Into the Black

by Sean Ellis

  "As a matter of fact, it was," he replied, matching her sarcastic tone. "Anyway, there's not much more we can do in here now. We'll wait until we're safely ashore to find out what other secrets this ship is hiding."

  "I agree," rumbled Anatoly, breaking his long silence. "I don't like the feel of this wind. I don't want to have to navigate the harbor, towing this ship, in the middle of a storm." The big Russian turned to leave the hold, but Kismet forestalled him.

  "Wait. We can't go back there."

  The fisherman faced him, his features growing stern. "We must. There's nowhere else to go."

  "We've got to get this ship away from Russian waters. Severin's jurisdiction extends to the Georgian Coast. If we go back, he'll just kill us and tow the ship back to Sevastopol."

  "I don't believe that would happen," Anatoly replied in a grave voice. "But it does not matter. This discovery belongs to my people, Nikolai Kristanovich. Surely you must respect that."

  "I'm afraid I agree with him," Irene intoned. "If you take the ship away from Georgia, then you'll be no better than Grimes and his thugs."

  "Under normal circumstances, I would agree. But these aren't normal circumstances. Listen, I don't care who claims ownership of this galley. But if we don't let the world know what we've found, then no one will ever learn of it. This is a secret that the Russians would kill to protect."

  "You're being paranoid."

  "I don't think I am. Severin tried to do away with me once already. Not only that, if we take this ship back to harbor, do you think Grimes won't notice? Our only hope is to get into Turkish waters. Then, when I've announced the discovery to the world under the aegis of my office, we can worry about whose property it is."

  As he spoke, Kismet became increasingly aware of the ship's undulations. The sea was no longer the calm surface it had been during the salvage. Anatoly had been correct about one thing: a storm was rising.

  "We must put into port," Anatoly urged. "I understand your concerns, but the sea is not a safe place for us to be right now. As long as my boat tows this ship, both vessels are in danger of being battered against each other."

  Kismet couldn't argue with the immediacy of the threat posed by nature's fury. "You're right. You take Irene back to Poti. I'll ride the storm out aboard the galley."

  Irene jumped forward, shouting into his face. "Are you out of your mind? You'd never survive."

  "It's either that, or we sail for Turkey. You decide."

  Anatoly's eyes drew into narrow slits. "You risk all our lives with this foolishness, but I will do as you ask."

  "Great. You go back to the trawler and let out the tow cable. Irene and I have some work to do here."

  Both the Russian and Irene asked simultaneously. "What?"

  "An ancient Greek galley, overlaid in gold is a bit obvious, don't you think? We'll try to rearrange the tarps to camouflage it. Make it look more like an ordinary boat. We'll float over on the inner-tubes as soon as we're done."

  As they moved out onto the gangway, it became apparent that the weather was changing more rapidly than Kismet would have thought possible. "Storms rise quickly on the Black," Anatoly shouted over the roaring wind. Nevertheless, Kismet could not believe that the clear night had so quickly become filled with thunderheads. Distant lightning licked at the water, and the rolling detonations of thunder, followed quickly. The storm was not far off.

  Anatoly loosened the ropes binding the two vessels and the galley immediately began to drift away. Larger and heavier than the trawler, the golden vessel seemed a perfect target for the tempest; the wind and swells quickly pushed it away to the full length of the towrope. The cable snapped out of the water, springing taut, and then the galley, driven by the persistent wind, started pulling the fishing boat along backwards through the water. Anatoly corrected this problem by revving the engine, but the strain on the tow cable was audible over the howl of the storm.

  Kismet and Irene worked quickly, first stowing the inner-tubes between the columns and the hold, then draping tarpaulins and nets along the hull. The gusting wind made this task all but impossible. At one point, a sustained blast tore a canvas blanket from their combined grip. It sailed away into the night, skimming along the waves like a magic carpet.

  "This is crazy!" Kismet admitted, shouting to be heard, as fat raindrops began pelting them at a forty-five degree angle. He took Irene's hand and led her back to the hold. The sound of the storm was muted, but when the rain changed to hail, it banged on the gold-covered enclosure like an enormous snare drum.

