Into the Black

by Sean Ellis

  "A good day," he said, still speaking mostly to himself. "Our enemies are dead. The treasure they tried to steal is safe from them forever. Even that American meddler has gone to the depths. And with Grishakov dead, perhaps we can finally deal with the traitor Chereneyev."

  The destroyer cut a straight line through the wreckage, and then came about for a second pass, along the outer edge of the flotsam. They had dispatched half a dozen surviving commandos, and administered the coup de grace to a handful of other motionless, face down corpses just to be sure. Severin was satisfied that his work was done.

  "Captain, we have a new sighting. Distance, five hundred yards. Ninety degrees astern, moving to starboard."

  "What the devil...?" Severin stalked along the length of his ship, to make a personal identification of the new visual contact. The position given was on the other side of the ship. It was inconceivable that any of the stragglers could have drifted so far from the wreckage. Severin reached the observer's station and demanded more information.

  "They just surfaced a moment ago," answered the sailor, passing his binoculars to the captain. The ship's speed had carried them even farther past the bobbing shape.

  Severin swiveled his head slightly and adjusted the focus until he locked onto the floating shape. "It is only a crate. Wait...I'll be damned." He handed the glasses back to the sailor. "Keep an eye on them. Bring us about, and then cut to one-quarter ahead."

  As the ship carved a tight one hundred and eighty-degree turn, its captain raced to the bow, his hand on the butt of the Glock automatic pistol he had taken from Nick Kismet. The destroyer's new heading would bring it within shouting distance of the target. After about a minute, he could, with the naked eye, discern the bedraggled pair that treaded water furiously in the open sea.

  "All stop."

  Severin heard the message passed down, and then returned: "Answering all stop." He leaned out over the rail to gaze helpless pair in the water now almost directly below and sighted down the barrel of the Glock.

  "It is better this way!" he shouted. "I should be the one to kill you, Nikolai Kismet."

  NINETEEN

  The water they had passed through immediately after escaping the galley was bone chilling. Irene's teeth still chattered uncontrollably. Nevertheless, both of them could feel it growing warmer as they ascended.

  Their rate of travel seemed to increase the higher they rose. The air trapped in the container expanded, nearly doubling in volume to spill out past their fingers. As they moved through the water, Kismet could not tell if the Golden Fleece was continuing to supply them with air to breathe, but that was irrelevant; there was enough air trapped in the box to last for several minutes.

  "Don't hold your breath," Kismet cautioned, as soon as he felt the air pressure increasing. "The air will expand as the atmospheric pressure diminishes. If you're holding your breath, you might burst your lungs."

  She nodded, making a visible effort to breathe regularly. "Will we get the bends?"

  "There's no reason we should. They're caused by prolonged breathing of pressurized air at depth. We haven't been under long enough."

  When the crate broke the rough plane of the surface, its momentum tore it from their grasp and shot it into the air. Kismet and Irene scrambled to keep the box from crashing down on their heads, and then to prevent it from filling with water and sinking. Only when they were clinging to its smooth sides did they become aware that Boyevoy was still on the prowl.

  A roar and a plume of smoke signaled that the ship's guns had fired. Kismet was unable to follow the shell, but an explosion on the far side of the ship revealed the target. "They just blew up Anatoly's boat," he observed. "I guess Harcourt didn't make it."

  Irene stared in horror at the destroyer. "Maybe they won't see us."

  He scanned the horizon in all directions. Swells occasionally brought pieces of debris into view, but there were no other vessels. The shores of the Black Sea, in any of the countries that bordered it, lay well beyond the horizon. "It might be better if they do. Otherwise, we'll die of exposure out here."

  "Better that than to give Severin the satisfaction of gunning us down."

  "Maybe they'll fish us out and send us to Siberia." His tone was not hopeful.

  The destroyer suddenly turned hard in their direction.

  "Well, I guess we won't die of exposure" Kismet observed darkly.

  "Come on, Nick. You're Mr. Lucky, remember. You've gotten us out of every scrape so far. Tell me you've got one more trick up your sleeve."

