Atlantis

by David Gibbins

  In addition to the three bodyguards lashed together on the central dais, there were twenty men from Vultura. The crew had surrendered after Jack and Costas boarded the disabled vessel and informed them of their leader’s demise. Despite his injuries Costas had insisted on coming along, claiming that he was in no worse condition than Jack had been on their journey through the volcano. Katya had asked to be allowed to guard the prisoners, a way of being alone with her thoughts.

  “The good guys are finally winning,” Costas said.

  “It’s not over yet.”

  Costas followed Jack’s gaze beyond the island where Sea Venture’s Lynx was carrying out a grid search over the site of York and Howe’s stand. Four Zodiacs were combing the waves beneath.

  The first of the Sikorsky S-70A Seahawks thundered overhead, the downdraught a refreshing blast of cool air. Above the stone circle beside the other peak the doors sprang open and disgorged heavily armed men who rappelled past the smoking wreckage of the Ka-28 Helix. As they made their way up the steps towards them, Jack and Costas looked at each other and mouthed their age-old refrain.

  “Time to kit up.”

  Just over an hour later the two men stood dripping inside the torpedo room of the submarine. Using fresh equipment airlifted from Sea Venture they had made their way back through the labyrinth, following the tapes that Costas had paid out on the way up. In the membrane chamber they had heaved shut the gold-plated doors and tapped a signal on Kazbek’s casing. Moments later the pump emptied the chamber and the hatch swung open to reveal the gaunt faces of Ben and Andy.

  “We haven’t got long,” Ben warned. “The hydrogen peroxide CO2 scrubbers are saturated and the reserve air tanks on the DSRV are nearly empty.”

  They quickly doffed their equipment and followed the crewmen round the edge of the torpedo room and up the weapons loading chute. The door to the sonar room with its macabre sentinel was closed and they could hear a muffled banging inside.

  “Two of Aslan’s men,” Andy remarked. “Left behind as guards after the rest fled in the submersible. They surrendered almost immediately. We thought they’d like to keep our KGB friend company.”

  “The others weren’t so lucky,” Jack said grimly.

  Ben and Andy’s haggard appearance matched their own, but Jack still marvelled at their stamina after so many hours holed up in the submarine.

  Moments later they were inside the control room. Jack stood at the spot where he had taken the bullet that so nearly cost him his life. In the corner a blanket covered the body of the dead Kazakh gunman. The evidence of their firefight had become part of the scenery, another layer to the devastation caused years earlier during the crew’s desperate last stand.

  “Where’s the ballast control?” said Jack.

  “Over here,” Andy replied. “It’s pretty smashed up, but luckily we don’t have to do anything sophisticated. We think there’s enough pressure left in the air tanks to carry out an emergency blow. All you have to do is yank these handles and the valves open manually.” He pointed at two mushroom-shaped protrusions on top of the panel, both designed to be pulled down by an operator standing in front of the console.

  “Right,” Costas said. “Time to saddle up. You guys deserve some R & R.”

  While he and the two crewmen went aft to disengage the DSRV, Jack went over the next stage in his plan, the final act that would extinguish Aslan’s evil empire once and for all.

  When Costas returned from the escape trunk, Jack was seated behind the weapons panel in the fire control alley. It was one of the few areas to have escaped damage.

  “What are you doing?” Costas enquired.

  “I have a score to settle.” Jack glanced at him with cold eyes. “Call it loss adjustment.”

  Costas looked intrigued if a little dumbfounded. “You’re the boss.”

  “Leaving Aslan’s headquarters intact is asking for trouble. There’ll be plenty of good intentions but neither the Georgians nor the Turks will touch it for fear of escalating the civil war and provoking the Russians. And we’re not talking about just another warlord. The place is a tailor-made terrorist centre, a dream for the al Qaeda operatives who must already have had Aslan’s number and been waiting for just this kind of opportunity.” Jack paused, thinking of Peter Howe. “And this is personal. I owe it to an old friend.”