  "I agree," replied Irene, when they were sheltered. "Why didn't you just let Anatoly tow us back to port?"

  "Because Anatoly is an FSB agent, or at least an informant."

  "That's ridiculous. You weren't there when Captain Severin questioned us. He hates Anatoly. He thinks he's a traitor for helping my father escape."

  "All an act. Ask yourself this; how did Severin find us out here?"

  "An informant in the city. Severin admitted as much."

  Kismet shook his head. "An informant might have seen us leave, but he wouldn't have known where we were going. Only Anatoly could have supplied that information."

  "Severin said that he found us when Anatoly radioed for a weather report."

  "Well, I think that he called for another weather report just after we raised this galley. Funny that he didn't mention that a storm was rising. I'd say the forecast calls for trouble."

  * * *

  The slopes on the eastern face of the Caucasus were calm. No wind stirred the dusting of snow that had fallen earlier in the day; no breeze caused the bare limbs of the trees to sway. But something was passing through the woods, something unseen like the wind, but with a greater potential for destruction.

  The men were by no means invisible, but the white camouflage shells that covered their winter parkas blended in with the snowscape and made them almost impossible to see. Their stealthy progress through the forests and up the slopes would not have attracted the notice of a casual observer.

  After hours of hiking and climbing, their destination was nearly in site. As they crested a hill, getting a good look at the German encampment, they paused briefly to go over the plan and make a few last minute modifications, and then fanned out, encircling the small tent city.

  Lysette Lyon took the opportunity to review her objectives: recover the plans for the EMP bomb, capture or terminate Halverson Grimes, and if possible, bring back the Golden Fleece. This raid, if successful, would accomplish the second of the three.

  So far, Kismet had mostly outmaneuvered her efforts to recover the data, smuggled from Germany to the United States via Morocco. She had received a severe dressing-down for having involved her former lover in the first place, a civilian in the employ of the United Nations, though to Lyse it had seemed like a perfect plan. However, that indiscretion was quickly forgotten when she had delivered the spy, captured at Kismet's apartment, as well as the news that Halverson Grimes was a traitor, to her section leader.

  The confirmation of Grimes' treachery was important, but what mystified her was the response of her superiors to the news of Kismet's search for the Golden Fleece. Though she was given explicit instructions that Kismet should not know of their interest, she was left with no illusions about the intention of the United States government to gain sole possession of the legendary relic. Lyse was awarded an unexpected commendation, and given command of a Crisis Operation Liaison Team—the CIA equivalent of the German Special Forces team they would be facing—in order to secure her objectives. Little had Kismet realized when demanding her help that he was playing right into their hands.

  Nevertheless, she still did not comprehend everyone's interest in the Golden Fleece; she had seen a movie about it and it hadn't struck her as being especially useful. When she had convinced Kismet to give up a copy of the plans at the shore side rendezvous, she had believed one of those directives to be more or less satisfied. But the news that Grimes was in the mountains and not in
Germany as everyone had assumed was welcome beyond words. With luck, she and her team would be able to snatch the traitor out of the Caucasus without having to risk an international incident with Germany.

  Their penetration of the camp went unnoticed by the bored sentries who patrolled the perimeter under the glare of klieg lights. Lyse and the COLT squad leader went from tent to tent, listening and observing for any clue that might direct them to their target. Finally, they reached the edge of the big tent concealing the dig site. Lyse lifted the heavy canvas and peeked inside.

  Soldiers milled about, some standing guard and others laboring in the pit. She ignored them, focusing on a table near the edge of the dig where three men were conversing in heated tones. She recognized Grimes instantly. The tall blond man with whom he was arguing she identified as Sir Andrew Harcourt, Kismet's nemesis. The third man she did not know, but took him for a German commando. His impudence in conversing with the other men suggested he was more than just an aide-de-camp. Lyse cupped one hand over her ear, to make out the argument.

