said Streeter. "If he's still alive."

"What have you done with him?"

Streeter raised the barrel. "I know what you were planning."

"Mon dieu, you are just as paranoid—"

"Shut up. I knew Hatch couldn't be trusted, I knew from the moment I set eyes on him. Sometimes the Captains a little naive that way. He's a good man, and he trusts people. That's why he's always needed me. I bided my time. And time proved me right. As for you, bitch, you chose the wrong side. And so did you." Streeter waved the gun in Rankin's direction.

The geologist was standing at the edge of the lift, good hand holding the railing, wounded hand held tight beneath the armpit. "You're insane," he said.

Bonterre looked at him. The great bear of a man, normally affable and easygoing, was filled with a rage she had never seen in him before.

"Don't you get it?" Rankin snapped. "That treasure's been soaking up radiation for hundreds of years. It's no good to anyone."

"Keep running your mouth and I'll put my boot in it," Streeter said.

"I don't give a damn what you do," Rankin said. "The sword's gonna kill us all, anyway."

"Bullshit."

"It's not bullshit. I saw the readings. The levels of radiation coming from that casket are unbelievable. When he takes that sword out, we're all dead."

They passed the fifty-foot platform, the dull metal of the titanium spars bathed in the glow of emergency lights.

"You think I'm some kind of idiot," Streeter said. "Or maybe you're so desperate you'd say anything to save your ass. That sword's five hundred years old, at least. Nothing on earth is that naturally radioactive."

"Nothing on earth. Exactly." Rankin leaned forward, his shaggy beard dripping. "That sword was made from a fucking meteorite."

"What?" Bonterre breathed.

Streeter barked a laugh, shaking his head.

"The Radmeter picked up the emission signature of iridium-80. That's a heavy isotope of iridium. Radioactive as shit." He spat over the side of the lift. "Iridium is rare on earth but common in nickel-iron meteorites." He rocked forward, wincing with pain as his shattered hand grazed the platform.

"Streeter, you must let us speak to the Captain," Bonterre said.

"That's not going to happen. The Captain's spent a lifetime working for this treasure. He talks about it, even in his sleep. That treasure belongs to him, not some hairy-assed geologist who joined the team three months ago. Or a French whore. It's his, all of it."

Raw anger flared in Rankin's eyes. "You pathetic bastard."

Streeter's lips compressed to a thin white line but he said nothing.

"You know what?" Rankin said. "The Captain doesn't give a shit about you. You're even more dispensable now than you were back in 'Nam. Think he'd save your life now? Forget it. All he cares about is his goddamn treasure. You're history."

Streeter whipped the gun to Rankin's face, jamming it between his eyes.

"Go ahead," Rankin said. "Either do me and get it over with, or drop the gun and fight. I'll kick your puny ass with only one hand."

Streeter swiveled the gun toward the lift railing and fired. Gore flew against the scribbled walls of the Pit as Rankin jerked his ruined left hand away. The geologist dropped to his knees, crying in pain and outrage, the index and middle fingers hanging by torn strips of flesh. Streeter began aiming calculated, vicious kicks at Rankin's face. With a cry, Bonterre threw herself at the team leader.

Suddenly, a throaty rumble roared up from the depths. It was followed a split-second later by a jarring blow that threw them all down onto the platform. Rankin reared back, unable to gain a purchase with his shattered hands, and Bonterre grabbed his shirt collar to keep him from tumbling over the edge. Streeter recovered first, and by the time Bonterre rose he was already gripping the rail, aiming his gun at them. The entire structure was shaking violently, titanium struts screeching in protest. Beneath it all was the demonic roar of rushing water.

The lift lurched to a shrieking halt.

"Don't move!" Streeter warned.

Another jarring shudder, and the emergency lights flickered. A bolt fell past, glanced off the platform with a clang, and went spinning down into darkness.

"It's begun," Rankin cried hoarsely, huddled on the floor of the lift, hugging his bleeding hands to his chest.

"What has begun?" Bonterre shouted.

"The Pit's collapsing into the piercement dome. Great fucking timing."

"Shut up and jump down." Streeter waved his gun at the gray shape of the hundred-foot platform, silhouetted a few feet below the lift.

Another jolt shook the lift, canting it crazily. A rush of chill air gusted up from the depths.

"Timing?" Bonterre shouted. "This is no coincidence. This is Macallan's secret trap."

"I said, shut up." Streeter shoved her off the lift and she tumbled several feet, landing hard on the hundred-foot platform. She looked up, shaken but unhurt, to see Streeter kicking Rankin in the abdomen. Three kicks and he was over the edge, landing heavily beside her. Bonterre moved to help but Streeter was already clambering catlike down the array to the platform.