  Jack activated the two LCD screens in front of him and ran a series of operational checks.

  “Katya gave me a briefing before we left. Apparently even junior intelligence officers of her grade were trained to shoot these weapons. In a nuclear holocaust they might be the last survivor in a submarine or bunker. All systems were self-contained and designed to be operable in extreme conditions. Katya reckoned the back-up computer would still be functional even after all this time.”

  “You’re not going to fire a cruise missile,” Costas breathed.

  “Damn right I am.”

  “What about the works of art?”

  “Mostly in the domestic complex. It’s a risk I have to take.” Jack quickly surveyed the monitors. “I checked after we defused those warheads. Number four tube is occupied by a complete all-up Kh-55 Granat ready to fire. The canister is still sealed by the membrane pressure cap. Eight metres long, three thousand kilometre range, mach point seven zero cruising speed, one thousand kilogramme direct-impact fused HE charge. Basically a Soviet version of the Tomahawk land-attack missile.”

  “Guidance system?”

  “Similar terrain-contour-matching software and GPS to the Tomahawk. Fortunately the course is a direct over-sea route so no need to program in evasive tactics. I have the exact target co-ordinates so we won’t need the seeker head and search pattern system. I’ll be able to bypass most of the complex programming procedures.”

  “But we’re too deep for a launch,” Costas protested.

  “That’s where you come in. I want you to operate the emergency blow valves. As soon as we reach twenty metres you give the order to fire.”

  Costas slowly shook his head, a crooked smile creasing his ravaged features. Without a word he took up position in front of the ballast control panel. Jack remained hunched over the console for a few moments and then looked up with grim determination.

  “Developing fire-control solution now.”

  Their movements gave no hint of the momentous force they were about to unleash. Jack was fully focused on the monitor in front of him, his fingers tapping a sequence of commands with brief pauses while he awaited each response. After inputting the necessary presets, a pattern of lines and dots appeared on the screen. In a typical operational scenario the solution would represent a best-fit search area, but with the destination coordinates known, the screen simply showed a linear projection of range and course with the target pinpointed.

  “I’ve loaded a mission profile into the TERCOM computer and am warming up the missile,” Jack announced. “Initiating firing sequence now.”

  He swivelled his chair to the fire control console, sweeping the crust of precipitate from the launch control panel to reveal the red firing button. He checked that the electronics were active and looked across at Costas behind the buoyancy control station. Jack needed no affirmation that he was doing the right thing, but the sight of his friend’s bludgeoned face hardened his resolve even further. The two men nodded silently at each other before Jack turned back towards the screen.

  “Engage!”

  Costas reached up and pulled the two levers down with a resounding clank. At first nothing happened, but then a deafening hiss of high-pressure gas seemed to fill every pipe above them. Moments later it was joined by a rumbling like far-off thunder as the rush of compressed air purged the ballast tanks between the two layers of hull casing.

  Slowly, almost imperceptibly, there was movement, a creaking and groaning that rose in a shrieking crescendo and seemed to whip from one end of the boat to the other. It was as if some long-dormant creature were stirring awake, a sleeping giant grudgingly roused after an
eternity of undisturbed slumber.

  Suddenly the bow tilted upwards at an alarming angle, throwing the two men sideways. There was an ear-splitting wrenching sound as the remains of the propeller and rudder assembly sheared away.

  “Hold on!” Costas shouted. “She’s about to go!”

  With a final screech the stem lurched upwards and nine thousand tons of submarine were free. The depth gauge in front of Costas began to cycle through with alarming rapidity.

  “On my mark!” he yelled. “Eighty metres…sixty metres…forty…thirty…shoot!”

  Jack punched the red button and there was a sound like a vacuum extractor from the front of the submarine. The launch system automatically opened the hydraulic door of the tube and set off an explosive charge that blew the missile into the water. Just metres in front of the hull the booster rocket thrust the missile with colossal force towards the surface, its course now set for a deadly rendezvous away to the north-east.

