“What then?”
Mansfield yawned and headed for the door. “Alert your helicopter pilot, then wake me in my cabin.”
Across a rising sea, the NUMA submersible was lifted aboard ship and surrounded by an anxious circle of crewmen. Captain Littleton joined them as the hatch was opened. Dirk appeared, battered and bruised, holding the semiconscious body of his sister. Passing Summer to the ship’s doctor, he ducked back inside to help Dahlgren, who could stand on only one leg. Dirk accompanied them to the ship’s medical ward, then hobbled over to Littleton.
“You all right, son?” the captain asked.
“We got knocked around pretty good down there, but I’m fine. Jack has a compound fracture to his left leg, and I fear Summer has some internal injuries as well as a concussion.”
“We’ve got a good doctor aboard, but we’ll make for Bergen at top speed all the same.” Littleton gazed at the submersible’s dinged and discolored exterior. “What happened down there?”
“I’m not sure.” Dirk shook his head. “I’m guessing some sort of large explosion on the port side of the ship. But there’s one thing. We met up with the Russians’ submersible in the general vicinity just a few minutes earlier.”
“They surfaced right about the time of the blow,” Littleton said.
“I should have known. They must have set a timed charge. Blew apart the entire superstructure. We were lucky to have had the cabin deck as a barrier or else we would have bought it. Fortunately, the sub maintained internal pressure. I was able to purge one of the ballast tanks with emergency power and we floundered to the surface.” He began walking around the submersible, inspecting its damage.
“The Russians offered to help search for you,” Littleton said, “but claimed their submersible was down for repairs.”
“They must be after something belowdecks on the Canterbury.”
“More gold?”
“Perhaps.”
“Were you able to grab the gold bar you’d seen in the cabin?”
Dirk shrugged. “We had it for a moment. Wasn’t a big concern after everything went black.”
The two men made their way to the front of the submersible.
“I guess the trip paid for itself.” Dirk pointed to the cradled manipulator.
Visible within the clutch of its steel claws was the yellow sheen of the gold bar.
30
“Al, they’ve found the Macedonia.”
Dozing in a corner of the Burgas police station’s video conference room, Giordino woke with a start. He stood and moved swiftly to the conference table, where Pitt was back in touch with Gunn and Yaeger in Washington. The men showed a sudden sense of vigor that masked the fatigue of the last forty-eight hours.
Giordino took a seat at the table and joined the conversation. “Where is it?”
“North-central Black Sea,” Yaeger said, “about forty miles southeast of Sevastopol. We just identified her on a satellite image from the National Reconnaissance Office. It’s from one of their Air Force birds, taken about ninety minutes ago.”
Yaeger typed at his console and displayed on the screen a grainy photo. The digitally enhanced image showed a small ship trailed by a box-shaped vessel. Yaeger enlarged the photo until a few distinct features on the ship could be seen. “It wasn’t a direct satellite pass, and the weather adds degradation, but it appears to be the Macedonia. The dimensions match up, the topside structures are correct, and you can even make out a submersible on the aft deck.”
“That’s her,” Pitt said.
“Yep.” Giordino nodded. “That’s exactly where the submersible was positioned when we came into port.”
“Nice work, Hiram,” Pitt said. “You found the needle in a haystack.”
“Max did all the work,” Yaeger said. “I just input the vessel’s configuration and sent her to work scanning satellite images.”
“What’s with the vessel behind her?” Giordino asked. “Is she towing a barge?”
Yaeger readjusted the image and zoomed in on the second vessel. Under magnification, they could see, it was an open-hulled steel barge loaded with crates.
“It’s a towed barge, all right,” Pitt said. “You can make out the tow line on one of the forward bollards.”
“Why would someone hijack a research ship and use it to tow a barge?” Gunn asked.
“There must be a clue in the cargo,” Yaeger said.
“Most likely,” Pitt said. “Whatever they’re towing, it’s slowing them down. That will make them more vulnerable.”
