Odessa Sea

by Clive Cussler

  “I don’t like the sound of that.” Pitt noticed his own wet feet.

  Both men had water up to their ankles as they awkwardly stood. Around them were sounds of hissing and crackling mixed with an acrid, burning odor.

  Pitt found a small flashlight and scanned the interior as Giordino helped release Ana from her seat.

  “Pressure seems to be holding,” Pitt said. “Must be a hairline crack or a viewport seal.”

  “Good thing we’re not a thousand feet deeper,” Giordino said. He knew that a similar breach at those depths could flood the submersible in an instant.

  Though Pitt and Giordino discussed the situation with casual calmness, Ana could tell things were dire. “How bad is it?”

  “No need to don our swim trunks just yet.” Pitt gave a reassuring smile. “We have limited power at our disposal, but it is currently restricted to just a few applications. Al will do some rewiring to keep our oxygen scrubbers operating.”

  “Can’t we call the Macedonia?”

  “At the moment, we don’t have power to our communication systems. Plus, there’s our inverted position. Our communications transponder is located on the submersible’s topside, which is now buried beneath us. We might not have much of a signal to transmit. But, no matter, as the Macedonia will come hunting for us soon enough.”

  “Can’t we surface on our own?”

  “Normally, we could, by thrusters or ballast. But our thrusters were knocked off, and the hissing you hear is a rupture to our ballast tank.”

  “That still leaves our emergency drop weights,” Giordino said.

  Pitt pointed up. “They’re atop us now. We can’t release them upside down.”

  A cold shudder ran through Ana. “How long can we stay down here?”

  “If we can keep our scrubbers running, we’re good for at least twenty-four hours.”

  Giordino cleared his throat. “We’ve got a recycle interruption.”

  “Manageable?” Pitt asked.

  “The O2 tanks were separated from the frame.” He spoke the words casually for Ana’s benefit, disguising the severity. The submersible’s supply of oxygen had been ripped away during the assault and now lay unavailable on the seabed. “Power’s down on the scrubbers, but I’m checking a work-around.”

  In the darkness, Pitt saw Giordino give him a faint shake of the head. There was no hope for repair.

  The gears in Pitt’s head started turning. The severed lines meant they had no access to fresh oxygen. Absent the operation of the carbon dioxide scrubbers, the air in the submersible would grow deadly. He didn’t need a calculator to compute the time. With three people packed into its tight confines, it wouldn’t take long.

  Pitt had no doubt the Macedonia would find them. The depth was shallow enough that divers could attach a lift cable and pull them to the surface. But time was now the enemy. The Macedonia’s crew would think they were still on the freighter’s wreck site. If their emergency beacon was muffled, it would take hours, maybe a day, to be found and rescued. More time than they had.

  “How about another thought,” he said. “We roll her upright. Or, at least, half over. Far enough to jettison our emergency weights.”

  Giordino shined his flashlight out the viewport, highlighting a rusty, growth-covered hull plate. They were positioned alongside the Kerch on an uneven, sandy surface.

  “We can only move laterally,” he said, “away from the wreck.”

  Pitt rapped a knuckle on the steel above his head. “We’ve got twin ballast tanks. If we can flood the port tank ahead of the starboard tank, the weight might pull us over.”

  “Worth a shot . . . if the pumps are operational. I’ll see if I can get them some juice.”

  He wrenched open a side fuse panel and attacked the myriad wires that were housed inside. After a few minutes, he called to Pitt. “Give it a try.”

  Pitt reached around the pilot’s seat and toggled the controls to flood the port ballast tank. A whirring could be heard overhead, followed by gurgling water.

  “Nice work, Sparky,” Pitt said.

  As the ballast tank filled, they could feel the submersible shift slightly. But when the tank reached full and the pumps shut off, it still held to its inverted position. The three tried to help with the weight transfer by all standing on the port side. Giordino even jumped up and down a few times, but the submersible held firm.

  Ana let out a low sigh. “We’re still stuck.” The initial sense of claustrophobia crept back into her thoughts, magnified by the stuffy air that was beginning to make her feel light-headed.

