Into the Black

by Sean Ellis

  Kismet glanced at the British archaeologist. "If he's going to take all the credit, then he should at least get his facts straight."

  "And what facts are those?" snapped Harcourt.

  "When you go on TV to tell the world that you've found the ship of Jason, you'll end up looking like a rank amateur. If you're going to use mythology as a basis for identifying your discoveries, then you really need to review the legend. The Argo, the ship built by Argus and sailed by Jason and the heroes, returned to the Greek Isles. With, I might add, the Golden Fleece. Why on earth would he sail her back here with the Fleece? That makes no sense. Besides, according to the legend, the Argo was beached and fell apart. If I remember correctly, Jason was killed when a timber from the Argo fell on him."

  "Then pray tell us," Grimes interjected. "What is it that you have found here, Mr. Kismet?"

  The distance between the galley and the trawler was closing rapidly. Despite the ragged tarpaulins and nets that Kismet and Irene had tied along its hull, the gleaming gold overlaying every square inch of the ancient craft seemed to shine in the stormy gray dawn.

  "Would you believe that we built this ship ourselves? We're re-enacting the voyage of the Argo." He turned his head to Irene. "What the hell. It's worth a shot."

  "Expensive paint you've chosen," remarked Grimes as the bowsprit of the galley loomed over the trawler, nearly at arm's length.

  "Why, it's made of gold." Harcourt reached out to touch the galley, but was restrained by one of the soldiers. The ferocity of the storm had not abated and the danger of being crushed between the boats was very real. Harcourt acknowledged the need for caution. "Try to secure it. I want to go aboard." He turned to Grimes. "It's just like the helmet fragment; a thin layer of gold."

  "But it isn't really gold, is it." Kismet directed his words at Grimes. "You told me as much that day in my office, Andy. You called it 'ubergold.' It's not an ordinary metal. I'm right, aren't I?"

  "What difference does it make?" retorted Harcourt. "It takes nothing away from the significance of this discovery."

  "I don't think you understand the significance of this discovery, Andy—"

  "Stop calling me that." Harcourt sounded petulant. "And just what do you think is the true importance of finding the Golden Fleece?"

  "Do you want to tell him, Grimes? Or shall I?" The traitor ignored him. Kismet continued, "It's not the Fleece he's after. It's the ubergold, or whatever you want to call it. And you're right about it having unusual properties."

  "It caused the storm somehow, didn't it?" Harcourt speculated.

  "Sir Andrew," Grimes cautioned. "I'll thank you to remember that Kismet is our enemy."

  "The storm," Kismet confirmed, ignoring the threat. "But that's only the tip of the iceberg. Your partner here wants to turn it into a superbomb."

  "Preposterous."

  "I've seen the plans."

  Grimes now took an interest. "If such plans existed, how would you of all people, know about them?"

  Kismet grinned at the tacit admission, but refused to let Grimes take control of the conversation. "That's not really the issue here. We are discussing the future of the Fleece. It took me a while to figure out what your interest was, Hal. All your talk of shadow governments rang hollow. You're a military man, and it makes a lot more sense that you're looking for a way to turn this into a weapon."

  Harcourt's lips formed an unspoken question. "Weapon?"

  Kismet pressed his point. "You don't give a damn about science or history, Grimes. There had to be some other reason for you to go to all this trouble; you could start a war with Russia, for God's sake. Or is that what you really wanted all along?" He swung his attention back to Harcourt. "Grimes and his buddies at Alb-Werk believe that the ubergold is the key element to an electromagnetic pulse bomb. Not just one that would knock out computer circuits. No, this little gem will microwave you where you stand." He made a gesture with his hands like a magician. "Poof. Vaporized just like that. What do you think of that, Sir Andrew? Do you want to be responsible for helping them create the ultimate weapon?"

  Harcourt broke in. "A clever argument, Nick. But I'm onto your game. The quest for the Golden Fleece was always my project. I brought it to Alb-Werk, not the other way 'round. The fact that you were actually the one to find it is nothing more than a fluke. I deserve the credit, and I'm going to get it."

  "But I'm telling you that you've become part of something terrible," said Kismet. "If you stand by and do nothing, you'll share a corner in hell with him."

