Into the Black

by Sean Ellis

  "An ancient Greek geographer, Strabo, speculated that the gold on the Fleece was the result of a mining technique called ‘gold washing.’ Ancient prospectors would lay a sheepskin in a gold bearing stream, and when the silt passed through the wool, the heavier gold particles stayed in the fleece. Well, that's what these adventurers did. They set out dozens of fleeces, and harvested a lot of gold dust.

  "But it wasn't ordinary gold. For some reason, this gold could store, or under the right circumstances release, electricity.”

  “How is that possible?” inquired Lyse. “Gold is just gold.”

  “Maybe it came from somewhere else,” Kismet speculated. “According to the legend, the Golden Fleece was the skin of the flying ram Chrysomallus. Maybe instead of a flying ram, Chrysomallus was a gold meteorite that crashed in the Caucuses.”

  Lyse raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like something from a comic book.”

  Kismet shrugged. “Regardless of where it came from, those ancient explorers harvested a bunch of it. Then they abandoned their mining camp and prepared to sail home with their treasure, but the electrical field created by the huge quantity of this extraordinary gold caused an atmospheric disturbance. A storm arose that sunk the galley, taking its cargo to the bottom, only a few miles from shore.

  "Over the centuries, the electrical field stayed active underwater, drawing more solvent gold particles out of the water. I know that sounds far-fetched, but the sea is full of dissolved metals and minerals. I think atoms of gold were pulled out of the water and gradually accumulated on the surface of the ship. Maybe the water itself perpetuated the reaction; I'm not a chemist, but there seems to be a connection."

  "So when we raised the ship," Irene observed, "The electricity stopped."

  "Not entirely. It was still powerful enough to blow out the lamp. I think what really happened was that it changed its manifestation. I think it created that storm with a massive electrical field." He took another sip of coffee. "When Anatoly's bomb went off, the kinetic energy was absorbed, recharging the gold."

  "We can test your theory on this Fleece," suggested Lyse.

  Kismet looked down at the gray wool on the deck. "I doubt you'll get any kind of reaction. Most of the gold has washed out of it.” He had mixed feelings about that. No ubergold meant no EMP bomb, and on balance, that seemed like a good thing. “But maybe what we learned about the ancient wanderings of the Greek adventurers is more valuable to the scientific world than this Fleece would have been. There are enough witnesses to document the existence of the galley and its cargo."

  "Ah, Nick, I don't think you'll be able to tell anyone about this."

  "And why not? This has nothing to do with your military secrets, Lyse. This is about history and culture."

  "I think what the lovely Ms. Lyon means," the captain supplied, "is that your presence here, and for that matter our actions today, are illegal. We did just shoot up a Russian destroyer, you realize."

  "But as far as they know, that action was carried out by a Russian submarine. There will be no contesting that identification. And since the Russians have sold off several of their older subs, there'll be no shortage of possible suspects."

  The captain shook his head. "If you were to go public with your discovery, their government might be more scrupulous in demanding an accounting, both of the attack on the destroyer, and your presence in Georgia to begin with."

  "You can't tell the world Nick," Lyse stated. "Not yet, at least. We can't afford to have Russia pissed off at us right now."

  Kismet sighed. He knew she was right, but it irritated him to have worked so hard for nothing.

  "Nick, there is yet one thing I do not understand." Kismet turned to hear out Peter Kerns. "I can accept your theory of the gold being drawn out of sea water, and accumulating on the ship. But the relics I found were not on the ship itself, but in the silt nearby, unaffected by the electrical field. The altar stone, for example, must have broken off when the ship went down. It did not have any gold on it. But the helmet fragment did. How is that possible?"

  He reflected on the day Harcourt had brought the bronze and gold fragment to his office, nearly two weeks before; a dented and torn shard of a helmet that had been forged for a smaller head than his own..."It must have been plated prior to the sinking of the galley."

