by Sean Ellis
All of a sudden, the galley lurched forward. At first, he thought it was a final shift, angling toward the bottom, but then he realized that the golden ship was starting to move. "What the hell?" He loosened his hold on Irene. "Wait here."
Grasping the port gunwale, he traversed the length of the deck like a rock climber, hand over hand, with his stocking feet braced against the sloping deck. As he moved forward, he saw that his first assumption was partially correct; the bow was indeed shifting downward, and would precede the rest of the vessel in the journey to the bottom. But the movement was caused by something altogether different.
"Harcourt!" he shouted. "You bloody fool!"
He could not see the British archaeologist aboard the trawler, but it was evident that Harcourt had succeeded in engaging the idling motor. The trawler had started forward, but moved only a short distance before hitting the end of the tow cable. In his ignorance, Harcourt had failed to disconnect the line when cutting the mooring ropes. The trawler's small engine was still capable of tugging the ancient vessel, but when the galley went under, the fishing boat would sink with it.
The Englishman now appeared on the deck. Harcourt apparently realized his peril, and was investigating the umbilical attachment. Kismet noted that his rival still had the Golden Fleece draped over one shoulder. Its weight caused him to stagger as he crossed to the stern and inspected the winch assembly. He fumbled with it for a moment and managed to release the ratchet, allowing the cable to unspool. The trawler immediately shot forward leaving the golden ship behind, but his efforts only temporarily forestalled disaster. The winch continued turning until the line was played out. After only a few seconds, the tow cable snapped taut, rising out of the water with a thrumming vibration, and the fishing vessel stopped dead.
Harcourt stumbled and fell onto his back, but managed to crawl over to the winch. Though he was now almost a hundred yards away, Kismet could see the archaeologist beating out his frustration on the capstan housing, like a child throwing a tantrum. There was no way for him to release the cable. Heavy bolts secured the last loop in the winch; the towline could only be cast off from the galley.
Kismet lost interest in Harcourt's struggle as the sea rushed up to meet him. The bow of the galley was plunging downward rapidly. Before he could even begin moving, the water was up to his waist.
"Irene! Get to the hold—"
His words were cut off as the sea washed over his head. The stern of the galley suddenly rose out of the water, and then the entire vessel, like a golden needle, pierced the darkness below and vanished.
Once the galley, overlaid in one of the heaviest elements known to man, committed to its downward plunge, it sank rapidly. Kismet could feel the rush of water passing him by. At the same time, his inner ear throbbed painfully with the rapid changes in pressure. He tried to compensate by working his jaw to pop his ears, but could not equalize fast enough. Howling the last air from his lungs, he released his hold on the ship and clamped his hands ineffectually against the sides of his head.
An instant later he was struck from above and borne down once more. He opened his eyes, and through the blur of seawater, saw that he had become entangled in the colonnade around the superstructure. The golden columns were blazing with magical illumination, like beacons of false hope. Then Kismet remembered what he had shouted to Irene, and why.
He snaked through pillars distorted by the blast of Anatoly's bomb, letting them fall past, one by one. In moments he reached the open portal to the hold. Bubbles were streaming from the enclosure as the air in the structure was displaced by water. Without hesitation, he plunged into the torrent.
Whether because of his shouted admonition, or because there was nowhere else to go, Irene had sought refuge within. Lost in the agony caused by the increasing pressure inside her head, she struggled in the rising water, floating at arm's length from where Kismet treaded.
He tried to close the hatch, but was repelled by the blast of water flooding into the hold. Then the last of the air vanished and the hatch slipped into place, sealing them in—a golden coffin for their burial at sea.
EIGHTEEN
Harcourt felt no satisfaction as the galley vanished. His joy at having found the prize and proving superior to his old foil had been supplanted by a more immediate concern: survival. The Golden Fleece, his trophy, hampered his movement, but never for a moment did he even think about laying it aside. Unable to release the tow cable, he had impotently pounded the winch with his fists. When the golden ship went under, he knew that he wound soon face a similar fate.
