Hatch was almost surprised to find himself shouting with the rest, hugging technicians he barely knew, cavorting over proof— at last—of all that gold lying beneath them. Yet he realized this was a kind of release everyone desperately needed. It's not about the gold, he thought to himself. It's about not letting this damned island defeat us.
The cheering faltered as Captain Neidelman strode quickly into Base Camp. He looked around, his tired eyes cold and gray.
"What the hell is going on here?" he said in a voice tight with suppressed rage.
"Captain!" Rankin said. "There's gold, fifty feet below the bottom of the shaft. At least fifteen tons!"
"Of course there is," the Captain snapped. "Did you all think we were digging for our health?" He looked around in the sudden hush. "This isn't a nursery school field trip. We're doing serious business here, and you are all to treat it as such." He glanced in the direction of the historian. "Dr. St. John, have you finished your analysis?"
St. John nodded.
"Then let's get it loaded into the Cerberus computer. The rest of you should remember that we're on a critically tight schedule. Now get back to work."
He turned and strode down the hill toward the boat dock, St. John at his heels, scurrying to keep up.
Chapter 36
The following day was Saturday, but there was little rest on Ragged Island. Hatch, uncharacteristically oversleeping, dashed out the door of 5 Ocean Lane and hurried down the front walk, stopping only to grab Friday's neglected mail from the box before heading for the pier.
Heading out through Old Hump Channel, he frowned at the lead-gray sky. There was talk on the radio of an atmospheric disturbance forming over the Grand Banks. And it was already August 28, just days away from his self-imposed deadline; from now on, the weather could only get worse.
The accumulated equipment failures and computer problems had put work seriously behind schedule, and the recent rash of illnesses and accidents among the crew only added to the delays: when Hatch showed up at the medical office around quarter to ten, two people were already waiting to see him. One had developed an unusual bacterial infection of the teeth; it would take blood work to determine exactly what kind. The other, alarmingly, had come down with viral pneumonia.
As Hatch arranged transportation to a mainland hospital for the second patient and prepared blood work on the first for testing on the Cerberus, a third showed up; a ventilation pump operator who had lacerated his shin on a servo motor. It wasn't until almost noon that Hatch had time to boot up his computer, access the Internet, and e-mail his friend the marquesa in Cadiz.
Sketching out the background in two or three brief paragraphs, he attached transcripts of a few of his grandfather's most obscure documents, asking her to search for any additional material on St. Michael's Sword she could find.
He signed off, then turned to the small packet he'd grabbed from his mailbox that morning: the September issue of JAMA; a flyer advertising a spaghetti dinner at the firehouse; the latest issue of the Gazette; a small cream-colored envelope, without name or stamp.
He opened the envelope and recognized the handwriting instantly.
Dear Malin, I don't quite know how to say these things to you, and sometimes I'm not so good at expressing myself, so I will just write them as plainly as I can.
I've decided to leave Clay. It's something I can't avoid any longer. I don't want to stay here, growing more bitter and resentful. That would be wrong for both of us. I'll tell him after the protest ends. Maybe then it will be a little easier for him to take. No matter what, it's going to hurt him terribly. But I know it's the right thing to do.
I also know that you and I are not for each other. I have some wonderful memories, and I hope you do, too. But this thing we almost started is a way of clinging to that past. It will end up hurting us both.
What almost happened at Squeaker's Glen—what I almost allowed to happen—scared me. But it also clarified a lot of vague ideas, feelings, that had been knocking around in my head. So I thank you for that.
I guess I owe you an explanation of what I plan to do. I'm going to New York. I called an old friend from the Community College who runs a small architectural firm down there. She offered me a secretarial job and promised to train me in drafting. It's a new start in a city I've always longed to see.
Please do not answer this letter or try to change my mind. Let's not spoil the past by something stupid we might do in the present.
Love, Claire
The interisland telephone rang. Moving slowly, as if in a dream, Hatch picked up the receiver.
"It's Streeter," came the brusque voice.
"What?" said Hatch, still in shock.
"The Captain wants to see you in Orthanc. Right away."
"Tell him I'll—" Hatch began. But Streeter had hung up and there was nothing, not even a dial tone, on the line.
Chapter 37
Hatch stepped over the last series of ramps and bridges to the base of Orthanc. The newly installed ventilation housing rose up above the Pit: three massive ducts that sucked foul air out of the depths and ejected it skyward, where it condensed into great plumes of fog. Light from the Pit itself spilled into the surrounding fog.
Stepping forward, Hatch grasped the ladder, then climbed to the observation railing that circled Orthanc's control tower.
Neidelman was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the tower was empty of anyone except Magnusen, scanning the sensor arrays that monitored the loads on the timbers in the Pit. The sensors were banked in rows of green lights. Any increase in strain on one of the timbers, the slightest shifting of a brace, and the appropriate light would turn red to the shrill sound of an alarm. As the bracing and buttressing had continued, the alarms had steadily decreased in frequency. Even the bugs that perpetually plagued the island's computer systems had, in this case, seemingly been ironed out. The complex placement of sensors that had its beginning in Wopner's last hours was now complete.
Hatch moved to the center of the room and gazed through the glass porthole into the Pit below. There were numerous side tunnels and shafts that were still extremely dangerous, but they had been marked with yellow tape and were off limits to all but the remote mapping teams.
A gust of wind blew the plumes of fog away from the Pit's mouth, and the view cleared. The ladder array plunged downward, three gleaming rails from which numerous platforms branched. Radiating out from the array was an extraordinary pattern of titanium struts. The visual effect was breathtaking: the polished struts, struck by countless lights, threw sprays of light around the mossy shaft, reflecting and re-reflecting the welter of titanium, stretching down into infinity.
There was a complex pattern to the struts. That morning, Neidelman's crew had been hard at work replacing the missing members of Macallan's original bracing with additional titanium members, following St. John's specifications. Other struts had been added, based on the results of a computer model run on the Cerberus computer. They might be ready to begin digging the final fifty feet to the treasure chamber by the end of the day.
As he stared into the brilliant depths, still struggling with the reality of Claire's letter, Hatch noticed movement: it was Neidelman, ascending in the mechanical lift. Bonterre stood beside him, hugging herself as if chilled. The sodium-vapor lights of the Pit turned the Captains sandy hair to gold.
Hatch wondered why the Captain wanted to meet him there. Maybe he's got a canker sore, he thought bitterly. Actually, he wouldn't be surprised if it did turn out to be health-related. He'd never seen a man work so hard, or go so long without sleep, as had Neidelman during these last days.