It was a second Golden Fleece.
Ignoring this revelation, Kismet kicked up to the air pocket, pressed his lips to the bulkhead, and greedily sucked in the air. The fire in his lungs instantly abated, but he did not pause to savor the respite.
He snatched hold of Irene, pinched her nose shut and exhaled into her mouth. She reflexively gagged on the breath, but her eyes fluttered open. Despite her violent reaction, Kismet turned her over, so that the air at the top of her lungs could force out the water. She immediately began coughing and thrashing spasmodically, but his firm grip compelled her into the tiny gap where water became breathable atmosphere. He caught her eye, making sure that she understood, and then seized another of the battered crates.
More air bubbled up to the pocket as the crate came apart. Then, yet another sheepskin heavy with gold, settled through the enclosure.
Kismet muttered an oath into the water. How many Golden Fleeces were there?
In the next moment, as he tore apart another cask to reveal a fourth Golden Fleece, he realized how terribly close Grimes had come to unleashing a Pandora's Box of evil upon the world. The traitor had sought a single Fleece to help his new allies build an EMP bomb. What would have resulted if they had gained control of the golden ship's true cargo — not one, but perhaps dozens of Golden Fleeces?
As Kismet liberated the air and cargo from one crate after another, the pocket of gas against the bulkhead grew. It was not just air from the crates that filled the growing space however; the Fleeces piled up beneath them were rapidly breaking the water apart at the molecular level, converting it into its gaseous components. With six of the crates opened, Kismet swam up to take another breath.
"Nick," Irene gasped, when his head broke the surface. "What are you doing?"
"Getting us out of here. Don't go away. I'll be right back."
He plunged once more into the water, and dived into the aisle between the cargo rows. Near the doorway, the casks had been spared the impact of the explosion. The nets that had secured the containers for centuries were still intact and the crates themselves showed no sign of damage. It seemed as if the gold had absorbed most of the energy from the violent eruption. He wondered if the blast had somehow acted as a catalyst to the metal's unusual properties — properties he was counting on to save them once more.
A glowing crate came free with a little prying, and then rose gently toward the bulkhead. Kismet followed it up, but did not tear it open as he had done with the others. Instead, after returning to the top for a deep breath, he dove down to find the bottom of the cask and peeled away the gold to reveal bare wood.
It required more force to pry apart the slats on the underside of the cask, and he did so carefully so as not to allow the container to rotate and fill up with water. When the first board came away, he could see another sheepskin, matted with gold. He pushed it back and loosened the next board. The Fleece slid toward the opening and broke through the thin wood.
He caught the Fleece with the crooks of his elbows, both hands still gripping the box to prevent it from flipping over. He was surprised that the buoyancy of the boxes was not offset by the heaviness of the gold; it certainly felt like dead weight in his arms, tugging against his handholds in an effort to tear him loose from the crate. He brought his knees up to brace the sheepskin, and then cautiously moved his hands until he felt he could safely hold the container upright with one hand. Now fully immersed, this new Golden Fleece immediately began to trickle bubbles of gas up into the cavity.
When Irene felt the gentle pull on her ankle, and looked down to find Kismet with his head inside one of the golden crates, she immediately understood what to do. A moment later she popped up inside the cask with him.
"Irene, I need you to hold this thing steady."
She nodded, grasping his plan, insane though it seemed. When her hands were firmly in place, he let go.
The Fleece instantly tried to sink him. He wrestled the shapeless mass away from the well created by the aisle, and laid it on another of the cargo crates. He was determined to find a way to bring it to the surface, but that was not his most immediate concern. He swam up to the doorway and inspected the hatch cover. Although it opened inward, the cover resisted him. It was as if the door had fused to the bulkhead.
His eyes flashed around the hold, looking for some object rigid enough to be used as a pry bar, but everything he laid eyes on was made of soft gold. Then he saw the one thing in the hold that was not left over from its original owners: the remains of Anatoly's electric lantern.
He had not gone back for the lamp after the electrical discharge from the first Golden Fleece had melted the bulb into a lump of metal and glass. The housing and battery were still intact, but seemed useless without a bulb. Nevertheless, he scooped it up and made a quick adjustment to the remains of the filament wires, then reattached the power source. He prayed that the dry cell had not shorted out upon being immersed.
Before executing his plan, he returned to the Fleece and lifted it over his shoulder. He then braced his legs against the secured cargo and jumped, kicking furiously to compensate for the added weight of the Fleece. At the apex of his underwater leap, he thrust the light into the uppermost recesses of the hold and flipped the switch.
Because he had shortened the distance between the filament posts, the flow of electricity was able to momentarily bridge that gap in a single unrestrained blue spark before the short completely discharged the battery. That lone spark however, was all he needed.
From the moment he had begun exposing the many Golden Fleeces to seawater, the process of electrolysis had been stripping apart the fluid molecule into its atomic gaseous components — two atoms of hydrogen and a single atom of oxygen. The latter element had the potential to be both poisonous in pure concentrations and a highly flammable accelerant when exposed to fire, yet at the same time remained essential to the existence of life. Hydrogen, the lightest of all elements, was simply reactive, and when the insignificant blue arc of electricity sizzled through a nearly pure pocket of the gas, it ignited.
Kismet was not able to snatch his hand away in time to avoid a flash burn, nor could he do anything to prevent being pummeled by the force of the explosion. The shockwave felt like being hit by a bus. Yet, the second explosion to occur within the small enclosure, like the first, was muted by the strange properties of the ubergold. The destructive energy triggered a sympathetic display of light, but caused no real damage to the vessel. It was just enough however, to blow the door open.
In the relative safety of the container, Irene began to ascend, buoyed by the air trapped in the box. As she slid through the portal, Kismet snared her foot, and then managed to pull himself up until his head was above the water line. They pressed their bodies together, legs entwined, and kept a fierce grip on the cask as they rose toward the surface.
The golden ship vanished quickly beneath them, shrinking to a pinpoint of light in the black beyond, and then disappeared forever.
Captain Gregory Severin of the Russian Naval destroyer Boyevoy, Sovremenny class out of Sevastopol, stood at the prow of his ship and gazed down at the oil slicks and smoldering debris — all that remained of the Svetlyak class patrol vessel Zmeya. His keen eyes picked out yet another straggler clinging to a ship timber.
"Twenty degrees off starboard," he called. The message was passed back to the sailor manning the aft deck gun. Although the 30-millimeter battery was intended to blast attacking planes and incoming cruise missiles from the sky, Severin derived a perverse satisfaction from watching bullets as thick as his fingers, tear apart the flesh of his enemies. The AA gun released only a short burst, but it was enough to shred the struggling commando.