Riptide (53 page)

Decorating the ricasso, grip rings, and counterguard were a dazzling array of sapphires in a rainbow of colors—blacks, oranges,
midnight blues, whites, greens, pinks, and yellows, every one a perfect double star. Once again, never had he seen such rich,
deep colors. Not in his most febrile dreams had he imagined such gemstones. Each was utterly unique, each would command any
price on the market. But to have them all set together in such a singular piece of Byzantine goldwork was inconceivable. Such
an object had never existed in the world, nor could it exist again; it was without peer.

With an absolute clarity of mind, Neidelman could see that his vision of the sword had not been misplaced. If anything, he
had underestimated its power. This was an artifact that could change the world.

Now, at last, the moment had come. The hilt and the scabbard were extraordinary: the blade itself must be beyond conception.
Grasping the hilt in his right hand, and the scabbard in his left, he began to draw out the sword with exquisite slowness.

The flood of intense pleasure changed first to perplexity, then shock, then wonderment. What emerged from the scabbard was
a pitted, flattened, deformed piece of metal. It was scaly and mottled, oxidized to a strange, purplish-black color, with
inclusions of some white substance. He drew it to its length and held it upright, gazing at the misshapen blade—indeed, the
word “blade” hardly described it at all. He wondered, remotely, what it could mean. Over the years his mind had imagined this
moment a hundred, even a thousand, times. Each time, the sword had looked different.

But never had it looked like this.

He reached out and stroked the rough metal, wondering at its curious warmth. Perhaps the sword had been caught in a fire and
melted, then refitted with a new hilt. But what kind of fire would do this? And what kind of metal was it? Not iron—it would
have rusted orange—and not silver, which turned black when oxidized. Neither platinum nor gold oxidized at all. And it was
far, far too heavy to be tin or any of the baser metals.

What metal oxidized purple?

He turned the sword again, and passed it through the air, and as he did so he recalled the Christian legend of the archangel
St. Michael.

An idea formed within him.

Several times, late at night, he had dreamed the sword buried at the base of the Water Pit was, quite literally, the sword
of legend: the sword of St. Michael himself, conqueror of Satan. In the dream, when he gazed upon the sword, he’d suffered
a blinding conversion, like St. Paul on the road to Damascus. He had taken a curious kind of comfort in the fact that his
rich imagination always faltered at this point. Nothing he could conceive was extraordinary enough to justify the veneration
and dread that filled the ancient documents mentioning the sword.

But if St. Michael—the Archangel of the Sword—
had
fought Satan, his weapon would have been scorched and melted in the course of battle. Such a sword would be unlike any other.

As was the thing he now held in his hands.

He gazed at it anew, wonder and fear and uncertainty mingling within him. If this
was
such a sword—and what other explanation could there be?—then it was evidence, it was proof, of another world; of something
beyond the material. The resurrection of such a sword would be a spectacular event.

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 sick-eningly,
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. Nei-delman 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.

T
he 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 Captain’s 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.

“Don’t touch him,” he said, twitching the pistol warningly. “We’re going in there.”

Bonterre looked over. The bridge from the ladder array to the Wopner tunnel was trembling. As she stared, there came another
violent shudder. The emergency lighting went out and the web of struts plunged into darkness.

“Move it,” Streeter hissed in her ear.

Then he stopped. Even in the darkness, Bonterre could feel him tense.

Then she saw it, too: a faint light below them, rising quickly up the ladder.

“Captain Neidelman?” Streeter called down. There was no answer.

“Is that you, Captain?” he called again, louder, trying to make his voice heard over the thundering roar welling up from below.

The light kept coming. Now Bonterre could see it was pointed downward, its brightness obscuring the climbing figure.

“You down there!” Streeter called. “Show your face or I’ll shoot!”

A muffled voice came up, faint and unintelligible.

“Captain?”

The light came closer, perhaps twenty feet below now. Then it snapped off.

“Christ,” Streeter said again, bracing himself against the shaking platform, planting his legs apart and aiming downward, both
hands on the gun. “Whoever it is,” he roared “I’m going to—”

But even as he spoke there was a sudden rush from the other side of the platform. Taken by surprise, Streeter spun around
and fired, and in the flare of the muzzle Bonterre could see Hatch, slamming his fist into Streeter’s gut.

Hatch followed the blow to Streeter’s abdomen with a straight-arm to the jaw. Streeter staggered backward on the metal platform
and Hatch came quickly after, catching a handful of Streeter’s shirt and spinning him around. Streeter began to twist from
Hatch’s grip and Hatch pulled him forward, punching him twice, hard, in the face. On the second blow, there was a low crunching
noise as Streeter’s sinuses gave way with a splatter of mucus and hot, thick blood.