Neidelman strode to the head of the table and contemplated his crew, emanating a remarkable nervous energy. Neidelman looked impeccable: showered, shaved, dressed in pressed khakis, the skin tight and clean across his bones. His gray eyes looked almost white in the warm light of the cabin.
"I believe there's a lot to report this morning," he said, glancing around the table. "Dr. Magnusen, let's start with you."
"The pumps are primed and ready, Captain," the engineer replied. "We've set up additional sensors in some secondary shafts, as well as inside the cofferdam to monitor water depth during draining."
Neidelman nodded, his sharp, eager eyes moving down the table. "Mr. Streeter?"
"The cofferdam's complete. All tests for stability and structural integrity are positive. The grappling hook's in place, and the excavating team is standing by on the Cerberus, awaiting instructions."
"Excellent." Neidelman looked toward the historian and the programmer. "Gentlemen, I believe you have news of a rather different nature."
"Indeed we have," St. John began. "As—"
"Let me handle this, Chris baby," Wopner said. "We've cracked the second code."
There was an audible intake of breath around the table. Hatch sat forward, his grip on the armrests tightening involuntarily.
"What does it say?" Bonterre blurted out.
Wopner held up his hands. "I said we'd cracked it. I didn't say we'd deciphered it. We've found some repeating letter sequences, we've set up an electronic contact sheet, and we've deciphered enough words that match the first half of the journal to know we're on track."
"That is all?" Bonterre slumped back in her chair.
"Whaddya mean, that's all?" Wopner looked incredulous. "That's the whole ball of wax! We know what kind of code it is: a polyalphabetic, using somewhere between five and fifteen cipher alphabets. Once we know the exact number, it's just a question of letting the computer do its thing. Using 'probable word' analysis, we should know that in a matter of hours."
"A polyalphabetic cipher," Hatch repeated. "That was Christopher's theory all along, wasn't it?" This elicited a grateful look from St. John and a dark glare from Wopner.
Neidelman nodded. "And the programs for the ladder array?"
"I've tested the simulation on the Cerberus computer," Wopner said, flinging back a lock of limp hair. "Smooth as butter. Of course, the thing isn't in the Pit yet," he added significantly.
"Very well." Neidelman stood and moved to the arc of window, then turned to face the group. "I don't think there's much I need add. Everything is ready. At ten hundred hours, we will start the pumps and begin draining the Water Pit. Mr. Streeter, I want you to keep a close watch on the cofferdam. Alert us at the first sign of any problem. Keep Naiad and Grampus nearby, just in case. Mr. Wopner, you'll be monitoring the situation from Island One, running final tests on the ladder array. Dr. Magnusen will direct the overall pumping process from Orthanc."
He stepped toward the table. "If all goes according to plan, the Pit will be drained by noon tomorrow. The structure will be monitored closely while it stabilizes. During that afternoon, our crews will remove the largest obstructions from the Pit and insert the ladder array. And the following morning, we'll make our first descent."
His voice dropped, and his eyes moved from person to person. "I don't need to remind you that, even free of water, the Pit will remain a highly dangerous place. In fact, removing the water places a much greater load on its wooden members. Until we've braced it with titanium struts, there could still be cave-ins or collapses. A small team will be inserted to make initial observations and place piezoelectric stress sensors on the critical wooden beams. Once the sensors are in place, Kerry here will calibrate them remotely from Island One. If there is any sudden increase in stress—signaling a possible collapse—these sensors will give us an early warning. The sensors will be remotely linked with the network via RF, so we'll have instantaneous response. Once they're in place, we can insert teams to begin a formal mapping process."
Neidelman placed his hands on the table. "I've thought carefully about the composition of this first team, but in the end there's really no question about who has to go. There will be three people: Dr. Bonterre, Dr. Hatch, and myself. Dr. Bonterre's expertise in archaeology, soil analysis, and pirate construction will be vital in this first look at the Pit. Dr. Hatch must accompany us in case any unforeseen medical emergencies arise. And as for the third position on the team, I'm claiming Captain's privilege." A glint sparkled briefly in his eyes.
"I know that most, if not all of you, are anxious to see what awaits us. I fully understand. And let me assure you that, in the days to come, every one of you will get the chance to become familiar—no doubt all too familiar—with Macallan's creation."
He straightened up. "Any questions?"
The pilothouse was still.
The Captain nodded. "In that case, gentlemen, let's take care of business."
Chapter 27
The following afternoon, Hatch left the island in fine high spirits. The pumps had been chugging in tandem all the previous day and on into the night, sucking millions of gallons of brown seawater out of the Pit, piping it across the island, and dumping it back into the ocean. Finally, after thirty hours, the uptake hoses had struck silt at the bottom of the Water Pit, one hundred forty feet down.
Hatch had waited tensely in his medical office, but by five he'd received word that high tide had come and gone without any apparent seepage of seawater into the Pit. There had been an anxious watch as the massive timbering groaned, creaked, and settled under its heavier burden. Seismographic sensors registered some small cave-ins, but they were in adjoining side tunnels and pits, not the main shaft. After a few hours the major settling seemed to cease. The cofferdam had held. Now, a crew was at work with a magnetized grappling hook, clearing out debris that had fallen into the Water Pit over the centuries and snagged on various crossbeams and timbers.
After mooring his boat in Stormhaven, Hatch stopped by the Co-op to pick up a salmon fillet. Then, on impulse, he drove the eight miles down the coast to Southport. Driving along Route 1A, the old coastal highway, he could see a line of sullen lightning flicker jaggedly across forty degrees of sea horizon, pale yellow against the blues and pinks of the evening. A massive thunderhead had reared up beyond Monhegan Island far to the south, rising to thirty thousand feet, its steel-colored interior glinting with internal electricity: a typical summer storm, promising a heavy rain and perhaps a few bolts, but without the virulence to blow up a dangerous sea.
Southport's grocery, though poorly stocked by Cambridge standards, carried a number of things not found in Bud's Superette. As he got out of his Jaguar, Hatch made a quick scan of the street: it wouldn't do for anyone to recognize him and report the treasonous act to Bud. He smiled to himself, thinking how alien this small-town logic would seem to a Bostonian.
Arriving home, Hatch made a pot of coffee and poached the salmon with lemon, dill, and asparagus, then whipped up a sauce of curried horseradish mayonnaise. Most of the dining room table was covered with a large green canvas, and he cleared a space at the far end and sat down with his dinner and the Stormhaven Gazette. He was partly pleased, and partly disappointed, to see that the Ragged Island dig had been relegated to second page. Pride of place on the front page went to the Lobster Bake, and to the moose that had wandered into the storage lot behind Kai Estenson's hardware store, run amok, and been tranquilized by game officials. The article on the dig mentioned "excellent progress, despite a few unanticipated setbacks," and went on to say that the man wounded in the prior week's accident was resting comfortably at home. As Hatch had requested, his own name did not appear.