“Let me guess. You haven’t tested it yet.”
“You don’t get icebergs in the English Channel.”
Jack turned from Costas and pointed at the screen, which showed an isometric computer simulation of the DSRV against the iceberg, with a dotted red line running up at a 45-degree angle from the DSRV and then levelling to a horizontal line that ended at a dark mass near the centre of the berg. “I take it we reach ten metres below sea level as quickly as we can, then ditch the umbilical and switch to rebreathers.”
“Correct,” Ben replied. “We’d love to kit you out with the latest IMU closed-circuit mixed-gas rebreathers, but there’s too much danger of freezing and too much to go wrong. This is one time when the old technology is best. You’ve got our tried and tested semi-closed rebreathers, with an oxygen-nitrox mix configured to give you maximum endurance at that depth. The carbon dioxide will be absorbed but not the nitrogen, so there will be a buildup in the counterlung that you’ll need to vent. But the nitrox fraction is small, and that shouldn’t happen till you’re out of the berg again. You won’t be producing any exhaust inside.”
“Just make sure you stay above ten metres,” Costas added. “We’ll be breathing over eighty per cent oxygen, and the mix becomes toxic at that pressure. Stray any deeper and you won’t know about it, you’ll convulse and be gone.”
“You’ll have the standard trimix package in the cylinder consoles on your backs, giving breathable mixes down to one hundred and twenty metres,” Ben said. “The regulators have an antifreeze cap on the first stage, so should be safe. But that’s an open-circuit system, producing exhalation inside the berg. Strictly for emergencies.”
“Okay,” Jack said. “Now tell me about your ice-borer. Nothing technical, I just want to know how to drive the thing.”
Twenty minutes later Jack and Costas sat kitted up on either side of the docking pool, like divers preparing to go through a hole in the ice. The Aquapod had been driven away ten minutes earlier by the two divers who had assisted them into the dock. Now the only crew members remaining were Ben and the pilot, and they had already begun finalising systems checks in preparation for departure.
“We’ll be here until you drop the umbilical,” Ben said. “Then you’re on your own.”
Jack nodded as he sat festooned with diving equipment, his dark hair tousled where he had tried on his helmet. Opposite him Costas ballooned as he struggled to control the inflator on his E-suit, and Jack tried to suppress a smile at his friend’s appearance. Over their E-suits both men wore compact rebreathers slung like small rucksacks on their chests, and on their backs were streamlined yellow consoles containing three high-pressure cylinders with oxygen, nitrogen and helium, as well as integrated weights.
Ben finished his second complete check through all their equipment and then squatted beside the pool between the two men. “I have to level with you, Jack. It’s my obligation as security chief. Those timbers could just be some old whaler’s boat. The risk might just be too high.”
“I know where you’re coming from, Ben, and I appreciate it,” Jack said. “But it’s a calculated risk. We can laugh at Lanowski, but I trust his judgement on this one.”
“Okay, it’s your call.” Ben glanced at Costas, who nodded firmly at him. Without further discussion Jack and Costas put on their yellow Kevlar helmets, and Ben went to each in turn locking the neck seals, activating the twin headlamps on either side and checking that the rebreather and trimix feeds were in place. Jack and Costas pulled on their gloves and checked that the watertight seals were secure, then pressed the temperature control consoles on their shoulders to ensure that the chemical heat connection to their hands was functional. Finally they pulled on their fins, disturbing the wisps of mist that swirled off the frigid pool as it met the warm air of the compartment. Just as they were about to flip down their visors, the face of the other crewman appeared through the hatch.
“Message from Seaquest II. For you, Jack. Something to do with tree rings.”
“Read it to us, will you?” Jack said.
The crewman knelt down and held up a printout. “From IMU Dendrochronology Lab, 0212 GMT. Ilulissat Fjord wood sample is Scandinavian oak, possibly Norwegian. Extensive carbonization present from burning. Match to north-west European tree-ring sequence indicates felling date of AD 1040 plus or minus ten years.”
“Yes!” Jack punched his gloved hand into the air. “There’s your answer. I knew it in my gut all along. This could be one of the archaeological finds of the century.”
Looking down at the water, Jack pursed his lips, then gazed across at Costas with a gleam in his eye. He was looking forward to seeing the surface above them and the sunlight as they dropped out of the DSRV, a respite from the niggling sense of claustrophobia he always felt, but now he was itching to get inside the berg and probe its secrets. He reached down and picked up the umbilical that was coiled by his side, the twin hoses twisted together as a single mass, and plugged it into the remaining open port below the chin of his helmet. He watched as Costas did the same, then the two men clamped shut their visors and switched on the intercom. Jack eased himself off the bench and sat with his legs suspended over the abyss, the astonishing clarity of the water making him feel like a parachutist about to exit an aircraft. He and Costas were already in a world apart, their intercom audible only to each other. Jack gave an okay signal to Ben and a thumbs-down to indicate he was descending, and then looked at Costas.
“Good to go?”
“Good to go.”
9
The man in the black cassock walked confidently towards the main entrance of the Apostolic Palace, his trappings as a Jesuit priest in keeping with the other applicants milling around the doorway. He had left the crowd in St. Peter’s behind him and had already passed the first security cordon at the bronze doors leading off from the square. Now he was approaching the very heart of the Vatican, the headquarters of the College of Cardinals, the hub from which the Holy See exerted its influence far beyond Rome to every corner of the globe.
Ahead of him two Swiss guards stood resplendent in their finery with halberds crossed in front of the door, an image that could have been straight from the Renaissance except for the Heckler amp; Koch submachine guns slung discreetly over their backs. An officer of the guard took the Jesuit’s ID and proceeded to scrutinise him, comparing the black beard and expressionless eyes with the photo on the card. Despite the heat of the early summer, the face was pale and pinched, but it was a scholarly visage all too common inside the closeted walls of the Vatican. The officer turned to a secretary beside him, and they checked the level of authorisation on a palm computer. The officer grunted in surprise and immediately handed the Jesuit back his card.
“You are free to enter.”
The guards raised their weapons and the Jesuit passed through, avoiding the usual body search and metal detector. He walked straight along a wide corridor on the ground floor, then turned left at the end and continued until he came to the ornate door of a private chapel, its entrance marked by trays of dedicatory candles on either side. He knocked once and pushed the door open. In the candlelit gloom he saw another man kneeling before the simple altar at the far end of the chapel. The man crossed himself and stood, then turned towards the door. He was tall and aquiline, with white hair, and he wore the full episcopal vestments of a cardinal, with a gold cross hanging in front of his scarlet cassock. He had the benign, ageless face of one who had spent many years in holy orders, but with a hard edge to his eyes. It was an expression appropriate for a man such as he, a man whose ambition had brought him to the very threshold of supreme power in the Catholic Church.