AS THEY PLUNGED INTO THE FORBIDDING darkness of the tunnel beneath the eagle’s left wing tip, they could see the walls had been smoothed and polished like the previous passageways. For the first few metres beyond the hall of the ancestors, Costas led the way, but soon it widened and Jack and Katya were able to swim alongside. After about ten metres the floor became a shallow stairway, the worn steps progressing upwards at a steady gradient as far as their lights could penetrate.
“The gods are with us this time,” Costas said. “Another few minutes at this depth and we’d have been here permanently.”
As they ascended the slope, they conserved energy by using their buoyancy compensators for lift. The walls were carved with a continuous frieze of life-sized bulls, their sinuous forms startlingly reminiscent of Minoan bull paintings on Crete. They seemed to glower and stomp on either side as they processed upwards.
Just as Jack’s breathing rate was beginning to stabilize his computer gave an audible warning that he was about to go on reserve. He sensed a momentary tightening in his regulator as the emergency supply kicked in and then it flowed freely again.
“As we ascend and the pressure reduces you’ll get more volume from the reserve supply,” Costas assured him. “If you run out we can always buddy-breathe.”
“Great.” Jack grimaced through his visor before concentrating on maintaining his buoyancy just above neutral.
For the next few minutes the only sound was the exhalation of bubbles as they gradually rose up the passageway. After about a hundred metres Costas signalled them to halt.
“We’re now seventy metres below sea level,” he announced. “My computer says we need a five-minute decompression stop. Even though we’ve mainly been on helium and oxygen, we’ve still absorbed a lot of nitrogen. We need to off-gas.”
Despite the stabbing pain in his side, Jack made a conscious effort not to hyperventilate. He sank exhausted to the stairs and reached for the disc.
“Time for some map reading,” he said.
The other two dropped down beside him as he rotated the disc until the symbol was aligned in the direction of the passageway.
“If our decipherment is correct we’re here, along the left shoulder of the eagle,” Costas pointed out. “We can’t have much further to go along this route. We’re getting close to the cliff face.”
“When this passageway ends we make a right turn,” Katya said. “Then all the way along the wing of the eagle until the final turning to the left, and then to the eastern tip.”
“If we’re heading to the caldera we need to rise about a hundred metres and go four hundred metres south, on a gradient of thirty degrees. At some point we’ll break sea level but still be underground.”
“What happens if the passage goes down?” Katya enquired.
“We get boiled alive,” Costas said bluntly. “The core is a seething mass of molten lava and scorching gas. Even going up we may find our way barred by lava that’s flowed out since the flood.”
Their timers simultaneously sounded a five-minute alarm to show the stop was over. Jack returned the disc to his pocket and stiffly pushed off from the stairway.
“We have no choice,” he said. “Let’s pray that Ben and Andy are still holding out. We’re their only lifeline.”
As they passed above the sixty-metre mark their regulators began to replace helium with nitrogen as the main inert gas. Soon their breathing mixture would differ from atmospheric air only in the enriched oxygen that was injected during the final few metres to scrub their bloodstreams of any excess nitrogen.
Costas led the way as the stairway began to constrict into a narrow tunnel. After a final step it veered right, apparently following a natural fissure, before regaining its original course and promptly depositing them at the entrance to another cavern.
“Here’s our intersection, bang on target.”
Their headlamps revealed a chamber about ten metres long by five metres wide, with doorways on all four sides. The decompression stop had briefly revitalized Jack and he swam forward for a closer look. In the centre was an oblong table flanked by pedestals set about two metres from each corner. The table was hewn from the rock and had a raised rim like the upturned lid of a sarcophagus. The pedestals were free-standing basins like the fonts of medieval churches.
“There are no runnels for blood and it would have been impossible to bring a large animal this far into the mountain,” he said. “Sacrifices tended to be public affairs and whatever went on here could only have been attended by a select few.”
“An ablution table, for ritual purification?” Costas suggested.
Katya finned over to the doorway opposite their point of entry. She peered into the corridor beyond and briefly switched off her headlamp.