“If she makes it to Sevastopol, things might get ugly trying to pry her back from the Russians,” Gunn said.
Pitt nodded. “Give us her coordinates. We’ll contact the Ukrainians and see if their Coast Guard can get to her first. They can at least radio Macedonia and see who answers. How about our own Navy?”
“We’ll have to check,” Gunn said. “The Montreux Convention allows us only a temporary naval presence in the Black Sea, but the Aegis-class destroyer Truxton is currently on deployment.”
“Get on it,” Pitt said. “I’ll also need a contact for the Bezmer Air Base commander.”
“You going to request a flyby?” Gunn asked.
Pitt gave Giordino a knowing look. “Something like that.” He signed off the video call and made arrangements with the Bulgarian police to contact the Ukrainian Sea Guard. In Washington, Gunn contacted a friend who was aide to the Chief of Naval Operations, while Yaeger continued trying to track the Macedonia and studying satellite images. Something in the barge photo caught his eye and he examined it under different levels of lighting and magnification. Finally, he saw it. On the top of one crate was a word in black paint. He adjusted the brightness, contrast, and magnification in multiple variations, but he couldn’t make out the lettering.
“Max,” he called out. “Are you there?”
A holographic image of a woman appeared beyond Yaeger’s computer console. She was young and attractive, modeled after his wife, and she looked at him attentively. “I’m here around the clock for you,” she said in a seductive voice. “You should know that by now.”
“This photo on display from your database,” he said. “It shows a barge containing crates. On the port rail, third crate from the stern, there are some visible markings. Do you see it?”
“Yes. Rather blurry from a thousand miles up.”
“Do your best to tell me what it says.”
Max crinkled her nose as the supercomputer that created her leaped at the challenge. The photographic image was broken down and redisplayed many thousand different ways, as an optical scanner recorded each variation. One by one, each letter was dissected. After less than a minute, Max winked at Yaeger. “You may want to inform the boss.”
“What does it say?”
“.”
“You lost me,” Yaeger said.
“It’s Bulgarian.” Max gave him an abrasive look. “It’s the word for munitions.”
31
Dirk stepped onto the Odin’s bridge wing as the ship entered Hjeltefjorden, a twenty-two-mile waterway that stretched southeast toward Norway’s Bergen Peninsula. Snowcapped hills rose sharply on either side, as the vessel steamed toward Bergen. The sun shone brightly, casting the waters a brilliant sapphire while softening the chill of a stiff southerly breeze.
A thumping caught his attention and he turned to spot a helicopter approaching from behind. Skimming over the fjord, the chopper raced by just off Odin’s beam. Dirk didn’t recognize the model, and its registration markings appeared to be taped over. He watched the helicopter disappear over the horizon on the route to Bergen, then he descended two flights of stairs and entered the wardroom. In the corner, Jack Dahlgren sat at a table, sipping coffee. His left leg was wrapped in a temporary cast and propped on a suitcase.
Dirk smiled. “They finally kick you o
ut of sick bay, stumpy?”
“I exhausted their supply of painkillers, so there was no reason to stick around,” Dahlgren said. The discomfort from his broken leg was evident in the hooded squint of his eyes.
“How’s the leg?”
“Mostly numb, except when I move. The doc did what he could, but with a shattered femur, I’m headed for shoreside surgery and a leg full of tin.”
“I’m sure you’ll get top care in Bergen, along with all the lutefisk you can stomach.”
“I was banking on it, but I think your sis has other designs.” He pointed across the room at Summer, who had just entered and was striding toward them, carrying a leather purse. She limped from a sore ankle and was trying to hide a large bruise on the side of her face by letting her long red hair hang loose.
“The second member of the Walking Wounded Club arrives,” Dirk said.
Summer shook her head. “The submersible rolls over—and Jack breaks his leg and I get a new face. Meanwhile, you waltz out without so much as a scratch. Show me the justice in that.”
