Free Riptide by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page A

And his Jaguar was
     parked, as discreetly as possible, in the vacant lot behind the old Coast to Coast hardware store.
    Before checking out of the hotel in Southport the day before, he’d received a note from Neidelman: a single sentence, asking
     him to rendezvous off Ragged Island at sunset this evening. That gave Hatch an entire day to himself. At first, he’d been
     afraid this meant a day alone with his memories. He’d thought of dragging out the watercolors he dabbled with on weekends
     and hazarding a sketch of the shoreline. But the intention fell away unpursued. Somehow, here on the water, he felt a torpid
     kind of peace. He had come home to Stormhaven. He’d even approached Ragged Island. He had gazed upon the beast and survived.
    He checked his watch: almost 7:30. Time to get started.
    He cranked the engine and was pleased to hear the big diesel turn over obediently. The deep vibration underfoot, the
blub-blub
of exhaust fumes, was like a siren song out of the past, at once sweet and painful. He put the boat in gear with a thrust
     of his hand and pointed the big bow in the direction of Ragged Island.
    The day was clear, and as the boat cut through the water Hatch watched its shadow flitting on ahead of him, draped across
     the water by the afternoon sun. The ocean was deserted except for a lone lobster boat, hauling traps off the coast of Hermit
     Island. He had come on deck a few times during the day to scan the horizon, half-expecting to see activity of some sort in
     the direction of Ragged Island. Seeing nothing but sea and sky each time, he hadn’t been sure whether he was disappointed
     or relieved.
    Past the harbor, the air turned cool. But instead of throttling down and grabbing his windbreaker, Hatch found himself cranking
     the boat faster, turning his face into the wind, opening his mouth to the occasional salt spray as the
Plain Jane
slapped through the chop. It was somehow cleansing, alone out here; he felt almost as if the wind and water might begin to
     shake loose the accumulated cobwebs and dirt of a quarter century.
    Suddenly, a dark shadow appeared ahead, low on the eastern horizon. Hatch throttled back, feeling the old, familiar trepidation
     return. The fog around the island was thinner today, but the outlines were still vague and forbidding, the derricks and winches
     protruding dimly like the ruined minarets of some alien city. Hatch turned the boat to port, keeping his distance, preparing
     to circle.
    Then, on the lee side of the island, he saw an unfamiliar boat, moored perhaps a quarter mile offshore. As he approached,
     he could see it was an antique fireboat, built of rich brown wood, mahogany or teak. The name GRIFFIN was painted across its stern in severe gold letters. And below, smaller: MYSTIC, CONNECTICUT.
    Hatch considered coming alongside, then changed his mind and cut the
Plain Jane’s
engine about a hundred yards off. The boat appeared empty. Nobody came on deck to acknowledge his arrival. For a moment he
     wondered if it belonged to some tourist or trophy hunter, but it was now almost sunset; the coincidence seemed too strong.
    He stared curiously at the boat. If it was Neidelman’s command craft, it was an unusual but practical choice. What the thing
     lacked in speed it made up for in stability: Hatch felt sure it would ride out any but the heaviest sea, and with fore-and-aft
     engines it would be highly maneuverable. The hose reels and monitors had been removed, freeing up a lot of deck space. The
     davits, tower, and searchlights had been retained, and a computer-controlled crane was retrofitted onto the stern. Hatch’s
     eyes traveled up to the capacious pilothouse and flying bridge. Above, there was the usual cluster of electronic antennae,
     loran, and radar, along with additional gear not especially nautical: a microwave horn, satellite dish, air-search radar,
     and VLF antennae.
Impressive rig,
Hatch thought. He dropped one hand to the instrument panel,