"Harcourt!" he shouted. "You bloody fool!"
He could not see the British archaeologist aboard the trawler, but it was evident that Harcourt had succeeded in engaging the idling motor. The trawler had started forward, but moved only a short distance before hitting the end of the tow cable. In his ignorance, Harcourt had failed to disconnect the line when cutting the mooring ropes. The trawler's small engine was still capable of tugging the ancient vessel, but when the galley went under, the fishing boat would sink with it.
The Englishman now appeared on the deck. Harcourt apparently realized his peril, and was investigating the umbilical attachment. Kismet noted that his rival still had the Golden Fleece draped over one shoulder. Its weight caused him to stagger as he crossed to the stern and inspected the winch assembly. He fumbled with it for a moment and managed to release the ratchet, allowing the cable to unspool. The trawler immediately shot forward leaving the golden ship behind, but his efforts only temporarily forestalled disaster. The winch continued turning until the line was played out. After only a few seconds, the tow cable snapped taut, rising out of the water with a thrumming vibration, and the fishing vessel stopped dead.
Harcourt stumbled and fell onto his back, but managed to crawl over to the winch. Though he was now almost a hundred yards away, Kismet could see the archaeologist beating out his frustration on the capstan housing, like a child throwing a tantrum. There was no way for him to release the cable. Heavy bolts secured the last loop in the winch; the towline could only be cast off from the galley.
Kismet lost interest in Harcourt's struggle as the sea rushed up to meet him. The bow of the galley was plunging downward rapidly. Before he could even begin moving, the water was up to his waist.
"Irene! Get to the hold—"
His words were cut off as the sea washed over his head. The stern of the galley suddenly rose out of the water, and then the entire vessel, like a golden needle, pierced the darkness below and vanished.
Once the galley, overlaid in one of the heaviest elements known to man, committed to its downward plunge, it sank rapidly. Kismet could feel the rush of water passing him by. At the same time, his inner ear throbbed painfully with the rapid changes in pressure. He tried to compensate by working his jaw to pop his ears, but could not equalize fast enough. Howling the last air from his lungs, he released his hold on the ship and clamped his hands ineffectually against the sides of his head.
An instant later he was struck from above and borne down once more. He opened his eyes, and through the blur of seawater, saw that he had become entangled in the colonnade around the superstructure. The golden columns were blazing with magical illumination, like beacons of false hope. Then Kismet remembered what he had shouted to Irene, and why.
He snaked through pillars distorted by the blast of Anatoly's bomb, letting them fall past, one by one. In moments he reached the open portal to the hold. Bubbles were streaming from the enclosure as the air in the structure was displaced by water. Without hesitation, he plunged into the torrent.
Whether because of his shouted admonition, or because there was nowhere else to go, Irene had sought refuge within. Lost in the agony caused by the increasing pressure inside her head, she struggled in the rising water, floating at arm's length from where Kismet treaded.
He tried to close the hatch, but was repelled by the blast of water flooding into the hold. Then the last of the air vanished and the hatch slipped into place, sealing them in — a golden coffin for their burial at sea.
EIGHTEEN
Harcourt felt no satisfaction as the galley vanished. His joy at having found the prize and proving superior to his old foil had been supplanted by a more immediate concern: survival. The Golden Fleece, his trophy, hampered his movement, but never for a moment did he even think about laying it aside. Unable to release the tow cable, he had impotently pounded the winch with his fists. When the golden ship went under, he knew that he wound soon face a similar fate.
He tried to think logically; he was a scientist after all. The cable, a mere three-quarters of an inch thickness of braided metal wires, was the chain that bound him to disaster. It was anchored to the motorized winch that was bolted to the wooden deck in four places. The solution was obvious: cut the cable, knock the winch free…either would do. He raced to the cabin in search of an axe, a hammer, or any heavy implement that he might use to bludgeon his way to safety.
He got about halfway before the trawler shifted beneath his feet. The sinking galley had been steadily pulling the fishing boat backward, against the thrust of its engine. Now, the ancient ship was directly below the fishing boat, exerting its full weight on the cable. The bow of the trawler rose up suddenly, its stern buried in the water. The abrupt rise of the deck catapulted Harcourt out over the roiling sea.
In that instant, the full weight of the submerged ship tore the winch mechanism away from the deck of the trawler. The boat bobbed on its stern for a moment, then toppled forward, splashing heavily into the water. Because her screws were still turning, the fishing vessel immediately chugged forward, turning a lazy circle that would eventually bring it back to where the archaeologist had splashed down.
Salvation was offered, but for Harcourt, the price was too high. The weight of the Golden Fleece quickly bore him into the depths. His pulse pounded loudly inside his head, a clock by which to measure the seconds remaining in his life. The pressure between his ears grew with each thump of his heart until he felt his head would implode.
At no point during the final thirty seconds of his conscious awareness did it occur to him that he could save himself by letting go of the Golden Fleece. That was unthinkable. Nick Kismet would never let something like dying stand in the way of victory. Kismet would find some other way to survive, emerging with both his life and the treasure.
But Sir Andrew Harcourt did not find that answer. Clinging to the Golden Fleece, he sank into the darkness. His descent to the bottom of the Black Sea would take several more minutes, but for Harcourt, the golden voyage was already finished.
In the sudden stillness that permeated the hold, Kismet felt an overwhelming sense of finality. Completely immersed in water, he realized that he had not taken a breath in what seemed like ages. The stale air in his lungs demanded to be replaced. His diaphragm convulsed in an unsuccessful attempt to inhale. It seemed that his only choice was to open his mouth and take that final liquid breath.
Irene floated face down beside him, air trickling from her nostrils. She had ceased struggling. The sight wrenched at his heart, impassioning him to continue fighting the inevitable. He swam toward her, clamping a hand over her mouth in a futile effort to prevent more water from flooding her deluged lungs.
Misshapen lumps crowded the space near the door; the remains of cargo casks battered out of symmetry by the force of Anatoly's bomb. It took him a moment to comprehend that the crates were floating.
Inspiration dawned more brightly than the luminescent metal surrounding him. The casks could only be buoyant because they were full of air. He released Irene and tore at the nearest crate with his fingers. The metal overlay shredded under his nails, releasing a shower of effervescence, after which the cask came apart and disgorged a single enormous bubble, which spread out across the bulkhead to form a pocket of air a fraction of an inch thick. A lumpy yellow shape, emitting a trail of gas globules, fell from the broken wooden fragments and sank through the hold.