“I can see light,” she said. “It’s barely discernible, but there are four separate pools evenly spaced.”
Jack and Costas swam over. They too could see faint smudges of hazy green.
“We’re only fifty metres below sea level and a few metres inside the cliff face.” Costas flicked his light back on as he spoke. “It’s early morning outside, so there should be some vestigial light at this depth.”
“The corridor corresponds with one of the parallel lines jutting out from the wing of the eagle,” Jack said. “I’ll bet they’re accommodation quarters, with windows and balconies overlooking the pyramids. Just like the Minoan complex on the cliffs of Thera, a magnificent location which served the monastic ideal yet also dominated the population on the coast below.”
“We could get out through one of those windows,” Katya suggested.
“Not a chance,” Costas said. “They look like ventilation shafts, probably less than a metre wide. And we don’t have time to explore. Our map’s held true so far and I vote we follow it.”
Just then a vibration coursed through them, a blurring of the water that made Jack suddenly fear he was about to black out. It was followed by further vibrations and then a series of dull hammering noises, each one preceding a muffled sound like breaking glass a long distance off. There was no way of telling the direction the sound was coming from.
“The submarine!” Katya exclaimed.
“It’s too distinct, too contained,” Costas said. “Any explosion in the Kazbek and we wouldn’t be here talking about it.”
“I’ve heard that sound before.” Jack was looking at Costas, his anger palpable even through the visor. “I think it’s the vibration of shells tearing through a hull. There’s a gun battle raging on the surface above us.”
“Whatever it is, we need to find a way out now,” Costas urged. “Come on.”
They finned towards the entrance that marked the right-hand turn indicated by the symbol. After passing the basins, Costas paused to check his compass bearing.
“Due south,” he announced. “All we do now is follow this route as far as it goes and then turn left.”
Katya was approaching the entranceway a few metres ahead of the other two. She suddenly halted.
“Look up,” she said excitedly.
Above the entranceway was a huge lintel carved out of the rock. The front was deeply scored with symbols, some occupying the full half-metre height of the slab. They were separated into two groups of four, each group surrounded by an incised boundary like a hieroglyphic cartouche.
There was no mistaking what they were.
“The sheaf of corn. The paddle. The half-moon. And those Mohican heads,” Katya said.
“It’s the final proof,” Jack murmured. “The Phaistos disc, the golden disc from the wreck. Both of them came from this place. We’re looking at the sacred script of Atlantis.”
“What does it mean?” Costas asked.
Katya was already consulting her palm computer. She and Dillen had programmed in a concordance which matched each of the Atlantis symbols with its syllabic equivalent in Linear A, providing a best-fit translation from the Minoan vocabulary so far deciphered.
“Ti-ka-ti-re, ka-ka-me-re.” Katya slowly enunciated the sounds, her Russian inflection giving a slight burr to the final syllables of each word.
She scrolled through alphabetically, Jack and Costas watching the flickering words as they appeared on the LCD display.
“They’re both in the Minoan lexicon,” she announced. “Ti-ka-ti means route or direction. Ka-ka-me means dead or death. The suffix re means to or of. So it translates as ‘the route of death,’ ‘the way of death.’ ”
They peered up at the inscription above their heads, the symbols standing out as crisp as if they had been carved only days before.
“That doesn’t sound too promising,” Costas said glumly.
Jack winced and the other two looked at him with renewed anxiety. He summoned up his remaining energy and powered ahead into the passageway.
“This should be the last leg. Follow me.”
Costas lingered for a moment to tie the final spool of tape to his backpack. All he could see of the other two was the turbulence in their wake; the passageway sloped up at a shallow angle. As he finned after them the reassuring glimmer of their headlamps appeared further up the tunnel.
“Keep your ascent rate below five seconds per metre,” he instructed. “Our time in that chamber counts as another decompression stop, and with this gradient we shouldn’t need to halt again before reaching the surface.”
