Into the Black

by Sean Ellis

  The soldiers stumbled over one another in their haste to flee. Harcourt watched them in mute amazement, as if he were merely a spectator. Grimes too, hastened to the edge of the galley and lowered himself to the deck of the trawler.

  No one seemed to care any longer about Kismet or Irene. He crossed to her and embraced her as if they had all the time in the world. "Are you all right?"

  She nodded into his chest. "Anatoly?"

  "I don't know. But Grimes was right about one thing: this ship is going to sink." He glanced down at the trawler. The commandos had already cast off the belaying lines that secured the Anatoly’s vessel to the gunboat. Grimes stood at the rail of the patrol craft, gazing over at the prize that had been denied him, while his men pushed away from the doomed galley and the smaller boat that would inevitably be dragged down when the golden ship went under. As if to punctuate their peril, a blinding tongue of lightning licked across the water, less than a stone's throw from the port side of the galley. The ear-splitting concussion of thunder that followed made the explosion in the hold seem insignificant by comparison.

  "That was too close," Kismet muttered. He wasn't sure if he had actually spoken; his ears were ringing and no other sound was audible. He looked at Irene to see if she had heard him but found her gaping in amazement at something behind him. She spoke but her words were indistinct. He turned to look, expecting to find Rudy, back from the dead and seeking vengeance.

  Instead, he saw something wonderful. Golden light was pouring from the passageway that opened into the hold, the same hue he had witnessed when first discovering the ancient ship on the coastal shelf off the Georgian shore. That light had fallen when their salvage efforts brought the galley to surface, but now it was back.

  The radiance was momentarily limited to the interior of the hold, but as he watched, luminescence pooled on the exterior surface, spreading like puddles of fire, connecting and redoubling until the columns glowed incandescent.

  Another flash of lightning, more distant than the first, overwhelmed the glory of the golden ship and underscored the need for a hasty departure. It seemed a shame to abandon their discovery, especially with its power suddenly waking, but that power would be of little help when the ship slid beneath the waves. Kismet turned back to Irene. "We've got to get to the trawler!" he yelled.

  The list of the galley was already at twenty degrees. The bilge pump on the port deck began to whine as the slope carried the water away from its intake, causing it to suck air, while the starboard pump was completely flooded and stalled. In that instant however, before they could take a single step, the radiance of the gold began to shine beneath their feet.

  Kismet gripped Irene's hand as they made their way down the length of the tilted deck toward the rope ladder that led to the trawler. The list of the larger, ancient vessel was causing the fishing boat, still lashed to its bowsprit, to twist dangerously in the water. As they looked down from the galley they saw Harcourt, standing alone in the stern of the trawler with the Golden Fleece still weighing on his shoulder. The archaeologist was fumbling with the belays, trying to free the smaller craft from the galley’s death grip.

  "Harcourt! Help us!"

  The Englishman looked up, as if surprised that Kismet was still alive. "Sorry, old boy!" he shouted over the din. "Not going to let you take this one away from me."

  "For Christ's sake—" Before Kismet could complete the invective, a dark shape appeared in the air right in front of him. He jerked back instinctively, but not before being struck in the jaw.

  He turned as he fell, landing face down on the pitching deck, and slid toward the starboard gunwale, which was just dipping under the surface. He was unable to arrest his fall in time to keep from splashing into the swirling waters, but as he went in, he heard Irene gasp the name of his assailant:

  "Anatoly!"

  The Russian fisherman looked like the walking dead. Blood streamed from his forehead and from ragged wounds in his torso; the gunshots of the soldiers had found their mark but had failed to kill the Russian agent. He had survived by diving deep beneath the galley and clinging to the nets which had earlier been draped over its sides for camouflage, waiting for a chance to exact his retribution on the man he held most responsible for the situation: Nick Kismet.

  Hurtling over the side of the galley, Anatoly plunged past Irene. Kismet raised his head from beneath the water in time to see the Russian's boots moving on a collision course with his face. He tried to twist away, but was too late. The tread on Anatoly's boot sole glanced along his cheek and smashed into his right shoulder, burying him once more in the turbulent water. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Kismet braced himself against the side of the ship and stood up underneath Anatoly, catapulting him away. As the Russian splashed down, Kismet waded toward him.

