Riptide

'I'm not trying to cheat you out of your treasure. I don't give a shit about your treasure. My only interest is in the safety of the crew.'

'The safety of the crew,' Neidelman repeated derisively. He fished a box of matches from his pocket, removed one, and scratched it into life. But instead of lighting his pipe, he suddenly thrust it close to Hatch's face. Hatch backed off slightly.

'I want you to understand something,' Neidelman continued, flicking out the match. 'In thirty hours, the treasure will be mine. Now that I know what your game is, Hatch, I'm simply not going to play. Any effort to stop me will be met with force. Do I make myself clear?'

Hatch looked carefully at Neidelman, trying to read what was going on behind the cold expression. 'Force?' he repeated. 'Is that a threat?'

There was a long silence. 'That would be a reasonable interpretation,' said Neidelman, dropping his voice even lower.

Hatch drew himself up. 'When the sun rises tomorrow,' he said, 'if you're not gone from this island, you will be evicted. And I give you my personal guarantee that if anyone is killed or hurt, you will be charged with negligent homicide.'

Neidelman turned. 'Mr. Streeter?'

Streeter stepped forward.

'Escort Dr. Hatch to the dock.'

Streeter's narrow features creased into a smile.

'You have no right to do this,' Hatch said. 'This is my island.'

Streeter stepped forward and grasped Hatch's arm.

Taking a step to the side, Hatch balled his right hand into a fist and shot his knuckles into the man's solar plexus. It was not a hard blow, but it was placed with anatomical exactness. Streeter dropped to his knees, mouth gaping, the wind knocked out of him.

'Touch me again,' Hatch said to the gasping figure, 'and you'll be carrying your balls around in a cup.'

Streeter struggled to his feet, violence in his eyes.

'Mr. Streeter, I don't think force will be necessary,' said Neidelman sharply, as the team leader moved forward menacingly. 'Dr. Hatch will return to his boat peaceably. He realizes there is absolutely nothing he can do here to stop us, now that we've smoked out his plan. And I think he realizes how foolish it would be to try.'

He turned back to Hatch. 'I'm a fair man. You took your best shot, and you failed. Your presence is no longer required on Ragged Island. If you leave, and allow me to finish as we agreed, you'll still get your share of the treasure. But if you try to stop me...' Silently, he swept his hands back and placed them on his hips, pulling his slicker aside in the process. Hatch could clearly see the handgun snugged into his belt.

'Well, what do you know,' Hatch said. 'The Captain's strapped.'

'Get going,' said Streeter, stepping forward.

'I can find my own way.' Hatch backed up to the far wall, and then—without taking his eyes off the Captain— he climbed out of the excavation to the base of the array, where the lift was already depositing the first diggers of the next shift.

Chapter 41

The rising sun tore free of a distant bar of cloud and cast a brilliant trail across the ocean, illuminating a crowd of boats packing Stormhaven's small harbor from channel entrance to piers.

Chugging slowly through a gap in the center of the crowd was a small dragger, Woody Clay standing at its wheel. The boat veered and almost brushed the peppercan buoy at the head of the channel before steadying and resuming its outward course; Clay was an indifferent sailor.

Reaching the harbor entrance, he turned the boat and cut the motor. Raising a battered megaphone, he shouted instructions to the surrounding crowd, his voice full of such conviction that even the ancient, buzzing amplification could not distort it. He was answered by a series of coughs and roars as numerous engines came to life. The boats at the front of the harbor cast off their moorings, pulled through the channel, and throttled up. They were followed by more, then still more, until the bay filled with long spreading wakes of the fleet as it headed in the direction of Ragged Island.

Three hours later and six miles to the southeast, the light struggled down through the mist into the vast, damp labyrinth of braces and cribbing that made up the Water Pit. It threw a dim, spectral illumination over the complex workings that filled the Pit's mouth.

At the lowest depths of the Pit, 180 feet down, neither day nor night had any relevance. Gerard Neidelman stood beside a small staging platform, watching the crew dig feverishly beneath him. It was a few minutes short of noon. Faintly, above the grumble of the air ducts and the clank of the winch chain, Neidelman could just make out a clamor of air horns and boat cannon on the surface.

He listened for a moment. Then he reached for his portable telephone.

'Streeter?'

'Here, Captain,' came the voice from Orthanc, 200 feet above, faint and gravelly through a wash of static.

'Let's have your report.'

'About two dozen boats in all, Captain. They've formed a ring around the Cerberus, trying to set up a blockade. Guess they think that's where everyone is.' There was a further crackle of static that might have been a laugh. 'Only Rogerson's on board to hear them. I sent the rest of the research team ashore last night.'

'Any signs of sabotage or interference?'