The floor was rough as if deliberately left unfinished to provide a better grip. On either side were parallel grooves like the ruts in ancient cartways. Suddenly they were at the entrance to another chamber, the walls falling away into pitch darkness yet the ramp continuing upwards.
It was a cavernous space that dwarfed even the hall of the ancestors. All around them were undulating folds of rock that seemed to ripple as they panned their headlamps back and forth. The sides plummeted into a yawning chasm, the sheer drop broken only by gnarled contusions of lava that punctuated the walls like knots in old oak. Everywhere they looked were twisted rivers of lava, testament to the colossal forces that blasted through the chamber from the molten core of the earth.
“The core of the volcano must only be a couple of hundred metres south,” Costas said. “Magma and gas punched through the compacted ash of the cone to leave gaping holes and then solidify. The result is this giant honeycomb effect, an expanded hollow core intermeshed with a lattice of basalt formations.”
They peered through the crystal-clear water and the ramp revealed itself as a giant causeway, an immense spine of rock that spanned the space as far as they could see. To the left their headlamps played over another massive dyke, followed by another one an equal distance beyond, both projecting at right angles from the central spine and merging with the wall of the chamber.
It was Costas who pointed out the obvious, the reason why the geometry seemed so strangely familiar.
“The central spine is the upper wing on the symbol. The dykes are two of the projections to the left. We’re on the home stretch.”
“It must have seemed awesome to the first people who reached this chamber,” Jack said. “My guess is the other side of the core also has basalt intrusions radiating outwards where the magma followed fissures to the surface. If the pattern’s symmetrical it’s easy to see how it acquired magical qualities. It was the image of their sacred eagle god.”
Katya was transfixed by the spectacular cascades of rock around them. The causeway was like the final bridge to a subterranean stronghold, an ultimate test of nerve that would leave anyone brave enough to venture across it exposed above a moat of fire.
She could just make out entrances in the wall at the end of the two branching ramps. Directly ahead she could see the distant shimmer of a rock wall a hundred metres away, its dimensions concealed in the darkness. She shuddered as she remembered the grim epithet over the entrance into the chamber.
Costas began to swim determinedly along the causeway. “Jack’s only got a few minutes of air left. Time to find the surface.”
Jack and Katya swam on either side of Costas above the ruts which continued from the passageway. Just after they passed the junction with the first causeway to the left, another feature came into view, a depression midway along the central spine that had been invisible from the entrance.
As they neared the feature a remarkable scene unfolded before their eyes. The indentation extended the full five-metre width of the causeway and an equivalent distance across. It was about two metres deep and reached by steps on either side. Overlooking the canyon to the right was a bull’s horn sculpture with the characteristic vertical sides and sweeping interior curve. An identical carving rose up just to the left of centre, and perched between was a massive slab. The horns had been carved out of the rock, their tips almost reaching the level of the causeway, whereas the slab was a lustrous white marble similar to the stone they had seen worked into fantastic animal shapes beside the processional way outside.
As they sank down for a closer look they could see the slab was tilted out a metre over the void.
“Of course,” Jack cried. “That inscription. Not ‘the way of death’ but ‘the way of the dead.’ Ever since we first saw Atlantis I’ve been wondering where the cemeteries were. Now we know. That last room was a mortuary, a preparation chamber. And this is where they disposed of their dead.”
Even Costas was momentarily diverted from the urgency of their escape and swam over to peer down the chasm. He flicked on his high-intensity halogen beam for a few seconds, aware that only a brief burst could deplete his battery reserve.
“They chose the right spot,” he concurred. “The lava down there’s jagged, the quick-drying type, and fills the ravine as a solidified torrent. Seven thousand years ago that could well have been an active duct. Molten lava simmers away at 1,100 degrees Celsius, hot enough to melt a car, so you’ve got a ready-made crematorium.”
Katya was inspecting the steps leading down to the platform.
“This must be where they brought the bodies before placing them on the slab for their final journey,” she surmised. “The ruts on the ramp are two metres apart, just right for a bier. They must have been worn down by the feet of pallbearers over countless thousands of funerary processions.”
