Atlantis

by David Gibbins

  “And the others?”

  “The Greek will cooperate when I tell him you will be tortured and beheaded if he does otherwise. He has a small task to perform for us. He will lead us back through the volcano to Kazbek.”

  “And Katya?”

  Another dark cloud passed over Aslan’s face and his voice dropped to little more than a whisper.

  “In the Aegean I decided to stand off when she said she would lead us to a greater treasure. I gave her two days but she failed to make contact. Fortunately Olga had already copied the ancient texts in Alexandria and had done her work. We knew you could only be heading here.”

  “Where is Katya?” Jack tried to keep his voice controlled.

  “She was a loving child.” Aslan’s eyes appeared briefly to soften. “Our holidays in the dacha were a joy before her mother’s untimely death. Olga and I tried our best.”

  He looked at Olga, who smiled ingratiatingly back at him from the table of folios. When he turned back to Jack his voice was suddenly shrill and harsh.

  “My daughter has dishonoured me and her faith. I had no control over her education in the Soviet period, then she fled west and was corrupted. She had the effrontery to reject my patronymic and adopt her mother’s name. I will keep her on Vultura and take her back to Kazakhstan where she will be treated according to sharia law.”

  “You mean mutilated and enslaved,” Jack said icily.

  “She will be cleansed of the vices of the flesh. After the rite of circumcision I will send her to a holy college for moral purification. Then I will find her a suitable husband, insh’allah. If God wills it.”

  Aslan closed his eyes for a few moments to calm himself. Then he snapped his fingers and two attendants materialized to help him to his feet. He smoothed his red robe and arranged his hands over his paunch.

  “Come.” He nodded towards the window. “Let me show you before we get down to business.”

  As Jack followed the huge shuffling figure, his eye was caught by another glass case mounted on a plinth beside the window. With a thrill he recognized two exquisite ivory plaques from the ancient Silk Road site of Begram, treasures thought lost forever when the Taliban desecrated the Kabul museum during their reign of terror in Afghanistan. He paused to inspect the intricate carving on the plaques, imports from second-century AD Han China found in a palace storeroom alongside priceless Indian lacquer and rare masterworks of Roman glass and bronze. He was delighted that the hoard had survived yet dismayed to find the artefacts in this monument to ego. Jack believed passionately that revealing the past helped unify nations by celebrating the shared achievement of humankind. The more great works of art disappeared into the black hole of bank vaults and private galleries, the less that goal seemed attainable.

  Aslan turned and noticed Jack’s interest. He seemed to derive great pleasure from what he saw as Jack’s envy.

  “It is my compulsion, my passion, second only to my faith,” he wheezed. “I look forward to selecting items from your museum in Carthage as part of your ransom. And some of the paintings in the Howard Gallery interest me very much.”

  Aslan led Jack across the room to a convex window which swept round the rotunda. It was as if they were looking out from an airport control tower, an impression enhanced by the complex of runways that spread out across the valley floor below them.

  Jack tried to ignore Aslan and concentrate on the view. The runways formed a giant L shape, the east-west tarmac below them skirting the south side of the valley and the north-south runway lying to the west where the perimeter hills were low. Beside it a cluster of warehouse-sized buildings marked the terminal. Next to it was a helipad, three of its four roundels occupied, by a Hind E, a Havoc and a Kamov Ka-50 Werewolf. The Werewolf rivalled the American Apache in manoeuvrability and firepower. Any one of them could deliver a devastating attack on a patrol vessel or police helicopter brazen enough to confront Aslan’s operations.

  Jack’s gaze moved to a series of dark openings on the far side of the valley beyond the end of the runway. They were aircraft shelters dug deep into the rocky slope. To his astonishment he realized the two grey shapes in front were Harrier jump jets, their noses peering out from camouflaged covers that would be invisible to satellite surveillance.

  “You see, my hardware is not limited to the former Soviet arsenal.” Aslan beamed. “Recently your government foolishly disbanded the Royal Navy’s Sea Harrier force. Officially they were all scrapped, but a former minister with an interest in the arms trade proved amenable to a deal. Fortunately I have no lack of trained personnel. Olga was a reserve pilot in the Soviet Air Force and recently made our first experimental flight.”

