Atlantis: Devil's Sea

by Robert Doherty

  “Last year, I spent a night inside the King’s Men. I brought my air mattress and my sleeping bag, and I set up exactly dead center. Nothing happened for hours, and I finally fell asleep. Then, at three in the morning, something woke me. I sat up. At first I saw or heard nothing and thought maybe I’d had a bad dream. A fog had come in, and I could barely see the stones all around me.

  “Then I heard the voices. Calling out for help. Asking for mercy. Dozens, hundreds, of voices. I’ve never heard such pain. It was terrible. Like souls in hell begging for release. And they were speaking in a strange language, but somehow I understood what they were saying. Then they came for me.”

  “The people crying for mercy?”

  “No. The aliens. Two of them. They just appeared in front of me. Smooth, white skin. Large, red eyes. With long, black cloaks. And they hung in the air over me, looking down. Their hands… they had claws on them, sharp ones, like that fellow in the American horror movie. I knew they were the reason the voices were calling for mercy, and I knew they were coming for me. I ran. Left my gear behind and ran. Didn’t use my camera or recorder. I just ran.”

  Ariana waited, but he said nothing more. After a while, she took out her cell phone and called for the helicopter. Megaliths, lines of power, crystal skulls; she knew there was a connection with the Shadow, but she had no clue what it was or even how they connected with each other.

  While she waited for the helicopter to arrive, she walked down the slope toward the circle Davon had called the Whispering Knights.

  “What are you doing?” Davon asked, but she ignored him.

  Ariana passed between two of the standing stones. She felt the slightest of tingles on her skin. There was power in this place. She went to the center and slowly turned about. Davon was standing outside the circle, looking worried.

  Ariana cocked her head. At the very edge of her hearing she could almost pick up something. Then the sound of helicopter blades overwhelmed all other sound, and she quickly left the circle.

  *****

  Pytor Shashenka’s entire world was split between pain an unconsciousness. He preferred the latter, but he had no control over either.

  Reluctantly, Pytor opened his eyes. The table across from him was occupied by the warrior. He was strapped down, muscles bulging against the straps as he futility attempted to free himself. Tangled black hair cascaded over the man’s face. His clothes were at his feet. His skin was pale white except the arms. He had apparently not been worked on by the Valkyries yet.

  “Who are you?” Pytor called out in Russian, not really expecting an answer.

  The man looked across at him, eyes raging with fury. He seemed to understand the question because he replied with one word. “Ragnarok.”

  “Pytor.”

  Ragnarok blinked, indicating he understood. He said something in his native tongue.

  “I do not understand,” Pytor said. He was about to try English, when something appeared in his peripheral vision. A white form glided to a halt in front of Ragnarok. Pytor recognized it because one of the red crystal eyes was smashed.

  It fired a probe into Ragnarok’s head and then consulted a small device attached to the wires. After several moments, it removed the probe and tossed the machine aside. Then it lifted one arm, a razor-sharp claw extended. With a savage slice, it cut through Ragnarok’s right wrist, severing the hand from the arm. The warrior didn’t’ even cry out, although the muscles in his jaw worked hard to keep his mouth shut.

  The movement was repeated, and the left hand fell the floor, the fingers balled in a fist.

  With its other arm, the Valkyrie extended a red, glowing tube. It tapped both stumps briefly, and there was the sound and smell of burning flesh as it cauterized the wounds. At that, Ragnarok passed out.

  Pytor yelled curses at the creature to no avail until his own pain overwhelmed him, and he joined the warrior in blessed unconsciousness.

  CHATPER FIFTEEN

  THE PAST

  79 A.D.

  The galley arrived at the entrance to the Hellesponte at nightfall. Captain Fabatus didn’t want to try the passage in the dark, but a forceful order from General Cassius changed his mind.

