SIXTEEN
As torrential rain continued to hammer down from the heavens, the boarders herded them toward the stern where all had a clear view of the vessel in tow. Despite the dark clouds and curtain of precipitation, the ancient outline of the galley was unmistakable.
Harcourt gaped in breathless amazement. "You’ve done it, Kismet! You've actually found the Argo!"
Kismet laughed in spite of the situation. "You're doing it again Andy; confusing mythology with archaeology. This is exactly what got you into trouble with the Beowulf fiasco."
Harcourt whirled on him, his tone strident as he shouted to be heard over the wind. "Do you dare to deny that the Golden Fleece is on that ship? We've followed the storm all night, and the storm has followed you. You've found it! I know you have!"
"Be silent," Grimes barked. "I am sick of your prattle."
Harcourt glared at the portly traitor, nursing his wounded pride, but said nothing more.
"Nice boat," Kismet remarked. "I had almost forgotten that the first thing you did after getting here was capture a Russian patrol boat and enslave its crew."
"I am not interested in discussing trivial matters with you Kismet." Grimes motioned for two of his soldiers to man the winch. They immediately complied and began reeling in the towline. "I gave you every opportunity to join me in this historic endeavor. Now, thanks to you, I have what I want, but Sir Andrew will get to take all the credit. There's nothing left to say."
Kismet glanced at the British archaeologist. "If he's going to take all the credit, then he should at least get his facts straight."
"And what facts are those?" snapped Harcourt.
"When you go on TV to tell the world that you've found the ship of Jason, you'll end up looking like a rank amateur. If you're going to use mythology as a basis for identifying your discoveries, then you really need to review the legend. The Argo, the ship built by Argus and sailed by Jason and the heroes, returned to the Greek Isles. With, I might add, the Golden Fleece. Why on earth would he sail her back here with the Fleece? That makes no sense. Besides, according to the legend, the Argo was beached and fell apart. If I remember correctly, Jason was killed when a timber from the Argo fell on him."
"Then pray tell us," Grimes interjected. "What is it that you have found here, Mr. Kismet?"
The distance between the galley and the trawler was closing rapidly. Despite the ragged tarpaulins and nets that Kismet and Irene had tied along its hull, the gleaming gold overlaying every square inch of the ancient craft seemed to shine in the stormy gray dawn.
"Would you believe that we built this ship ourselves? We're re-enacting the voyage of the Argo." He turned his head to Irene. "What the hell. It's worth a shot."
"Expensive paint you've chosen," remarked Grimes as the bowsprit of the galley loomed over the trawler, nearly at arm's length.
"Why, it's made of gold." Harcourt reached out to touch the galley, but was restrained by one of the soldiers. The ferocity of the storm had not abated and the danger of being crushed between the boats was very real. Harcourt acknowledged the need for caution. "Try to secure it. I want to go aboard." He turned to Grimes. "It's just like the helmet fragment; a thin layer of gold."
"But it isn't really gold, is it." Kismet directed his words at Grimes. "You told me as much that day in my office, Andy. You called it 'ubergold.' It's not an ordinary metal. I'm right, aren't I?"
"What difference does it make?" retorted Harcourt. "It takes nothing away from the significance of this discovery."
"I don't think you understand the significance of this discovery, Andy—"
"Stop calling me that." Harcourt sounded petulant. "And just what do you think is the true importance of finding the Golden Fleece?"
"Do you want to tell him, Grimes? Or shall I?" The traitor ignored him. Kismet continued, "It's not the Fleece he's after. It's the ubergold, or whatever you want to call it. And you're right about it having unusual properties."
"It caused the storm somehow, didn't it?" Harcourt speculated.
"Sir Andrew," Grimes cautioned. "I'll thank you to remember that Kismet is our enemy."
"The storm," Kismet confirmed, ignoring the threat. "But that's only the tip of the iceberg. Your partner here wants to turn it into a superbomb."
"Preposterous."
"I've seen the plans."
Grimes now took an interest. "If such plans existed, how would you of all people, know about them?"
Kismet grinned at the tacit admission, but refused to let Grimes take control of the conversation. "That's not really the issue here. We are discussing the future of the Fleece. It took me a while to figure out what your interest was, Hal. All your talk of shadow governments rang hollow. You're a military man, and it makes a lot more sense that you're looking for a way to turn this into a weapon."
Harcourt's lips formed an unspoken question. "Weapon?"
Kismet pressed his point. "You don't give a damn about science or history, Grimes. There had to be some other reason for you to go to all this trouble; you could start a war with Russia, for God's sake. Or is that what you really wanted all along?" He swung his attention back to Harcourt. "Grimes and his buddies at Alb-Werk believe that the ubergold is the key element to an electromagnetic pulse bomb. Not just one that would knock out computer circuits. No, this little gem will microwave you where you stand." He made a gesture with his hands like a magician. "Poof. Vaporized just like that. What do you think of that, Sir Andrew? Do you want to be responsible for helping them create the ultimate weapon?"
Harcourt broke in. "A clever argument, Nick. But I'm onto your game. The quest for the Golden Fleece was always my project. I brought it to Alb-Werk, not the other way 'round. The fact that you were actually the one to find it is nothing more than a fluke. I deserve the credit, and I'm going to get it."
"But I'm telling you that you've become part of something terrible," said Kismet. "If you stand by and do nothing, you'll share a corner in hell with him."
"You've said quite enough, Kismet." Grimes interrupted the conversation, ordering his soldiers to hold Kismet and Irene at gunpoint. Others from the boarding party began stringing rope ladders from the trawler to the bow of the galley, just aft of the bowsprit.
"Nick?" Irene spoke in a barely audible whisper, as Grimes and Harcourt were helped to board the ancient vessel. "Where's Anatoly?"
"Are you coming, Kismet?" Grimes stood nearly six feet above him, gazing down from the deck of the golden ship. His tone was triumphant, mocking; He knew he had won, and wanted to rub Kismet's nose in the victory.
But with Anatoly missing, there was still hope. "Why not? You guys need at least one voice of reason."
As the commandos hustled them onto the galley, Kismet got a look at what the storm had done to the ancient vessel. It had held up well, but eighteen inches of water was sloshing about in the bilges. "Looks like you'd better start bailing," he suggested. "Unless you're prepared to salvage this ship a second time. And if my knowledge of the Black Sea serves me correctly, it's about four hundred fathoms to the bottom."
"Excellent observation," Grimes commented. He turned to one of his subordinates and ordered the man to fetch a pump, then returned his attention to Kismet. "Are you reconsidering your loyalties?"
"I'm not a traitor, if that's what you mean."
If the words stung, Grimes did not let it show. "I believe we've already discussed that matter, Kismet, and it has grown tiresome. Now, if you would please be so kind, show us the Golden Fleece."
"It's in there." He gestured toward the colonnade encircling the hold. The portal, which led into it, was on the opposite side. "Look for yourself."