After printing out the CAN data Mustafa led the others into a partitioned area adjacent to the chart room. He dimmed the lights and arranged several chairs around a central console the size of a kitchen table. He flipped a switch and the surface lit up.
“A holographic light table,” Mustafa explained. “The latest in bathymetric representation. It can model a three-dimensional image of any area of seabed for which we have survey data, from entire ocean floors to sectors only a couple of metres across. Archaeological sites, for example.”
He tapped a command and the table erupted in colour. It was an underwater excavation, brilliantly clear with every detail sharply delineated. A mass of sediment had been cleared away to reveal rows of pottery vats and metal ingots lying across a keel, with timbers projecting on either side. The hull was cradled in a gully above a precipitous slope, great tongues of rock disappearing down either side where lava had once flowed.
“The Minoan wreck as it looked ten minutes ago. Jack asked me to have it relayed through so he could monitor progress. Once we have this equipment fully online we’ll truly enter the age of remote fieldwork, able to direct excavations without ever getting wet.”
In the old days huge efforts were required to plan underwater sites, the measurements being taken painstakingly by hand. Now all this was eliminated by the use of digital photogrammetry, a sophisticated mapping package which utilized a remote operated vehicle to take images wired directly to Seaquest. In a ten-minute sweep over the wreck that morning the ROV had collected more data than an entire excavation in the past. As well as the hologram, the data were fed into a laser projector which constructed a latex model of the site in Seaquest’s conference room, modifications continuously being made as the excavators stripped off artefacts and sediment. The innovative system was another reason to be thankful to Efram Jacobovich, IMU’s founding benefactor, who had put the expertise of his giant software company entirely at their disposal.
Jack had spent several hours scrutinizing the hologram that afternoon during a teleconference with the excavation team. But for the others it was a breathtaking sight, as if they had suddenly been transported to the seabed of the Aegean eight hundred nautical miles away. It showed the remarkable progress made in the twenty-four hours since they had flown off by helicopter. The team had removed most of the overburden and sent another trove of artefacts to the safety of the Carthage museum. Under a layer of pottery amphoras filled with ritual incense was a hull far better preserved than Jack had dared imagine, its mortise-and-tenon joints as crisp and clear as if they had been chiselled yesterday.
Mustafa tapped again. “And now the Black Sea.”
The wreck disintegrated into a kaleidoscope of colours from which a model of the Black Sea took shape. In the centre was the abyssal plain, the toxic netherworld almost 2,200 metres deep. Around the edge were the coastal shallows which sloped off more gently than most parts of the Mediterranean.
He tapped another key to highlight the line of the coast before the flood.
“Our target area.”
A pinprick of light appeared in the far south-eastern corner.
“Forty-two degrees north latitude, forty-two degrees east longitude. That’s as precise as we can get with our distance calculation from the Bosporus.”
“That’s a pretty big area,” Costas cautioned. “A nautical mile is one minute of latitude, a degree sixty minutes. That’s three hundred and sixty square miles.”
“Remember we’re looking for a coastal site,” Jack said. “If we follow the ancient coastline on the landward side we should eventually reach our target.”
“The closer we can pinpoint it now, the better,” Mustafa said. “According to the bathymetry the ancient coastline in this sector is at least thirty miles offshore, well beyond territorial waters. It’ll become pretty obvious we’re searching along a particular contour. There are going to be prying eyes about.”
There was a murmur from the others as the implications became depressingly apparent. The map showed how dangerously close they would be to the far shore of the Black Sea, a modern-day Barbary Coast where east met west in a new and sinister fashion.
“I’m intrigued by this feature.” Macleod pointed to an irregularity in the sea floor, a ridge about five kilometres long, parallel to the ancient shoreline. On the seaward side was a narrow chasm which dropped below five hundred metres, an anomaly where the average gradient did not reach this depth for another thirty miles offshore. “It’s the only upstanding feature for miles around. If I was going to build a citadel I’d want a commanding position. This is an obvious place.”
“But the final passage from the papyrus talks about salt lakes,” Costas said.
Katya took her cue and read from the palm computer.
“Then you reach the citadel. And there below lies a vast golden plain, the deep basins, the salt lakes, as far as the eye can see.”
“That’s the image I have of the Mediterranean during the Messinian salinity crisis,” Costas commented. “Stagnant brine lakes, like the southern Dead Sea today.”