  Before he could even begin to formulate a plan, the swells from the wake of Boyevoy's first pass washed over them. Kismet's hold on the crate slipped for a moment. The golden cask flipped onto its side and was instantly inundated. Irene cried out, but was forced to let go as it sank into the sea.

  "Where's that plan, Nick?" Irene shouted as she thrashed to stay afloat.

  "Sorry. It just went under."

  The destroyer slowed as it came abreast of them. The eager faces of the crew looked down from high overhead and Kismet recognized many of the sailors from their earlier ride aboard the warship. The rugged features of Captain Gregory Severin loomed largest. The hungry look in his eye and the set of his jaw, advertised his intentions. Kismet held his breath as the Russian naval officer extended his gun arm and took aim.

  He made one last desperate play. "Irene! Dive under and swim closer to the ship."

  "Closer?"

  "Now!" He placed a hand on her head and forced her beneath the surface as he himself dove. There was a report of a shot and Kismet saw something strike the water at an angle not far from where he had been a moment before. A diagonal line, the path of the bullet in the water, extended a few feet below the surface. If Severin's aim improved, the water would not save him.

  They were still a few yards from the ship when burning lungs forced both of them to resurface. Kismet looked up at the destroyer, satisfied that they were now out of the line of sight for an observer standing on the deck. However, the Russian captain had climbed over the rail and was leaning out over the water to get a clear shot.

  "Quick, Irene. If we can get to the ship, we might stand a chance."

  She did not question his statement, but nodded tersely, took a deep breath and plunged below of her own volition. Kismet felt like a hypocrite. Her confidence was badly misplaced; even if they could get closer, there was virtually no way to board the ship, much less evade the crew or survive until the ship put into port.

  He surfaced too close to the ship and banged his head on the steel armor plating. Muttering a curse, he then pushed away to get a look from this new vantage point. The dull gray hull sloped outward above him, an immense steel wall over a football field in length. They were close to the bow, but Kismet's best plan—to climb the anchor chain—was quickly thwarted; the anchor was secured to the hull twelve feet above the waterline, well out of reach.

  "Nowhere to go, Kismet," said an all too familiar voice. "Nowhere but down."

  He looked up at the Russian captain. "Then get it over with. I won't feed your ego by begging."

  Severin laughed. "In a moment. But I think you have something that belongs to mother Russia. I don't want your lifeless body to sink to the bottom with such an important treasure. I will regret passing up this opportunity to kill you, but if you are willing to cooperate and let my men bring you aboard, I will let you live."

  Kismet glanced at the Fleece still clinging to his shoulder. He had almost forgotten about it. Why hadn't its weight dragged him under? It looked different somehow....

  "That doesn't sound like you, Greg. You're not that generous."

  "Oh, you misunderstand. As a criminal and enemy of the State, you will certainly spend the rest of your days in prison. But I will be a hero for returning you alive to stand trial, as well as saving the treasure. You at least would live to die a more pleasant death." He leveled the pistol. He was too close to miss. "Or I can shoot you now?"

  "Not good enough." H
e shrugged out from under the Golden Fleece, holding it at arm's length with one hand. It seemed impossibly light. "You're welcome to the Fleece. But you have to guarantee our safety, especially hers."

  "Nick," Irene whispered. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

  Severin tilted his head sideways, considering Kismet's counter-proposal. He then snapped upright, his arm stiffening as he verified his aim. "No deal."

  TWENTY

  Suddenly the air was filled with shouting and a claxon began to wail aboard the ship. Severin lowered his arm, but before he could refocus his attention, the deck lurched. A vibration traveled the length of the vessel, and Kismet saw a cloud of smoke bellow from the stern. Severin flung his arms around the rail, losing his grip on the Glock. The automatic pistol bounced off the deck and dropped over the side, vanishing into the water.

