Vasko slipped a hand around her upper arm and pinched her with an iron grip. “Release you?” He laughed, poisoning the air with his breath. “That’s not how we welcome nosey intruders aboard our ship.”
Turning from his imposing face, Ana gazed toward the helmsman, an equally tough-looking character who grinned at her with brown teeth. Beside him, her SIG Sauer pistol lay on a console—tantalizingly close.
“Return this vessel to Burgas at once,” she ordered, surprising herself by the strength in her voice. Adrenaline overcame her wooziness, and she punctuated the statement by kicking her knee at Vasko’s groin while throwing a punch at his throat.
Vasko’s quick reflexes thwarted both moves. As she turned on him, he simply gave her a hard shove. Weak and off balance, she crashed hard into a chart table. Grasping its edge for support, she noticed a pair of brass calipers lying there. Before she could collect herself, Vasko grabbed the back of her shirt and yanked her toward him.
She reached back and grabbed the calipers, hiding them at her side as he spun her around.
Holding her from behind, Vasko slipped his left arm around her throat and squeezed while grabbing a fistful of hair and yanking back her head. “What are you doing aboard my ship?” His lips were just inches from her face.
Pain surpassed fear as Ana struggled to breathe. Vasko slowly loosened his grip, allowing her to gasp for air.
She let her nerves settle before answering. “The highly enriched uranium from the Crimean Star—we know you have it.”
Vasko showed no reaction. “You were aboard the NUMA vessel?”
Ana looked him cold in the eye. “I was aboard the submersible you tried to destroy.”
She caught a flicker of his brow.
“You are mistaken. The uranium is not aboard. We searched but did not find it.” He stuck out his chin and looked down his blunt nose at her. “You cost the lives of your two companions by coming aboard.”
He released his stranglehold and shoved her across the bridge. His brute strength sent her stumbling to the knees of the helmsman. “Lock her up in an empty cabin.”
With a wolfish grin, the helmsman grabbed her and dragged her off the bridge. Ana feared the worst, but he simply led her to a barren cabin and locked the door.
The crewman returned to the bridge and retook his position at the helm. He gazed at Vasko. “What are we going to do with her?”
Vasko stared out the bridge window, his face a mask of concentration. “Same thing we’ll do with her dead police friend on the rear deck,” he said with an indifferent shrug. “We wait till we’re thirty kilometers offshore and throw her over the side.”
11
He felt like he was plunging down a well wrapped in a straitjacket. His world grew dark and cold. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t even seem to move. Death tapped him on the shoulder, but he shook off the unwelcome specter. Petar Ralin wasn’t yet ready to die.
His mind began to function, shaking off the shock of being shot and plunging through the ship’s moon pool. He was about to drown and he knew it. He struggled to get his limbs moving. His legs felt like they were made of lead, but his arms responded. Kicking and flailing, he headed toward a faint light that flickered above. The distance closed quickly, but then he stopped.
The light was from the Besso’s moon pool. He couldn’t surface there or he would be picked off. He turned away, but had to surface quickly. His lungs ached for oxygen. He kicked harder, then collided with the underside of the Besso. Despite the new spasm of pain, he kept moving. Ralin scraped along the hull until he finally broke free and stretched to the surface.
Gasping for air as quietly as he could, he heard voices and movement on the deck above but no gunfire. Dukova was surely dead, but what of Ana? He had to help her, but at the moment that was impossible. He didn’t have the strength to climb aboard even if he wanted to. No, he must try to get help.
He waited until the deck turned quiet and his pulse stopped racing, then pushed off from the ship and began paddling toward shore. The lights of Burgas were less than half a mile away, but the distance might as well have been a thousand. In seconds, Ralin became light-headed. He barely had the strength to make headway against the light current. A wave of fatigue from his bleeding leg wound swept over him. But he pushed on, resisting the urge to give up and sink.
A yellow object in the water caught his attention and he struggled toward it. He recognized it as a mooring ball, and, for Ralin, it was a lifesaver. He swam to the metal sphere and grasped its float chain. Clinging for life, he waited until a friendly wave rolled past, lifting him higher. He used the momentum to slide his torso onto the top of the large metal ball and lay outstretched on it like a drowned rat.
Through blurry eyes, he raised his head and gazed at the lights of the Besso a short distance away, then promptly passed out.
12
Georgi Dimitov paused to wipe the perspiration from his face as he scanned the Varna commercial docks, eyeing the Macedonia at a far berth. Walking past some heavy equipment and stacked commercial cargo, the plump Bulgarian archeologist waddled up to the research ship. He clutched a painting under one arm and tugged a beaten-leather satchel with the other.
A NUMA crewman welcomed him aboard and escorted him to the stern deck, where a tall man in a welder’s mask was repairing a seam on the damaged submersible.
Pitt extinguished the welding torch and removed the face shield. “Dr. Dimitov?” he asked.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pitt.” He dropped his satchel and shook hands. “It is an honor to have NUMA’s support for my research project.” The archeologist glanced at the damaged submersible. “Your submersible . . . is it operational?”