Jack was staring into the depths of the chasm, all his imagination marshalled to conjure up an image of the ritual last performed at this spot millennia before. He had excavated many ancient burial sites, the dead often telling a better story than the detritus of the living, and he had expected their greatest discovery to be a rich necropolis. Now he knew the only mortal remains of the people of Atlantis were encoded within themselves, in the genes of those intrepid seafarers who had escaped the flood and spread the seeds of civilization.
“So this is the underworld of the ancients,” he said, his breath short. “And the Styx was no placid backwater but a burning river of fire.”
“Old Charon the boatman would have taken a raincheck on this one,” Costas said. “It looks like the gates of hell to me. Let’s get out of here before we wake up the god of this place and he reactivates the furnace.”
As they finned up the final section of the ramp, Jack was gasping. His ragged breathing was audible and Katya turned towards him in alarm. Costas had stayed close by and now pulled his friend to a halt.
“Time to buddy-breathe,” he said.
After fumbling briefly behind his backpack he produced a vulcanized hose which he pushed into an outlet on Jack’s manifold. He opened the valve a few turns and there was a hiss as the two systems equalized.
“Thanks.” Jack’s breathing was suddenly easier.
“We’ve got a problem,” Costas announced.
Jack had been concentrating on his breathing but now looked up at the rock face looming in front of them.
“A lava plug,” he said bleakly.
About five metres ahead the ledge terminated at the north-eastern extremity of the chamber. They could just make out an entrance, as wide as the walkway and capped by a lintel. But these features were obscured by a giant clot of solidified lava, an ugly eruption that had oozed into the chasm and left only a small aperture near the top.
Costas turned to Jack. “We’re only eight metres below sea level, within the ten-metre safety margin for oxygen toxicity, so while we’re working this one out we may as well cleanse our systems.”
He switched his and Katya’s computers to manual override and cranked open the oxygen valves on their manifolds. Then he and Jack swam in tandem to the hole and peered into the space beyond.
“The lava tube must have broken through the basalt into the passageway some time after the flood,” Costas said. “The aperture is the result of a gas blowout. If we’re lucky there’ll be a cavity all the way through.”
Jack pulled himself into the jagged slit so his head and shoulders disappeared. Beyond the constriction he could see the cavity opening out like a ventilation duct, the walls mottled with igneous contusions where the gas had exploded through the cooling lava with the force of a jet afterburner.
“There’s no way we’ll get through with our equipment on,” he said. “After the blowout the lava must have expanded as it solidified, narrowing the first few metres to a tunnel barely wide enough for Katya, let alone me or you.”
They knew what they had to do. Jack began to unbuckle his cylinder harness.
“It makes sense for me to go first. You and Katya both still have your reserve. And I’m the one who can free-dive to forty metres.”
“Not with a bullet hole in your side.”
“Let me blast some oxygen into the tunnel,” Jack replied. “I can see undulations in the ceiling that might trap pockets of gas and provide a safety stop.”
Costas paused, instinctively reluctant to expel any of their dwindling supply, but he saw the sense in Jack’s words. He detached a regulator second stage from his backpack and passed it over. With his long reach Jack extended the hose as far as he could into the fissure and pressed the purge valve. There was a thunderous roar as the oxygen erupted into the space and cascaded like white water along the upper surface of the rock.
Costas watched intently as the readout on his contents gauge dropped below fifty bar and the reserve warning began to flash.
“Enough!” he said.
Jack released the purge and placed the regulator just inside the lip of the aperture. As he eased off his backpack and wedged it in a fold in the lava, Costas detached the tape from his back and tied it to Jack’s upper arm.
“Standard rope signals,” he instructed. “One pull means OK. Two pulls means you want another blast of oxygen. Continuous pulls means you’re through and it’s safe for us to follow.”
Jack nodded as he checked to make sure the reel was clear. He would be cut off from the intercom as he would need to retract his visor to access air pockets in the tunnel. He released the safety lock on his helmet and looked across at Costas, who had just confirmed on his computer that they had satisfied decompression requirements.