  On the bridge of Sea Venture Tom York stood on crutches beside the captain and the helmsman. They had been watching the last of the Seahawks as they lifted off from the island on their way to a maximum security compound for terrorist prisoners in Georgia. Now their attention was focused on Vultura, its hull low in the water where Jack’s explosive had mangled the stern. They had just despatched three Zodiacs with twin 90 hp outboards to tow the hulk further offshore above the deep-sea canyon.

  As York glanced back at the island, his eye was suddenly caught by a disturbance on the sea about a kilometre away. For a moment it looked like the shock waves from an underwater explosion. Before he had time to alert the others a spear of steel burst through the waves, its exhaust kicking up a vast orb of spray like the plume from a rocket launch. Thirty metres up it tilted lazily and hung motionless for a second while the burnt-out booster ejected and the wings folded out. Then the turbofan ignited with a thunderous roar and the missile streaked off on a level trajectory towards the east, soon reaching high subsonic as it skimmed the waves like a fast-receding fireball.

  Seconds later a vast eruption turned all eyes on Sea Venture back to the sea. Kazbek broke surface like a mighty whale, its bow rising clean out of the water and then flopping down with an immense crash. As the huge black shape settled into the waves, the only evidence of its prolonged immersion was a faint yellowing on some parts of the casing and the damage to the stern quarter. For a brief moment until it settled underwater they had seen the circular hole where the EH-4 membrane had ripped off, the torpedo room now flooded but sealed off behind a bulkhead by Costas. The sheer size of the submarine was overwhelming, an awesome image of one of the most lethal war machines ever devised.

  To many former servicemen on Sea Venture it was a sight that would once have provoked apprehension and fear, an image as potent as the U-boat to a previous generation. But now it was met by a ragged chorus of cheers, its appearance one less chance that weapons of mass destruction would fall into the hands of terrorists and rogue states that were now the common enemy of all the world’s navies.

  “Sea Venture, this is Kazbek. Do you read me? Over.”

  The crackling voice came through on the bridge radio and York picked up the receiver.

  “Kazbek, we read you loud and clear. Thanks for the fireworks. Over.”

  “Here are some co-ordinates.” Jack read out a twelve-digit number and repeated it. “You might want to set up a SATSURV link with Mannheim. The satellite should be overhead now. In case any of the crew are wondering, these are the guys who took out Seaquest.”

  A few minutes later everyone had crowded into Sea Venture’s communications room, priority of place being given to the crew from Seaquest who had been picked up by the rescue sub. They were joined by Ben and Andy, who had just finished docking the DSRV. Everyone braced themselves against the final waves of disturbance from the surfacing submarine and stared intently at the screen as the image came online.

  In hazy grey it showed a group of buildings ranged like the spokes of a wheel round a central hub. To the right the infrared sensor picked up the heat signatures of a dozen or so people bustling around two huge double-rotored helicopters, transport machines which had arrived after Jack’s escape. Along with a second group visible on the seafront, they seemed to be in great haste. They were ferrying objects that looked suspiciously like paintings and statues.

  Suddenly there was a blinding flash and a concentric ripple of colour pulsed out at lightning speed from the centre of the screen. When it cleared the scene was one of utter devastation. The central hub had been atomized, its dome pulverized into a million fragments. The thermal imagery showed where the blast had seared down the passageways leading from the hub. The shock wave had gone further, toppling the helicopters and all the people who had been visible, their lifeless bodies in disarray among the packages they had been carrying. They could not have known what hit them.

  There was muted applause from the crew. They knew this was no mere act of retribution, that the stakes were much higher.

  WE WERE GRIEVED TO HEAR ABOUT PETER HOWE.”

  Maurice Hiebermeyer had clambered out of the helicopter and walked straight past the stone circle to put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. It was a moving gesture, evidence of a friendship that went beyond shared professional passion.

  “We haven’t given up hope yet.”