“I think I have an explanation.” Mustafa tapped the keyboard and the hologram transformed to a close-up of the south-eastern sector. “With the sea level lowered one hundred and fifty metres, much of the area inland from that ridge was only just dry, a metre or two above the ancient shoreline. Large areas were actually a few metres below sea level. As the level dropped to its lowest, towards the end of the Pleistocene, it would have left salt lakes in those depressions. They were shallow and would have evaporated quickly, leaving immense salt pans. They’d have been visible from an elevated position some distance away as they wouldn’t have supported any vegetation.”
“And let’s remember how important salt was,” Jack said. “It was a vital preservative, a major trade commodity in its own right. The early Romans flourished because they controlled the salt pans at the mouth of the Tiber, and we may be looking at a similar story here thousands of years earlier.”
Costas spoke thoughtfully. “Golden plain could mean fields of wheat and barley, a rich prairie of cultivated grain with the mountains of Anatolia in the background. It was the ‘mountain-girt plain’ of Plato’s account.”
“You’ve got it,” said Mustafa.
“Am I right in thinking part of the ridge is above water today?” Costas was peering at the geomorphology on the hologram.
“It’s the top of a small volcano. The ridge is part of the zone of seismic disturbance along the Asiatic plate that extends west to the north Anatolian fault. The volcano’s not entirely dormant but hasn’t erupted in recorded history. The caldera is about a kilometre in diameter and rises three hundred metres above sea level.”
“What’s its name?”
“Doesn’t have one,” Macleod answered. “It’s been disputed territory ever since the Crimean War of 1853 to ’56 between Ottoman Turkey and Tsarist Russia. It’s in international waters but lies almost exactly off the border between Turkey and Georgia.”
“The area’s been a no-go zone for a long time,” Mustafa continued. “Just months before the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 a nuclear sub went down somewhere near here in mysterious circumstances.” The others were intrigued, and Mustafa carried on cautiously. “It was never found, but the search operation led to shots being exchanged between Turkish and Soviet warships. It was a potential global flashpoint, given Turkey’s NATO affiliations. Both sides agreed to back off and the confrontation was hushed up, but as a result there’s been hardly any hydrographic research in this area.”
“Sounds like we’re on our own again,” Costas said glumly. “Friendly countries on either side but powerless to intervene.”
“We’re doing what we can,” Mustafa said. “The 1992 Black Sea economic cooperation agreement led to the establishment of Blackseafor, the Black Sea naval cooperation task group. It’s still more gesture than substance, and most Turkish maritime interdiction has continued to be unilateral. But at least the basis for intervention exists. There’s also a glimmer of hope on the scientific side. The Turkish National Oceanographic Commission is considering an offer from the Georgian Academy of Sciences to collaborate on a survey that would include that island.”
“But no hope of a protection force,” Costas said.
“Nothing pre-emptive. The situation’s way too delicate. The ball’s in our court.”
The sun had set and the forested slopes behind the lights of Trabzon were shrouded in darkness. Jack and Katya were walking slowly along the pebbly beach, the crunch of their footsteps joining the sound of the waves as they gently lapped the shore.
Earlier they had attended a gathering at the residence of the vice-admiral in command of Blackseafor, and the lingering scent of pine needles from the outdoor reception followed them into the night. They had left the eastern jetty far behind. Jack was still wearing his dinner jacket but had loosened his collar and removed his tie, pocketing it along with the Distinguished Service Cross he had reluctantly worn for the occasion.
Katya was wearing a shimmering black gown. She had loosened her hair and removed her shoes to walk barefoot in the surf.
“You look stunning.”
“You don’t look so bad yourself.” Katya gazed up at Jack and smiled, gently touching his arm. “I think we’ve come far enough now.”
They walked up the beach and sat together on a slab of rock overlooking the sea. The rising moon cast a sparkling light on the water, the waves dancing and shimmering in front of them. Above the northern horizon was a band of pitch-darkness, a storm front rolling down from the Russian steppes. A chill breeze brought early intimation of an unseasonal change that would alter the face of the sea over the coming days.
Jack drew up his legs and folded his arms over his knees, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “This is always the most intensive time, when you know a great discovery is within your grasp. Any delay is frustrating.”
Katya smiled at him again. “You’ve done all you can.”
They had been discussing arrangements for joining Seaquest the next day. Before the reception Jack had spoken to Tom York on the IMU secure channel. By now Seaquest would be making her way at top speed towards the Bosporus, having left the wreck excavation in the safe hands of the support vessel. By the time of their projected rendezvous by helicopter the next morning, Seaquest would be in the Black Sea. They were anxious to join her as soon as possible to ensure the equipment was fully prepared.
Katya was facing away from him and seemed preoccupied.