“Ready.”
“Transfer to regulator.”
As Costas disengaged the umbilical, Jack shut his eyes tight and flipped back his helmet, at the same time shoving the regulator second stage in his mouth and extracting the face mask kept in a side pocket for emergency use. He pressed it to his face and blew through his nose to clear the water, remaining still for a few moments to let his breathing rate subside as the shock of the cold wore off.
After unclipping a hand-held torch, Jack drew himself up to the aperture, Costas following close behind to ensure the hose was not stretched taut. As Jack grasped the lintel he felt an indentation where the lava had folded over the rock surface. His fingers traced the form of a symbol cut deep into the basalt.
He turned towards Katya and gesticulated excitedly. She gave an exaggerated nod before returning her gaze to him, clearly more concerned by his chances of making it through the tunnel.
Jack turned back and relaxed completely, his body suspended from the lintel and his eyes closed. Using the technique of a free diver he breathed slowly and deeply to saturate his body with oxygen. After about a minute he gave the OK signal to Costas and placed his hand over the regulator. He took five quick breaths, then spat it out and launched himself forward in a frenzy of bubbles.
Costas reached out to grasp the tape which was their precious lifeline. As it began to slip through his fingers he spoke quietly under his breath.
“Good luck, my friend. We need it.”
FOR THE FIRST FEW METRES JACK HAD TO claw his way through the narrow confines of the tunnel where the lava had sagged over the entrance. He could feel his suit rip as he squeezed past the razor-sharp knots of lava. He glanced back to make sure the tape was undamaged and then set off rapidly down the tunnel, his arms extended forward and the torch shining directly ahead.
As he rocketed along he could sense the gradual incline where the lava flow conformed to the rising angle of the passageway. He flipped over and saw pools of luminosity on the ceiling where the oxygen from Costas’ regulator had collected. Almost exactly a minute after taking his last breath he popped his head into a pool that filled a fissure in the lava. He took three breaths in rapid succession, at the same time checking his depth gauge and breaking out a Cyalume chemical lightstick to leave floating in the bubble as a beacon for the others to follow.
“Three metres below sea level,” he said to himself. “A piece of cake.”
He ducked down and pushed off again into the passageway. Almost immediately it forked. He guessed that one passage would lead to safety and the other would follow the vent where the lava had blown through from the core. It was a life or death decision which would determine the fate of the other two.
After checking his compass Jack swam resolutely up the left-hand passage, exhaling slightly to prevent his lungs from rupturing as the pressure decreased. A shimmering lens of iridescence appeared before him, a surface too wide to be a pool of oxygen caught against the ceiling of the tunnel.
His lungs began to spasm as he scraped with increasing desperation through the narrowing folds of rock. As he pushed beyond the lava and broke surface he almost crashed his head against the rock ceiling. He gasped repeatedly, then staggered out of the water. He had reached sea level but was still deep within the volcano, the passageway ahead showing no sign of an exit as it continued to rise.
It had only been three minutes since he had left Costas and Katya but it seemed an eternity. As he fought unconsciousness he focused all his energies on the orange tape that emerged behind him, pulling again and again until it slackened in his hands and he lay still.
There was a huge eruption of spray as Costas hove into view, his body welling out like a surfacing whale. Katya followed seconds later and immediately began inspecting Jack’s wound, her face etched with concern as she saw the crust of blood which had oozed through the gash in his suit.
Costas ripped off his mask and breathed heavily, his dark hair matted to his forehead and his face puffed and red.
“Remind me to diet,” he panted. “I had a spot of bother with that final section.”
He struggled to the edge of the pool and kicked off his fins. Jack had recovered enough to raise himself on his elbows and was unscrewing the beam projector on his flashlight so the exposed bulb would cast a shadowy candlelight around them.
“Join the club,” he replied. “I feel like I’ve been through a meat grinder.”
Their voices sounded rich and resonant after so long on the intercom. Jack eased himself further up the slope and flinched with pain.