  "Maybe the helmet really did belong to Jason," Irene suggested, unknowingly voicing Kismet's own wild speculation. "Remember that Medea used her magic to protect him when he slew the serpent that guarded the Fleece. And when he sowed the serpent's teeth, and fought the champions that grew out of the ground, her magic guarded him. If the gold was the source of her magic, perhaps she used it on his armor somehow. I seem to recall that at one point, Jason threw his helmet into the midst of the champions, causing them to turn on each other and kill each other in the confusion."

  Kismet couldn't remember if the last part of her recollection was really part of the Argo legend, but he didn't contradict her. Her hypothesis was no more elaborate than his own.

  "Then the helmet shard you spoke of was something the Greeks brought back with them," offered the captain. "Perhaps it was hidden beneath that altar stone; a sacred relic from the time of the real Jason."

  "I guess we'll never know," Kismet concluded.

  "Okay, I understand all of that." Irene faced her father again. "Now, why are we on a Russian submarine?"

  "That was my idea," Kismet hastily supplied, trying to prevent the captain from grabbing any more glory. "When I first decided to go after Harcourt, both to rescue Peter and maybe find the Fleece, I made a deal with Lyse. She would back us up secretly, from a submarine, so that when we succeeded, we could sneak out unobserved."

  "Almost sinking the Boyevoy isn't exactly my idea of stealth."

  "It sure beats the alternative."

  "You may have suggested using a sub, Nick, but it was the Colonel here—" Lyse nodded to the sub's pilot—"that gave us the K-322."

  "Air Force, retired," explained the captain. "Nowadays I earn my pay with a certain maritime agency that disavows any knowledge of this little jaunt. After the end of the Cold War, the Russians sold off a few of their older boats, and this one found it’s way into the hands of a drug cartel. The Navy sank it in about four miles of water, and then the CIA asked my agency to help salvage it so they could use it for...well, for days like today.”

  "They’ll be wise to the deception now,“ Kismet intoned. “What's next?"

  "Well, now the fun really begins. The captain of that destroyer will have already sounded the alarm, so the entire Black Sea fleet will be after us. Unfortunately, there's only one way out the Black, through the Bosporus."

  "Can we get there before they blockade the strait?"

  "Officially, they can't blockade it. But that won't stop them. And the answer is: probably not. In any event, we won't be trying. We're now heading south, toward the Turkish coast. Once we get there we'll scuttle this boat, and make landfall. Then we'll break up into smaller groups and make our way home."

  "They'll be looking for Irene and me."

  "It would probably be best for you two to split up.” Lyse supplied. “Eventually, when you've made it back to the States, you can concoct some story about escaping from a rogue Russian military group with their own submarine."

  "Wonderful," said Irene, sarcastically. "I thought all this insanity was finally over."

  The captain smiled. "Well, I can promise you a few hours of peace. No one's using the officers' quarters. Why don't you grab some shut-eye? You look like you could use it." He proffered a hand, which, after a quick glance in Kismet's direction, she accepted. Kerns raised an eyebrow, and then moved to follow them.

  Lyse threw a wry grin at Kismet. "Better watch out, Nick. He moves pretty fast with the ladies. Speaking as one, there is something...irresistible about him."

  Kismet hefted the Fleece, avoiding her eyes. "Lyse, what makes you think that I would even give a damn?"

  "Uh, oh. Things not working ou
t between you and Svetlana?"

  He considered matching her barb for barb, but thought better of it. "No. I guess there's not much room in my life for romance."

  "Hell, I could have told you that. I figured that out years ago."

  He chuckled, but there was no humor. "Yeah, I guess you did." He tossed the Fleece onto his shoulder and turned in the direction the others had gone, eager to find a quiet place to relax.

  "Nick, wait."

  "I'm keeping the Fleece, Lyse. You owe me that much."

  "Sure, whatever. But there's something you owe me. The memory card? Remember? You told me you gave them to a friend. I need to know who that is."