  Anatoly recovered quickly, whirling in the knee-deep accumulation, with one foot on the sloping deck and the other against the gunwale. A bitter smile creased his bearded visage as he raised his hands. Kismet took a step toward him, brandishing his own fists. When Anatoly's gaze seemed to lock onto his hands however, Kismet lashed out with his foot, planting it in the larger man's crotch.

  The big Russian grunted and his intimidating smile fell. He cupped a hand to his bruised groin and staggered backward a step, but that was the limit of his reaction. He recovered quickly and advanced to deliver a roundhouse punch that split Kismet's cheek open. The force of the blow spun him around again, dropping him to his hands and knees.

  "Why doesn't that ever work?" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head to clear away the fireworks. Then his head went underwater as Anatoly landed on his back. Kismet thrashed, but Anatoly's knees were on his shoulder blades and his arms were pinned so that he could do little more than turn his head.

  After a few seconds of futile struggle, Kismet felt the burden on his back grow even heavier, forcing the last gasp from his lungs. Then the weight suddenly vanished. He squirmed free and hastily crawled forward, sucking fresh air in desperate gasps, then turned to face his assailant.

  Irene was on Anatoly's back, clawing at his eyes. Despite his professed fondness for her, the Russian grabbed her wrists, lifted her over his head and hurled her toward Kismet. She crashed into him, driving both of them into the water. Kismet felt Irene bounce off of him, then saw her splash into the open sea. She flailed in the water, her soaked clothing weighing her down.

  Forgetting Anatoly, Kismet reached out to her, but she was too far away. He quickly shed his leather jacket, holding onto one sleeve while flinging the other toward her. She caught it, but then vanished beneath a wave. When he hauled her in, she came up choking on seawater but tenaciously clinging to the jacket sleeve. Another pull brought her close enough to grasp the inundated starboard gunwale.

  The big Russian chose that moment to renew his attack. Another stunning roundhouse blasted Kismet toward the bow. There was no way he could hope to overpower the fisherman. Anatoly not only outweighed him by a good fifty pounds, but was also in the grip of a primal anger that Kismet's own desperation could never equal. He would have to outwit the Russian, not outfight him—a difficult prospect since Anatoly was knocking his wits out with each blow.

  Anatoly stalked past the still submerged form of his best friend's daughter, ignoring her life and death struggle. Without his help she managed to pull herself from the sea and got to her feet, sagging against the deck, which now rose to a forty-five degree angle beside her.

  Kismet did not attempt to make a stand against the Russian. Instead, he retreated along the bow, climbing onto the tilted bowsprit. Anatoly was literally at his heels, grasping at his boots in an effort to trip him as he attempted to climb up to the spar protruding from the bow.

  Below him, Harcourt had succeeded in cutting the mooring lines that had tightly secured the trawler to the ancient sailing vessel. The fishing boat popped upright with a suddenness that surprised the archaeologist, causing him to topple over. The trawler then bobbed away from the galley, ta
king with it Kismet's best plan for escape.

  Anatoly's fingers snared the cuff of Kismet's right trouser leg. He was yanked back, stretched between the Russian's grip on his leg and his own desperate hold on the ladder to the bowsprit. He slipped his left foot off of the rung and drove it repeatedly toward Anatoly's face.

  At first, the Russian seemed impervious to the blows, but the insistent pounding of Kismet's boot savaged his face, tearing skin and smashing cartilage and bone. Kismet felt the grip on his leg weakening and yanked himself away, scrambling to the top of the spar.

  Normally, the bowsprit would have been the highest point on the galley, save for its mast when the ship was whole. But now the deck leaned over drunkenly, borne down by the weight of the water that was inundating the galley. Kismet crawled out onto the exterior of the bowsprit, along the port side edge that now faced skyward, clinging to the foremast. Anatoly's bloodied face rose alongside him.