  The Hellesponte had a long and rich history. Forty miles long and a mile and a half to four miles wide, the Hellesponte was the dividing line between Europe and Asia, a strategic waterway, the rights to which had been the true cause of the Trojan War hundreds of years earlier. It connected the Aegean with the Sea of Mamara, which led to the Bosporus Strait into the Black Sea. In 480 B.C. Xerxes I, king of Persia, had crossed the strait on a bridge built of boats during his campaign against the Greeks.

  “It is said that Helle drowned here when she fell from the back of the ram Chrysomallus,” Kaia said as they entered the channel. “The legend of Hero and Leander also surrounds this area. It is legend that Leander drowned in these very waters on his way to visit his beloved Hero.”

  “Do you believe legends?’ Falco asked. They were in the prow of the gallery watching the land slip by on either side. General Cassius had retired for the evening, Falco could tell the trip was a strain on the old man, who had not completely recovered from their ordeal at Thera.

  “There is truth in all legends,” Kaia said.

  A voice called out in the darkness from somewhere ahead. Fabatus hurried forward, a lantern in his hand, and returned the hail. In a minute, a small boat carrying four men appeared in the glow of the lantern, just below them.

  Falco could see that they were dressed in armor, and squinting, he could make out the insignia on their helmets: VII. Formed by Claudius over thirty years previously, he knew the legion was stationed in Macedonia, with responsibility for control of the straight.

  “Greetings!” Fabatus called out.

  A man stood in the bow of the small boat, looking up, the crest of a centurion on his helmet. “Greetings, ship bearing the imperial banner. Where do you travel?”

  “To Upper Thrace to join with the XXV Legion,” Falco replied, thinking the man’s way of phrasing his greeting was quite odd. The farther one traveled from Rome, the less strong the hand of the emperor.

  “Why are you trying the strait at night?” the man asked.

  “I am Falco, Centurion of General Cassius. And you are?”

  “Attius, centurion primus pilus of the VII.”

  Falco knew that primus pilus indicated that Attius was in charge of the first century of the first cohort of his legion, meaning he was senior centurion. Fabatus had one of his crew throw a rope ladder over the side, and Attius climbed up and joined them on deck.

  “Your reason for passing at night?” Attius asked as he looked about the ship, noting Kaia’s presence.

  “We are in need of haste,” Falco said.

  Attius shook his head. “No one passes through at night. We saw your light many miles away and kept waiting for you to drop anchor, but when I saw you enter, I thought it best to come out and warn you.”

  “Warn us of what?”

  Attius rubbed the stubble of his beard. “There is trouble to the north. Strange stories. Ships have long been known to disappear on Pontus Euxinus, but lately this trouble has been coming south, into the strait.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Falco asked.

  “Like I said: Ships and their crews simply disappear. No sign of wreckage, and the weather fine. And strange fogs that suddenly appear when none should. Some say there are demons about, others that the gods are angry and punishing us.” He indicated a light on the western shore. “You can spend the night in our fort and continue on your journey in the morning.”

  Kaia spoke for the first time. “There is danger ahead, but I do not think it will make any difference whether we try the Hellesponte at night or during the day; the danger will be there.”

  “There’s more—” but Attius hesitated.

  “Go ahead,” Falco said.

  “I told you I have heard strange stories told in whispers in the taverns. Traders coming fro
m Bospora say there is a darkness upon the land that any who enter never come out of.”

  “Where is this darkness?” Falco asked.

  “Near the Dnieper River, about four hundred stadia from the sea. And –” Attius looked about. “Where is the general?”

  “Resting,” Falco said.

  “Are you the Centurion Falco who served with Cassius in the X? And then fought in the arena?”

  Falco nodded.

  Attius took a step closer and lowered his voice. “Can I have a word with you privately?”

  Falco wondered what could be worse than what the centurion had already told them, but he indicated for Fabatus and Kaia to move back.

  “What is it?” Falco asked.

  “You said you were going to join the XXV?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will Cassius become legatus?” Attius asked, wanting to know if Cassius was going to take command of the legion.

  “For the duration of our task, he will.”

