“The Greeks can’t arrest Vultura, or chase her off. Even among the Greek islands to the north she can find a route more than six nautical miles offshore, and the straits into the Black Sea are designated international waters. The Russians made sure of that. She has a clear run back to her home port in Abkhazia.”
He aimed a light pointer at their current position on the lower part of the map.
“By this evening the Hellenic Navy should have frigates positioned here, here and here.” He shone to the north and west of the submerged volcano. “The nearest is just under six nautical miles south-east of Thera, almost within visual range of Seaquest. But they won’t come any closer.”
“Why not?” Katya asked.
“A wonderful thing called politics.” Howe swivelled round to face them. “We’re in disputed waters. A few miles east are a group of uninhabited islets claimed by both the Greeks and the Turks. The dispute has led them to the brink of war. We’ve informed the Turks about Vultura but politics dictates that their focus be on the Greeks, not some renegade Kazakh. The presence of Greek warships near the zone is enough to put the Turkish Maritime Defence Command on high alert. An hour ago four Turkish Air Force F16s flew a perimeter sweep five miles to the east. The Greeks and Turks have always been friends of IMU, but now they’re powerless to intervene.” Howe switched off the image and the screen reverted to the view outside Seaquest.
York stood up and paced between the seats, his hands clenched tightly behind his back. “We could never take on Vultura and hope to win. We can’t rely on outside help. Our only option is to accede to their demands, to leave immediately and relinquish the wreck. As captain I must put the safety of my crew first.”
“We could try negotiating,” Costas offered.
“Out of the question!” York slammed his hand down on the console, the strain of the last few hours suddenly showing. “These people will only negotiate face to face and on their own ground. Whoever went to Vultura would instantly become a hostage. I will not risk the life of a single member of my crew in the hands of these thugs.”
“Let me try.”
They all stared at Katya, her face set impassively.
“I’m your only option,” she said quietly. “I’m a neutral party. Aslan would have nothing to gain from taking me hostage and everything to lose in his dealings with the Russian government.” She paused, her voice stronger. “Women are respected among his people. And my family has influence. I can mention a few names that will be of great interest to him.”
There was a long silence while the others digested her words. Jack tried not to let his emotions get in the way as he turned over all the possibilities. He shrank from putting her in danger, but he knew she was right. A look at her expression confirmed he had little choice.
“All right.” He stood up. “I invited Katya along, so this is my call. Open a secure channel and patch me through to Vultura.”
CHAPTER 6
Jack raised his binoculars and levelled them at the far-off speckle that was the only point of reference between sea and sky. Even though it was now dark he could make out every detail of the distant vessel, the optical enhancer intensifying the available light to give an image as clear as day. He could just read the Cyrillic letters below the bow.
Vultura. How very appropriate, he thought. She was exactly that, a hideous scavenger lurking around the kill zone until the time was right to pounce and devour the fruits of others’ labour.
Tom York stood beside him. “Project 911,” he said, following Jack’s gaze. “The Russians call them escort ships, the equivalent of corvettes and frigates in NATO code. This is the latest, produced after the events of 2001 for anti-terrorist patrolling. About the same as our Sea-class vessels but sleeker. The machinery’s in another league altogether. Two GT diesel gas turbines producing 52,000 hp for a cruising speed of 36 knots. Turbojet-boosters capable of hydrofoil speeds of 60 knots, almost as fast as a light aircraft. Vultura is one of half a dozen decommissioned when the Russian Navy went through its latest downsizing. The Oslo Treaty requires the Russian Federation to sell surplus warships only to governments recognized by the UN, so this one must have been picked up in some shady deal even before it left the shipyard.”
Jack trained his binoculars on the pods on either side of Vultura’s stern, then shifted slightly to take in the forward turret with its barrel trained directly at them.
York noticed his movement. “Tulamahzavod 130 mm automatic cannon. Computerized GPS ranging that makes adjustments instantaneously on impact. Capable of firing a uranium-depleted armour-piercing shell that would punch a hole through Seaquest’s command module at twenty miles.”
They were standing on Seaquest’s helipad, the cool breeze gently ruffling the IMU flag at the stern. They had watched anxiously as Katya, now dressed more appropriately in an IMU jumpsuit, drove one of Seaquest’s Zodiacs into the darkness, the twin 90 hp outboards powering her over to Vultura in a matter of minutes. Before she descended the ladder, Jack had quietly taken her aside, running one last time over the operation of the Zodiac and reiterating York and Howe’s briefing on her possible course of action if everything went badly wrong.
She had only been gone for twenty minutes and already the waiting seemed interminable. Costas decided to call a teleconference with Dillen and Hiebermeyer to occupy Jack’s mind more productively, and the two men went into the navigation room behind Seaquest’s bridge.
Costas tapped a command and the monitor in front of them came to life, revealing two figures as clearly as if they had been sitting on the opposite side of the table. Jack shifted closer to Costas so their image would be similarly projected. They would miss Katya’s expertise but a teleconference seemed the obvious way to conclude the proceedings. Dillen and Hiebermeyer had stayed on in Alexandria to await news from Seaquest, and Costas had already filled them in on the threat posed by Vultura.
“Professor. Maurice. Greetings.”
“Good to see you again, Jack,” Dillen said. “I’d like to start where we left off, with these symbols.”
At the touch of a key they could call up a set of images that had been scanned in earlier. In the lower right-hand corner of the monitor they were currently viewing Costas’ own triumphant discovery, the remarkable golden disc from the Minoan wreck. The strange symbols on the surface had been digitally enhanced so they could study them more closely.
Hiebermeyer leaned forward. “You said you’d seen that central device before, Jack.”
“Yes. And those symbols running round the edge, the little heads and paddles and so on. I suddenly realized where as we were flying out of Alexandria. The Phaistos discs.”
Costas looked on questioningly as Jack called up an image of two pottery discs, both seemingly identical and covered by a spiralling band of miniature symbols. One symbol looked remarkably like the device on the papyrus and the gold disc. The rest looked otherworldly, especially the little heads with hooked noses and Mohican haircuts.
“Aztec?” Costas hazarded.
“Nice try, but no,” Jack replied. “Much closer to home. Minoan Crete.”
“The disc on the left was found near the palace of Phaistos almost a hundred years ago.” Dillen clicked on the screen as he spoke, the projector flashing up a view of a wide stone forecourt overlooking a plain with snow-capped mountains in the background. After a moment the image reverted to the discs. “It’s clay, about sixteen centimetres across, and the symbols were impressed on both sides. Many are identical, stamped with the same die.”