“You don’t share my excitement.”
When she replied her words confirmed Jack’s sense that something was troubling her.
“To you in the west people like Aslan are faceless, like the enemies of the Cold War,” she said. “But to me they’re real people, real flesh and blood. Monsters who have made my home an uncharted wasteland of violence and greed. To know it you must live there, a world of terror and anarchy the west hasn’t seen since the Middle Ages. The years of suppression have fuelled a feeding frenzy where the only pretence at control is provided by gangsters and warlords.” Her voice was filled with emotion as she looked out to sea. “And these are my people. I am one of them.”
“One with the will and strength to fight it.” Jack was drawn irresistibly to her dark silhouette as she sat framed against the lowering horizon.
“It’s my world we’re about to enter, and I don’t know if I can protect you.” She turned to face him, her eyes fathomless as she stared into his. “But of course I share your incredible excitement.”
They drew together and kissed, at first gently and then long and passionately. Jack was suddenly overwhelmed by desire as he felt her body against his. He eased the gown off her shoulders and pulled her closer.
HOLDING STEADY ON THREE-ONE-FIVER degrees. Depth sixty-five metres, ascent rate one metre per second. We should be seeing the surface soon.”
Jack peered through the Plexiglas dome to his left. Despite the gloom he could just make out Costas beneath an identical dome some fifteen metres away, his head seemingly disembodied in the eerie glow cast by the instrument panels. As they rose higher the submersible came into clearer view. The dome capped a yellow man-sized pod, the casing angled forward so the pilot could sit comfortably. Below were pontoon-like ballast tanks, and behind was the housing for the battery which powered a dozen vectored water jets positioned around an external frame. Two pincer-like robotic arms gave the submersible the appearance of a giant scarab beetle.
“There she is now.”
Jack looked up and saw the silhouette of Seaquest twenty metres above. He adjusted the water ballast discharge to slow his ascent and looked again at Costas, who was manoeuvring alongside in preparation for surfacing.
Costas beamed at his friend. “Mission accomplished.”
Costas had every reason to be pleased with himself. They had just concluded the sea trials of Aquapod IV, the latest one-man submersible his team had designed for IMU. It had a maximum operational depth of fifteen hundred metres, almost twice the previous marque. The hypercharged lithium-anode battery had a life of fifty hours at an optimal cruising speed of three knots. Their one-hour dive that morning to the bottom of the Black Sea had shown the equipment was well up to the task ahead, an exploration along the line of the ancient coast further east than they had ever gone before.
“Seaquest, this is Aquapod Alpha. We are coming in safe and sound. Over.”
They could already see the four divers waiting just below the surface to guide them in. With ten metres to go they stopped to lock the Aquapods together, a standard procedure to prevent them crashing into each other in rough seas. While Jack remained stationary, Costas gingerly manoeuvred until the locking pinions aligned. With the flick of a switch he fired four metal rods through the cleats on the outer frame.
“Locking secured. Haul us in.”
The divers quickly descended and attached the lifting harness. Jack and Costas switched to standby and disengaged the balance adjustors which kept them horizontal. As the divers swam away to safety positions the winch operator smoothly drew the submersibles up into the hull.
They broke surface inside a floodlit chamber the size of a small aircraft hangar. Seaquest was equipped with a fully internalized docking berth, a useful feature when the weather was too rough for operations from deck or they wished to remain concealed. The hull had opened up like the bomb doors on a giant aircraft. As the two sections closed, Jack and Costas unlocked the domes which also served as entry canopies. A platform slid under them and rose like the elevator on an aircraft carrier, locking tight once the last of the water had drained off.
Tom York was on hand to greet the two men as they clambered out.
“Successful trial, I trust?”
Jack was the first to drop on deck. He spoke quickly as he stripped off his survival suit.
“No problems to report. We’ll use the Aquapods for our reconnaissance this afternoon. The robotic arms will need to be replaced by the digital videocamera and floodlight pods.”
“It’s being done as we speak.”
Jack glanced round and saw the maintenance crew already hard at work on the submersibles. Costas was hunched over the battery recharging unit deep in conversation with one of the technicians. Jack smiled to himself as he saw that his friend had neglected to remove his headset in his enthusiasm to discuss the submersible’s performance with his engineering team.
Jack spoke to York as he strode forward and stowed his suit in one of the lockers that lined the chamber.
“We have an hour before Seaquest is in position. It’s a chance to review our options one last time. I’d like all personnel in the bridge console at eleven hundred hours.”