Giordino popped out of the craft’s hatch, clutching a loom of electrical wiring, and introduced himself. “She’s a little dinged up, but the damage isn’t as bad as it looks. Once we replace the thrusters and perform some safety tests, she’ll be ready to go—in forty-eight hours, tops.”
Pitt nodded. “Our sidelined submersible won’t have any impact on our ability to survey.”
“I’m happy to hear that,” Dimitov said, “as I know your time in the Black Sea is limited.”
Pitt eyed the man’s painting and satchel and pointed amidships. “Georgi, let’s get out of the sun, and you can tell us about the Fethiye.”
The three men reconvened in a nearby lab, where Giordino helped the archeologist set the painting against a bulkhead. “You don’t travel light,” Giordino said.
Dimitov smiled. “It’s the only known image of the Fethiye, painted at the time of her launch in 1766. The curator of the Bulgarian National Art Gallery is a friend of mine and he let me borrow it.”
Pitt studied the painting, which depicted a three-masted frigate gliding out of the Golden Horn under full sail. A large red banner fluttered from the stern post, identifying the ship as a vessel of the Ottoman fleet. “A fine-looking ship,” Pitt said. “What can you tell us about her?”
“She was built as a fast frigate, in support of the larger ships of the line. She apparently spent some time on station in Alexandria before returning to the service of the Sultan.”
“How did she end up sinking in the Black Sea?” Giordino asked.
“Early in the Russo-Turkish War, the Russian Army advanced through what is now Ukraine and Moldova, scoring a major victory at the Battle of Kagul. One of Sultan Mehmet III’s wives was at the nearby fortress of Izmail, visiting an injured son, when hostilities drew near. The Sultan dispatched the Fethiye from Constantinople to retrieve them from danger. The royal entourage boarded the ship and sailed down the Danube in August 1770, never to be seen again.”
“Sunk by the Russians?” Pitt asked.
“A few historians believe so, but there is no historical record to substantiate it. Most believe, as do I, that she was lost in a storm somewhere off the Bulgarian coast.”
br />
Pitt shook his head. “Sounds like the makings of a pretty large search area.”
“You know better than I the difficulties in locating a lost shipwreck,” Dimitov said. “The truth of the matter is, the Fethiye could be within a fifty-thousand-square-mile area. I could spend the rest of my life chasing her wake. But I recently discovered some additional information that I think will enable a fruitful search.” He opened his leather case and retrieved a photocopied page of a handwritten diary entry.
Pitt saw it was written in Turkish and thought he recognized a notation about weather. “A ship’s logbook entry?”
“Precisely,” Dimitov said. “It’s from an Ottoman merchant schooner named Cejas. A researcher at the Bulgarian Academy of Sciences came across it in the school’s archives and kindly advised me about it.”
“What does it reveal?” Giordino asked.
Dimitov translated, line by line: “Moderate breeze from the southeast, seas weakening. Departed our mooring off Erulska bluff at noon after weather improved, and resumed passage to Galaţi. Lookout reported concentration of debris to leeward one hour on, including a section of mast with a red tughra banner.”
“Did they mark their position?” Pitt asked.
“I’m afraid not.” Dimitov retrieved a chart of the western Black Sea and unrolled it across the table. “The Erulska bluff proved a bit troublesome, as there are no modern references to such a place along the shoreline. It took a bit of geographical snooping, but we finally found it in an ancient reference to a village north of Varna.”
“They would likely anchor close to shore if riding out a storm from the southeast,” Pitt said.
“We know they departed this point and were headed up the coast toward Romania,” Dimitov said, “so we can make a reasonable guess as to their heading.”
“However far they traveled in an hour along that line would put us in the ballpark,” Pitt said.
“Exactly. But we don’t know their speed, which expands the probable area. A merchant schooner of the typical variety would likely average eight to ten knots, so that gives us a good starting place.”
“What we don’t know is, when the Fethiye sank,” Pitt said, “or how far her debris field may have drifted before crossing the Cejas’s path.”
“Another assumption of our model. The entry states the wreckage seen was concentrated, which leads me to believe she foundered not long before that. We know the state of the sea and wind, so I incorporated some amount of drift in the estimate. It is, of course, a gamble.” Dimitov smiled. “But I have zeroed in on a hundred-square-mile area I feel has the highest probability of her position.”
“Seems reasonable,” Giordino said, eyeing the red grid penciled on the chart. “But how certain are you that the wreckage was actually from the Fethiye?”
“A good question. The key is the red banner.” Dimitov pointed to the painting. “Note the mainmast.”
Giordino nodded. “It has a small red pennant with some sort of swirling logo.”
“That’s called a tughra. It’s a calligraphic monogram of the Sultan, representing his reign. Only the Sultan’s personal ships would fly such a banner. That’s why it was noteworthy in the logbook. They specifically mentioned the tughra. The mast seen in the water most certainly came from the Fethiye.”
