Into the Black (31 page)

Suddenly something struck him from behind and sent him stumbling.  He struggled to recover his balance, but the weight of the helmet took him over and he ended up face down in the muck.  He pushed himself up, but saw only a dark shadow pass over him and faint eddies in the swirling murk.  With one glove he smeared away the algae that clung to the front view port of the helmet.

When he got to his feet, he realized that the crowd of bottom dwellers had moved away from the wreck and begun orbiting a new axis: him. Like a squadron of fighter planes, the larger fish seemed to be circling, preparing to dive-bomb their target.  Before he could raise the knife in his own defense, an enormous sturgeon, like some prehistoric monster from the fossil record, veered toward him.

Instinctively, he tried to dodge the creature.  The fish smacked into his shoulder, but did not succeed in knocking him down.  As it flashed past, he slapped at it with his empty hand, striking it in the gills.  Enraged
,
and possibly injured, the sturgeon retreated hastily toward the wreck.  With its flight, the attack ended.  Kismet remained ready to slash at the next assault, but the schools held their distance.  He took a tentative step toward the wreck, then another.

His earlier assumption about the vessel lying on its side was soon confirmed.  As he drew closer, he could discern the outline of the keel just above the mud line.  Kismet was not an archaeologist by trade, and certainly not an expert on maritime history, but he had studied Jason and the Argonauts during his classical education and knew enough about ships of the era from various contemporary sources to recognize a Greek galley about fifty feet long and twenty feet broad of beam—more a big boat than a ship in the modern sense.  But no galley in myth or history looked quite like this one, ablaze with golden brilliance.  The illumination was indeed shining from the skin of the craft, which to Kismet's surprise, did not appear to be wood.

A few more steps brought him close enough to place a gloved hand against the ship.  As he pressed experimentally against the surface he could feel a tingling in his fingertips but no heat.  When he moved his hand away, he saw the indentations left behind, as though he had pushed into stiff clay.  Pondering this observation, he started walking toward what he presumed to be the stern of the craft.

The coating on the hull was uniform, like a layer of paint.  The natural world was filled with luminescent fungi, plants, insects and fish, but Kismet was certain that some other phenomenon was at work.  The overlay on the ship was smooth and consistent, whereas lichen growth would adhere to a more chaotic pattern and would certainly have rubbed off when touched.  There was only one explanation: the ship was coated in luminous gold.

Kismet was also not a metallurgist, but he did know a thing or two about the corrosive power of salt water.  Even in the Black Sea, where the salinity was about half that of the world's oceans, time and oxidation would have corroded any other substance, leaving a wooden ship to decay into pulp.  Only gold could resist ravages of the sea for so many centuries.  The vessel had evidently been overlaid with gold in a manner similar to the helmet fragment Harcourt had displayed in Kismet's office. What he could not fathom, as he rounded the stern and got his first look at the topside of the ship, was why the ancients had covered their sea-going craft in one of the heaviest substances known to man, and why that normally inert element was glowing like an incandescent light bulb.

The galley held yet another surprise.  Situated aft, but extending forward to dominate roughly a third of the craft, was an enclosed superstructure.  He had been expecting an open craft; essentially a big rowboat.  The ancient Greeks, despite their mythic reputation for adventurous wanderings, had never perfected the art of sailing on the open sea.  They had preferred to row, assisted by a single square sail, within sight of the shore by day, and would beach their vessels at the onset of night.  Their ships, much like Viking longboats, had little in the way of creature comforts.  Even the description of the Argo in legend suggested an open craft, not a ship with a superstructure.  Kismet found himself wondering if Kerns' discovery perhaps had nothing do with the legend of Jason and the Golden Fleece.  The answer, he reasoned, must lie within the enclosure.

The open decks of the ship were empty. Nothing of the crew or their belongings remained. The oarlocks held only water, even the rudder oars were gone, and the stump of a mast protruded from the center of the craft, just aft of the enclosure.  Likely, the event that had sent the ship to the bottom had also washed overboard anything that wasn't secured.  Kismet did not pause to inspect the gilt beams or the benches where the oarsmen had labored centuries before, but continued purposefully toward his goal.

