“Friend of Ms. Mechadi’s. C’mon up. Your air’s going to run out eventually.”
Zavala unclipped a small slate from his vest and wrote a question mark on it.
Austin paused for a second, thinking. If they did as the stranger wanted, they would get their heads shot off.
He borrowed the slate, and in large block letters he wrote: MOBY-DICK?
Zavala digested what Austin had suggested, and it must have given him a stomachache. He erased the previous message and wrote: OUCH!!
Austin wrote back: SUGGESTIONS?
Zavala shook his head, and scribbled: AHAB, HERE WE COME.
He put the slate away, and dropped the Subvette to the bottom. Zavala spun the submersible around and pointed the nose up at a sharp angle. With a whirr of thrusters, the submersible began its ascent, gaining speed with each foot.
He and Austin braced themselves in their seats.
NUMA 7 - The Navigator
Chapter 29
MINUTES BEFORE THE SUBVETTE had begun its ascent, Carina had seen the boat round the headland and speed toward Mustapha’s motor cruiser with its bow up on plane, bouncing over the wave tops like a stone skipped across the water.
She had relayed Austin’s urgent message to vacate the premises. Too late. The fast-moving boat had closed the distance. The boat swerved seconds before a collision, and the operator throttled back the powerful inboard engine. The craft bumped sideways into Mustapha’s boat a few feet from where she stood.
One of the men on board let forth with a burst in the air from his machine pistol. She dropped the microphone to the deck.
There were four men all dressed in uniforms of olive drab, and all armed with short-barreled automatic weapons. Aviator sunglasses hid their eyes, and the floppy brims of their military style hats kept their faces mostly hidden in shadow. Only their tight-lipped mouths were visible.
Three men vaulted over the rail onto Mustapha’s boat. The last man to board whipped his hat off to reveal a blond brush cut. Carina recognized Ridley, who had supervised the theft of the Navigator. He grinned broadly, and greeted Carina with a lame Minnie Pearl imitation.
“How-dee, Ms. Mechadi.”
Her initial shock was replaced by anger. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Heard you were in the neighborhood, Ms. Mechadi. Thought me and the boys might drop by for a friendly visit.”
“Don’t patronize me with that fake hillbilly accent,” Carina said. “Where’s my statue?”
Still maintaining his grin, Ridley stepped over to the rail and stared with flat eyes at the bubbles coming to the surface. “Someone taking a swim, Miss Mechadi?”
“If you’re so curious, jump in and see for yourself.” Carina could feel her temper getting away from her but couldn’t help it.
“I got a better idea,” Ridley said. He picked the microphone off the deck, clicked it on, and talked to Austin.
Ridley’s grin grew even wider when he saw increased bubble activity on the surface. His hand unclipped a hand grenade on his belt and hefted it like a baseball pitcher ready to make a throw. Carina tried to snatch the microphone, but Ridley backhanded her across the mouth with a blow that drew blood. The other men laughed at Ridley’s violent response, and didn’t see the turquoise flicker of movement in the sea until it was too late.
The submersible shot toward the surface like a breaching whale. The front bumper slammed into the powerboat with the force of a battering ram.
The speedboat rose up at a crazy angle. The man at the wheel let out a startled yelp as he was catapulted into the air with his arms flailing. He hit the water, went down several feet, and struggled back to the surface, yelling for someone to help him. His weapon slipped from his hands.
THE SUBMERSIBLE had bounced backward after ramming the speedboat, and Zavala fought to keep the sub under control.
Austin saw legs thrashing in a cloud of foam at the surface. An object was falling through the water. He launched himself out of the cockpit and grabbed the plummeting machine pistol.
He lowered himself back into the cockpit and jerked his thumb toward the surface.
RIDLEY WAS a professional soldier. Quickly getting over his surprise, he pointed at the figure in the water
“Get that idiot!” he barked.