He tried to think logically; he was a scientist after all. The cable, a mere three-quarters of an inch thickness of braided metal wires, was the chain that bound him to disaster. It was anchored to the motorized winch that was bolted to the wooden deck in four places. The solution was obvious: cut the cable, knock the winch free...either would do. He raced to the cabin in search of an axe, a hammer, or any heavy implement that he might use to bludgeon his way to safety.
He got about halfway before the trawler shifted beneath his feet. The sinking galley had been steadily pulling the fishing boat backward, against the thrust of its engine. Now, the ancient ship was directly below the fishing boat, exerting its full weight on the cable. The bow of the trawler rose up suddenly, its stern buried in the water. The abrupt rise of the deck catapulted Harcourt out over the roiling sea.
In that instant, the full weight of the submerged ship tore the winch mechanism away from the deck of the trawler. The boat bobbed on its stern for a moment, then toppled forward, splashing heavily into the water. Because her screws were still turning, the fishing vessel immediately chugged forward, turning a lazy circle that would eventually bring it back to where the archaeologist had splashed down.
Salvation was offered, but for Harcourt, the price was too high. The weight of the Golden Fleece quickly bore him into the depths. His pulse pounded loudly inside his head, a clock by which to measure the seconds remaining in his life. The pressure between his ears grew with each thump of his heart until he felt his head would implode.
At no point during the final thirty seconds of his conscious awareness did it occur to him that he could save himself by letting go of the Golden Fleece. That was unthinkable. Nick Kismet would never let something like dying stand in the way of victory. Kismet would find some other way to survive, emerging with both his life and the treasure.
But Sir Andrew Harcourt did not find that answer. Clinging to the Golden Fleece, he sank into the darkness. His descent to the bottom of the Black Sea would take several more minutes, but for Harcourt, the golden voyage was already finished.
* * *
In the sudden stillness that permeated the hold, Kismet felt an overwhelming sense of finality. Completely immersed in water, he realized that he had not taken a breath in what seemed like ages. The stale air in his lungs demanded to be replaced. His diaphragm convulsed in an unsuccessful attempt to inhale. It seemed that his only choice was to open his mouth and take that final liquid breath.
Irene floated face down beside him, air trickling from her nostrils. She had ceased struggling. The sight wrenched at his heart, impassioning him to continue fighting the inevitable. He swam toward her, clamping a hand over her mouth in a futile effort to prevent more water from flooding her deluged lungs.
Misshapen lumps crowded the space near the door; the remains of cargo casks battered out of symmetry by the force of Anatoly's bomb. It took him a moment to comprehend that the crates were floating.
Inspiration dawned more brightly than the luminescent metal surrounding him. The casks could only be buoyant because they were full of air. He released Irene and tore at the nearest crate with his fingers. The metal overlay shredded under his nails, releasing a shower of effervescence, after which the cask came apart and disgorged a single enormous bubble, which spread out across the bulkhead to form a pocket of air a fraction of an inch thick. A lumpy yellow shape, emitting a trail of gas globules, fell from the br
oken wooden fragments and sank through the hold.
It was a second Golden Fleece.
Ignoring this revelation, Kismet kicked up to the air pocket, pressed his lips to the bulkhead, and greedily sucked in the air. The fire in his lungs instantly abated, but he did not pause to savor the respite.
He snatched hold of Irene, pinched her nose shut and exhaled into her mouth. She reflexively gagged on the breath, but her eyes fluttered open. Despite her violent reaction, Kismet turned her over, so that the air at the top of her lungs could force out the water. She immediately began coughing and thrashing spasmodically, but his firm grip compelled her into the tiny gap where water became breathable atmosphere. He caught her eye, making sure that she understood, and then seized another of the battered crates.
More air bubbled up to the pocket as the crate came apart. Then, yet another sheepskin heavy with gold, settled through the enclosure.
