Riptide (18 page)

“What’s this?” Hatch heard Bonterre say in a voice of disbelief. “Sergio,
attends!”

Suddenly Wopner’s voice crackled over the radio. “Got a problem, Captain.”

“What is it?” Neidelman responded.

“Dunno. I’m getting error messages, but the system reports normal function.”

“Switch to the redundant system.”

“I’m doing that, but… Wait, now the hub’s getting… Oh, shit.”

“What?”
came Neidelman’s sharp voice.

At the same time Hatch heard the sound of the pumps on the island faltering.

“System crash,” said Wopner.

There was a sudden, sharp, garbled noise from Bonterre. Hatch glanced toward the video screen and saw it had gone dead.
No
, he corrected himself: not dead, but
black
. And then snow began to creep into the blackness until the signal was lost in a howling storm of electronic distortion.

“What the hell?” Streeter said, frantically punching the comm button. “Bonterre, can you hear me? We’ve lost your feed.
Bonterre!”

Scopatti broke the surface ten feet from the boat and tore the regulator from his mouth. “Bonterre’s been sucked into the
tunnel!” he gasped.

“What was that?” Neidelman cried over the radio.

“He said, Bonterre’s been sucked—” Streeter began.

“Goddammit, go back after her!” Neidelman barked, his electronic voice rasping across the water.

“It’s murder down there!” Scopatti yelled. “There’s a massive backcurrent, and—”

“Streeter, give him a lifeline!” Neidelman called. “And Magnusen, bypass that computer control, get the pumps started manually.
Losing them must have created some kind of backflow.”

“Yes, sir,” said Magnusen. “The team will have to reprime them by hand. I’ll need at least five minutes, minimum.”

“Run,” came Neidelman’s voice, hard but suddenly calm. “And do it in three.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Wopner, get the system on-line.”

“Captain,” Wopner began, “the diagnostics are telling me that everything’s—”

“Stop talking,” snapped Neidelman. “Start fixing.”

Scopatti clipped a lifeline around his belt and disappeared again over the side.

“I’m clearing this area,” Hatch said to Streeter as he began to spread towels over the deck to receive his potential patient.

Streeter played the lifeline out, helped by Rankin. There was a sudden tug, then steady tension.

“Streeter?” came Neidelman’s voice.

“Scopatti’s in the backflow,” said Streeter. “I can feel him on the line.”

Hatch stared at the snow on the screen with a macabre sense of déjà vu. It was as if she had disappeared, vanished, just as
suddenly as…

He took a deep breath and looked away. There was nothing he could do until they got her to the surface. Nothing.

Suddenly there was a noise from the island as the pumps roared into life.

“Good work,” came Neidelman’s voice from the comm set.

“Line’s gone slack,” said Streeter.

There was a tense silence. Hatch could see the last bits of dye boiling off as the flow came back out the tunnel. And suddenly
the video screen went black again, and then he heard gasping over the audio line. The black on the screen grew lighter until,
with a flood of relief, he saw a green square of light growing across the screen: the exit to the flood tunnel.

“Merde,”
came Bonterre’s voice as she was ejected from the opening, the view from the camera tumbling wildly.

Moments later, there was a swirl at the surface. Hatch and Rankin rushed to the side of the boat and lifted Bonterre aboard.
Scopatti followed, stripping off her tanks and hood as Hatch laid her down on the towels.

Opening her mouth, Hatch checked the airway: all clear. He unzipped her wetsuit at the chest and placed a stethoscope. She
was breathing well, no sound of water in the lungs, and her heartbeat was fast and strong. He noticed a gash in the suit along
her stomach, skin and a ribbon of blood swelling along its edge.

“Incroyable,”
Bonterre coughed, trying to sit up, waving a chip of something gray.

“Keep still,” Hatch said sharply.

“Cement!” she cried, clutching the chip. “Three-hundred-year-old cement! There was a row of stones set into the reef—”

Hatch felt quickly around the base of her skull, looking for evidence of a concussion or spinal injury. There were no swellings,
cuts, dislocations.