“I think when we tumbled, his skull put a few dents in the submersible,” Dahlgren said. “Did more damage to the submersible than to himself.”
“Always was hardheaded,” Summer said.
“But not the only one in the family,” Dirk said. “So what’s this about not letting Jack get patched up in Bergen?”
“I just booked tickets for the three of us on an afternoon flight to London.”
“Why London?”
“The Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital, the Royal Navy, and Cambridge University.”
Dirk and Dahlgren looked at each other and shrugged.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Dahlgren said. “What’s the significance of those three establishments?”
“Well, for starters, the hospital is where Dr. Steven Miller holds seasonal residency. Miller is a world-renowned orthopedic surgeon from Muncie, Indiana, who happens to be an old friend of Rudi Gunn. At Rudi’s request, Dr. Miller is ready and waiting to rebuild Jack’s leg as soon as we arrive.”
Dahlgren smiled. “Adios, lutefisk.”
“Nice of Rudi to help out,” Dirk said. “I assume a stop at the Royal Navy isn’t for Jack’s benefit?”
“That will be to return this.” Summer raised her purse and set it on the table with a clunk.
“Is that what I think it is?” Dahlgren asked.
“Hasn’t left her side,” Dirk said. “I think she sleeps with it under her pillow.”
“It’s not something I care to lose.” She unsnapped her purse and retrieved the gold bar from the Canterbury.
“May I?” Dahlgren reached out his hands.
Summer passed him the bar.
“Sweetness.” He balanced its weight, then held it up to the light.
Summer smiled. There was something intrinsically magical about the heavy yellow mineral that elicited a childlike amazement in everyone who touched it. No wonder there were so many treasure hunters scouring the globe for gold nuggets and coins.
Dahlgren rapped a knuckle against the top of the bar, which was engraved with various numbers and symbols. “Have you deciphered the hieroglyphics and the two-headed chicken?”
“That’s no chicken,” she said. “It’s actually an eagle, the coat of arms of the Romanov family. It ties with the accompanying Cyrillic lettering, which indicates some sort of tracking number and the smelting date, October 1914.”
“Romanov gold?” Dirk asked.
“I’m no expert, but from what I can determine, the markings indicate it came from the Imperial Russian Treasury.”
“That might explain the appearance of the Tavda.”
“The Russians must think there’s more gold aboard,” Dahlgren said.
“It’s possible,” Dirk said, “though there was no mention of gold shipments in the Canterbury’s history that I found.”
Dahlgren looked to Summer. “So you want to rat out the Russians in London?”
“The Canterbury is a British naval ship as well as a war grave. The Royal Navy should be notified that the Russians are claiming it as theirs and possibly blowing it apart in a search for gold.”
“Sounds like the right thing to do. But how about this?” Dahlgren held up the gold bar. “Going to keep it as a finder’s fee?”
“Of course not,” Summer grabbed the bar out of his hands and deposited it in her purse. “It will be given to the Royal Navy, along with the wreck’s coordinates.”
He shook his head. “Always the saint.”
“I think I can dispute that,” Dirk said.
Summer snorted. “Never you mind.”
“So I understand flying to London to fix Jack’s leg and to kiss the gold bar good-bye,” Dirk said. “But how does Cambridge play into the trip?”
“That’s something of a bonus. I tried calling St. Julien Perlmutter in Washington to enlist his help in researching the Canterbury. If anyone could find out if there’s gold aboard an old shipwreck, it would be Julien. By luck, he happens to be attending a nautical history symposium at Cambridge.”
“Summer,” Dahlgren said, “I never knew you were such a gold hound.”
“It’s not the gold itself. I just want to know why it was aboard. And why the Russians are claiming the ship.”
“The British Admiralty records might be helpful,” Dirk said.
“With Julien’s assistance, we’re sure to find something.”