  Kismet could hear the Russian cursing, demanding both an explanation and assistance. Though he could not make out the reply, Severin’s subsequent orders revealed that the destroyer was under attack. The captain ordered evasive action, but the answer he got left him frustrated. After several seconds of clinging to the rail, a sailor rushed to help him back over onto the deck. Then the cries of alarm were renewed.

  Kismet drew the Fleece back to his body, and looked around for some sign of the attacker. He saw no other ship, but something much smaller was burrowing through the sea just below the surface on a collision course with the hull of the destroyer.

  "It's a torpedo!" Kismet swam closer to Irene, unable to hide his elation. "Here's that miracle we needed."

  The torpedo finished its deadly journey by impacting the Boyevoy about twenty yards forward of the stern. The explosion ripped upward and tore a hole in the side of the warship. The aft end, where three of her four gun emplacements were situated, as well as the 30-millimeter anti-aircraft battery, was ravaged by the detonation and the subsequent fire. The destroyer was now a sitting duck, unable to maneuver or defend herself, and taking on water through two wounds.

  "Oh, my God," Irene gasped. "Nick, what's that?"

  Something was breaking through the surface, a pillar of dark metal, as tall as a man. The object was indistinct because they were looking at it head on, but it looked like a small boat with its deck below the surface. Men appeared on the exterior of the newly risen craft. Two of them deployed an enormous inflatable raft, while others hastened to affix a bulky shape to a pedestal in front of the upright column.

  Before he could answer, the newly assembled gun on the deck of the surfaced craft spewed a burst of cover fire. The bullets raked the destroyer's bow gun, forcing the Russian sailors away from their last line of defense.

  The inflatable raft, driven by an outboard motor, sped across the water directly toward them, bouncing as it hit each swell. Small arms fire from the destroyer imperiled the men in the rubber boat, but the submarine's deck gun swiveled to meet this challenge, sweeping the deck. In a lull between bursts, Kismet could hear the howling of wounded sailors high above him.

  The men on the inflatable cut their engine at the last minute, turning so that the raft bumped against the hull of the ship. They wore the distinctive uniforms of Russian submariners, but did not speak as they reached out to Kismet and Irene. As she was lifted over the bulging rubber, Irene saw numbers and Cyrillic letters stamped on the vulcanized hull next to a five-pointed red star; the designation of the parent craft, a Russian Akula class submarine.

  Kismet was helped aboard as well, sagging into the recesses of the raft in an effort to stay out of the way of their rescuers. One of the men waved toward the submarine, and his signal was answered when another hundred rounds of machine gun fire splashed the deck of the destroyer. Beneath that deadly curtain, the outboard engine roared to life and hastened them back to the mother vessel.

  The impact of hitting the swells was ferocious. Kismet felt like he was taking repeated blows from a prizefighter. He had to cling to the rope strung along the sides of the boat like a rail, to avoid being catapulted into the sea. Slowing the craft could have minimized the turbulence, but the sailors had other reasons for haste.

  Kismet heard a hissing near his head. He glanced up and saw a ragged hole in the rubber bladder. The sailor at the rudder also saw it, but could only shrug as he lowered his head. Despite the cover fire from the submarine, someone aboard Boyevoy was not going to let them go without a fight.

  The leak in the raft posed no immediate danger. The inflatable hull was divided into several independent cells; the loss of pressure in a single one would not cause the craft to sink. But as the air escaped, the boat began to lose rigidity and allowed seawater to splash onto the passengers.

  It took about two minutes for them to reach the sub. The sailor at the helm drove the rubber boat up onto the deck of the vessel, just aft of the sail. Through the salt spray in her eyes, she could barely distinguish the shapes of two men waiting near the sail, but there was no mistaking their uniforms: Russian naval officers. Her blood ran cold when she heard one of the men speak in heavily accented English. "So Kismet. Vee haf you, at last."

  Kismet sounded merely irritated as he replied: "Cut it out, Lyse. Those Russians are shooting at us."

  His tone confused Irene. She couldn't reconcile what she was seeing and hearing with what she thought she knew. Why was Kismet's friend Lyse an officer on a Russian submarine? Irene looked at both figures, and then faced the remaining officer.