  With increasing dismay Jack followed Aslan’s gaze as he pressed a button on the balustrade and the bookcases to either side retracted to reveal the coastline. The ridges bordering the valley continued out to form a wide natural harbour. The spur nearest them abutted a massive concrete quay that angled northwards to conceal the bay from passing ships.

  Aslan’s latest vessel was a Russian Project 1154 Neustrashimy-class frigate, from the same stable as Vultura but with three times the displacement. It was in the final stages of refit with weapons and communications pods being hoisted aboard by dockside cranes. A distant shower of sparks showed welders hard at work on the extended helipad and jump jet platform.

  Jack thought again about Seaquest. She should have been hove to above Atlantis after following the storm back south as it abated. He dared not mention her in case she had escaped detection, but it seemed inconceivable that she would not have been spotted once she was within radar range of Vultura. He remembered the distant gunfire he was sure they had heard in the mortuary chamber. He was beginning to fear the worst.

  “We are nearly ready for our maiden voyage. You will be my guest of honour at the commissioning ceremony.” Aslan paused, his hands folded over his belly and his face set in gluttonous contentment. “With my two ships I will be able to roam the high seas at will. Nothing will stand in my way.”

  As Jack took one final look over the scene, the awesome magnitude of Aslan’s power began to sink in. Where the valley narrowed to the east were firing ranges and structures that looked like mock-ups for urban warfare training. Between the terminal and the sea was another circular hub, this one festooned with satellite dishes and antenna arrays. Along the ridge were camouflaged surveillance stations, and on the beach were weapons emplacements among the palm and eucalyptus trees which were all that remained of the Communist Party resort that had once occupied the valley.

  “You will now appreciate it is futile to attempt escape. To the east are the Caucasus Mountains, to the north and south is bandit country where no westerner would survive. I trust you will instead enjoy my hospitality. I look forward to having a companion with whom I can converse about art and archaeology.”

  Aslan seemed suddenly overcome by euphoria, his arms raised and his face suffused with rapture.

  “This is my Kehlsteinhaus, my Eagle’s Nest,” he ranted. “It is my holy temple and fortress. You will agree that the view is as beautiful as the Bavarian Alps?”

  Jack replied quietly, his eyes still fixed on the valley below.

  “During what you would call the Great Patriotic War my father was a Royal Air Force Pathfinder pilot,” he said. “In 1945 he had the privilege of leading the raid on the Obersalzberg at Berchtesgaden. Neither the Führer’s villa nor SS headquarters proved quite so invulnerable as their creator had envisaged.” Jack turned and gazed unwaveringly into Aslan’s jet-black eyes. “And history, as you said, Professor Nazarbetov, has a nasty habit of repeating itself.”

  THERE WAS LITTLE SENSATION OF SPEED AS the shuttle accelerated down one of the tubular passageways, the air pocket beneath cushioning it like a hovercraft. Jack and Aslan sat on opposite seats, the other man’s girth occupying the entire width of the compartment. Jack guessed they had descended to the valley floor and were now approaching the central hub he had seen from the Pantheon room.


  A few moments earlier they had stopped to pick up another passenger who now stood motionless between them. He was an immense bear of a man in a tight-fitting black overall, with sloping forehead, flattened nose and pig-like eyes that stared out blankly under a pronounced brow ridge.

  “Allow me to introduce your bodyguard,” Aslan said good-naturedly. “Vladimir Yurevich Dalmotov. A former spetsnaz commando, a veteran of the war in Afghanistan, who defected to the Chechen freedom fighters after his brother was executed for garrotting the officer who sent his platoon to their deaths in Grosny. After Chechnya he hired himself out to the al Qaeda holy warriors for the liberation of Abkhazia. I found him by following the trail of bodies. He believes in no god yet Allah forgives him.”