“I stowed Katya’s backpack just inside the tunnel,” Costas said. “There’s enough trimix left for two of us to buddy-breathe back to the submarine in case we need it. I also tied the end of the tape to the lightstick in that air pocket. If we have to go back we just remember to turn right at that fork.”
The water was peppered with tiny bubbles fizzing to the surface. They stared at it as they caught their breath.
“That’s odd,” Costas said. “Looks like more than just the remains of oxygen from the regulator. Must be some kind of gas discharge from that volcanic vent.”
Now they were all safely out they were able to look around their new environment. Up the slope was another rectilinear rock-cut passageway leading inexorably upwards, yet the view was oddly different.
“It’s algae,” Costas said. “There must be just enough natural light for photosynthesis. We must be closer to the outside than I thought.”
Now that the commotion in the pool had died down, they could hear the steady sound of dripping.
“Rainwater,” Costas said. “The volcano will be saturated after the storm. There’ll be a vapour plume the size of a nuclear explosion.”
“At least Seaquest should have no trouble finding us.” Jack’s words were laboured as he raised himself to his knees. The rush of oxygen had sustained him through the tunnel but now his body was working overtime to flush the remaining nitrogen. He staggered as he stood up, careful to avoid the slippery patches where the rainwater spattered around them. He knew his trial was not over yet. He had beaten the clock on his air supply but would now have to face much greater pain without the numbing frigidity of the water.
Jack saw the looks of concern. “I’ll be all right. Costas, you take point.”
Just as she was about to move, Katya glanced at Jack.
“Oh, I almost forgot.”
Her olive skin and sleek black hair glistened as the water trickled off it.
“That inscription on the lintel,” she said. “I had a look while we were waiting for you to get through. The first symbol was the Mohican head, the syllable at. I’m certain the second symbol was the sheaf of corn, al or la. I have no doubt the complete inscription reads Atlantis. It’s our final waymarker.”
Jack nodded, too groggy to speak.
They began to make their way up the slope. Now that they had discarded their breathing apparatus they no longer had the headlamps which formed part of the helmet assembly. The hand-held torches were designed as emergency strobe beacons, and using them continuously quickly drained the batteries. As they worked their way up the slope, the lights began to waver and fade in unison.
“Time for chemical illumination,” Costas said.
They pocketed their torches and Costas and Katya cracked open their lightsticks. Combined with the faint beginnings of natural light, the sticks produced an unearthly aura, a glow chillingly reminiscent of the emergency lighting they had activated in the submarine’s shattered control room.
“Keep close together,” Costas warned. “These things may last for hours but they barely light up the floor. We don’t know what to expect.”
As they rounded a bend in the passage, the acrid odour which had irritated their nostrils since surfacing suddenly became indescribably foul. A warm draught carried with it the sickly-sweet smell of decay, as if the dead of Atlantis were still putrefying in their sepulchre far below.
“Sulphur dioxide,” Costas announced, his nose crinkling slightly. “Unpleasant, but not toxic if we don’t stick around for too long. There must be an active vent nearby.”
As they continued upwards they saw where another lava tube had broken through, gushing its contents like spilled concrete over the tunnel floor. The lava was jagged and brittle but did not restrict their passage like the previous flow. The hole where it emerged was rent with a honeycomb of cracks and fissures, the source of the unholy wind that intensified with every step of their approach.
“These two lava tubes we’ve encountered are relatively recent,” Costas said. “They must have broken through since the flood, otherwise the priests would have had them cleaned out and the tunnel repaired.”
“There must have been similar eruptions during the time of Atlantis,” Katya said shakily. “This place is far more active than geologists ever suspected. We’re inside a time bomb.”
Jack had been fighting the pain, a pulverizing sensation that had grown as the numbing effect of the cold wore off. Now every breath was a vicious stab, every step an agonizing jolt that pushed him to the brink of collapse.
“You two go on. We must contact Seaquest as soon as possible. I’ll follow when I can.”
“Not a chance.” Costas had never seen his friend concede defeat, and knew Jack would force himself on until he dropped, whatever the odds. “I’ll carry you on my back if it comes to it.”