  "You've said quite enough, Kismet." Grimes interrupted the conversation, ordering his soldiers to hold Kismet and Irene at gunpoint. Others from the boarding party began stringing rope ladders from the trawler to the bow of the galley, just aft of the bowsprit.

  "Nick?" Irene spoke in a barely audible whisper, as Grimes and Harcourt were helped to board the ancient vessel. "Where's Anatoly?"

  "Are you coming, Kismet?" Grimes stood nearly six feet above him, gazing down from the deck of the golden ship. His tone was triumphant, mocking; He knew he had won, and wanted to rub Kismet's nose in the victory.

  But with Anatoly missing, there was still hope. "Why not? You guys need at least one voice of reason."

  As the commandos hustled them onto the galley, Kismet got a look at what the storm had done to the ancient vessel. It had held up well, but eighteen inches of water was sloshing about in the bilges. "Looks like you'd better start bailing," he suggested. "Unless you're prepared to salvage this ship a second time. And if my knowledge of the Black Sea serves me correctly, it's about four hundred fathoms to the bottom."

  "Excellent observation," Grimes commented. He turned to one of his subordinates and ordered the man to fetch a pump, then returned his attention to Kismet. "Are you reconsidering your loyalties?"

  "I'm not a traitor, if that's what you mean."

  If the words stung, Grimes did not let it show. "I believe we've already discussed that matter, Kismet, and it has grown tiresome. Now, if you would please be so kind, show us the Golden Fleece."

  "It's in there." He gestured toward the colonnade encircling the hold. The portal, which led into it, was on the opposite side. "Look for yourself."

  Grimes nodded to one of his men. Kismet realized it was Rudy the behemoth from the hall of the Teutonic Knights in New York. The hulking figure moved toward him with surprising swiftness, but before Kismet could so much as take a step back, Rudy took hold of Irene and yanked her away.

  "I want you to show me," Grimes clarified. "I think Miss Chereneyev has already demonstrated her usefulness as leverage in getting what I want. I have no compunction about letting Rudy toss her overboard—" He looked at the giant and shrugged—"or whatever else he feels like doing. He can be a little vindictive, you know."

  "Save your threats, Grimes. I'll open it for you." He stalked aft, followed by the others, then circled around to the sternward end of the enclosure and pulled open the hatch, revealing the darkness that lay beyond the golden columns. He then looked back to Grimes, who nodded for him to step inside. With a shrug, he complied.

  "No booby traps? I'm almost disappointed."

  "I wasn't expecting you," replied Kismet. "Good idea, though. Wish I'd thought of it.". He stared straight ahead into the darkness of the enclosure, wondering if the Fleece would be able to save him this time.

  "Kismet?" The whisper from the shadows startled him.

  "Anatoly?"

  "You must distract them. I have a plan, but there is no other way for me to get out of here."

  "Kismet?" Grimes called, sticking his head through the opening. "Who are you talking to?"

  "Just praying to Zeus for a miracle." He reached out to the Fleece and lifted it in his arms, and then muttered under his breath: "I think he might have been listening this time."

  Harcourt pushed past the stout traitor and attempted to snatched the gold-laden sheepskin from Kismet. He was unprepared for its heaviness; the transfer threw him off balance and he teetere
d backwards. Only Kismet was near enough to prevent the British archaeologist from toppling over, but he merely watched his rival fall with a grin.

  The indignity of his clumsiness did not seem to register with Harcourt. He struggled to his knees on the deck, gripping the Fleece with both hands. "I can feel its power," he crooned. "Tingling in my fingertips. This truly is the Golden Fleece."

  "Yeah? Well, congratulations Sir Andrew. It's another feather in your cap. I'm sure Oxford will be buzzing with talk of your triumphant act of piracy. You'll finally get the respect you really deserve."

  "My goodness," Grimes clucked. "Kismet, you sound like a child who's lost his toy."

  Kismet grinned again. "As for you, Grimes, I'm surprised you can be so calm, when there's an FSB agent hiding just inside the hold."

  Grimes' expression instantly turned severe. "Explain."

  "The owner of the fishing boat, Anatoly Grishakov, works for Russian intelligence. He's probably already informed his superiors that we're out here. I expect they'll be showing up any time."