  Kismet took a swing at the Russian, hoping to knock his foe into the sea, but the impact of the blow rebounded, causing him to lose his own grip. He slid along the smooth surface of the hull, his feet flopping out into empty space. He managed to grasp the foremast, his fingers finding a purchase in the intricate whorls of the design. The carved hair of the image, layered with gold, was the only thing that prevented him from tumbling into the storm tossed waves. It was as if Medea had once more intervened to rescue her champion.

  Anatoly now pulled himself erect and loomed over Kismet like an executioner. He stood with his feet apart, bracing himself against the inexorable roll of the galley. Blood streamed from his shattered nose and dripped down onto the shining gold, where the rain and spray washed it away. "We die together, Nikolai Kristanovich Kismet." The trauma to his face distorted his words even more than his accent, but Kismet understood all too well. "You will not steal this treasure from my people."

  "What about Irene?"

  His remark had the desired effect of causing Anatoly to hesitate, but the pause benefited him little. He was stuck, dangling from the bowsprit, unable to pull himself up or to get a foothold. The big Russian looked away, staring down at the place where Irene now struggled to get above the rising water. "Forgive me, Petr Ilyich," he whispered apologetically then returned his attention to Kismet. "I cannot save those who join with the enemies of the Rodina."

  Kismet started to reply, but was overcome by an unusual sensation. A preternatural stillness enshrouded the bow of the galley, a faint hum and tingle pervading the void in the fury of the storm. Later, he would swear that everything began to glow with blue light in the moment before he let go. Heeding the premonition, he surrendered himself to gravity. He opened his hands, released the foremast, and dropped two stories into the frothing Black Sea. When he hit the water, he stabbed nearly as deep into it, before his own buoyancy arrested his plunge. He did not bob back to the surface however, but was bogged down by his sodden clothing and boots.

  Suddenly, the world above was filled with light. Though it lasted for only a heartbeat, Kismet knew what it was—his prescient moment had saved him from a deadly bolt of lightning.

  Rather than struggling to swim impeded by the weight of his boots, he doubled over and began unlacing his footwear. The knots were swollen with water and resisted for a moment, but in his desperation he succeeded in breaking the heavy strings. He kicked the boots off, and stroked toward the surface.

  Medea was gone. The lightning blast had sheared off the top of the bowsprit, sending the carved image of the sorceress into the depths. Black scorch marks obscured the glowing metal along the point of severance. There was no sign of Anatoly.

  Kismet swam toward the nearly vertical deck and sighed in relief when he spied Irene clinging to the distended columns around the hold. She was sobbing when he reached her, but he did not press for an explanation. She had just witnessed her oldest friend burned to a cinder by lightning. Whether it was Anatoly's death, or his treachery, she had good reason to be upset. He silently enfolded her in his embrace and waited for the end.

  * * *

  Grimes stood on the deck of the captured gunboat, calmly watching the demise of the golden ship. To lose such a great prize was tragic, but that failure was mitigated by the primary success of the entire endeavor. They had recovered the Golden Fleece. From his vantage, he could see his hired archaeologist likewise watching Kismet's final journey with the mythic sheepskin still adorning his shoulder.

  Grimes cared not for the legendary—purportedly supernatural—origins attributed to the Fleece. A nominal Christian, he was quite certain that the gods and heroes of Greek mythology had never really walked the Earth, so there could only be a mundane explanation for the astonishing properties of the ubergold, and that was for the scientists to unravel.

  Despite Kismet's casual accusations, the decision to alienate himself from the country of his birth had not come easily. In his heart, he remained a patriot, sworn to defend the Constitution of the United States from enemies both foreign and domestic. The problem was that America's true enemies had risen from inside her very leadership. After years of trying to right those wrongs from the within, he had come to realize that the mechanism of American government could not be adjusted incrementally; something more dynamic would be needed to put not only America, but all the nations aligned under the North Atlantic Treaty back on the track to global military and economic supremacy. The weapon proposed by his new acquaintances at Alb-Werk had the potential to do just that.