His men slung their weapons on their shoulders and threw a ring-shaped life preserver to their comrade. Ridley clutched the grenade in his hand, ready to drop it over the side like an improvised depth charge. He was probing the water with his cold eyes when he heard what sounded like a car horn. He whipped his head around.
“Jeezus!” he gasped.
A turquoise Corvette convertible with a bashed-in bumper was skimming across the water toward Mustapha’s boat, Zavala at the wheel. Austin rested the machine pistol on the windshield frame and let off a few bursts, deliberately aiming high.
Ridley’s men slipped their weapons off their shoulders, dropped them onto the deck, and threw their hands in the air, leaving the man in the water to fend for himself. Ridley slowly brought his hands up.
Carina was being helped to her feet by Captain Mustapha. Austin was distracted by the sight of blood streaming from her mouth. In the meantime, Ridley had brought his hands together over his head, pulled the pin, and had an arm back ready to toss the grenade at the oncoming vehicle.
Austin’s eyes went back to Ridley and his finger tightened on the trigger. He hesitated, fearing that Ridley might drop the grenade to the deck. Captain Mustapha had also seen Ridley arm the grenade. As Ridley brought his arm back in a throwing position, the captain snatched a boat hook from a rack and brought the heavy wooden handle down on Ridley’s wrist. The grenade flew from his fingers, hit the rail, and rolled onto the deck.
Reacting with lightning speed, Mustapha dove on the grenade and flipped it over the side.
Ridley roared with pain and rage. He fumbled at his belt with his left hand for another grenade. Austin’s gun stuttered and laced Ridley’s chest with bullet holes. Ridley pitched over backward into the water as the grenade exploded and sent up a geyser that spattered onto the deck.
Austin swung the gun barrel toward the other two men.
“Jump,” he ordered.
He let off a fusillade at the awning. Shreds of canvas rained down like confetti. The men jumped over the side and joined the crewman already in the water. Austin triggered another burst that ripped into the water within inches of the swimmers.
Austin watched the sorry trio swim to land, then scramble onto shore and disappear into the woods. He put more holes in the listing speedboat and then turned his attention to Carina.
Mustapha wrapped some ice cubes in a dish towel and she held the improvised compress against her head. Austin saw that she was not seriously hurt and handed the gun to Mustapha, with instructions to shoot first and ask questions later.
Zavala brought the Subvette alongside the motor cruiser and Austin climbed aboard. The vehicle slipped below the surface and descended to the launch platform. Austin swam to the control console, and Zavala brought the vehicle down on the platform and the clamps locked it in place. Austin activated the pumps to expel water from the pontoons.
The launch platform surfaced near the motor cruiser, and it sat at a steep angle in the water because of the weight of the statue at the stern. Mustapha handed Carina the gun and moved his boat closer to the LRT platform. He threw a towline to Austin and Zavala. Then they slipped into the water and breaststroked to the boat ladder.
Back on board, Zavala peeled out of his wet suit, and glanced toward the wooded shore. “How did those guys find us way out here?”
Austin picked up his shirt and slipped the satellite phone from the pocket. “They may have zeroed in on the phone signal. Let’s not take any chances.”
He winged the phone as far as he could and watched it splash into the water. Then he thanked Mustapha for his quick-witted work with the boat hook and apologized for putting him and his boat in jeopardy and ru
ining his awning. The Turk took it in good spirits, but he wondered if he could call it a day and get paid. Austin peeled off enough Turkish lira to choke a horse.
“One more favor. We need to go somewhere we can be undisturbed,” he said.
“No problem.” The captain tucked the bills into his pocket. “There’s a place a few miles from here.”
LESS THAN half an hour later, Mustapha steered his boat into a quiet cove and anchored behind an outcropping of land. Mustapha said that local mariners avoided the inlet because the rocks hidden under the surface at the entrance made it tricky to navigate.
Zavala sat in the bow with the machine pistol resting in his lap. Carina gathered up a bag holding art supplies she had bought the day before and got into the skiff with Austin. He rowed to the launch platform, and they climbed aboard.