  "Hello, Irina." The man took off his hat, revealing the smiling face of her father.

  Irene was paralyzed. Nothing made sense any more. Kismet took her elbow and guided her to the ladder that ascended to the top of the tower. Below, the sailors manning the forward gun fired off the last of their ammunition then abandoned the gun and joined the retreat to below decks. The men that had piloted the raft drew long knives and slashed the remaining cells, then pushed the shapeless mass into the sea and joined their comrades in boarding the submarine.

  As they passed through the narrow hatch, a bottleneck that permitted only one person to descend into the submersible vessel, a siren blasted from the interior of the vessel.

  "That's the dive warning," Lyse explained. "We have to hurry."

  Irene was still confused. "We're going underwater?"

  "It's already started," Lyse said, sliding off the ladder and stepping away. "We've all got to be inside and get that hatch shut. Move it, people!"

  Kismet was next. The interior of the submarine was dark and claustrophobic. The electric lights were spaced far apart, offering minimal illumination, especially after daylight on the surface. Nevertheless, this metal cave beneath the waters was their salvation.

  The top hatch clanked shut and was sealed. The sailor atop the ladder shouted the 'all clear' message, and then made his descent. Kismet thanked each of the men for risking their lives to rescue Irene and himself, but the sailors seemed uncomfortable with his gratitude. "Just doing our duty sir," one of them shrugged.

  "Would someone please tell me what's going on?" Irene finally complained. "Father, why are you wearing that uniform? And what are you doing on a Russian submarine?"

  Kismet's friend laughed at her confusion. "Let's go meet the captain. Then we'll explain everything."

  A distant explosion rocked the sub as they moved through the cramped corridor toward the control room. "That was close," Lyse remarked.

  An upright column dominated the center of the room. One man, a tall figure with wavy black hair, lightly peppered with gray, stood with his face pressed against the periscope viewport, slowly turning in a complete circle. Finally, he straightened and addressed the newcomers. "Not really," he said, contradicting Lyse's observation. "They're shooting in the dark. They have no idea where we went, and they're in no shape to pursue. Our first fish took out their screws, and I think the second might have knocked out the whole engine room."

  Kismet was struck by the tall man's green eyes, which were oddly contrasted with the bright orange face of his diver's wrist chronometer. He had t
he unmistakable feeling that he had seen him before. "I guess we have you to thank for getting us out of that mess."

  "No more than I have you to thank for giving me this little job. A fishing trip to get me out of the office was just what the doctor ordered."

  Irene was still looking around in confusion, turning first to Kismet then to the rugged looking captain. The latter shook her hand. "My goodness, you're shivering."

  He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. Kismet felt an almost adolescent twinge of jealousy at the man's act of kindness toward Irene, but Lyse distracted him. "I see you found it. The Golden Fleece."

  He glanced down to the sheepskin on his shoulder, and then slipped it off to examine it more closely.

  "One of them," Irene intoned. "Nick, would you please tell me what happened down there? How many Golden Fleeces are there?"

  He knelt and spread the Fleece out on the metal deck. His fingers brushed through the damp wool, revealing an occasional auric glimmer, but that was all. Most of the metal had been rinsed away during the ascent from the galley. What gold remained neither glowed nor tingled with any discernible electric current. He estimated that the sodden sheepskin now weighed less than ten pounds.

  A steward brought them steaming mugs of coffee and Kismet drank deeply before attempting to explain. "Here's what I think happened:

  "Three thousand years ago, after the story of Jason and the Argonauts was already a legend, a group of adventurers, probably Greeks, decided to seek out the land of Colchis. Perhaps they knew something about the true nature of the Fleece, or maybe they were just crazy treasure hunters. In any event, they certainly believed in the legend, because they sought the protection of the witch Medea, Jason's lover in the myth, by erecting a shrine to her on their galley. When they arrived at the kingdom of Colchis, they headed up into the mountains. They weren't looking for the Golden Fleece; they were just looking for gold.