  It was a terrible device, to be sure. It had to be. No one feared or respected a threat that did not promise extremes of destruction. Its very existence would send a message to the insurgents and extremists buried in the civilian populations of developing countries around the world: resist and you will be obliterated. Not merely blown apart or burned beyond recognition, but atomized; not even ashes would remain to inspire the next generation of terrorists.

  The menace of such a device would no doubt have been adequate to force the hand of the Iraqi dictator without necessitating the war that had fractured years of diplomatic progress in Europe and inflamed the Arab world. Alb-Werk's scientists had promised a working prototype within two years and Grimes had lobbied the President to exercise patience, but his arguments had been in vain. The timetable was unrealistic and the Commander in Chief did not like the idea of waiting on a former enemy nation—Germany—to develop and ultimately exercise control over a strategic weapon. An ultimatum had followed and Grimes had made a hard choice, but not one that he had cause to regret. When Germany added the EMP weapon to NATO's arsenal, subjugating the last of the free world's enemies, the wisdom of his decision would become manifest.

  The ubergold in the Fleece alone was adequate to supply a dozen warheads, but Grimes had full confidence in the ability of Alb-Werk's scientists to crack the atomic code of the strange metal in order to synthesize an endless supply. The loss of the golden vessel was merely inconvenient.

  He turned to the leader of the small commando unit. The German Special Forces officer had been champing at the bit to return to the Georgian coast in order to link up with his superior and the bulk of the contingent. Since their hasty departure the night before, they had been unable to establish radio communications with the main force that had remained behind to sterilize the mountain camp. The squad leader was justifiably concerned, and with success so near at hand, eager to get his men back home with the prize.

  "Bring us around to the Russian's boat," Grimes ordered. "We'll pick up Sir Andrew and then proceed to the rendezvous."

  Before the officer could turn to execute the command, a shrieking whistle cut through the dull roar of the wind, causing both men to freeze where they stood. The sound grew louder and lower in pitch, then abruptly fell silent.

  Grimes knew the sound: the unique whistle caused by the fins of an artillery round as it descended toward its target. It was a noise every soldier knew and dreaded. But the screech had not reached its lowest note—the precursor to impact and detonation. There co
uld be but one explanation for the sudden quiet. As he looked up and around, he heard the German colonel cry in alarm; a harsh sounding German phrase which he both understood and echoed.

  Like the eye of a hurricane, the one place where the shriek of an incoming round could not be heard was at ground zero. Somewhere high overhead, the projectile—fired from God only knew where—had completed its parabolic arc and was descending directly onto the target.

  "Scheisse, indeed," Halverson Grimes muttered, repeating the commando's oath.

  Then he vanished in a spray of smoke and tissue.

  * * *

  In the distance, beyond the exploding gunboat, Kismet could make out the broadside silhouette of the Boyevoy, materializing wraith-like from the veil of storm clouds on the horizon, arriving too late to rescue the agent that had summoned her, but not so tardily as to let the rest of her prey escape. Her guns were lobbing anti-ship mortars with startling accuracy toward the renegade patrol craft.

  The first shell—the one that had blown Grimes out of existence—landed amidships to port, knocking a sizeable chunk out of the hull. That shot alone was fatal to the gunboat, but Severin's artillery men did not relent. The patrol vessel never got a chance to sink; shells from the destroyer blasted its flaming wreckage across the water.

  The commandos that survived the initial blast quickly abandoned the doomed vessel, hurling themselves into the storm-tossed water. Random discharges of lightning illuminated them as they struggled in the driving rain amidst oil slicks and debris. Some were trying to reach the galley, though that seemed akin to leaving the safety of the frying pan for the fire; the golden ship would likely sink before any of them could get there.

  The Boyevoy came around, plowing through the tempest toward the wreckage. Although her big guns had fallen silent, the destroyer continued to visit death upon her enemies. Sniper fire was picking off the derelict survivors. Kismet wondered idly if Severin would bother to take him and Irene prisoner, or just machine-gun them and leave them to sink with the golden ship.