Carina leaned over the statue. “I feel guilty disturbing his sleep after all these years,” she said with undisguised tenderness.
“He’s probably glad to have a beautiful lady keep him company,” Austin said. “Look at his smiling face.”
Carina brushed away the dried marine vegetation clinging to the statue’s mouth. The face was that of a young bearded man with a strong nose and chin. Like the original statue, he wore a neck pendant engraved with a horse head and palm tree, a kilt around his waist, and sandals on his feet. The lack of arms gave him the grotesque aspect of a disaster victim.
Carina opened her bag, pulled out two sponges, and handed one to Austin. Working together, they cleaned every square inch of bronze. Carina laid out a brush, a square of cheesecloth, and a jar of liquid latex. She applied multiple layers of latex to the statue’s face, pendant, and other sections, then stiffened the layers with cheesecloth. The dried layers were peeled off, labeled with a marking pen, and carefully placed in the bag.
“It’s done,” she said, peeling off the final mold.
“What about the cat?” Austin said. “He was part of the crew.”
“Absolutely right,” Carina said with a smile. She applied the latex process to the side and half-turned face of the cat.
After the cast hardened, she removed it. Her work was done, but she was reluctant to leave.
“What should we do with him?” she said.
“We can’t bring the statue back,” Austin said. “It’s too heavy to move without specialized equipment, and transporting it overland would be a major problem. Someone is bound to see us. The Turkish authorities do not look kindly on foreigners who steal the country’s antiquities.”
Carina had a sad look in her eyes. She gave the statue a kiss on both cheeks. She patted the bronze forehead and got back into the skiff. Back on the boat, Austin asked Mustapha the depth of the water in the cove. The Turk said it was around fifty to sixty feet deep.
Austin and Zavala rowed back to the launch platform and, bracing their backs, shoved the statue with their feet. The statue teetered on the edge. One final push sent it over the side. The Navigator plunged into the depths, as if eager to return to the sea, and quickly disappeared from sight.
NUMA 7 - The Navigator
Chapter 30
THOUSANDS OF MILES FROM Turkish waters, the Navigator’s twin rotated slowly on a circular pedestal about a foot high, shimmering like an angry god under the battery of lights that bathed its bronze skin in a polarized glow.
A ghostly white, three-dimensional X-ray image of the Navigator pivoted on a large wall screen. Arrays of electronic probes surrounded the ancient statue.
Three men sat in leather chairs facing the screen. Baltazar was enthroned in the center. At his right was Dr. Morris Gray, an expert in the use of computed tomography. On Baltazar’s left was Dr. John Defoe, an authority in Phoenician history and art. Both scientists had been absorbed into Baltazar’s corporate empire with the expectation that the statue eventually would be found.
Gray aimed his laser pointer at the screen. “The X-ray technique we’re using here is similar to the CT scans employed in hospitals,” he said. “We take photographic slices of the object. The computer renders the photos into a 3-D image.”
Baltazar was slouched in his chair, his thick fingers entwined, his gaze fixed on the pale image projected against a dark blue background. He had waited for this moment for years.
“And what does your magic lantern tell us, Dr. Gray?” he rumbled.
Gray smiled slightly. He moved the laser’s red dot to a display panel, one of several that ran from top to bottom along the right side of the monitor.
“Each box shows information taken from the probes. This displays the statue’s metal composition. The bronze is the standard ninety percent copper and ten percent tin. The other boxes deal with thickness, tensile strength, as well as information that’s not pertinent.”
“What are those dark areas on the statue?” Baltazar asked.
“The statue was made with the lost wax process,” Defoe said. “The artist made a clay form, which was encased in wax, then clay again. The X-ray shows the channels and vents that were drilled in the outer shell to allow wax and gas to escape and molten metal to be poured in. The statue was fabricated in pieces, so we’re also looking at rivet points and hammer marks.”
“All very interesting,” Baltazar said. “But what is inside the statue?”
“The X-ray shows nothing behind the bronze exterior except for a hollow space,” Gray answered.
“What about the exterior?”