“I just have one question for you, Summer.” Dahlgren eased his leg to the floor and sat upright. “How are you going to carry both me and that gold bar off the ship in Bergen?”
Two hours later, the Odin arrived at Norway’s second-largest city and docked near the commercial wharves. Without any assistance from Summer, Dahlgren hobbled off the ship on crutches. Dirk hoisted their bags, and the trio squeezed into a waiting Volvo taxi. As they exited the dock facility, the taxi passed a brown sedan idling at the curb with two men inside.
Mansfield folded up a compact pair of binoculars and stuffed them in a pocket of the door panel. “That’s our mark. Stay with them.”
The nondescript sedan, rented for the occasion by the Russian Consulate, scooted into traffic and followed the taxi a few car lengths behind. The driver was a professional, holding back and hiding in back of the intervening vehicles but bolting forward at traffic signals so as not to be left behind.
The two vehicles swept around the waterfront city, following route E39 south for twelve miles to the Bergen Airport. Traffic was light as the taxi stopped at the departure terminal. The sedan pulled to the curb a safe distance back. After the Americans entered the terminal, Mansfield hopped out to follow. He was dressed in a casual winter jacket and wore fashion-rimmed glasses to draw attention from his unshaven face. He took his place in line at the check-in counter and scanned the departures listed on the monitor.
As Dirk, Summer, and Dahlgren reached the counter and began checking in, Mansfield cut out of line and stepped to an adjacent counter, under the guise of getting a baggage label. With his back to the Americans, he listened as the gate agent checked their bags and told them their gate.
The Russian returned to his place in line, turning the other way as the trio headed for security. When he reached the check-in agent a few minutes later, he politely handed her a French passport.
“Where are you traveling to today, sir?”
“A ticket to London, please. One way, no baggage.”
32
“Sonar contact, bearing two-one-two degrees.”
Captain Vladimir Popov nodded at the sonar operator and rose from his seat with a smile. “Helm, steer two-one-two degrees. Let’s close on her.”
Popov began pacing the cramped combat information center of the Russian Krivak-class missile frigate Ladny. The low-lit bay, several levels below the ship’s bridge, was
filled with electronics and weapons specialists wedged into individual computer stations. But there was nothing futuristic about the layout. The Ladny was more than thirty years old, and most of her electronic equipment was older than its operators. Popov retook his seat, facing a video screen that constituted one of the few updates. The screen was dotted with symbols depicting nearby ships and aircraft detected by the ship’s radar.
“Sonar, what’s your range?” he asked.
“Sir, target is at an approximate distance of eight thousand meters, speed of fourteen knots, depth of eighty meters.”
“Excellent. Stay with her. She’s ours now.”
The sonar operator continued calling out ranges as the frigate, running at nearly double the speed, quickly closed on the submerged target.
“Sir, the target has turned to three-one-five degrees. She’s putting on speed.”
The radar operator spoke again before Popov could answer.
“Captain, I show two unidentified vessels breaching the western border of the restricted sea zone at a speed of nine knots.”
“Acknowledged,” Popov said. “Helm, steer three-one-five degrees.”
The sonar operator continued tracking the submerged target. Popov sat on the edge of his seat, excitement in his eye as he closed in for the kill. When they were less than a thousand meters away, he gave the order. “Sonar, blast her!”
The operator maximized the power to the frigate’s hull-mounted sonar transponder and triggered five extended acoustic signal bursts. Three hundred feet below the surface, the sonar operator aboard the Russian submarine Novorossiysk ripped off his headset. “They got us.”
Popov leaped out of his chair and danced around the bay, high-fiving the sailors nearby. For six days, he and his crew had been playing a cat-and-mouse war game with the nuclear submarine. Until now, the Ladny had been on the receiving end of the simulated attacks. At last, the frigate’s crew had turned the tables. “Notify the fleet simulation coordinator that we have destroyed the Novorossiysk and await new redeployment,” he said to his communications operator.
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