“Ça suffit!”
she said, turning her head. “What are you, a
phrénologiste?
”

“Streeter, report!” Neidelman barked over the radio.

“They’re aboard, sir,” Streeter said. “Bonterre seems to be fine.”

“I
am
fine, except for this meddlesome doctor!” she cried, struggling.

“Just a moment while I look at your stomach,” Hatch said, gently restraining her.

“Those stones, they looked like the foundation to something,” she continued, lying back. “Sergio, did you see that? What could
it be?”

With a single movement, Hatch unzipped the wetsuit down to her navel.

“Hey!” cried Bonterre.

Ignoring the outcry, Hatch quickly explored the cut. There was a nasty scrape below her ribs, but it seemed superficial along
its entire length.

“It is just a scratch,” protested Bonterre, craning her neck to see what Hatch was doing.

He snatched his hand from her belly as a distinctly unprofessional stirring coursed through his loins. “Perhaps you’re right,”
he said a little more sarcastically than he intended, fishing in his bag for a topical antibiotic ointment. “Next time let
me play in the water, and you can be the doctor. Meanwhile, I’m going to apply some of this anyway, in case of infection.
You had a close call.” He rubbed ointment into the scrape.

“That tickles,” said Bonterre.

Scopatti had stripped off his suit to the waist, and stood with his arms crossed, his tanned physique gleaming in the sun,
grinning fondly. Rankin stood next to him, hirsute and massive, watching Bonterre with a distinct gleam in his eyes.
Everyone
, thought Malin,
is in love with this woman
.

“I ended up in a big underwater cavern,” she was saying. “For a moment I couldn’t find the walls, and I thought that was the
end.
Fin
.”

“A cavern?” Neidelman asked doubtfully over the open channel.

“Mais oui
. A big cavern. But my radio was dead. Why would that be?”

“The tunnel must have blocked the transmission,” Neidelman said.

“But why the backcurrent?” Bonterre said. “The tide was going out.”

There was a brief silence. “I don’t have an answer to that,” Neidelman’s voice came at last. “Perhaps once we’ve drained the
Pit and its tunnels, we’ll learn why. I’ll be waiting for a full report. Meanwhile, why don’t you rest?
Grampus
out.”

Streeter turned. “Markers set. Returning to base.”

The boat rumbled to life and planed across the water, riding the gentle swells. Hatch stowed his gear, listening to the chatter
on the radio bands. Neidelman, on the
Grampus
, was talking to Island One.

“I’m telling you, we’ve got a cybergeist,” came the voice of Wopner. “I just did a ROM dump on Charybdis, and ran it against
Scylla. Everything’s messed up nine ways to Sunday. But that’s burned-in code, Captain. The goddamn system’s cursed. Not even
a hacker could rewrite ROM—”

“Don’t start talking about curses,” said Neidelman sharply.

As they approached the dock, Bonterre peeled off her wetsuit, packed it into a deck locker, wrung out her hair, and turned
toward Hatch. “Well, Doctor, my nightmare came true. I did need your services, after all.”

“It was nothing,” said Hatch, blushing and furiously aware of it.

“Oh, but it was very nice.”

T
he stone ruins of Fort Blacklock stood in a meadow looking down on the entrance to Stormhaven harbor. The circular fort was
surrounded by a large meadow dotted with white pines, which fell away to farmers’ fields and a “sugarbush,” a thick stand
of sugar maples. Across the meadow from the old fort a large yellow-and-white pavilion had been erected, decorated with ribbons
and pennants that fluttered merrily in the breeze. A banner over the pavilion proclaimed in hand-painted letters: 71
ST ANNUAL STORMHAVEN LOBSTER BAKE
!!!

Hatch headed apprehensively up the gentle slope of the grassy hill. The lobster bake was the first real opportunity for him
to meet the town at large, and he wasn’t at all sure what kind of reception to expect. But there was little doubt in his mind
about what kind of reception the expedition itself would receive.