  "…failure, Harcourt," Grimes roared. "Kismet would have found it days ago."

  "Kismet is an amateur," retorted the seething British archaeologist. "He is a cowboy. Like the rest of you Americans, if he can't find something in a few days, he gives up. Archaeology is about patience and persistence...."

  "Spare me your lectures," the commando officer interjected tersely. "I am here for results."

  "I beg your forgiveness Colonel," Grimes remarked, as though he found the man's ire merely inconvenient. "My 'expert' was apparently vastly overrated."

  "If you think Kismet is so vital to the success of this endeavor," snapped Harcourt, "then you ought to have kidnapped him, as you did Chereneyev. That seems to be the way you fellows operate."

  "That's not a bad idea," observed the colonel.

  "As a prisoner, Kismet would accomplish nothing. I had believed that he would undertake a search on his own that would prove more successful than our excavation here. But my observers report that he has not left the city. Perhaps the artifact does not exist, as Mr. Kismet has repeatedly asserted.”

  "It does exist." Harcourt was insistent. "Chereneyev verified its existence by bringing us here. Your scientists verified it when they analyzed the metal fragments."

  "Nothing has been 'verified.' A rare metal was discovered. It was you that made the connection to the Golden Fleece. And a tenuous connection it has proven to be."

  "Then our work here is in vain." Lyse had difficulty understanding the German officer's heavily accented English; she could not tell if it was a question or a statement. "We risk war with the Russians so that you, Herr Harcourt, can chase a wild goose? Or to find your magic metal, Herr Grimes? This madness must end. This operation is over."

  "I agree," intoned Grimes.

  "Well then," Harcourt huffed. "When I find the Golden Fleece, we shall see who has the last laugh."

  From her vantage point, Lyse resisted the urge to chuckle at the stuffy Brit's indignation. Before the three men could go their separate ways however, a soldier in blank white fatigues approached the colonel, snapping to attention. The officer addressed the soldier in German then took a brief report.

  "What is it?" Grimes inquired. "Kismet?"

  Lyse's heart skipped a beat. Had her team been detected?

  "There is an unusual storm on the sea," the German explained. "If we do not make haste, we will be trapped up here."

  "Give the order."

  "In what respect is the storm unusual?" Harcourt asked.

  "What?"

  "You said that the storm was 'unusual.' What makes this storm different than any other?"

  The German turned to the soldier and snapped off a question. As the young trooper answered, the colonel translated. "The storm rose out of nowhere, just a few kilometers offshore. It has grown quite intense; lightning and wind. At present, it is hanging out over the sea."

  "Why do you ask, Sir Andrew?" Grimes' tone suddenly grew deferential.

  "I think we need to find out what caused that storm."

  "'What caused the storm?'" echoed the German. "God caused the storm. Storms simply happen."

  Grimes, however, was more thoughtful. "I think Sir Andrew may be right. Oversee the dismantling of the camp, Colonel. Sir Andrew and I will be leaving presently."

  Lyse pulled away from the tent as the three men started moving. Snafu, she thought bitterly. There was no way they would be able to grab Grimes now. The traitor would soon be heading down the mountain, and she and her men would be left behind, far from their support base.

  She shadowed Grimes and a group of others through the maze of tents. A detachment of troopers, along with a few people that Lyse recognized from the church basement in New York City, climbed onto the rear of a snow cat while Grimes, Harcourt and another soldier got in the cab. Within minutes, the tracked troop mover was plowing up snow on its way down the mountain.

  Lyse and the COLT leader slipped back to the perimeter of the camp and called the rest of the unit in for a huddle. It was clear what they would have to do. Lyse outlined her new plan, and after a brief weapons check, the men dispersed again.

  Five minutes later, the stillness of the mountain camp was shattered by gunfire.