  As the shuttle drew to a halt the door slid open and two attendants entered to help Aslan to his feet. Jack had been biding his time since guessing that Costas and Katya were still on the island. As Dalmotov hustled him out Jack noted he had an Uzi slung over his back but wore no body armour.

  The space they stepped into was in stark contrast to the opiate splendour of the living quarters. It was a giant hangar, its door retracted to reveal the helipad Jack had seen earlier. On the tarmac was the bulky form of the Hind; a maintenance crew was scurrying around the airframe and a fuelling tender stood waiting.

  “Our transport from the island last night,” Aslan said. “Now about to fulfil the purpose for which it was built.”

  The view outside was partly obscured by a flatbed truck parked just outside the door. While they watched, a team of men began offloading crates and stacking them against the wall beside a rack of flight suits.

  Dalmotov muttered something to Aslan and loped across. He picked up one of the crates and prised it open with his bare hands, extracting and slotting together the components it contained. Even before he raised it to test the sights, Jack had identified the Barrett M82A1, probably the most lethal sniper rifle in the world. It was chambered for the Browning Machine Gun BMG 50 calibre round or the Russian 12.7 millimetre equivalent, firing a high-velocity slug that could penetrate tank armour at five hundred metres or take a man’s head off at three times that distance.

  “My modest contribution to the jihad.” Aslan smiled widely. “You must have spotted our sniper training school beyond the runway. Dalmotov is our chief instructor. Our clients include the Irish Republican Army’s New Brigade as well as al Qaeda, and they have never been less than entirely satisfied.”

  Jack recalled the spate of high-profile sniper attacks earlier that year, a new and devastating phase in the terrorists’ war against the west.

  While Dalmotov oversaw the assembly of the weapons, Jack followed Aslan to a warehouse on the opposite side of the hangar. Inside, crates were being hammered shut and audited by figures in maintenance overalls. As a forklift passed by, Jack caught sight of the word stencilled in red letters on the side. One of Jack’s first assignments with military intelligence had been to intercept a freighter from Libya carrying identical crates. It was Semtex, the deadly plastic explosive from the Czech Republic used by the IRA in their campaign of terror in Britain.

  “This is our main transit facility,” Aslan explained. “Normally the bay is sealed off to contain biological and chemical weapons, but I have just routed our last batch by transport helicopter to another satisfied customer in the Middle East.” Aslan paused, his hands clasped over his belly and his fat thumbs slowly revolving. His eyes narrowed and he stared into the middle distance.

  Jack was beginning to recognize the warning signs of Aslan’s volatile temper.

  “I do have one unhappy customer, someone whose patience has been sorely stretched since 1991. When we tracked Seaquest from Trabzon we knew there could be only one possible destination, the place Olga had pinpointed from her study of the ancient text. We made our way to the volcano under cover of darkness. You have provided me the perfect screen to go where politics had denied me access for years. In the past any visit to this island would have provoked an immediate military response. Now if the satellite picks up any activity they will assume it is you, a legitimate scientific project. This was to have been our rendezvous point with the Russians, if that fool Antonov had not sunk his submarine and my merchandise through his own incompetence.”

  “Captain Antonov would have delivered his cargo,” Jack replied bleakly. “There was a mutiny led by the political officer. It was probably the only good thing the KGB ever did.”

  “And the nuclear warheads?” Aslan cut in sharply.

  “We saw only conventional weapons,” Jack lied.

  “Then why did my daughter threaten nuclear holocaust when she negotiated with my men?”

  Jack was silent for a moment. Katya had not revealed this detail of her parley in the submarine’s control room.

  “My men will keep you out,” he replied quietly. “Your fundamentalist friends are not the only ones willing to die for a cause.”

  “They may decide otherwise once they hear the fate that awaits you and that Greek if they do not capitulate.” Aslan smiled humourlessly, his serenity briefly returned. “I think you will find our next stop most interesting.”

  They left the hangar by a different passageway, this time in an open-topped car on a conveyor belt. They were heading towards the central hub about a kilometre closer to the sea. After a five-minute journey they stepped onto an escalator that took them to a lift door. An attendant punched a key that took them to the highest level.

