He made one last desperate play. "Irene! Dive under and swim closer to the ship."
"Closer?"
"Now!" He placed a hand on her head and forced her beneath the surface as he himself dove. There was a report of a shot and Kismet saw something strike the water at an angle not far from where he had been a moment before. A diagonal line, the path of the bullet in the water, extended a few feet below the surface. If Severin's aim improved, the water would not save him.
They were still a few yards from the ship when burning lungs forced both of them to resurface. Kismet looked up at the destroyer, satisfied that they were now out of the line of sight for an observer standing on the deck. However, the Russian captain had climbed over the rail and was leaning out over the water to get a clear shot.
"Quick, Irene. If we can get to the ship, we might stand a chance."
She did not question his statement, but nodded tersely, took a deep breath and plunged below of her own volition. Kismet felt like a hypocrite. Her confidence was badly misplaced; even if they could get closer, there was virtually no way to board the ship, much less evade the crew or survive until the ship put into port.
He surfaced too close to the ship and banged his head on the steel armor plating. Muttering a curse, he then pushed away to get a look from this new vantage point. The dull gray hull sloped outward above him, an immense steel wall over a football field in length. They were close to the bow, but Kismet's best plan — to climb the anchor chain — was quickly thwarted; the anchor was secured to the hull twelve feet above the waterline, well out of reach.
"Nowhere to go, Kismet," said an all too familiar voice. "Nowhere but down."
He looked up at the Russian captain. "Then get it over with. I won't feed your ego by begging."
Severin laughed. "In a moment. But I think you have something that belongs to mother Russia. I don't want your lifeless body to sink to the bottom with such an important treasure. I will regret passing up this opportunity to kill you, but if you are willing to cooperate and let my men bring you aboard, I will let you live."
Kismet glanced at the Fleece still clinging to his shoulder. He had almost forgotten about it. Why hadn't its weight dragged him under? It looked different somehow….
"That doesn't sound like you, Greg. You're not that generous."
"Oh, you misunderstand. As a criminal and enemy of the State, you will certainly spend the rest of your days in prison. But I will be a hero for returning you alive to stand trial, as well as saving the treasure. You at least would live to die a more pleasant death." He leveled the pistol. He was too close to miss. "Or I can shoot you now?"
"Not good enough." He shrugged out from under the Golden Fleece, holding it at arm's length with one hand. It seemed impossibly light. "You're welcome to the Fleece. But you have to guarantee our safety, especially hers."
"Nick," Irene whispered. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
Severin tilted his head sideways, considering Kismet's counter-proposal. He then snapped upright, his arm stiffening as he verified his aim. "No deal."
TWENTY
Suddenly the air was filled with shouting and a claxon began to wail aboard the ship. Severin lowered his arm, but before he could refocus his attention, the deck lurched. A vibration traveled the length of the vessel, and Kismet saw a cloud of smoke bellow from the stern. Severin flung his arms around the rail, losing his grip on the Glock. The automatic pistol bounced off the deck and dropped over the side, vanishing into the water.
Kismet could hear the Russian cursing, demanding both an explanation and assistance. Though he could not make out the reply, Severin’s subsequent orders revealed that the destroyer was under attack. The captain ordered evasive action, but the answer he got left him frustrated. After several seconds of clinging to the rail, a sailor rushed to help him back over onto the deck. Then the cries of alarm were renewed.
Kismet drew the Fleece back to his body, and looked around for some sign of the attacker. He saw no other ship, but something much smaller was burrowing through the sea just below the surface on a collision course with the hull of the destroyer.
"It's a torpedo!" Kismet swam closer to Irene, unable to hide his elation. "Here's that miracle we needed."
The torpedo finished its deadly journey by impacting the Boyevoy about twenty yards forward of the stern. The explosion ripped upward and tore a hole in the side of the warship. The aft end, where three of her four gun emplacements were situated, as well as the 30-millimeter anti-aircraft battery, was ravaged by the detonation and the subsequent fire. The destroyer was now a sitting duck, unable to maneuver or defend herself, and taking on water through two wounds.
"Oh, my God," Irene gasped. "Nick, what's that?"
Something was breaking through the surface, a pillar of dark metal, as tall as a man. The object was indistinct because they were looking at it head on, but it looked like a small boat with its deck below the surface. Men appeared on the exterior of the newly risen craft. Two of them deployed an enormous inflatable raft, while others hastened to affix a bulky shape to a pedestal in front of the upright column.
Before he could answer, the newly assembled gun on the deck of the surfaced craft spewed a burst of cover fire. The bullets raked the destroyer's bow gun, forcing the Russian sailors away from their last line of defense.
The inflatable raft, driven by an outboard motor, sped across the water directly toward them, bouncing as it hit each swell. Small arms fire from the destroyer imperiled the men in the rubber boat, but the submarine's deck gun swiveled to meet this challenge, sweeping the deck. In a lull between bursts, Kismet could hear the howling of wounded sailors high above him.
The men on the inflatable cut their engine at the last minute, turning so that the raft bumped against the hull of the ship. They wore the distinctive uniforms of Russian submariners, but did not speak as they reached out to Kismet and Irene. As she was lifted over the bulging rubber, Irene saw numbers and Cyrillic letters stamped on the vulcanized hull next to a five-pointed red star; the designation of the parent craft, a Russian Akula class submarine.
Kismet was helped aboard as well, sagging into the recesses of the raft in an effort to stay out of the way of their rescuers. One of the men waved toward the submarine, and his signal was answered when another hundred rounds of machine gun fire splashed the deck of the destroyer. Beneath that deadly curtain, the outboard engine roared to life and hastened them back to the mother vessel.
The impact of hitting the swells was ferocious. Kismet felt like he was taking repeated blows from a prizefighter. He had to cling to the rope strung along the sides of the boat like a rail, to avoid being catapulted into the sea. Slowing the craft could have minimized the turbulence, but the sailors had other reasons for haste.
Kismet heard a hissing near his head. He glanced up and saw a ragged hole in the rubber bladder. The sailor at the rudder also saw it, but could only shrug as he lowered his head. Despite the cover fire from the submarine, someone aboard Boyevoy was not going to let them go without a fight.
The leak in the raft posed no immediate danger. The inflatable hull was divided into several independent cells; the loss of pressure in a single one would not cause the craft to sink. But as the air escaped, the boat began to lose rigidity and allowed seawater to splash onto the passengers.
It took about two minutes for them to reach the sub. The sailor at the helm drove the rubber boat up onto the deck of the vessel, just aft of the sail. Through the salt spray in her eyes, she could barely distinguish the shapes of two men waiting near the sail, but there was no mistaking their uniforms: Russian naval officers. Her blood ran cold when she heard one of the men speak in heavily accented English. "So Kismet. Vee haf you, at last."