The call from FSB informant Anatoly Grishakov had almost come too late. Severin had prematurely congratulated himself on disposing of Kismet and was halfway to port before the alert was sounded. Anatoly should have reported the American's resurrection immediately, but for some reason, the agent had not made contact until late the previous evening, some ten hours ago. The destroyer's chief engineer had to push the boilers into the red to catch up to the fishing trawler and the vessel it towed. Even at that, they had not arrived in time to save the prize for the Rodina. An urgent message from the undercover operative had revealed that foreign infiltrators were about to seize the golden ship. Severin had personally given the order for Anatoly to scuttle the galley. Boyevoy had arrived just in time to see the ancient wonder vanish once again into the Black Sea.
At least the fate of poor Zmeya was now apparent. No word had been received of her crew, but obviously the invading foreigners had captured or killed the young, inexperienced sailors, and commenced using the patrol craft for clandestine acts of war. Severin had not hesitated to give the order to blow her out of the water.
The FSB agent's fishing boat was still turning lazy circles in the sea. Severin noted absently that the ferocity of the storm, which had repelled them throughout the night, now seemed to be abating. He scanned the trawler with a pair of binoculars to see if Anatoly had somehow reached its relative safety. The boat appeared to be deserted. One of the lookouts had reported seeing someone that matched Grishakov description being struck by lightning during a struggle aboard the doomed galley. If it was the Russian agent, it seemed unlikely that he could have survived.
"Our enemies, if any still live, might try to escape in that boat," he said, thinking aloud. "Remove it."
The order was passed down, and Severin knew that when the shell was finally fired it would unfailingly strike its target; his gunnery officer was a prodigy. The Boyevoy’s artillery had pounded the patrol craft when it was nothing but a spot in the distance. A deafening noise roared from behind him and a moment later the trawler vanished in a cloud of smoke and spray. One less thing to worry about.
"A good day," he said, still speaking mostly to himself. "Our enemies are dead. The treasure they tried to steal is safe from them forever. Even that American meddler has gone to the depths. And with Grishakov dead, perhaps we can finally deal with the traitor Chereneyev."
The destroyer cut a straight line through the wreckage, and then came about for a second pass, along the outer edge of the flotsam. They had dispatched half a dozen surviving commandos, and administered the coup de grace to a handful of other motionless, face down corpses just to be sure. Severin was satisfied that his work was done.
"Captain, we have a new sighting. Distance, five hundred yards. Ninety degrees astern, moving to starboard."
"What the devil…?" Severin stalked along the length of his ship, to make a personal identification of the new visual contact. The position given was on the other side of the ship. It was inconceivable that any of the stragglers could have drifted so far from the wreckage. Severin reached the observer's station and demanded more information.
"They just surfaced a moment ago," answered the sailor, passing his binoculars to the captain. The ship's speed had carried them even farther past the bobbing shape.
Severin swiveled his head slightly and adjusted the focus until he locked onto the floating shape. "It is only a crate. Wait…I'll be damned." He handed the glasses back to the sailor. "Keep an eye on them. Bring us about, and then cut to one-quarter ahead."
As the ship carved a tight one hundred and eighty-degree turn, its captain raced to the bow, his hand on the butt of the Glock automatic pistol he had taken from Nick Kismet. The destroyer's new heading would bring it within shouting distance of the target. After about a minute, he could, with the naked eye, discern the bedraggled pair that treaded water furiously in the open sea.
"All stop."
Severin heard the message passed down, and then returned: "Answering all stop." He leaned out over the rail to gaze helpless pair in the water now almost directly below and sighted down the barrel of the Glock.
"It is better this way!" he shouted. "I should be the one to kill you, Nikolai Kismet."
NINETEEN
The water they had passed through immediately after escaping the galley was bone chilling. Irene's teeth still chattered uncontrollably. Nevertheless, both of them could feel it growing warmer as they ascended.
Their rate of travel seemed to increase the higher they rose. The air trapped in the container expanded, nearly doubling in volume to spill out past their fingers. As they moved through the water, Kismet could not tell if the Golden Fleece was continuing to supply them with air to breathe, but that was irrelevant; there was enough air trapped in the box to last for several minutes.
"Don't hold your breath," Kismet cautioned, as soon as he felt the air pressure increasing. "The air will expand as the atmospheric pressure diminishes. If you're holding your breath, you might burst your lungs."
She nodded, making a visible effort to breathe regularly. "Will we get the bends?"
"There's no reason we should. They're caused by prolonged breathing of pressurized air at depth. We haven't been under long enough."
When the crate broke the rough plane of the surface, its momentum tore it from their grasp and shot it into the air. Kismet and Irene scrambled to keep the box from crashing down on their heads, and then to prevent it from filling with water and sinking. Only when they were clinging to its smooth sides did they become aware that Boyevoy was still on the prowl.
A roar and a plume of smoke signaled that the ship's guns had fired. Kismet was unable to follow the shell, but an explosion on the far side of the ship revealed the target. "They just blew up Anatoly's boat," he observed. "I guess Harcourt didn't make it."
Irene stared in horror at the destroyer. "Maybe they won't see us."
He scanned the horizon in all directions. Swells occasionally brought pieces of debris into view, but there were no other vessels. The shores of the Black Sea, in any of the countries that bordered it, lay well beyond the horizon. "It might be better if they do. Otherwise, we'll die of exposure out here."
"Better that than to give Severin the satisfaction of gunning us down."
"Maybe they'll fish us out and send us to Siberia." His tone was not hopeful.
The destroyer suddenly turned hard in their direction.
"Well, I guess we won't die of exposure" Kismet observed darkly.
"Come on, Nick. You're Mr. Lucky, remember. You've gotten us out of every scrape so far. Tell me you've got one more trick up your sleeve."
Before he could even begin to formulate a plan, the swells from the wake of Boyevoy's first pass washed over them. Kismet's hold on the crate slipped for a moment. The golden cask flipped onto its side and was instantly inundated. Irene cried out, but was forced to let go as it sank into the sea.
"Where's that plan, Nick?" Irene shouted as she thrashed to stay afloat.
"Sorry. It just went under."
The destroyer slowed as it came abreast of them. The eager faces of the crew looked down from high overhead and Kismet recognized many of the sailors from their earlier ride aboard the warship. The rugged features of Captain Gregory Severin loomed largest. The hungry look in his eye and the set of his jaw, advertised his intentions. Kismet held his breath as the Russian naval officer extended his gun arm and took aim.