  "You're bluffing," Harcourt spouted, struggling to lift the Fleece off the deck.

  Kismet shrugged. "Ask him yourself."

  Grimes nodded to his subordinates and two of the soldiers swung their rifles around, and advanced on the dark hold. Before they could enter, a muffled voice issued from beyond the colonnade. "Don't shoot. I will come out."

  Anatoly stepped through the hatchway, hands raised, flashing a betrayed look toward Kismet, who spread his hands in an apologetic gesture.

  "Are you a spy?" Grimes demanded.

  "Of course not. Kismet is lying, though I can't imagine what he hopes to gain."

  A faint grin crossed Grimes' expression. "You are speaking English. But the other night, you pretended not to understand. Isn't learning English a requirement of the FSB?"

  "I told you," Anatoly spluttered, his accent noticeably thickening. "I do not work for that agency."

  "I know that he's sent several messages," supplied Kismet. "He sent one as soon as he saw you guys." He glanced over to Irene. She was listening intently, but he could not tell if she approved of what he was doing. "He's been in contact with a Russian destroyer. Two days ago, he tried to kill me to keep the discovery of Fleece secret. If you think he's going to let you just sail away with it, you're in for a big disappointment."

  Anatoly glowered. "This is the act of a coward, Nikolai Kristanovich. I expected better of you."

  Kismet faced the big fisherman. "You were pretty convincing. What I can't figure out is why you let Petr escape in the first place. That must have gotten you in hot water."

  The big fisherman continued to glare, but his frown changed from a look of betrayal to one of contempt. "You understand nothing. Petr Ilyich Chereneyev was—is—my friend. Always. I would die myself, before allowing harm to come to him. Or his daughter. Even from them."

  "Anatoly?" Irene's tone was soft, almost inaudible in the fury of the storm, and full of confused sympathy. “Is it true? Are you FSB? Were you, even then, with the KGB?"

  "If he defied the order to have your father killed," Kismet suggested, "and didn't end up dead himself, I'd say he must be pretty important in the organization."

  "There are those who are in my debt." The Russian's statement indicated that his denials were finished. "In turn, I owe a debt to my country. Thieves and grave robbers must not be allowed to steal a great treasure."

  "I am afraid you can do little to prevent that," intoned Grimes. "You've lost."

  "I do not need to act. This storm will sink the galley before you can loot its gold. If we do not leave this ship quickly, we will all sail it to the bottom."

  "Perhaps you are right about that. Sir Andrew, please get up off the deck. It's unbecoming of you to grovel like that." Harcourt did manage to stand, with the Fleece weighing heavily over his left shoulder. Grimes began passing along orders to his men. He ordered them to continue pumping the bilge water, while another group made fast a second tow line; this one leading to the gun ship. "With two boats towing, we can beat this storm."

  "Aren't you listening?" Anatoly hissed. "If we do not leave, right now, we will all die!"

  The urgency in the Russian's voice seemed out of place. He had spent the night towing the ship through the storm and Kismet couldn't understand why he was suddenly so eager to get off the galley. He gazed at the fisherman, looking for an explanation, and saw in Anatoly's eyes a desperation that frightened him. Acting on an impulse, he moved closer to Irene. Rudy--Grimes’ pet behemoth--still held her in his grip, and threw Kismet a threatening stare.

  "What's the rush, Anatoly?" Kismet spoke in order to distract both the giant and the Russian. He managed another step toward Irene, almost close enough to touch her. "She's not going to sink, not after riding out the storm all night."

  Anatoly seemed to draw into himself, like a snake coiling before a strike. "If the storm does not sink her, then my bomb will."

  Irene mouthed the word "bomb" as if unable to comprehend, but Kismet understood all too well. Anatoly suddenly launched into motion, pushing away from the soldiers who guarded him.

  In a heartbeat, chaos broke out. Kismet hurled himself at Rudy, gouging at the giant's eyes. In the same instant, Anatoly dove from the galley, leaping out into the storm tossed sea. His escape commanded the attention of the soldiers who, as one, rushed to the gunwale.