  “I think we’re close,” Pitt said.

  Giordino retrieved a toolbox and some dive gear and stacked it on the weighted side. “I’m afraid we don’t have much else that isn’t nailed down to give us an extra push.”

  Pitt regarded his comment. “Actually, we don’t need any more weight, we just need another hand. An extended one, that is.”

  Giordino looked at him a moment, then grinned. “Of course. We can try pushing ourselves over.” He brushed past Pitt to the fuse box and began tracking the wires.

  “What do you mean?” Ana asked.

  “The submersible has a robotic arm mounted to its base,” Pitt said. “If Al can find it some power, we can shove against the Kerch and push ourselves over.”

  The interior of the submersible had grown cold and the air noticeably stale when Giordino pronounced electrical success a few minutes later. “We drained a good piece of our emergency reserves with the ballast pumps,” he said. “You might not have much to work with.”

  “One push is all we need,” Pitt said. He leaned against the inverted pilot’s seat, reached up to a joystick on the console, and activated the controls. Pitt extended the manipulator from beneath the submersible’s prow and extended it laterally until its articulated grip scraped against the Kerch’s hull. Ana and Giordino took up positions on the port side and held their breath.

  Applying full power to the robotic arm, Pitt did the same. A faint murmur sounded from the hydraulics as the red interior light dimmed from the increased electrical draw. Then a creak came from somewhere on the submersible’s frame and the vessel began to tilt. Pitt continued to push with the manipulator, and the submersible leaned to the side until momentum took command. In a slow, easy roll, the submersible tipped onto its side as the occupants scrambled to regain their footing. Sloshing water splashed over the console, and the manipulator controls fell dead.

  “I guess that does it for power,” Pitt said. “Perhaps it’s time we surface.”

  He opened a floor panel, reached inside, and twisted a pair of T bolts. On the base of the submersible, two lead ballast weights dropped from their cradles and tumbled to the seabed.

  Despite its partial flooding, the NUMA submersible tilted off the sand and began to ascend. Ana smiled as Pitt shined his flashlight out the viewport and they watched the Kerch fall away beneath them. The black water surrounding them soon gained color, and Ana was relieved to see the return of the murky green soup that at first had frightened her.

  The submersible broke the surface minutes later in a rocky sea doused by steady rain. Craning out the viewport, Ana spotted the Macedonia rising on the swells a half mile away. Giordino didn’t attempt to rewire the radio, seeing the ship turn in their direction and churn the water behind it in full acceleration.

  Petar Ralin was pacing the aft deck when the submersible was hooked and lifted aboard. His face melted with relief as Ana climbed out of the hatch, followed by Pitt and Giordino.

  Stenseth helped them to the deck. “A longer dive than scheduled,” the captain said. He motioned toward the submersible’s dented frame and mangled thruster mounts. “You run into a sea monster down there?”

  “Well, something that did have some sharp claws.” Pitt scanned the gray clouds. “Our salvage friends took a personal in
terest in our submersible. Are they still about?”

  “They steamed off an hour ago.”

  Ralin stepped up and gave Ana a hug. “We were so worried about you.” He noticed a fresh bruise on her head. “What happened?”

  “They grabbed us with their salvage claw, banged us against the Kerch, then flipped us over. I thought we were trapped, but cooler heads prevailed,” she said, nodding at Pitt and Giordino. “Petar, we need to find that salvage ship before they reach port.”

  “Do they have the HEU?”

  She looked at Pitt and he responded for her. “It would seem a pretty good reason to try and kill us.” He ran a hand across the dented submersible.

  Ana turned to Stenseth. “Can we catch them? Or at least track where they went?”

  “They’ve got a healthy jump on us, but we’ll certainly try. Unfortunately, this weather gives us no visibility, and lousy radar coverage.”

  The group hustled up to the bridge, where Stenseth ordered the helm to bring the ship to top speed. He joined Pitt at the radarscope. “She moved off to the southwest when she left the site.”