The enclosure had been designed for more than just shelter.  A colonnade of ornamental pillars, suggesting that it might have been used for worship, ringed the solid walls.  The columns were spaced far enough apart to allow for easy passage, and Kismet could see that something had been erected between the colonnade and the interior structure.  He moved closer to get a better look.

As he peered through the pillars, leaning sideways, he immediately recognized the foundation of a small altar. The base, set into the floor of the shrine, was overlaid in glowing metal. Kismet glanced down and saw one of the altar stones resting on a pillar. Behind his glass porthole, his brows drew together in contemplation.  The displaced stone was also gilt, whereas the altar stone recovered by Kerns and shown in the photographs Harcourt had displayed was of white marble.

Curious, Kismet reached down and shifted the stone.  Where the relic had been in contact with the pillar, idle for millennia, the underlying white marble was visible in a thin stripe.  The clean stone seemed dark against the luminescent metal.  Likewise on the pillar, a smudge of shadow revealed the resting-place of the stone.  He could draw but one impossible conclusion: the gold that covered nearly every inch of the ship had accreted after the wreck, after the craft had rolled over onto the bottom.

Kismet released the stone and returned his attention to the enclosure just behind the base of the altar.  A thin seam revealed the presence of a door, sealed for ages by the accumulated coating of shining gold.  He traced along the seam with the tip of his knife.  The plating was thinner than beaten foil and split apart without resistance.  Minute bubbles of trapped gas trickled out of the cut.  Kismet sheathed the knife then placed both hands on the featureless portal and pushed.

The door opened a couple inches and released a gasp of bubbles that momentarily obscured his view.  Then the tingling in his palms suddenly blossomed into a pulse of pain that jolted up his arms and through his torso.  He jerked back in surprise and looked at his hands.

Dark shapes swarmed over his arms; moving shapes that he could not shake loose.  Kismet did not know their taxonomic nomenclature—
Torpedindae torpedo
—but he recognized them easily nevertheless.  Electric rays.

More of the flat speckled fish wriggled out of the colonnade to join in the assault.  Kismet staggered back, brushing at the creatures, which continued to send surges of pain up his arms.

In an instant, the torpedo rays enveloped him; a cloud of writhing forms blanketed his head and chest.  He flailed at them blindly, his muscles seizing every time they released their potent charges.

He knew that the rubber of his diving suit should have insulated him from the shock, but the electricity seemed to pass right through.  Gritting his teeth, he took hold of a ray in either hand and started pulling them away from his helmet.

Blinded, he took another step back...and fell into nothingness.

* * *

Irene was in a state of panic.

Her anxiety had begun the moment Kismet disappeared into the still water.  It was inconceivable to her that her own father had made repeated forays into the underwater realm, utilizing his antiquated equipment, without her ever knowing.  Stranger still that he had used the gains of that enterprise to finance a venture of even greater risk, namely their flight to the United States.  But her father's success did not necessarily translate into confidence in Kismet's ability to survive the peril into which he had so willingly plunged.

She had looked to Anatoly for encouragement, but the big Russian had simply shrugged. "He'll make it," he had assured her, in a less than inspirational tone.
 "You watch the compressor. Make sure it doesn't run out of fuel.  I'll radio for a weather
report.  Storms on the Black—well, you know how quickly they can rise.  We might be out here a long time."

The comment, delivered in Russian, was a veritable oration from Anatoly, who was not generally loquacious.  He had turned away however, leaving her to watch the chugging compressor, the slow unspooling of the cable and the calm surface of the water.

Her uneasiness did not abate during his long absence.  When he returned, some fifteen minutes later, he inquired briefly about Kismet's status. Irene had nothing to report; Kismet could be dead for all she knew.

Ten minutes later, the panic set in.

Irene saw it first, a barely perceptible speck creeping over the western horizon and trailing a plume of white vapor.  She knew instantly what it was. "That's the
Boyevoy
. It's the ship that brought Nick and I here."

Anatoly did not seem concerned.  "I'm sure it's a coincidence."

