To many former servicemen on Sea Venture it was a sight that would once have provoked apprehension and fear, an image as potent as the U-boat to a previous generation. But now it was met by a ragged chorus of cheers, its appearance one less chance that weapons of mass destruction would fall into the hands of terrorists and rogue states that were now the common enemy of all the world’s navies.
“Sea Venture, this is Kazbek. Do you read me? Over.”
The crackling voice came through on the bridge radio and York picked up the receiver.
“Kazbek, we read you loud and clear. Thanks for the fireworks. Over.”
“Here are some co-ordinates.” Jack read out a twelve-digit number and repeated it. “You might want to set up a SATSURV link with Mannheim. The satellite should be overhead now. In case any of the crew are wondering, these are the guys who took out Seaquest.”
A few minutes later everyone had crowded into Sea Venture’s communications room, priority of place being given to the crew from Seaquest who had been picked up by the rescue sub. They were joined by Ben and Andy, who had just finished docking the DSRV. Everyone braced themselves against the final waves of disturbance from the surfacing submarine and stared intently at the screen as the image came online.
In hazy grey it showed a group of buildings ranged like the spokes of a wheel round a central hub. To the right the infrared sensor picked up the heat signatures of a dozen or so people bustling around two huge double-rotored helicopters, transport machines which had arrived after Jack’s escape. Along with a second group visible on the seafront, they seemed to be in great haste. They were ferrying objects that looked suspiciously like paintings and statues.
Suddenly there was a blinding flash and a concentric ripple of colour pulsed out at lightning speed from the centre of the screen. When it cleared the scene was one of utter devastation. The central hub had been atomized, its dome pulverized into a million fragments. The thermal imagery showed where the blast had seared down the passageways leading from the hub. The shock wave had gone further, toppling the helicopters and all the people who had been visible, their lifeless bodies in disarray among the packages they had been carrying. They could not have known what hit them.
There was muted applause from the crew. They knew this was no mere act of retribution, that the stakes were much higher.
CHAPTER 30
We were grieved to hear about Peter Howe.”
Maurice Hiebermeyer had clambered out of the helicopter and walked straight past the stone circle to put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. It was a moving gesture, evidence of a friendship that went beyond shared professional passion.
“We haven’t given up hope yet.”
Jack stood with Katya and Costas at the bottom of the steps that led up to the entrance into the volcano. They had spent a well-earned night on board Sea Venture and were now basking in the morning sun as it rose in the east behind the stone circle. The blue IMU overall concealed Jack’s freshly bandaged chest, but Costas’ face was a very visible reminder of what he had been through. Katya was still subdued and withdrawn.
“Warmest congratulations on your discovery. And on overcoming a few obstacles along the way.” James Dillen spoke as he shook hands with Jack. His gaze took in Katya and Costas.
Dillen was followed from the helicopter by Aysha Farouk, Hiebermeyer’s assistant who had first revealed the Atlantis papyrus in the desert and had now been invited to join them. Standing to one side was the genial figure of Efram Jacobovich, the billionaire software tycoon who had provided the endowment that made all their research possible.
To Jack the conference in the castle at Alexandria seemed a lifetime ago. Yet it had only been four days. And they were still one step away from their goal, from the fount of all that had driven the priests to preserve and covet their secret over so many generations.
Just as they were about to file up the rock-cut stairs, Mustafa Alközen came bounding over the platform carrying two diver’s flashlights.
“My apologies for being late,” he said breathlessly. “We have had a busy night. Yesterday evening a Turkish Air Force Boeing 737 early warning aircraft detected an explosive shock wave on the coast of Abkhazia near the Georgian border.” He winked at Jack. “We decided it was a threat to national security and sent a Special Forces rapid reaction team to investigate.”
“The works of art?” Jack asked.
“Most were still inside Aslan’s domestic quarters, and most of those being removed were outside the main blast area. As we speak they are being transferred by Navy Seahawks to Istanbul’s Archaeological Museum for identification and conservation and then will be returned to their rightful owners.”
“A pity,” Costas interjected. “They’d make a unique travelling exhibit. Examples of the finest art from all periods and cultures, never before seen together. It would be an astounding show.”
“A few anxious curators might want to see their property first,” Jack said.
“But an excellent idea,” Efram Jacobovich pitched in with quiet enthusiasm. “It would be an appropriate use for the funds confiscated from Aslan’s accounts. Meanwhile I can think of one private benefactor who might provide the seed money.”
Jack smiled appreciatively and turned back to Mustafa. “And the security situation?”
“We have been seeking an excuse to go into Abkhazia for some time,” Mustafa replied. “It has become the main transit point for drugs from central Asia. With the terrorist link now firmly established we have been assured of full co-operation from the Georgian and Russian governments.”
Jack tried hard to conceal his scepticism. He knew Mustafa was obliged to toe the official line even though he was well aware that the chances of concerted action beyond the present situation were minimal.
They looked towards the low shape of Kazbek and the flotilla of Turkish and Russian FAC craft which had arrived overnight, evidence of the process already under way to ensure the nuclear warheads were removed and the submarine returned to its home port for decommissioning. Following disposal of the reactor core, the bodies of Captain Antonov and his crew would be left on board and the submarine sunk as a military grave, a final monument to the human cost of the Cold War.
“What about the hardware?” Jack asked.
“Anything reusable will go to the Georgians. They need it most. We had hoped to offer them Vultura, but I now see that will no longer be possible.” He grinned at Jack. “So they get a brand-new Russian Project 1154 Neustrashimy-class frigate instead.”
“What will happen to Vultura?” Katya asked quietly.
They all looked out at the distant hulk which had been towed into position above the underwater canyon. It was a pitiful sight, a smouldering pyre that was the last testimony to the avarice and hubris of one man.
Mustafa checked his watch. “I believe you will have the answer about now.”
Exactly on cue the air was rent by the high-pitched screech of jet aircraft. Seconds later two Turkish Air Force F-15E Strike Eagles thundered overhead, their twin afterburners flaring red as they flew in close formation towards their objective. About two kilometres beyond the island a canister dropped from the left-hand jet and skipped over the sea like a dambuster bomb. As the two aircraft tore away to the south, the sea erupted in a wall of flame that engulfed the wreck in an awesome display of pyrotechnics.
“A thermobaric bomb,” Mustafa said simply. “The tunnel-buster first used by the Americans in Afghanistan. We needed a live-fire target to test the delivery system on our new Strike Eagles.” He turned as the noise rumbled past them and gestured towards the door. “Come. Let us go in now.”