Although Thalassa had been in Stormhaven little more than a week, the company’s impact had been considerable. Crew members
had taken most of the available rental houses and spare rooms, sometimes paying premium prices. They had filled the tiny bed-and-breakfast.
The two restaurants in town, Anchors Away and The Landing, were packed every night. The gas station at the wharf had been
forced to triple its deliveries, and business at the Superette—though Bud would never admit to it—was up at least fifty percent.
The town was in such a fine mood about the Ragged Island treasure hunt that the mayor had hastily made Thalassa the collective
guest of honor at the lobster bake. And Neidelman’s quietly picking up half the tab—at Hatch’s suggestion—had simply been
icing on the cake.

As he approached the pavilion, Hatch could make out the table of honor, already occupied by prominent town citizens and Thalassa
officials. A small podium and microphone had been placed behind it. Beyond, townspeople and expedition members were milling
around, drinking lemonade or beer, and lining up to get their lobsters.

As he ducked inside, he heard a familiar nasal shout. Kerry Wopner was carrying a paper plate groaning under the weight of
twin lobsters, potato salad, and corn on the cob. A huge draft beer was balanced in his other hand. The cryptanalyst walked
gingerly along, arms straight ahead, trying to keep the food and beer from dripping on his trademark Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda
shorts, high white socks, and black sneakers.

“How do you eat these things?” Wopner cried, buttonholing a confused lobsterman.

“What’s that?” the lobsterman said, inclining his head as if he hadn’t heard properly.

“We didn’t have lobsters where I grew up.”

“No lobsters?” the man said, as if considering this.

“Yeah. In Brooklyn. It’s part of America. You should visit the country some time. Anyway, I never learned how to eat one.”
Wopner’s loud drawl echoed up and down the pavilion. “I mean, how do you open the shells?”

With a stolid face, the lobsterman replied. “You sit on ’em real hard.”

There was a guffaw of laughter from nearby townspeople.

“Very funny,” said Wopner.

“Well, now,” the lobsterman said in a gentler tone. “You need crackers.”

“I got crackers,” Wopner replied eagerly, waving the plate heaped with oyster crackers under the man’s nose. There was another
round of laughter from the locals.

“Crackers to crack the shells, see?” the lobsterman said. “Or you can use a hammer.” He held up a boat hammer, covered with
lobster juice, tomalley, and bits of pink shell.

“Eat with a dirty hammer?” Wopner cried. “Hepatitis city, here we come.”

Hatch moved in. “I’ll give him a hand,” he said to the lobsterman, who went off shaking his head. Hatch ushered Wopner to
one of the tables, sat him down, and gave him a quick lesson in lobster consumption: how to crack open the shells, what to
eat, what not to eat. Then he went off to get some food himself, stopping along the way to fill a pint cup at an enormous
keg. The beer, from a small brewery in Camden, was cold and malty; he gulped it down, feeling the tightness in his chest unraveling,
and refilled the cup before getting in line.

The lobsters and corn had been steamed in piles of seaweed heaped over burning oak, sending clouds of fragrant smoke spiraling
into the blue sky. Three cooks were busily at work behind the mounds of seaweed, checking the fires, dumping bright red lobsters
onto paper plates.

“Dr. Hatch!” came a voice. Hatch turned to see Doris Bowditch, another splendid muumuu billowing behind her like a purple
parachute. Her husband stood to one side, small, razor-burned, and silent. “How did you find the house?”

“Wonderful,” said Hatch with genuine warmth. “Thanks for tuning the piano.”

“You’re certainly welcome. No problems with the power or the water, I expect? Good. You know, I wondered if you’d had a chance
to think about that nice couple from Manchester—”

“Yes,” said Hatch quickly, ready now. “I won’t be selling.”

“Oh,” said Doris, her face falling. “They were
so
counting on—”

“Yes, but Doris, it’s the house I
grew up in,”
Hatch said gently but firmly.

The woman gave a start, as if remembering the circumstances of Hatch’s childhood and departure from the town. “Of course,”
she said, with an attempt at a smile, laying her hand on his arm. “I understand. It’s hard to give up the family home. We’ll
say no more about it.” She gave his arm a squeeze. “For now.”