Riptide (27 page)

A peal of laughter came from Bonterre. “I was wondering when you would see that. I believe the gentleman must have kept a
pouch in his boot. Between
Christophe
and myself, we have identified them all. A gold mohur from India, two English guineas, a French louis d’or, and four Portuguese
cruzados. All dating prior to 1694. The stone is an emerald, probably Inca from Peru, carved into the head of a jaguar. It
must have given the pirate quite a blister!”

“So this is it at last,” breathed Hatch. “The first of Edward Ockham’s treasure.”

“Yes,” she replied more soberly. “Now it is fact.”

As Hatch stared at the compact mass of gold—in itself a small numismatic fortune—a strange tingling began at the base of his
spine. What had always seemed theoretical, even academic, was suddenly real. “Does the Captain know about this?” he asked.

“Not yet. Come, there is more to see.”

But Hatch could not take his eyes off the fresh, thick gleam of metal.
What is it,
he thought,
that makes the sight so compelling?
There was something almost atavistic in the human response to gold.

Shaking the thought from his head, he climbed out of the excavated square. “Now you must see the pirate camp itself!” Bonterre
said, slipping her arm into his elbow. “For it is stranger yet.”

Hatch followed her toward another section of the dig, a few dozen yards off. It didn’t look like much: the grass and topsoil
had been cleared from an area perhaps a hundred yards square, leaving a brown, hardpacked dirt floor. He could see several
blackened areas of charcoal, where fires had evidently been lit, and numerous circular depressions dug into the soil in no
regular order. Countless tiny plastic flags had been stuck in the ground, each containing a number written in black marker.

“Those round areas were probably tent depressions,” Bonterre said. “Where the workers who built the Water Pit lived. But look
at all the artifacts that were left behind! Each flag marks a discovery, and we have been at work less than two days.” She
led Hatch to the far side of the storage shed, where a large tarp had been laid. She peeled it back, and Hatch looked down
in astonishment. Dozens of artifacts had been laid out in neat rows, each numbered and tagged.

“Two flintlock pistols,” she said, pointing. “Three daggers, two boarding axes, a cutlass, and a blunderbuss. A cask of grapeshot,
and several bags of musket balls. A dozen pieces of eight, several items of silver dinner plate, a back-staff and a dozen
ten-inch ship spikes.”

She looked up. “Never have I found so much, so quickly. And then there’s this.” She picked up a gold coin and handed it to
Hatch. “I do not care how rich you are, you do not lose a doubloon like this.”

Hatch hefted the coin. It was a massive Spanish doubloon, cold and wonderfully heavy. The gold gleamed as brilliantly as if
the coin had been minted a week ago, the heavy Cross of Jerusalem stamped off-center, embracing the lion and castle that symbolized
León and Castile. The inscription
PHILIPPVS+IV+DEI+GRAT
ran around the rim. The gold warmed in his palm as his heart quickened despite himself.

“Now here is another mystery,” said Bonterre. “In the seventeenth century, sailors never buried people with their clothes
on. Because on board ship,
tu sais,
clothes were extremely valuable. But if you did bury them clothed, you would at least search them,
non?
That packet of gold in the boot was worth a fortune to anyone, even a pirate. And then, why did they leave all these other
things behind? Pistols, cutlasses, cannon, spikes—these were the heart’s blood of a pirate. And a backstaff, the very means
of finding your way home? None would leave such things behind willingly.”

At that moment St. John appeared. “Some more bones are appearing, Isobel,” he said, touching her elbow lightly.

“More? In a different grid?
Christophe,
how exciting!”

Hatch followed them back to the site. The workers had cleared the second grid down to bone, and were now feverishly working
on a third. As Hatch looked down at the new excavation, his excitement gave way to unease. Three more skulls were exposed
in the second grid, along with a careless riot of other bones. Turning, he watched the workers in the third grid brush the
damp dirt away with bristled brushes. He saw the cranium of one skull appear; and then another. They continued to work, the
virgin soil yielding up brown: a long bone, then the talus and calcaneus of a heel, pointing skyward as if the corpse had
been placed in the earth facedown.

