Riptide

Then, slowly, Hatch saw the smudge separate into two, then three, then six distinct shapes. He waited in disbelief as a veritable invasion fleet approached the tiny island. A huge sea barge steamed toward him, its dark red underbelly revealed as bow waves pulled back across the waterline. In its wake labored a tug, its bow-net mossy and glistening, a hundred-ton floating crane towed behind. Next came a brace of powerboats, sleek and muscular- looking, bristling with electronics. A supply boat followed, heavy with cargo and low in the water. From its masthead flew a small flag of white and red. Hatch noticed that the design on the flag matched the insignia he'd seen on Neidelman's portfolio cover, just days before.

Last came an elegant vessel, large and fantastically equipped. The name CERBERUS was stenciled on its bows in blue letters. Hatch gazed in awe over the gleaming superstructure, the harpoon gun on the foredeck, the smoked-glass portholes. Fifteen-thousand tonner, minimum, he thought.

In a kind of silent ballet, the vessels nosed up to the Griffin. The larger ships came to a stop on the far side of the fireboat, while the smaller craft came to rest beside the Plain Jane. There was a rattling of chains and singing of hawsers as anchors ran out. Gazing at the powerboats straddling his port and starboard sides, Hatch could see the occupants staring back. A few smiled and nodded. In the closest boat, Hatch noticed a man with iron-gray hair and a plump white face looking at him with an expression of polite interest. He wore a bulky orange life preserver over a carefully buttoned suit. Next to him lounged a young man with long greasy hair and a goatee, dressed in Bermuda shorts and a flowered shirt. He was eating something out of a white paper wrapper, and he gazed back at Hatch with a kind of insolent disinterest.

The last engine was cut, and a strange, almost spectral silence fell over the gathering. Hatch looked from boat to boat, and noticed that everyone's eyes were gravitating toward the empty deck of the fireboat in the center.

A minute passed, then two. At last a door in the side of the pilothouse opened and Captain Neidelman emerged. Silently, he walked to the edge of the railing and stood, ramrod-straight, gazing out at the company that surrounded him. The setting sun gave a burgundy cast to his sunburned face, and kindled his fair, thinning hair into gold. It was amazing, Hatch thought, how his slender presence projected out over the water and the circle of boats. As the silence gathered, another man, small and wiry, stepped unobtrusively out of the door behind Neidelman and remained standing in the background, hands folded.

For a long moment, Neidelman remained silent. At last he started to speak, in a voice that was low, almost reverent, yet carried easily over the water.

'We live in an era,' Neidelman began, 'when the unknown is known, and most of earth's mysteries have been solved. We have gone to the North Pole, scaled Everest, flown to the Moon. We have broken the bonds of the atom and mapped the abyssal plains of the oceans. Those who tackled these mysteries often endangered their lives, squandered their fortunes, and risked everything they held dear. A great mystery can only be solved at a high price—sometimes the highest price.'

He gestured in the direction of the island. 'Here—a mere hundred yards away—lies one of those great riddles, perhaps the greatest still left in North America. Look at it. It looks like nothing, a hole in a patch of dirt and rock. And yet this hole—this Water Pit—has sucked the living marrow from the bones of everyone who tried to plumb its secrets. Many millions of dollars have been spent. Lives have been ruined and even lost. There are those among us today that have felt firsthand just how sharp the teeth of the Water Pit can be.'

Neidelman looked around at the company, gathered on the assembled boats. His eyes met Hatch's. Then he began again.

'Other enigmas of the past—the monoliths of Sacsahuaman, Easter Island's statues, the standing stones of Britain—cloak their meaning in mystery. Not so the Water Pit. Its location, its purpose, even its history is known. It lies here before us, a brazen oracle, daring to take on all comers.'

He paused another moment. 'By 1696 Edward Ockham had become the most feared pirate cruising the high seas. The ships in his treasure fleet were swollen with accumulated loot, sluggish, low in the water. The next storm, even an unlucky meeting with a man-of-war, could deal his fleet a mortal blow. He had held off hiding his treasure and he was now desperate. A chance encounter with a certain architect provided the answer.'

Neidelman leaned on the rail, the wind stirring his hair. 'Ockham seized that architect and charged him with designing a pit to house the treasure. A pit so fearfully impregnable that it would stymie even the most well- equipped treasure hunter. Everything went according to plan. The pit was built, the treasure stored. And then, as the pirate set out for another round of murder and depredation, providence struck. Red Ned Ockham died. Since that day, his treasure has slumbered at the bottom of the Water Pit, waiting for the time when technology and human resolve would finally bring it once again into the world.'

Neidelman took a deep breath. 'Despite the enormous value of this treasure, the best efforts of one man after another have failed to pluck anything of value from the pit. Anything but this!' And suddenly the Captain held his arm aloft, something gripped between his fingers. The light of the setting sun winked and played so dazzlingly across it that his fingertips seemed to burn. Murmurs of wonder and surprise rippled across the company.

Hatch leaned over the railing to get a better look. My God, he thought, that must be the gold cored up by the Gold Seekers drill over a hundred years ago.

Neidelman held the curl of gold over his head, motionless, for what seemed a long time. Then he spoke again. 'There are some who say there is no treasure at the bottom of the Water Pit. To those doubters, I say: Gaze upon this.'

As the dying sun lit water and vessel a dusky rose, he turned to face the forward windows of the Griffin's pilothouse. Picking up a small hammer, he placed the piece of gold against the roofline of the pilothouse and, with a single blow, drove it against the wood with a nail. He stepped away to face the company once again, the gold glittering from the superstructure.

'Today,' he said, 'the rest of Ockham's treasure remains at the bottom of the pit, unvexed by sun or rain, undisturbed for three hundred years. But tomorrow marks the beginning of the end of that long rest. Because the key that was lost has been found again. And before the summer is over, the treasure will sleep no longer.'

He paused to survey the crowd of vessels. 'There is much to do. We must remove the litter of past failure and make the island safe again. We must determine the location of the original pit. We must then find and seal the hidden underwater channel that allows seawater to enter. We must pump the existing water from the shaft, and secure it for the excavation of the treasure chamber. The challenge is vast. But we come equipped with technology more than adequate to handle the challenge. We're dealing with perhaps the most ingenious creation of the seventeenth-century mind. But the Water Pit is no match for twentieth-century tools. With the help of all who are assembled here today, we will make this the greatest—and most famous—salvage in history.'

A cheer began to break out, but Neidelman silenced it with an open hand. 'We have among us today Dr. Malin Hatch. It is through his generosity this endeavor was allowed to proceed. And he, more than anyone, knows that we're here today for more than just gold. We're here for history. We're here for knowledge. And we're here to make sure that—at long, long last—the ultimate sacrifices of those brave souls who came before us will not have been in