Kismet muttered an oath into the water. How many Golden Fleeces were there?
In the next moment, as he tore apart another cask to reveal a fourth Golden Fleece, he realized how terribly close Grimes had come to unleashing a Pandora's Box of evil upon the world. The traitor had sought a single Fleece to help his new allies build an EMP bomb. What would have resulted if they had gained control of the golden ship's true cargo—not one, but perhaps dozens of Golden Fleeces?
As Kismet liberated the air and cargo from one crate after another, the pocket of gas against the bulkhead grew. It was not just air from the crates that filled the growing space however; the Fleeces piled up beneath them were rapidly breaking the water apart at the molecular level, converting it into its gaseous components. With six of the crates opened, Kismet swam up to take another breath.
"Nick," Irene gasped, when his head broke the surface. "What are you doing?"
"Getting us out of here. Don't go away. I'll be right back."
He plunged once more into the water, and dived into the aisle between the cargo rows. Near the doorway, the casks had been spared the impact of the explosion. The nets that had secured the containers for centuries were still intact and the crates themselves showed no sign of damage. It seemed as if the gold had absorbed most of the energy from the violent eruption. He wondered if the blast had somehow acted as a catalyst to the metal's unusual properties—properties he was counting on to save them once more.
A glowing crate came free with a little prying, and then rose gently toward the bulkhead. Kismet followed it up, but did not tear it open as he had done with the others. Instead, after returning to the top for a deep breath, he dove down to find the bottom of the cask and peeled away the gold to reveal bare wood.
It required more force to pry apart the slats on the underside of the cask, and he did so carefully so as not to allow the container to rotate and fill up with water. When the first board came away, he could see another sheepskin, matted with gold. He pushed it back and loosened the next board. The Fleece slid toward the opening and broke through the thin wood.
He caught the Fleece with the crooks of his elbows, both hands still gripping the box to prevent it from flipping over. He was surprised that the buoyancy of the boxes was not offset by the heaviness of the gold; it certainly felt like dead weight in his arms, tugging against his handholds in an effort to tear him loose from the crate. He brought his knees up to brace the sheepskin, and then cautiously moved his hands until he felt he could safely hold the container upright with one hand. Now fully immersed, this new Golden Fleece immediately began to trickle bubbles of gas up into the cavity.
When Irene felt the gentle pull on her ankle, and looked down to find Kismet with his head inside one of the golden crates, she immediately understood what to do. A moment later she popped up inside the cask with him.
"Irene, I need you to hold this thing steady."
She nodded, grasping his plan, insane though it seemed. When her hands were firmly in place, he let go.
The Fleece instantly tried to sink him. He wrestled the shapeless mass away from the well created by the aisle, and laid it on another of the cargo crates. He was determined to find a way to bring it to the surface, but that was not his most immediate concern. He swam up to the doorway and inspected the hatch cover. Although it opened inward, the cover resisted him. It was as if the door had fused to the bulkhead.
His eyes flashed around the hold, looking for some object rigid enough to be used as a pry bar, but everything he laid eyes on was made of soft gold. Then he saw the one thing in the hold that was not left over from its original owners: the remains of Anatoly's electric lantern.
He had not gone back for the lamp after the electrical discharge from the first Golden Fleece had melted the bulb into a lump of metal and glass. The housing and battery were still intact, but seemed useless without a bulb. Nevertheless, he scooped it up and made a quick adjustment to the remains of the filament wires, then reattached the power source. He prayed that the dry cell had not shorted out upon being immersed.
Before executing his plan, he returned to the Fleece and lifted it over his shoulder. He then braced his legs against the secured cargo and jumped, kicking furiously to compensate for the added weight of the Fleece. At the apex of his underwater leap, he thrust the light into the uppermost recesses of the hold and flipped the switch.
Because he had shortened the distance between the filament posts, the flow of electricity was able to momentarily bridge that gap in a single unrestrained blue spark before the short completely discharged the battery. That lone spark however, was all he needed.