“A lot more promising.” Gray produced a slim remote control from his suit jacket and pointed it at the screen. The ghostly figure disappeared. Filling the screen was a close-up of the statue’s face. “I’ll let Dr. Defoe deal with this area.”
Defoe squinted at the screen through round-framed glasses. “The damage makes it difficult to gauge the subject’s age, but, judging from the muscular body, he is probably in his twenties.”
“Forever young,” Baltazar observed in a rare poetic moment.
“The conical hat is similar to that we see in pictures and sculptures of Phoenician sailors. The beard and hair have me puzzled. The way they are layered denotes someone of upper-class Phoenician society, yet he is garbed in the kilt and sandals of a simple sailor.”
“Go on,” Baltazar said. There was no discernible change in his expression despite his growing excitement.
The image morphed into a close-up view of the pendant around the Navigator’s neck. “This pendant replicates a Phoenician coin design,” Defoe said. “The horse is the symbol for Phoenicia. The uprooted palm tree to its right denotes a colony. Here’s where things get intriguing.”
The red dot jumped to a semicircular space below the horse head and palm tree where there was a horizontal line of squiggles.
“Runes?” Baltazar said.
“That was the common assumption when figures like these were seen on the coins. However, none matched any known Phoenician script. The markings remained a puzzle for years. Then a geologist at MountHolyokeCollege named Mark McMenamin came up with a startling new theory. He submitted the symbols to computer enhancement, which I will do here.”
The symbols on the screen became sharper and more defined.
“This pattern looks familiar,” Baltazar said.
“Perhaps this will help.” The shapes on the screen were set off by familiar continental outlines.
Baltazar leaned forward. “Incredible. They’re continents!”
“That was McMenamin’s conclusion. As a geologist, he recognized the landmasses for what they are. You can make out the rectangular shape of the Iberian Peninsula projecting down at an angle from Europe, which with North Africa encloses the Mediterranean. That’s Asia off to the right. Those smaller symbols west of Europe could be the British Isles. North America is the landmass on the left. South America seems to be missing or absorbed into the northern continent. Computer enhancement can be subject to different interpretations. But if McMenamin is right, this pendant indicates the range and scope of Phoenician colonies.”
“A bloody
map of the world,” Baltazar said with a grin.
“Not just any map of the world. The gold coins I mentioned were minted around 300 B.C. The bronze in this statue is about three thousand years old, making this the oldest world map we know of. More important, it indicates travel to the New World as early as 900 B.C., when the statue was made.”
Baltazar felt a rush of blood through his veins.
“I want to take a closer look at North America,” he said.
The enlarged symbol that appeared on the screen looked like an obese saguaro cactus. A pair of thick arms were upraised from a wide trunk.
Baltazar snorted. “You must admit that it takes a stretch of the imagination to see that amorphous blob as the North American continent.”
“Maybe this will help,” Defoe said. An outline of North America was superimposed over the symbol. “The trunk becomes the main continent. That’s Alaska off on the left and Newfoundland on the right.”
“Any evidence of trade routes between the Eastern and Western Hemispheres?”
“Not specifically. But that shouldn’t come as any surprise given the Phoenician penchant for secrecy, and the fact that ocean routes consisted of astronomical readings that could be committed to memory. But if we look at the compass in the statue’s hand,” he said with a flick of the remote, “we can deduce that east–west, west–east trade routes are suggested. The position of the statue relative to the north point of the compass rose indicates that he is looking toward the west.”
“Toward the Americas,” Baltazar said.
“Correct.”
“Can you pinpoint a landfall?”
Defoe shook his head. “This statue is the equivalent of the world maps you see in the airline magazines. Informative, but in no way useful to an airplane pilot.”
“They would have needed a more detailed chart when close to shore,” Baltazar pointed out.
“That’s right. Maps had limited value at sea. They would have needed a coastal pilot that showed the location of prominent points, so the travelers could check position. Directions rather than distance become paramount close to shore.”
The Navigator Page 23