“Teeth gripping the ground soil,” Hatch murmured.

“What?” St. John started.

“Nothing. A line from the
Iliad.
”

No one buried their dead facedown, at least not respectfully.
A mass grave,
Hatch thought.
The bodies thrown in willy-nilly.
It reminded him of something he had once been called to examine in Central America, peasant victims of a military death squad.

Even Bonterre had fallen silent, her high spirits fading fast. “What could have happened here?” she asked, looking around.

“I don’t know,” Hatch said, a strange, cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“There do not appear to be signs of violence on the bones.”

“Violence sometimes leaves only subtle traces,” Hatch replied. “Or they might have died of disease or starvation. A forensic
examination would help.” He looked back over the grisly sight. Masses of brown bones were now coming to light, the skeletons
stacked three deep in places, sprawled across each other, their tattered bits of rotten leather darkening in the light rain.

“Could you do such an examination?” Bonterre asked.

Hatch stood at the edge of the grave, not answering for a moment. It was nearing the close of day and the light was fading.
In the rain, mist, and growing twilight, against the mournful sound of the distant surf, everything seemed to turn gray and
lifeless, as if the vitality itself was being sucked out of the landscape.

“Yes,” he said after a moment.

There was another long silence.

“What could have happened here?” Bonterre repeated to herself, in a whisper.

A
t dawn the next morning, the senior crew gathered in the pilothouse of the
Griffin.
The atmosphere was far different than the subdued, demoralized atmosphere Hatch remembered after Ken Field’s accident. Today
there was electricity in the air, a kind of pregnant expectation. At one end of the table, Bonterre was talking to Streeter
about transporting the excavation findings to the storage facility, while the team leader listened silently. At the other
end, a remarkably disheveled and unkempt-looking Wopner was whispering animatedly to St. John, punctuating his sentences with
wild hand gestures. As usual, Neidelman was not to be seen, remaining in his private quarters until all had assembled. Hatch
helped himself to a cup of hot coffee and a massive, greasy donut, then settled into a chair next to Rankin.

The door to the cabin opened and Neidelman emerged. As he came up the steps, Hatch could tell instantly that the Captain’s
mood matched that of the rest of the pilothouse. He motioned Hatch to the door of the cabin.

“I want you to have this, Malin,” he said in a low tone, pressing something heavy into Hatch’s hand. With surprise, Hatch
recognized the massive gold doubloon Bonterre had uncovered the day before. He looked at the Captain, mutely questioning.

“It’s not much,” Neidelman said with a slight smile. “The smallest fraction of your eventual share. But it’s the first fruit
of our labors. I wanted you to have it as a token of our thanks. For making such a difficult choice.”

Hatch mumbled his thanks as he slipped the coin into his pocket, feeling unaccountably awkward as he walked back up the steps
and took a seat at the table. Somehow, he felt an aversion to taking the doubloon off the island, as if it would be bad luck
to do so before the rest of the treasure had been found.
Am I growing superstitious, too?
he wondered half-seriously, making a mental note to lock the coin up in the medical hut.

Neidelman strode to the head of the table and contemplated his crew, emanating a remarkable nervous energy. Neidelman looked
impeccable: showered, shaved, dressed in pressed khakis, the skin tight and clean across his bones. His gray eyes looked almost
white in the warm light of the cabin.

“I believe there’s a lot to report this morning,” he said, glancing around the table. “Dr. Magnusen, let’s start with you.”

“The pumps are primed and ready, Captain,” the engineer replied. “We’ve set up additional sensors in some secondary shafts,
as well as inside the cofferdam to monitor water depth during draining.”

Neidelman nodded, his sharp, eager eyes moving down the table. “Mr. Streeter?”