Twenty minutes later they stood in front of a semicircle of men and women inside Seaquest’s command module. York had engaged the automated navigation and surveillance system, activating the virtual bridge which allowed the ship to be operated from the console beside Jack. The hemispherical screen above them displayed a panoramic view of the sea, its choppy grey surface an ominous portent of the storm which had been brewing in the north over the past twenty-four hours.
Jack folded his arms and addressed the group.
“We’re a skeleton crew, and our job is going to be that much more demanding. I’m not going to beat about the bush. We face a real risk, probably a greater one than we have ever faced before.”
After joining Seaquest by helicopter the day before, Jack had decided to reduce the complement to the minimum. The entire crew had volunteered, but he had refused to endanger the lives of scientists whose job would only really begin once they had made a discovery. In addition to the deck and engineering officers, he had selected the most experienced weapons technicians, including several ex–Special Forces men Jack had known since the Navy.
“What can we expect in the way of outside backing?”
The question came from Katya, who was standing among the crew wearing a standard-issue blue jumpsuit with the IMU shoulder flash. Jack had tried to persuade her to leave with the others when Sea Venture came out to meet them as they passed Trabzon, but she had insisted her linguistic expertise would be vital for any inscriptions they might find. In truth Jack knew from their long hours together the night before that she would not leave him now, that they had a bond that could not be broken and she shared his sense of responsibility for Seaquest and her crew as they sailed ever further into the danger zone.
“I’ll let our security chief answer that one.”
Peter Howe stepped out and took Jack’s place.
“The bad news is we’ll be in international waters, beyond the twelve-mile limit agreed in a 1973 protocol between the USSR and Turkey. The good news is Georgia and Turkey signed a Coast Security Cooperative Agreement in 1998 and have agreed to provide back-up in the event of a major discovery. The pretext would be the memorandum of understanding they’ve just signed with UN ratification to carry out collaborative geological research on that volcanic island. They would be acting under the provisions of international law.”
He stepped back and looked up at the Admiralty Chart of the eastern Black Sea above the console.
“The problem is they’ll only help if Russian suspicions can be allayed about that submarine last heard of somewhere near here in 1991. Any hint of other nations involved in a search and they’ll go ballistic. Literally. And there are other concerns. Since the early nineties the Russians have actively participated in the Abkhazian civil war, ostensibly as a stabilization force but in reality to draw the region back to Moscow. Their main interest is oil. In 1999 their monopoly on Caspian Sea output was threatened by the first pipeline to bypass Russia, from Baku in Azerbaijan to Supsa on the Georgian coast near Abkhazia. The Russians would do anything to prevent further western investment even if it means anarchy and civil war.” Howe turned to face the assembled group.
“We’ve told the Russian embassy we’re carrying out a hydrographic survey under joint contract to the Turkish and Georgian governments. They seem to have bought it. But if they saw warships converging on the spot, they’d assume we were onto the sub. The Russian bear may have lost most of her claws but she still has the biggest fleet in the region. Relations between Ankara and Moscow are already at rock bottom because of the narcotics trade. There would be an ugly international incident at least, very possibly a shooting war which could quickly escalate to engulf this part of the world.”
“A small point of interest,” Costas interjected. “I didn’t think Georgia had a navy.”
“That’s another problem,” York replied glumly. “The Georgians inherited virtually nothing of the Soviet Black Sea Fleet. They have a Ukrainian-built Project 206MP fast attack craft and a decommissioned US Coast Guard cutter transferred through the US Excess Defense Articles Program. But don’t get your hopes up. The FAC has no missiles because there are no storage and testing facilities. And the cutter has a single fifty-calibre machine gun.”
“That’s not the real Georgian Navy.”
They all turned towards Katya.
“The real Georgian Navy is hidden away along the coast to the north,” she said. “It is the navy of the warlords, men from central Asia who use Abkhazia to access the rich pickings of the Black Sea and Mediterranean. These are the ones to fear, my friends, not the Russians. I speak from personal experience.”
Katya was listened to with great respect by the crew. Her stature in their eyes was unassailable, since she had single-handedly defused the stand-off in the Aegean two days before.
“And the Turkish Navy?” Costas looked hopefully towards Mustafa, who had come on board from Sea Venture the previous day.
“We have a strong Black Sea presence,” the Turk replied. “But we’re badly overstretched in the war against smuggling. To support Seaquest the Turkish Navy would need to transfer units up from the Aegean. We cannot redeploy in advance because any change in our Black Sea fleet would excite immediate suspicion from the Russians. My government will only take the risk if a major discovery is confirmed.”
“So we’re on our own.”
“I fear so.”