"The carbon 14 tests were completed at the Cerberus's lab early this morning," Neidelman said. "Those are the results." He tapped his finger on the highlighted date.
Hatch took another look, then handed back the paper. "So what's it mean?"
"This is it," Neidelman said quietly.
There was a momentary silence. "The Water Pit?" Hatch heard the disbelief in his own voice.
Neidelman nodded. "The original. The wood used for the cribbing of this shaft was cut around 1690. All the other shafts date between 1800 and 1930. There can be no question. This is the Water Pit designed by Macallan and built by Ockham's crew." He pointed to another, smaller hole about thirty yards away. "And unless I'm mistaken, that's the Boston Shaft, dug 150 years later. You can tell because of its gradual incline, after the initial drop."
"But you found the real Water Pit so quickly!" said Hatch, amazed. "Why didn't anyone else think of carbon dating?"
"The last person to dig on the island was your grandfather in the late forties. Carbon dating wasn't invented until the next decade. Just one of the many technological advantages we'll be bringing to bear in the coming days." He waved his hand over the Pit. "We'll begin construction of Orthanc this afternoon. Its components are already down at the supplies dock, waiting for reassembly."
Hatch frowned. "Orthanc?"
Neidelman laughed. "It's something we created for a salvage job in Corfu last year. A glass-floored observation post built atop a large derrick. Somebody on last year's team was a Tolkien fanatic, and the nickname stuck. It's fitted with winches and remote sensing gear. We'll be able to look right down the throat of the beast, literally and electronically."
"And what's this hose for?" Hatch asked, nodding toward the pit.
"This morning's dye test. That hose is connected to a series of pumps on the west shore." Neidelman glanced at his watch. "In an hour or so, when the tide reaches the flood, we'll start pumping 10,000 gallons of seawater per minute through this hose into the Water Pit. Once a good flow is established, we'll drop a special, high-intensity dye. With the tide ebbing, the pumps will help push the dye down into Macallan's hidden flood tunnel, and back out to the ocean. Since we don't know which side of the island the dye will emerge on, we'll use both the Naiad and the Grampus, spotting on opposite sides of the island. All we have to do is keep an eye out for the place where the dye appears offshore, send divers to the spot, and seal the tunnel with explosives. With the seawater blocked, we can pump out the water and drain all the works. Macallan's pit will be defanged. By this time on Friday, you and I will be able to climb down in there with nothing more than a slicker and a pair of Wellingtons. Then we can make the final excavation of the treasure at our leisure."
Hatch opened his mouth, then shut it again with a shake of his head.
"What?" Neidelman said, an amused smile on his face, his pale eyes glittering gold in the rising sun.
"I don't know. Things are moving so fast, that's all."
Neidelman drew a deep breath and looked around at the workings spread across the island. "You said it yourself," he replied after a moment. "We don't have much time."
They stood for a moment in silence.
"We'd better get back," Neidelman said at last. "I've asked the Naiad to come pick you up. You'll be able to watch the dye test from its deck." The two men turned and headed back toward Base Camp.
"You've assembled a good crew," Hatch said, glancing down at the figures below them on the supply dock, moving in ordered precision.
"Yes," Neidelman murmured. "Eccentric, difficult at times, but all good people. I don't surround myself with yes-men—it's too dangerous in this business."
"That fellow Wopner is certainly a strange one. Reminds me of an obnoxious thirteen-year-old. Or some surgeons I've known. Is he really as good as he thinks he is?"
Neidelman smiled. "Remember that scandal in 1992, when every retiree in a certain Brooklyn zip code got two extra zeros added to the end of their social security checks?"
"Vaguely."
"That was Kerry. Did three years in Allenwood as a result. But he's kind of sensitive about it, so avoid any jailbird jokes."
Hatch whistled. "Jesus."
"And he's as good a cryptanalyst as he is a hacker. If it wasn't for those on-line role-playing games he refuses to abandon, he'd be a perfect worker. Don't let his personality throw you. He's a good man."
They were approaching Base Camp, and as if on cue Hatch could hear Wopner's querulous voice floating out of Island One. "You woke me up because you had a feeling? I ran that program a hundred times on Scylla and it was perfect. Perfect. A simple program for simple people. All it does is run those stupid pumps."
Magnusen's answer was lost in the rumble of the Naiad's engine as it slid into the slip at the end of the dock. Hatch ran to get his medical kit, then jumped aboard the powerful twin-engine outboard. Beyond lay its sister, the Grampus, waiting to pick up Neidelman and assume its position on the far side of the island.
Hatch was sorry to see Streeter at the helm of the Naiad, expressionless and severe as a granite bust. He nodded and flashed what he hoped was a friendly smile, getting a curt nod in return. Hatch wondered briefly if he had made an enemy, then dismissed the thought. Streeter seemed like a professional; that was what counted. If he was still sore about what happened during the emergency, it was his problem.
Forward, in the half-cabin, two divers were checking their gear. The dye would not stay on the surface for long, and they'd have to act quickly to find the underwater flood tunnel. The geologist, Rankin, was standing beside Streeter. On seeing Hatch he grinned and strode over, crushing Hatch's hand in a great hairy paw.
"Hey, Dr. Hatch!" he said, white teeth flashing through an enormous beard, his long brown hair plaited behind. "Man, this is one fascinating island you've got."
Hatch had already heard several variants of this remark from other Thalassa employees. "Well, I guess that's why we're all here," he answered with a smile.
"No, no. I mean geologically."
"Really? I always thought it was like the others, just a big granite rock in the ocean."
Rankin dug into a pocket of his rain vest and pulled out what looked like a handful of granola. "Hell, no." He munched. "Granite? It's biotite schist, highly metamorphosed, checked, and faulted to an incredible degree. And with a drumlin on top. Wild, man, just wild."
"Drumlin?"
"A really weird kind of glacial hill, pointed at one side and tapered at the other. No one knows how they form, but if I didn't know better I'd say—"
"Divers, get ready," came Neidelman's voice over the radio. "All stations, check in, by the numbers."
"Monitoring station, roger," squawked the voice of Magnusen.
"Computer station, roger," said Wopner, sounding bored and annoyed even over the radio.
"Spotter alpha, roger."
"Spotter beta, roger."
"Spotter gamma, roger."
"Naiad, roger," Streeter spoke into the radio.
"Grampus affirms," came Neidelman's voice. "Proceed to position."
As the Naiad picked up speed beneath him, Hatch checked his watch: 8:20. The tide would turn shortly. As he stowed his medical kit, the two divers came out of the cabin, laughing at some private joke. One was a man, tall and slender, with a black mustache. He wore a wetsuit of thin neoprene so tight it left no anatomical feature to the imagination.
The other, a woman, turned and saw Hatch. A playful smile appeared on her lips. "Ah! You are the mysterious doctor?"
"I didn't know I was mysterious," said Hatch.
"But this is the dreaded Island of Dr. Hatch, non?" she said pointing, with a peal of laughter. "I hope you will not be hurt if I avoid your services."