  Kismet almost laughed. It had all started with those plans; plans to build a super weapon using the mystery element contained in the Golden Fleece. Now that the ubergold was beyond reach, at the bottom of the Black Sea, Kismet wondered if the plans would do anyone any good.

  "Why not?" He reached for his waist pack. The nylon bag, which had somehow survived the assault by Grimes and the final descent of the golden ship, was bloated with seawater. He turned it over, and the contents splashed on the deck, drenching Lyse's shoes. He laughed as she jumped back self-consciously, and then drew out the sheath of his kukri. The scabbard of carved wood, overlaid with black leather was probably ruined but it was replaceable. Using the blade of the big knife, he cut apart the seams that held the leather together along the backside of the sheath. The dyed covering spread apart, revealing the plastic bag with the SD card inside. He pulled it loose and tossed it to her.

  Lyse was livid. "You told me you gave it to a friend."

  He held the kukri up, inspecting it in the subdued light, and remembering a fateful night many years before when he had been given the blade as an almost sacred trust between warriors. "One of my oldest and dearest. And might I add, the only one I trust implicitly."

  "What if you had gone down with that ship? Then it would have been lost forever."

  "That probably would have been better. The world would be a better place without your superbombs."

  She wagged her head in despair, and then went to work unwrapping the package, as if still convinced that he would again try to swindle her. Leaving her to inspect the SD card, he continued down the companionway, into the heart of the submarine. A narrow portal in the bulkhead opened into a cramped room with two vacant bunks. As he entered, he heard his name called yet again, but this time it was not Lyse.

  "Irene?" He was mildly surprised to find her at his door. "Was this your room?"

  "No." Her smile was coy and eager.

  "Irene..." He tried to find the words that would make her understand that 'happily ever after' was something he could never offer, but something about her expression weakened his resolve. He shook his head and tried a different tack. "You forgot to give the captain his jacket."

  "My goodness. Are you jealous?"

  "Of course not." He tossed the now gold-less Fleece onto the upper bunk. "You’re an adult. You can...."

  Before he could finish, she darted forward and shook her hand in the air above his head. A dusting of glitter drifted down from her fingertips, and Kismet felt as though he had walked through a cobweb. He brushed reflexively at his face and found specks of gold clinging to his fingertips. "What's this?"

  "Magic dust," she replied, with a straight face. "I found it in my pocket. It must have brushed off when we were down there."

  "Well why did you throw it at me?"

  She shrugged. "Medea used it to make Jason fall in love her."

  "No she didn't. Besides, that whole story is just a myth anyway."

  She stopped him with a sultry look, moving closer. "Maybe she did," she continued, threading her arms around him and gazing up into his eyes. "Maybe it's more than just a story."

  If he had a counter to her statement, it was restrained as her lips met his; her tongue silenced his own. He savored the kiss for a moment. "Magic dust," he whispered close to her ear. "So did it work?"

  "Hmm?"

  "When Medea used it on Jason—did it work? Did it make him love her?"

  She drew back far enough to look him in the eyes. "What are you worried about? I didn't think you believed in the magic of the Fleece."

  "Maybe I'm starting to."

  He did not resist as she pulled him into the small space between the bunks. "Good," she said, her voice low and intent. "Because it works."

  EPILOGUE:

  THE ARGO DESTINY

  Langley, Virginia—Two months later

  Lysette Lyon hastened from the chilly interior of her car to the airlock-like foyer of the reception building. The bulletproof glass doors slid shut behind her, locking out the frigid air of a Virginia winter, but the cold lingered in her extremities for several minutes as she moved through the final security checkpoint and into the heart of the Central Intelligence Agency headquarters building.

  She had not been back to the Langley facility since receiving the orders that had sent her to the Black Sea, two months earlier. In fact, she had only set foot on American soil six hours earlier, just enough time to shower and eat before delivering the bad news. The dread that had robbed her of her appetite during her brief visit to her apartment now loomed heavily as she exited the elevator and traversed the remaining distance to the section chief's office. The secretary admitted her without question.