  A look of relief came over Attius’s face. “My legatus will be glad to hear that, and he will hope your task lasts a very long time. The XXV is on our right, between us and the barbarians in Bospora, and we would be as well off if we had a wall of reeds standing there.”

  “Ill trained?”

  Attius laughed bitterly. “No, they’re trained. But they’re provincials. And they don’t care about Rome. The original XXV was exiled to Bospora by Vespasian because of their doubtful loyalty. And since then, they’ve filled their ranks with locals. They own no loyalty to the emperor, either the old or the new.”

  Falco considered the order that Cassius carried. What was to follow the mission with Kaia?

  “I appreciate your words,” he told Attius. “What of the barbarians to the north? Are they a danger?”

  Attius scratched his chin. “We’ve had little trouble as long as we leave them alone. But any patrol going north, well, it’s like in the old days when we crossed the Rhine. Sticking one’s hand into a nest of hornets.”

  Falco knew what Attius was referring to, having served a few years on the frontier of the Rhine. Every so often it would be the emperor’s whim to cross the river to try to subdue the fierce tribes living in those dark forests. Even though it was over seventy years ago, every Roman soldier remembered what had happened to Quinctilius Varus and the three legions, the XVII, XVIII and XIX that he had led across the river. The Germans had banded together and ambushed the legions strung out on the march, wiping them out and causing one of the greatest defeats in the history of Rome.

  “Are you going over the border?” Attius asked as the import of Falco’s question struck home.

  “I do not know the wishes of the emperor,” Falco lied. “It’s my job to be prepared for whatever may happen. And we must pass tonight and do our duty.”

  Attius reluctantly nodded. “I wish you well then.” He quickly climbed over the side into his boat. Fabatus gave the order for the rowing to resume, and they plunged forward into the darkness of the Hellesponte. The boat with Attius faded into the darkness, and cliffs closed in on each side.

  Falco and Kaia stood perfectly still, peering ahead.

  “Do you sense it?” Falco asked.

  Kaia nodded. “Danger ahead.”

  “How can these things – the Valkyries—travel far from the gate?” Falco asked, something that had been bothering him ever since Thera.

  “I do not know,” Kaia said. “I was told they are the only emissaries of the Shadow that can do so.”

  Falco was looking ahead, where the land on either side closed in, making the narrowest channel in the Hellesponte. There was a mist waiting for them, one that both Falco and Kaia knew was not formed naturally.

  “I will wake the general,” Falco said. He went back to where Cassius was slumbering on the hard wooden deck, a thin blanket around his frail shoulders.

  “General,” Falco whispered.

  Cassius’s eyes were open in a flash. “What is it?”

  “A fog ahead. I sense danger in it.”

  Cassius was on his feet, heading forward, Falco at his side. The only sound was the rhythmic splash of the oars hitting the water. The fog was now only half a mile ahead of the ship. On either side, the land was rocky and high, not suitable for landing.

  “We could turn back,” Falco said.

  “There is no time,” Kaia said. “We may well be late to the gate at this rate anyway.”

  “The slaves are rowing against the current coming out of Marmara,” Cassius added. “They have enough energy for one try. If we turn and try again, it will take more than twice as long.”

  “Then we must fight.” Falco had the Naga staff in his hand.

  Cassius called for the leader of the small contingent. The soldiers deployed along the forward edge of the galley, shields and pilum – medium-length throwing spears—ready, as the fog grew closer. Falco stood at the very front, Cassius to the shield side, Kaia just behind the general.

  There was a strange noise in the air, and Falco strained to discern it. As they came within a hundred meters of the fog, all on board could hear a keening sound, as if a pack of women were grieving over the loss of their children. It chilled the blood of all on board the ship, and the slaves lost a beat in their rowing before the drum and a few well-placed lashes brought them back on the mark.

  “The sirens,” Cassius said.

  “It does not draw me in,” Falco said. “Isn’t the siren call supposed to beckon?” Even as he said that, though, the cry changed, women crying for help, for mercy.