  Pitt adjusted the radar’s range to maximum and studied the screen. Large white blotches covered much of it, representing heavy rainfall. At the far edge of the screen, a faint dot pulsed sporadically.

  “Could be them,” Pitt said, “on a heading of two-four-zero degrees.”

  “Running for the Bosphorus.” Stenseth relayed a course adjustment to the helm.

  “Ms. Belova? Mr. Ralin?” Pitt said. “Perhaps you could persuade the Turkish Coast Guard to make a temporary shutdown of the straits?”

  “It’s Ana and Petar,” she said with a smile. “And, yes, we can do that. Thank you.”

  Ralin made the call and relayed his success a few minutes later. “The Coast Guard has a vessel standing by near the Yavuz Sultan Selim Bridge, monitoring all southbound traffic. They’ll pull her aside when she appears.”

  “We’ll do our best to track her,” Stenseth said.

  They were able to follow the radar target to the approach of the Bosphorus but lost it amid all the traffic entering and exiting the strait. Continuing heavy rainfall added to the confusion, as the many targets filling the radar screen vanished and reappeared amid the white fuzz of weather distortion. The NUMA crew eventually tracked two southbound targets entering the strait and tried to draw close.

  The rain lightened as the vessels reduced speed in the strait, expanding the range of visibility. As the Macedonia pushed the imposed speed limit of ten knots, the first target came into view, a Russian-flagged bulk carrier. The Macedonia slipped past the slower ship to try to catch a glimpse of the second vessel.

  The modern Yavuz Sultan Selim suspension bridge poked through the drizzle ahead as an aged freighter began slipping beneath it.

  “Was that the second target?” Ana asked.

  “Afraid so,” Pitt said.

  A radio call to the Coast Guard picket confirmed their disappointment. The salvage ship had not appeared.

  “Where could they have gone?” Ana asked.

  “They must have turned near the mouth of the Bosphorus,” Pitt said, “perhaps for the very purpose of getting lost in the traffic and foul weather. No telling where they might have gone.”

  “We can take it from here,” Ralin said. “We’ll issue alerts to all of the friendly seaports on the Black Sea. We have a rough description. There can’t be too many vessels that fit her profile. She’ll turn up somewhere.”

  “I think you’re right about that,” Pitt said.

  “We’re almost back to Istanbul, so we can drop you there, if you like,” Stenseth said.

  “That would be fine.” Ana turned to Pitt. “We can’t thank you enough for your help. I’m confident we’ll locate the ship in short order.”

  “You’ll do me a personal favor by putting them out of business,” Pitt said. “Especially after what they did to my submersible.”

  Ana grinned. “The submersible ride was more excitement than I bargained for, but I think I’ve acquired a taste for the sea.”

  “Then I guess we can call our foray into the deep a success. Next time you need a ride downstairs, you know where to come.”

  “I’ll remember. Good-bye.”

  Ana and Ralin climbed to the lower deck and waited for the Macedonia to nudge against the Istanbul commercial dock. Jumping ashore, she silently swore to herself never to set foot on a boat again.

  8

  Nearly a century earlier, the ten-passenger water taxi had carried diplomats from the Golden Horn of Istanbul to their summer mansions on the upper stretches of the Bosphorus Strait. Its fine mahogany hull was now covered in a thick coat of aged black paint, while its glass-enclosed passenger canopy had been reconfigured with dark-tinted windows. What little brightwork that survived was dull and oxidized. The only opulence that remained from the Italian-built beauty was hidden in the engine bay. The original twin in-line, eight-cylinder engines gleamed with loving care and still snarled as they did when new.

  The antique boat charged across the outer harbor of Burgas as dusk began to settle over the Bulgarian city. Its target, the salvage vessel Besso, sat moored a half mile from shore. As the boat slowed and pulled alongside, a pair of long-haired crewmen accepted her lines and tied her fast. A stepladder was lowered to accommodate the lone passenger who stepped from the cabin.