Jack marshalled his remaining strength and slowly, agonizingly, followed the other two over the lava, picking his way carefully across the jagged formations. Progress was easier as the sloping floor became a series of shallow steps. About twenty metres beyond the lava, the passageway curved south, the dimensions gradually losing their regularity as the walls gave way to the natural shapes of a volcanic fissure. As the tunnel constricted further, they began to climb single file, with Costas in the lead.
“I can see light ahead,” he announced. “This must be it.”
The elevation increased sharply and they soon found themselves scrambling on their hands and knees. As they approached the dim aura of light the algae made each step progressively more treacherous. Costas slithered over the final shelf and turned back to give Jack a hand.
They had come out beside a conduit some three metres wide by three metres deep, the sides smoothed by millennia of erosion. At the bottom was a shallow stream that seemed to plummet down a narrow canyon, the distant roar of water audible but their view completely obscured by a sheen of mist. To the right the conduit headed into the rock face with a glimmer of light beyond.
Costas peered at his console to check his altimeter.
“We calculated the height of the volcano before the flood at three hundred and fifty metres above sea level. We’re now one hundred and thirty-five metres above present sea level, only about eighty metres below the tip of the cone.”
Having penetrated the volcano on the north side, they were now facing due west, the shape of the passageways reflecting the incline of the upper slopes. Ahead of them the dark mouth of the tunnel seemed set to plunge back into the labyrinth, yet it could only be a short stretch before they reached open air.
“Be careful,” Costas said. “One wrong step and this chute will send us straight to hell.”
They had lost track of time since embarking in the DSRV from Seaquest the previous day. The jumble of rock was a twilight world of shadows and flickering shapes. As they negotiated a short flight of steps cut into the rock, the conduit became gloomier still, and they once again had to rely on the eerie glow from the lightsticks.
The tunnel followed the drift of the basalt, each successive layer clearly visible in the stratigraphy of the walls. The flow had undermined the gas-charged lava of the cone, the ash and cinders compressed like concrete with chunks of pumice and jagged scoriae embedded in the matrix. The higher they climbed, the more porous it became, with rainwater dripping through the clumps that protruded from the ceiling. The temperature was becoming noticeably warmer.
After about twenty metres the tunnel narrowed and funnelled the water flowing against them into a violent current. Jack stumbled sideways, his body suddenly convulsed with pain. Katya waded over to help him stay upright against the torrent which was now waist high. With agonizing slowness the two of them forced their way past the constriction while Costas forged ahead and disappeared into the veil of mist. As they staggered forward, the walls suddenly opened out again and the flow diminished to little more than a trickle. They rounded a corner and saw Costas standing motionless, his dripping form silhouetted against a background of opaque illumination.
“It’s a huge skylight,” he announced excitedly. “We must be just below the caldera.”
The opening far above was wide enough for faint daylight to reveal the awesome scale of the chamber in front of them. It was a vast rotunda, at least fifty metres across by fifty metres high, the walls rising to a circular aperture which framed the sky like a giant oculus. To Jack it was astonishingly reminiscent of the Pantheon in Rome, the ancient temple to all the gods, its soaring dome representing mastery over the heavens.
Even more breathtaking was the apparition in the centre. From skylight to floor was an immense column of swirling gas exactly the width of the oculus. It seemed to project the daylight straight down like a giant beam, a glowing pillar of pale light.
After gazing in awe for a moment they realized it was rocketing upwards at immense speed, giving the illusion that they themselves were hurtling inexorably downward into the fiery depths of the volcano. All their instincts told them there should be a deafening roar yet the chamber was eerily quiet.
“It’s water vapour,” Costas finally exclaimed. “So this is what happens to the rainwater that isn’t channelled out. It must be like a blast furnace down there.”
The increasing heat they had felt during the ascent was emanating from the chimney in front of them.