"You don't understand. Captain Severin doesn't trust us. He thinks Nick's a grave robber, trying to steal national treasures."

Anatoly's bushy eyebrows went up. "Is he not?"

"That's not the point. It won't take him long to figure out that Nick is down there.  Once he does..." She couldn't put her fears into words that conveyed the panic she felt.

"What should we do?" asked Anatoly.

Irene wanted to scream at the big Russian; to tell him to think of something, but it was evident that he did not share her urgency.  She would have to be the one to come up with a solution.

Severin's destroyer was chugging steadily toward them, grinding out its maximum speed of thirty-two knots.  “He'll be here in a few minutes," grated Irene. "We've got to do something."

She ran to the edge of the boat and started pulling at the fishing nets, trying to camouflage Kismet's air hose and lifeline beneath the old twine webs.  Anatoly helped her complete the illusion, but it was obvious to both of them that, if they were boarded, even a casual search would pierce their veil of deception. One thing they could not hide was the compressor; its motor chugged loudly, exhaling a cloud of blue exhaust smoke.  Irene stared at the rickety machine, well aware that Kismet's life depended on its continued operation.

"We could shut it off," suggested Anatoly, as if reading her mind.  "He probably has a few minutes of air in his helmet."

She cringed at the thought.  "Only if it becomes obvious that we're going to be boarded. And we don't turn it off until we absolutely have to."

Anatoly nodded gravely.  "If we are boarded, it may not matter.  We cannot hide this."

Irene turned away, unable to answer him.  She didn't know what else to do.

All too soon, the
Boyevoy
grew large with its approach.  There could be no questioning its intention to intercept the trawler.  The
Sovremenny
class warship cut a path straight toward them, reversing its screws only when it seemed that a collision with the idle boat was unavoidable, and even as the ship was still coasting forward, the efficient crew lowered the motor launch into the water.

Suddenly, a whirring noise caught Irene's attention.  The cable that connected Kismet to the boat was spinning out of control.  Thirty yards of twisted wire snaked out in a matter of seconds.  Similarly, the rubber air hose was jumping out of its coil on the deck at an alarming rate.  While the lifeline had over a hundred yards of reserve, the air hose was about to run out.  Panicked, she rushed to the winch and engaged the ratchet.  The cable seized instantly and snapped taut.  The remainder of the air hose lay in a loop on the deck; a mere six feet in length.

Something disastrous had occurred below; something had happened to him and there was nothing she could do about it.  She raised her eyes to the approaching launch and knew that she had one more task to perform; a duty that might well spell the end for Kismet.  Gathering her courage, she stepped to the compressor and pulled the choke lever.  The engine roared for a moment, then sputtered into silence.

Anatoly placed a protective hand on her shoulder, offering no assistance to the Russian seamen that swarmed onto the deck of his boat.  For Irene, it was like a replay of the events a few days previously, when Severin had accosted them aboard the boat of the Turkish smuggler.  The cocky Russian captain addressed her with the overly familiar patronymic. 

"Greetings, Petrovna.  How pleasant to see you again."

"What do you want?" she croaked, surprised to find her voice thick with fear and anger.  She blinked away tears, trying to keep the emotion off her face. 

Severin ignored her question as he gazed curiously around the boat.  "Where are you hiding the dubious Nick Kismet?"

Irene sensed that he was toying with her.  "He stayed behind.  He wasn't feeling well."

"Ah!  But you thought you would help your father's old friend with his fishing.  How kind of you."  He swiveled his gaze to face the unbowed fisherman.  "I am curious, Anatoly Sergeievich Grishakov.  How will your nets catch any fish if you are at anchor?  Is this some new technique?"

"Why are you bothering us?"  Anatoly snapped.  "We aren't doing anything wrong.  Go pester someone else."

Severin spat out derisive laugh.  "State security has not forgotten you, Sergeievich.  Your name is on a list of known troublemakers.  You would do yourself a favor by cooperating."

"I am cooperating, fool.  I've let you come aboard my boat, even though your warship has driven all the fish away and ruined my catch."