“The cofferdam’s complete. All tests for stability and structural integrity are positive. The grappling hook’s in place, and
the excavating team is standing by on the
Cerberus,
awaiting instructions.”

“Excellent.” Neidelman looked toward the historian and the programmer. “Gentlemen, I believe you have news of a rather different
nature.”

“Indeed we have,” St. John began. “As—”

“Let me handle this, Chris baby,” Wopner said. “We’ve cracked the second code.”

There was an audible intake of breath around the table. Hatch sat forward, his grip on the armrests tightening involuntarily.

“What does it say?” Bonterre blurted out.

Wopner held up his hands. “I said we’d
cracked
it. I didn’t say we’d
deciphered
it. We’ve found some repeating letter sequences, we’ve set up an electronic contact sheet, and we’ve deciphered enough words
that match the first half of the journal to know we’re on track.”

“That is all?” Bonterre slumped back in her chair.

“Whaddya mean, that’s all?” Wopner looked incredulous. “That’s the whole ball of wax! We know what kind of code it is: a polyalphabetic,
using somewhere between five and fifteen cipher alphabets. Once we know the exact number, it’s just a question of letting
the computer do its thing. Using ‘probable word’ analysis, we should know that in a matter of hours.”

“A polyalphabetic cipher,” Hatch repeated. “That was Christopher’s theory all along, wasn’t it?” This elicited a grateful
look from St. John and a dark glare from Wopner.

Neidelman nodded. “And the programs for the ladder array?”

“I’ve tested the simulation on the
Cerberus
computer,” Wopner said, flinging back a lock of limp hair. “Smooth as butter. Of course, the thing isn’t in the Pit yet,”
he added significantly.

“Very well.” Neidelman stood and moved to the arc of window, then turned to face the group. “I don’t think there’s much I
need add. Everything is ready. At ten hundred hours, we will start the pumps and begin draining the Water Pit. Mr. Streeter,
I want you to keep a close watch on the cofferdam. Alert us at the first sign of any problem. Keep
Naiad
and
Grampus
nearby, just in case. Mr. Wopner, you’ll be monitoring the situation from Island One, running final tests on the ladder array.
Dr. Magnusen will direct the overall pumping process from Orthanc.”

He stepped toward the table. “If all goes according to plan, the Pit will be drained by noon tomorrow. The structure will
be monitored closely while it stabilizes. During that afternoon, our crews will remove the largest obstructions from the Pit
and insert the ladder array. And the following morning, we’ll make our first descent.”

His voice dropped, and his eyes moved from person to person. “I don’t need to remind you that, even free of water, the Pit
will remain a highly dangerous place. In fact, removing the water places a much greater load on its wooden members. Until
we’ve braced it with titanium struts, there could still be cave-ins or collapses. A small team will be inserted to make initial
observations and place piezoelectric stress sensors on the critical wooden beams. Once the sensors are in place, Kerry here
will calibrate them remotely from Island One. If there is any sudden increase in stress—signaling a possible collapse—these
sensors will give us an early warning. The sensors will be remotely linked with the network via RF, so we’ll have instantaneous
response. Once they’re in place, we can insert teams to begin a formal mapping process.”

Neidelman placed his hands on the table. “I’ve thought carefully about the composition of this first team, but in the end
there’s really no question about who has to go. There will be three people: Dr. Bonterre, Dr. Hatch, and myself. Dr. Bonterre’s
expertise in archaeology, soil analysis, and pirate construction will be vital in this first look at the Pit. Dr. Hatch must
accompany us in case any unforeseen medical emergencies arise. And as for the third position on the team, I’m claiming Captain’s
privilege.” A glint sparkled briefly in his eyes.

“I know that most, if not all of you, are anxious to see what awaits us. I fully understand. And let me assure you that, in
the days to come, every one of you will get the chance to become familiar—no doubt all too familiar—with Macallan’s creation.”