They were standing on the outer edge of a wide platform that ran round the rotunda several metres above the central floor. Evenly spaced doorways, identical to the one they had just emerged from, had been cut into the rock all the way round the perimeter. Each one was topped with the now familiar symbols. Beyond the inside edge of the platform they could just make out the central dais of the chamber. Backing onto the vapour column were four stone seats, each in the shape of bull’s horns and arranged at cardinal points of the compass. The one facing them was obscured by the platform but was clearly larger than the others, the tips of the horns reaching up towards the oculus.
“It must be some sort of throne room,” Costas said, awestruck. “An audience chamber for the high priests.”
“The hall of the ancestors. The funerary chamber. And now the audience chamber,” Katya murmured. “This must be our last staging post to the holy of holies.”
They had been in a state of constant high excitement, exhilarated by the thrill of discovery since leaving the submarine. Now as they confronted the very core of the volcano their exuberance was tempered with unease, as if they knew the ultimate revelation would not be yielded without a price. Even Costas faltered, reluctant to abandon the security of the tunnel and pitch himself forward into the unknown.
It was Jack who broke the spell and urged them on. He turned towards the other two, his face streaked with grime and his rugged features underscored by pain.
“This is where the text was leading us,” he said. “The sanctuary of Atlantis is somewhere here.”
Without further ado he pushed himself forward and limped ahead, his willpower the only thing keeping him from buckling. Costas walked alongside and Katya immediately behind, her face set impassively as they made for the lip of the platform.
Just as the throne began to come into view over the edge of the platform, they were blinded by a beam of light. They instinctively cowered and shielded their eyes. Through the glare they made out two figures that materialized to right and left.
Just as suddenly the light disappeared. As their vision cleared, they saw that the two figures were clad in black just like their assailants in the submarine, and each carried a Heckler & Koch MP5 levelled menacingly from the hip. Jack and Costas raised their hands; they would have no chance of reaching their weapons before being cut down in a hail of bullets.
Ahead a flight of twelve shallow steps descended to the dais. A portable searchlight was aimed at them beside the stairs. A raised walkway led directly to the bull’s horn sculpture whose tips they had seen above the platform edge. It was the ostentatious backing for a massive stone seat, more ornate than the others.
The seat was occupied.
“Dr. Howard. A pleasure to meet you at last.”
Jack recognized the voice, the same drawling, guttural tone that had come over Seaquest’s radio from Vultura three days ago. He and Costas were pushed roughly down the stairs and the bloated form of Aslan came clearly into view. He was slouched on the throne, his feet planted firmly in front and his immense forearms draped over the sides. His pale and ageless face would have seemed almost like some priest of old were it not for the signs of rampant excess in his corpulent frame. With his billowing red robe and oriental features he seemed the epitome of an eastern despot, an image straight from the court of Genghis Khan, except for the thoroughly modern warriors on either side of him, each carrying a submachine gun.
Directly to Aslan’s right stood a diminutive figure at odds with the rest of the entourage. It was a plain-featured woman wearing a drab grey overcoat, her hair pulled back in a bun.
“Olga Ivanovna Bortsev,” Katya hissed.
“Your research assistant has been most helpful,” Aslan boomed good-naturedly. “Ever since she reported back to me I have kept your vessel under constant surveillance. I have been wanting to visit this island for a long time. Fortunately my men found a way up outside and into this chamber. It seems we arrived in the nick of time.” Suddenly his voice hardened. “I am here to claim lost property.”
Costas could restrain himself no longer and lunged forward. He was immediately sent sprawling as the butt of a gun slammed into his stomach.
“Costas Demetrios Kazantzakis,” Aslan said with a sneer. “A Greek.” He spat out the word contemptuously.
As Costas struggled to his feet, Aslan turned his attention to Katya, his dark eyes narrowing and the corners of his mouth betraying the hint of a smile.
“Katya Svetlanova. Or should I say Katya Petrovna Nazarbetov.”
Katya’s look had changed to angry defiance. Jack felt his legs slip out from under him as his body finally gave in. Her reply seemed to come from somewhere else, from a shadowy netherworld disconnected from reality.
“Father.”