  They entered the fog. The cries were coming from the right side of the ship and slightly ahead.

  “I say we steer away from that side,” Kaia advised, noting that the ship’s helmsman had edged slightly closer to the right where they could faintly make out a cliff.

  “Ah,” Falco hissed as he pointed.

  A human figure was on the side of the cliff, arms splayed wide, crucified on the rock with metal spikes through her wrists and ankles. Then there was another and another. The sound was coming from them. Woman crying out for mercy, a perverted song of the sirens.

  “They need help,” Fabatus said.

  “They’re beyond our help.” Falco could feel the despair of the women on the cliff. He looked at a legionnaire. “Do you have a bow?”

  The man scurried to the small armory and came back with a bow and quiver. Falco handed the Naga staff to Kaia and notched an arrow. The first figure had almost disappeared behind them when he fired. The arrow flew straight and true, hitting the woman in the chest. Her body slumped back lifeless against the rock. Falco’s hands moved automatically as he had been trained, pulling an arrow out of the quiver, notching it, raising up, aiming, firing. The cries grew fainter as there were less voices to make them.

  The legionnaires and Fabatus watched Falco work, aghast at his mercilessness, but he could sense that Cassius and Kaia approved. Cassius had served in Germany, where captives were often used as bait to draw in the unwary, ending in the death not only of the captives but of the would-be rescuers. He knew this was the only thing they could do for the women.

  There were only three arrows left in the quiver when Falco struck the last target he could see, and there were no more cries for help. The fog was as thick as ever, the right cliff barely visible, the left masked. Looking up, Falco could make out movement on the top of the right cliff, something white following their progress.

  “The staff is keeping them away for now.” Kaia had seen the same thing. “They wanted us close to shore for a reason.”

  “They must—” Falco began, but then was struck dumb as an entire section of the cliff where the last bodies were attached exploded outward, spraying the channel with rock and dirt. Several stones hit the ship, but caused only minor damage.”

  “If we’d been closer, we’d be on the bottom right now,” Cassius said.

  Falco turned and went to the small hatch leading below decks. He climbed down to the oar deck. There was an emp
ty slot near the rear, and he made his way there, ignoring the curious and fearful glances of the slaves. Falco sat down next to a foul-smelling slave and wrapped his calloused hands around the end of the oar and began to pull in unison with the man.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE PRESENT

  “The Grayback will be surfacing any second now.” Loomis pointed off the starboard side.

  Dane and Foreman had returned to the surface on board the Deepflight without any trouble or activity from the gate. The flight back to the Salvor had been made in silence, each man considering what he had seen in the graveyard. Foreman had gone over to the FLIP to coordinate with Nagoya, while Dane reunited with Chelsea on board the ship to await the arrival of his next ride.

  Dane watched as a periscope popped up and cut through the water, followed by a conning tower. As the sub surfaced, he immediately noted the two large metal hangars welded to the deck of the ship.

  “The Crabs are inside those,” Loomis said.

  “How many people can each carry?” Dane asked.

  “A crew of two and ten passengers.”

  “Weaponry?”

  “Thirty-millimeter cannon. TOW missile launchers for land and MK-24 torpedoes for water. The armor can take a direct hit from large-caliber machine guns.”

  “How many people are going on the recon?” Dane asked.

  “You, me, Colonel Shashenka, and Professor Ahana.”

  “Who’s piloting?”

  “I am,” Loomis said.

  “Who’s handling the weapons?”

  “Colonel Shashenka.”

  The Grayback circled and came alongside. Dane knew they would be leaving shortly, heading into the darkness. He reached down, rubbing the golden hair on top of Chelsea’s head. He was startled when she gave a short bark. She was staring down at the sub’s deck. At first, Dane thought she was looking at the two hangars, but then he noted a smaller metal box half above the waterline on the far side of the sub. A woman in a wet suit was on the deck, unlatching the end of the box. A gray dolphin slipped out of it, into the open water. It swam about as the woman watched.

  “Project Rachel.”