From the moment he had begun exposing the many Golden Fleeces to seawater, the process of electrolysis had been stripping apart the fluid molecule into its atomic gaseous components—two atoms of hydrogen and a single atom of oxygen. The latter element had the potential to be both poisonous in pure concentrations and a highly flammable accelerant when exposed to fire, yet at the same time remained essential to the existence of life. Hydrogen, the lightest of all elements, was simply reactive, and when the insignificant blue arc of electricity sizzled through a nearly pure pocket of the gas, it ignited.
Kismet was not able to snatch his hand away in time to avoid a flash burn, nor could he do anything to prevent being pummeled by the force of the explosion. The shockwave felt like being hit by a bus. Yet, the second explosion to occur within the small enclosure, like the first, was muted by the strange properties of the ubergold. The destructive energy triggered a sympathetic display of light, but caused no real damage to the vessel. It was just enough however, to blow the door open.
In the relative safety of the container, Irene began to ascend, buoyed by the air trapped in the box. As she slid through the portal, Kismet snared her foot, and then managed to pull himself up until his head was above the water line. They pressed their bodies together, legs entwined, and kept a fierce grip on the cask as they rose toward the surface.
The golden ship vanished quickly beneath them, shrinking to a pinpoint of light in the black beyond, and then disappeared forever.
* * *
Captain Gregory Severin of the Russian Naval destroyer Boyevoy, Sovremenny class out of Sevastopol, stood at the prow of his ship and gazed down at the oil slicks and smoldering debris—all that remained of the Svetlyak class patrol vessel Zmeya. His keen eyes picked out yet another straggler clinging to a ship timber.
"Twenty degrees off starboard," he called. The message was passed back to the sailor manning the aft deck gun. Although the 30-millimeter battery was intended to blast attacking planes and incoming cruise missiles from the sky, Severin derived a perverse satisfaction from watching bullets as thick as his fingers, tear apart the flesh of his enemies. The AA gun released only a short burst, but it was enough to shred the struggling commando.
The call from FSB informant Anatoly Grishakov had almost come too late. Severin had prematurely congratulated himself on disposing of Kismet and was halfway to port before the alert was sounded. Anatoly should have reported the American's resurrection im
mediately, but for some reason, the agent had not made contact until late the previous evening, some ten hours ago. The destroyer's chief engineer had to push the boilers into the red to catch up to the fishing trawler and the vessel it towed. Even at that, they had not arrived in time to save the prize for the Rodina. An urgent message from the undercover operative had revealed that foreign infiltrators were about to seize the golden ship. Severin had personally given the order for Anatoly to scuttle the galley. Boyevoy had arrived just in time to see the ancient wonder vanish once again into the Black Sea.
At least the fate of poor Zmeya was now apparent. No word had been received of her crew, but obviously the invading foreigners had captured or killed the young, inexperienced sailors, and commenced using the patrol craft for clandestine acts of war. Severin had not hesitated to give the order to blow her out of the water.
The FSB agent's fishing boat was still turning lazy circles in the sea. Severin noted absently that the ferocity of the storm, which had repelled them throughout the night, now seemed to be abating. He scanned the trawler with a pair of binoculars to see if Anatoly had somehow reached its relative safety. The boat appeared to be deserted. One of the lookouts had reported seeing someone that matched Grishakov description being struck by lightning during a struggle aboard the doomed galley. If it was the Russian agent, it seemed unlikely that he could have survived.
"Our enemies, if any still live, might try to escape in that boat," he said, thinking aloud. "Remove it."
The order was passed down, and Severin knew that when the shell was finally fired it would unfailingly strike its target; his gunnery officer was a prodigy. The Boyevoy’s artillery had pounded the patrol craft when it was nothing but a spot in the distance. A deafening noise roared from behind him and a moment later the trawler vanished in a cloud of smoke and spray. One less thing to worry about.