  Her immediate superior was not alone. She instantly recognized most of the other faces sitting around his desk; it was as if the entire upper echelon of Central Intelligence had decided to conduct a top-level meeting in the small room. She closed the door firmly and strode toward the desk and into the monster's lair.

  "Field Officer Lyon." The section chief rose to greet her, his face unreadable. "I hope you don't mind if the Director sits in on your debriefing."

  It wasn't a question, so she withheld a verbal response. The DCI (Director of Central Intelligence) nevertheless rose, and inclined his head politely. She answered with her trademark smile and was pleased to see a faint rush of color in the old bureaucrat's cheeks. The department directors and their deputies followed his example but one man, who stood facing the large window behind the desk, did not even turn to acknowledge her. His face was barely visible in the reflection.

  Once the pleasantries were exchanged, everyone but the man at the window returned to their seats. Lyse was acutely aware that she too would have to stand. Evidently the DCI's chivalry did not extend to offering his chair to a lady if that lady happened to be in his employ. Perhaps it was for the best; she might need to make a hasty retreat from the room if they took the news the way she feared they might. Her lips drew into a tight grimace, and then she commenced her report.

  She started from the beginning, not so much because she felt the need to brief those men who might not have actually been privy to the details of the mission, but because she was stalling. Maybe, after telling the whole sordid affair in its entirety, her failure would seem less important. She recalled the efforts to gather the intelligence on the EMP weapon from Germany, and the unfortunate decision that had brought Nick Kismet into the loop.

  Her first mention of her former paramour's name had elicited a fidgety response from the DCI, who unthinkingly glanced at the man near the window; the latter did not react in any way. She filed their reaction away as something to look into, and then continued with her tale. Much of what she told them from that point onward was gleaned from her interviews with Kismet and Irene and Peter Kerns, the only surviving witnesses to Halverson Grimes' treachery and ultimate demise. Despite a great deal of evidence to support the charge of treason, Lysette had already heard rumors that Grimes' death would be attributed to a boating accident, and that no mention of his traitorous leanings would ever see the light of public scrutiny. He would be remembered only as an American hero.

  She nevertheless reported what she had seen with her own eyes: Grimes and Harcourt conversing with the leader of the German KSK unit. Grimes had evaded capture that night, slipping aw
ay with the British archaeologist and a handful of commandos moments before Lyse and the COLT operators raided the mountain camp, leaving no survivors. From there, they had raced back down to the shore in a captured snow-cat and returned to the submarine. From beneath the storm tossed sea, they had managed to follow Kismet's progress across the sea using sonar, and intercept the Boyevoy in time to save him and Irene from a brutal death.

  The DDO (Deputy Director, Operations) seemed especially pleased with the success of the COLT team against the German commandos. They had completely overwhelmed the larger force, sustaining no casualties among their own ranks, and completely sterilized the area, right down to the last brass shell casing. No one would ever know that anyone had established a camp in the Caucasus or that a battle had raged there.

  The minor naval skirmish on the Black Sea was a slightly different story. Back-channeled information indicated that the Russians knew all too well who was behind the torpedo attack that had crippled one of their destroyers, but as there was no proof, the incident was being reported as an accidental explosion. Lyse had also heard that representatives of the UN had casually mentioned that further exploration of the matter might reveal that a certain Captain Severin had committed a number of international crimes, not the least of which was the attempted murder of a UNESCO representative. Despite that part of the affair being swept under the carpet along with the rest, DDO was understandably concerned at the level of exposure.

  With Kismet and the two Russian émigrés safely on their way back to the States, Lyse and the retired USAF Colonel who had skippered the K-322 on its last mission, returned to the Black Sea, this time with an upgrade. Using a state of the art deep sea submersible, they scoured the lowest reaches of the Black Sea in hopes of locating the golden ship for further study and possibly retrieval.