  * * *

  The hail passed after a few moments and returned to heavy rain punctuated by flashes of lightning spaced at intervals that were becoming shorter by the minute. Realizing that the fury of the storm was still building, Kismet led Irene back onto the deck. They lashed themselves to one of the inner-tubes and lowered it into the churning sea. The swells instantly drove the inflated rubber circle into the side of the ship. He ignored the violent pounding and gripped the tow cable with gloved hands. Little by little, he pulled them away from the galley and across the open expanse between the two vessels. They were both soaked through and shivering by the time Kismet heaved the inner-tube, with Irene still tied fast, onto the trawler's deck. He quickly loosened the knot, and they both hastened to find Anatoly.

  The Russian was almost frantic. He had one shoulder braced against the rudder wheel, while his right hand feathered the throttle controls. His eyes flashed between the compass, which was spinning wildly, and the engine gauges.

  "We're being driven away from shore!" he shouted when he saw them. "It's the damnedest thing I've ever seen! Take the wheel."

  Uncomprehending, Kismet took Anatoly's place at the controls, while the Russian seated himself at the radio and began frantically shouting out a distress message. The urgent call was repeated several times before the fisherman threw the headset down in disgust. "There's no reply. I must know where the storm is coming from or we might sail into the worst of it."

  A weather report, thought Kismet gritting his teeth. Anatoly was right. Even though it would potentially reveal their location and purpose to the Russian Navy, it might also get them through the night alive. "Maybe there's a short in the transmitter," he offered. "Or a loose antenna wire."

  Anatoly turned the unit around. "Da. That is it." He quickly reconnected the wire Kismet had disabled, and resumed sending the message. This time he smiled as he heard a reply in the headphones. He continued sending and receiving for several minutes, then tore the headset off.

  "They do not know where the storm came from. But we seem to be in the heart of it. None of the weather stations were reporting any storm activity. Not even a drop in the barometer. It is most unusual."

  "So what are we supposed to do?"

  "We cannot push through it, and it is between us and the shore. If we are to survive, we must ride with the storm."

  Kismet immediately cranked the wheel, steering the trawler toward the east. He felt an instant surge of forward movement as the power of the engine aligned with the thrust of the gale. "Irene, go check on the galley. I don't want the wind to blow her past us. Or into us."

  She nodded and ventured out onto the deck, returning less than a minute later. "It's gaining on us, but not too quickly."


  "Which way? Will she ram us?"

  "No. It will pass on the right."

  Kismet immediately cut hard to starboard, then let the wheel straighten itself. "Now where is she?"

  "Swinging to our left," Irene reported after another quick trip aft.

  "Perfect." He turned to Anatoly. "I think we'll be fine, as long as this storm doesn't change directions."

  The Russian nodded, but his expression was troubled. "This storm...it is not natural." He shook his head, as if his thoughts had crossed into a forbidden area.

  "What? Do you mean to say it's supernatural?"

  The big fisherman raised his hands. "You spoke of the Fleece creating electrical fields, did you not? Perhaps, when we salvaged the ship, those fields began to influence the weather."

  "The storm started right after the galley came up," Irene agreed. "Maybe the Fleece is causing the storm. Or the storm is nature's way of protecting it, the same way the fish tried to keep you from approaching it when it was underwater."

  "Do you realize how crazy that sounds?" Kismet knew in his heart that his skepticism was insincere. Something extraordinary was happening; he had no doubt of that.

  "Is the Fleece's causing a storm any crazier than it creating air underwater or making the whole ship glow?" retorted Irene.

  "It was you who suggested the theory of electrical fields from the Fleece, Kismet. And what is lightning but electricity from the sky?"

  "If that's true, then we'll never be able to ride out the storm. It will stay on top of us indefinitely."

  "Maybe that's what sunk the galley in the first place," suggested Irene. "Didn't Jason use the Fleece to end a drought in his kingdom? Maybe this is how; weather control."

  "So what should we do? Cut the galley loose and make a run for it? Not after all we've been through to bring it up."

  "I agree," voiced Anatoly. "That should only be a last resort, if conditions get worse."

  Kismet nodded. "Why don't you two try to get some rest? I can handle the wheel for now. We can trade off after a few hours. Maybe the storm will blow itself out."