  Jack stood with Katya and Costas at the bottom of the steps that led up to the entrance into the volcano. They had spent a well-earned night on board Sea Venture and were now basking in the morning sun as it rose in the east behind the stone circle. The blue IMU overall concealed Jack’s freshly bandaged chest, but Costas’ face was a very visible reminder of what he had been through. Katya was still subdued and withdrawn.

  “Warmest congratulations on your discovery. And on overcoming a few obstacles along the way.” James Dillen spoke as he shook hands with Jack. His gaze took in Katya and Costas.

  Dillen was followed from the helicopter by Aysha Farouk, Hiebermeyer’s assistant who had first revealed the Atlantis papyrus in the desert and had now been invited to join them. Standing to one side was the genial figure of Efram Jacobovich, the billionaire software tycoon who had provided the endowment that made all their research possible.

  To Jack the conference in the castle at Alexandria seemed a lifetime ago. Yet it had only been four days. And they were still one step away from their goal, from the fount of all that had driven the priests to preserve and covet their secret over so many generations.

  Just as they were about to file up the rock-cut stairs, Mustafa Alközen came bounding over the platform carrying two diver’s flashlights.

  “My apologies for being late,” he said breathlessly. “We have had a busy night. Yesterday evening a Turkish Air Force Boeing 737 early warning aircraft detected an explosive shock wave on the coast of Abkhazia near the Georgian border.” He winked at Jack. “We decided it was a threat to national security and sent a Special Forces rapid reaction team to investigate.”

  “The works of art?” Jack asked.

  “Most were still inside Aslan’s domestic quarters, and most of those being removed were outside the main blast area. As we speak they are being transferred by Navy Seahawks to Istanbul’s Archaeological Museum for identification and conservation and then will be returned to their rightful owners.”

  “A pity,” Costas interjected. “They’d make a unique travelling exhibit. Examples of the finest art from all periods and cultures, never before seen together. It would be an astounding show.”

  “A few anxious curators might want to see their property first,” Jack said.

  “But an excellent idea,” Efram Jacobovich pitched in with quiet enthusiasm. “It would be an appropriate use for the funds confiscated from Aslan’s accounts. Meanwhile I can think of one private benefactor who might provide the seed money.”

  Jack smiled appreciatively and turned back to Mustafa. “And the security situation?”

  “We have been seeking an excuse to go
into Abkhazia for some time,” Mustafa replied. “It has become the main transit point for drugs from central Asia. With the terrorist link now firmly established we have been assured of full co-operation from the Georgian and Russian governments.”

  Jack tried hard to conceal his scepticism. He knew Mustafa was obliged to toe the official line even though he was well aware that the chances of concerted action beyond the present situation were minimal.

  They looked towards the low shape of Kazbek and the flotilla of Turkish and Russian FAC craft which had arrived overnight, evidence of the process already under way to ensure the nuclear warheads were removed and the submarine returned to its home port for decommissioning. Following disposal of the reactor core, the bodies of Captain Antonov and his crew would be left on board and the submarine sunk as a military grave, a final monument to the human cost of the Cold War.

  “What about the hardware?” Jack asked.

  “Anything reusable will go to the Georgians. They need it most. We had hoped to offer them Vultura, but I now see that will no longer be possible.” He grinned at Jack. “So they get a brand-new Russian Project 1154 Neustrashimy-class frigate instead.”

  “What will happen to Vultura?” Katya asked quietly.

  They all looked out at the distant hulk which had been towed into position above the underwater canyon. It was a pitiful sight, a smouldering pyre that was the last testimony to the avarice and hubris of one man.

  Mustafa checked his watch. “I believe you will have the answer about now.”

  Exactly on cue the air was rent by the high-pitched screech of jet aircraft. Seconds later two Turkish Air Force F-15E Strike Eagles thundered overhead, their twin afterburners flaring red as they flew in close formation towards their objective. About two kilometres beyond the island a canister dropped from the left-hand jet and skipped over the sea like a dambuster bomb. As the two aircraft tore away to the south, the sea erupted in a wall of flame that engulfed the wreck in an awesome display of pyrotechnics.