  Rudy's reflexes proved faster than Kismet would have believed. He swatted Kismet's hands away, delivering a follow-through punch that dumped Kismet onto the gangway, sending him sliding backwards on his tail bone.

  Four semi-automatic rifles spoke, splitting the howl of the wind with their deafening report. Bullets sprayed the water where Anatoly had splashed a moment before, but he did not resurface. The commandos stopped firing and waited to see if he ever would.

  Kismet looked up from where Rudy had knocked him. Grimes and Harcourt were staring down with amused expressions. The giant was positively gleeful, taking a step forward, balling his enormous fists in preparation to take Kismet apart, limb-by-limb. Kismet scrambled backward without rising, and scooted along the deck to put some distance between himself and the enormous fighter. His escape was abruptly blocked. He turned his head and saw that he had backed into the column that stood to the right of the hatchway. Somewhere in the blackness of the hold, the explosive device Anatoly had planted was ticking inexorably toward zero. About five seconds had passed since the big Russian's flight. Rudy took another step toward Kismet, towering over him.

  Suddenly, a brilliant flash of light burst at the far end of the cargo compartment. A tongue of flame and a wave of compressed air as hard as concrete raced through the structure, driving gold covered cargo crates and debris ahead of it.

  Anatoly's bomb had detonated.

  SEVENTEEN

  The explosive device, placed near the far end of the enclosure, was relatively small; it was the same design as the depth charges Kismet had employed to eliminate the threat posed by the sentry fish near the wreck site. Anatoly, realizing that Grimes and his men were about to seize the galley, had rigged a timer to one of the bombs and planted it in the rear of the cargo area, then waited for his chance to escape. But Kismet had stalled him too long, and forced him to take a desperate plunge into the sea.

  In the hyper-awareness of adrenaline, Kismet could see the ball of flame rolling through the hold toward the opening. He was directly in its path.

  Unlike Rudy, Kismet was expecting the bomb to go off and did not require a split-second in which to decide what to do. As the blast hurtled toward him, he rolled forward at an angle that took him a hair's breadth from Rudy's size sixteen boots.

  The former boxer may have had lightning-fast reflexes when it came to blocking a punch, but he was totally unprepared for the detonation of an improvised explosive device. His eyes widened slightly as a pillar of fire erupted from the portal and erased him from existence.

  The entire superstructure swelled like a balloon about t
o burst. The columns bowed outward as the enclosure changed from a roughly cubic shape to something more closely resembling a sphere. However, that seemed to be the extent of the damage caused by the explosion. The blast did not rip apart the hold as Kismet had expected; it was as if the enclosure had almost completely absorbed the violent release of energy. Almost. Though barely perceptible to the naked eye, under the skin of gold, the wooden frame of boat had been smashed into splinters, and those splinters had been driven outward, through the foil-thin layer, allowing water to begin seeping in.

  The flames that had vomited from the hatchway ceased immediately. Kismet felt the blast beating against his back, but was unhurt. Grimes and Harcourt had likewise passed through the explosion unscathed, although the British archaeologist was having difficulty keeping his balance.

  "Back to the gunboat!" Grimes shouted. "Quickly, before it sinks!"

  Harcourt protested. "We can't just abandon ship. This discovery is too important."

  Kismet ignored them and searched for Irene. He found her on hands and knees, thankfully untouched by the blast. "Stay there!" he shouted at her, but stopped motionless after only a step.

  Something else was happening. At first, it was nothing more than an unsettling sensation, but that premonition quickly manifested into something more profound, if no more tangible. An invisible crackle of energy passed through the length of the ship. Kismet felt it tingling on his skin; a spider web of static electricity that tickled his face and caused his hair to stand on end.

  The phenomenon was not limited to the ship. As if harmonizing with the vessel's energetic discharge, the pitch of the storm changed abruptly. The sky directly above the galley began to swirl like a vortex of shadow, and the golden ship was now the nexus of the tempest.

  Grimes prevailed in his argument. A loud, eerie groan shivered through the ship, and Kismet felt the galley begin slowly rolling to starboard. Though no leaks were evident, the vessel was nonetheless taking on water and beginning to list. The time remaining before the golden ship began her final voyage, the one that would take her to the unreachable depths of the Black Sea, would be measured in mere minutes.