  Valentin Mankedo boarded the salvage ship with the steady sea legs of a man who had spent the better part of his days on the water. His trim but hardened frame matched the tautness in his bearded face. Stepping purposefully aboard, he ignored the tending crewmen and marched straight to the wheelhouse. He entered an open door to find a muscular, bald man scanning the harbor with binoculars. His scalp, neck, and arms were covered with tattoos.

  He glanced at the intruder and set down the binoculars. “I would have come to see you in the morning.”

  “We are playing with fire, Ilya Vasko,” Mankedo said, giving him a cold stare. “There can be no room for error in this operation. Now, tell me what has happened.”

  “The Crimean Star was attacked successfully, as planned. All went well, except that the bridge was able to issue a brief call for help. There was nothing we could have done to prevent it.” The bald man rubbed his neck, stroking the head of an octopus tattoo that climbed up from his shoulder. “It was just a single distress call, but it was answered by an American research ship, the Macedonia, which happened to be nearby. We tracked her on the radar as she responded. We boarded the freighter but could not locate the crate. It was not on the bridge, as we had been led to believe. In no time, it seemed, the research ship appeared.”

  “Our port informant in Sevastopol has not always been reliable,” Mankedo said. “Why didn’t you radio the Americans from the freighter and tell them it was a false emergency?”

  “The research ship contacted the Turkish Coast Guard, and we knew they would soon arrive and investigate thoroughly.”

  Mankedo stared at him through dark eyes that burned with intensity, but he said nothing.

  “I took the assault crew off the freighter, affixed an external explosive to the stern, and stood off,” Vasko said. “The Macedonia sent a few men aboard and tried to make for Istanbul. The explosive charge ended the attempt. The boarders actually did us a favor, as they brought the ship into shallow waters before she sank.”

  “Did they find and remove the container?”

  Vasko shook his head. “They wouldn’t have known to look, nor did they have the time to remove it. They had to evacuate after the explosives detonated, as the ship sank quickly.”

  “So you just monitored the site?”

  “We stood off about ten miles while the search and rescue vessels arrived and scoured the area at daylight. We moved back in and stood over the Kerch site for some practice drills until it got dark and the rescue sh
ips abandoned the area.”

  “The Kerch?”

  “You remember. We worked her about ten years ago. Pulled up an anchor and a steam condenser, if I recall. She’s a Russian destroyer. Sank in World War I. She’s sitting less than a kilometer from the Crimean Star. I’ve got something to show you from her, down in the machine shop.”

  “I don’t care about that,” Mankedo said. “What about the uranium?”

  “We wasted a lot of time searching the holds before one of our divers found it in the engine room. He was due to surface, so we had to send down two more men. In the meantime, we picked up a radar contact headed toward the site. I didn’t want to leave empty-handed again, so I dropped the claw and opened up the stern deck. The divers bounced in and dragged it within range and we grabbed it with the claw.”

  “You got it?”

  “We had to move fast. We barely got the divers up when we realized the approaching vessel was the same American ship, the Macedonia. They radioed us and said the Bulgarian police were aboard. We short-hoisted the claw, still holding the crate, and moved off to the Kerch site and waited. They dropped a submersible on the freighter, then went snooping around the site. We pulled in the crate, then roughed up the submersible.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We dropped the claw back on the Kerch, and their submersible was there, poking around. They must have seen the damage to the stern of the Crimean Star and realized we’d taken something. I decided we needed to buy more time, so we destroyed the submersible and left the site. The weather was poor, so we feigned toward the strait before turning north. Radar showed that nobody tracked us to Burgas.”

  Mankedo bit his lower lip. “They can identify the Besso.”

  “They will be too busy recovering the submersible and its dead occupants. We’ll be rid of the package before they can possibly locate us and then it will be too late. What will they have? No proof of anything. We were there working the Kerch. And I brought back something for you that proves it.”

  Mankedo brushed the comment aside. “We don’t need anyone tracking the Besso, now or in the future. I have a lot of money invested in this ship. I can’t afford to put it into hiding or move it to Georgia for months on end.”