  The scene was straight from a NASA space launch. The room was identical in dimensions to the Pantheon but filled with a mass of computer and surveillance equipment. As they stepped out Jack saw they had ascended inside a drum that rose in the centre like a truncated column. It was like the arena of a latter-day amphitheatre, surrounded by concentric tiers of workstations that faced them in continuous ripples of colour. On the wall behind, giant screens displayed maps and televisual images. The whole complex seemed like Seaquest’s control module but on a massive scale, with enough monitoring and communications equipment to run a small war.

  Aslan was helped into an electronic wheelchair by two assistants. The rows of shadowy figures hunched behind the monitors seemed scarcely to have noticed their arrival.

  “I prefer the excitement of Vultura. More hands-on, you might say.” Aslan settled back in his chair. “But here I can control all my operations simultaneously. From the command chair I can view any screen in the room without moving.”

  An attendant who had been waiting nervously on the sidelines leaned over and whispered urgently in his ear. Aslan’s face remained impassive but his fingers began drumming the arms of his wheelchair. Without saying a word he pressed a button on his wheelchair and shot off towards a console where a group of figures were congregating. Jack followed with Dalmotov close behind. As they neared the console Jack noted that the screens immediately to the right were security monitors, similar to the type used in the Carthage Museum showing interior views within the complex.

  The figures silently parted to allow Aslan access to the screen. Jack moved up until he stood directly behind the wheelchair and the operator who was working the console keyboard. Dalmotov stood at his elbow.

  “We’ve finally made the link,” the operator said in English. “SATSURV should be coming online now.”

  The man was of Asian appearance but wore jeans and a white shirt rather than the black overalls that were standard issue in the place. From his accent Jack guessed that he had been educated in Britain.

  The operator looked first at Jack and then questioningly at Aslan. The big man nodded languidly, a gesture not of indifference but of supreme confidence that his guest would never be in a position to divulge anything he saw or heard.

  A mosaic of pixels resolved into a view of the Black Sea, the south-eastern corner still partly obscured by cloud from the storm. The thermal imaging transformed the scene into a spectrum of colours, the coastline emerging clearly as the satellite picked up infrared radiation from
below the cloud base. The operator traced out a small square and magnified it to fill the screen. He repeated the process until the screen was dominated by the island, the centre a shifting halo of pinks and yellows where the core was emitting strong heat radiation.

  On the sea nearby was a sliver of colour that signified a surface vessel. The operator increased magnification until it filled the entire screen, the imagery now at sub-metric resolution. The vessel was dead in the water, the hull careened to port with the bow submerged and its starboard screw dangling above the smashed remains of the rudder.

  To his horror Jack recognized Seaquest, her lines still clear despite the appalling damage. The heat radiation showed where armour-piercing shells had slammed into the hull and left gaping exit wounds like high-velocity rounds through a human body. Jack felt gripped by anger as he surveyed the destruction. He swung the wheelchair round and confronted Aslan.

  “Where are my people?” he demanded.

  “There do not appear to be any human heat signatures,” Aslan replied calmly. “Two of your crew were foolish enough to engage Vultura in a firefight yesterday morning. A somewhat one-sided battle as you might imagine. We will shortly be sending the Hind to dispose of the wreckage.”

  On Seaquest’s shattered foredeck Jack could see the gun turret deployed and elevated. The barrels were at a crazy angle, evidently the result of a direct hit. Jack knew that York and Howe would not have abandoned her without a fight. He silently prayed they had managed to escape afterwards with the rest of the crew in the submersible.

  “They were scientists and sailors, not fanatics and thugs,” Jack said coldly.

  Aslan shrugged and turned back to the screen.

  It transformed to show another ship, this one hove close in to the island. As the image magnified, all eyes were glued on the stern. A group of figures could be seen dismantling two large tubes which showed irregular patterns of thermal radiation as if they had been on fire. Just as Jack realized he was looking at battle damage to Vultura, Aslan snapped his fingers and a hand gripped Jack’s shoulder like a vice.