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Giordino said. “So where do we start searching?”
“Now you are talking.” Dimitov clapped his hands. “I suggest we begin in the northwest corner of the grid, which is only a few miles up the coast.”
Pitt looked at the eager archeologist. “It appears we have a workable search plan. Are you prepared to stay with us for the full survey?”
Dimitov opened his suitcase and pointed to a stack of paperback novels. “I am aware of the tedium associated with an underwater search,” he said with a grin.
The Macedonia slipped her dock lines within the hour and sailed up the Bulgarian coast, arriving at Dimitov’s search grid after dusk. The ship eased to a halt as Giordino launched an autonomous underwater vehicle over the side. The AUV contained a battery of electronic sensors packed into a torpedo-shaped housing that could skim above the seabed while running a preprogrammed route. Pitt supplemented the AUV survey by releasing a towed array sonar behind the Macedonia. Both underwater units contained a multibeam sonar system that could provide imagery of a shipwreck, or any other object of size, that protruded from the seafloor.
Dimitov joined Pitt and Giordino on the ship’s bridge to monitor the real-time results from the towed sonar. After a few hours of watching a drab, undulating sea bottom pass by on a large screen, he stood and retrieved one of his paperbacks. “Good night, gentlemen.”
Giordino raised an eyebrow. “Retiring from the fight already?”
“Temporarily, my friend, just temporarily. The Fethiye has been resting for over two centuries. I’m sure she will still be there for the hunting tomorrow.” The archeologist gave a formal bow, then stepped out the bridge door and into the night.
13
Dimitov’s words proved true, but just barely. Giordino was manning the Macedonia’s towed array sonar system at five in the morning when a scraggly, oblong shape scrolled across the monitor. He saved an image of the object and continued the survey until Pitt and Dimitov stepped onto the bridge two hours later.
“Picked up an interesting target on the last survey lane,” he said as Pitt handed him a cup of hot coffee.
“Can you show it to us?” Dimitov crowded close to the monitor.
Giordino retrieved the image and magnified it, revealing details of a largely intact shipwreck.
Dimitov’s eyes grew wide, then he shook his head. “It appears to be a sailing ship, but it must be more modern. You can see a capstan, the rudder, even a mast lying across the deck. It is in too good a condition to have sunk two hundred and fifty years ago. Still, an intriguing wreck.”
“What’s the depth of the target?” Pitt asked.
“Just under seventy meters.”
“That’s in the ballpark for the anoxic zone,” Pitt said. “The lower depths of the Black Sea are deprived of oxygen and therefore lack destructive marine organisms. There’ve been a handful of ancient shipwrecks discovered at that depth in an excellent state of preservation. If this wreck is lying in a low-oxygen state, it could in fact be a nicely preserved Fethiye.”
“The dimensions look close to the known specs of the Fethiye,” Giordino said. “It certainly gives the appearance of a three-masted frigate.”
“Yes, I can see it,” Dimitov said with growing excitement. “It would be too good to be true. Can we investigate further?”
“It certainly warrants some attention,” Pitt said. “What are our options, Al?”
“The submersible is dry-docked until we receive some parts from the States. That leaves dropping an ROV over the side or putting down some divers on mixed gas.”
“I vote for the latter.” Pitt had a gleam in his eye. “You up for joining the party?”
Giordino grinned. “Like a New Year’s Eve reveler.”
Dimitov looked puzzled. “You mean, you two are going to dive the wreck?”
“Why leave the fun and glory to someone else?” Pitt said.
The Macedonia returned to the target site for a few additional passes with the sonar to better mark its position. The crew then retrieved the towed system and dropped a buoy alongside. The ship moved off and took up a stationary safety position a few hundred meters away to await the return of the AUV.
Wearing cold-water dry suits, Pitt and Giordino climbed into a Zodiac, which was lowered over the side. Pitt raced the inflatable to the buoy, where Giordino attached a mooring line. Each pulled on a Dräger Mk25 rebreather system, which kept them from having to carry multiple tanks of mixed-gas air while allowing for extended bottom time.
Giordino rinsed out his dive mas
k before fitting it over his head. “You think Dimitov got lucky?”
“She looks pretty good on sonar, but the Black Sea is littered with wrecks. We ought to be able to tell soon enough.”
“He’s pretty excited about it. You sure there’s no treasure aboard?”
“None that the history books speak of.”
“I’ll bet you a beer there’s something interesting on that wreck.”
Pitt nodded. “Let’s go see what it is.” He slipped his regulator between his teeth and rolled backward off the Zodiac into the water. Checking that his rebreather unit was working properly, he purged his buoyancy compensator and slid slowly under the waves. Giordino splashed into the water beside him a moment later, and the two men kicked for the bottom.
The water grew cold and dark as they reached the hundred-foot mark, and each clicked on an underwater light. They were immune to the cloistering effect of the black depths, having experienced hundreds of dives in every imaginable condition. Pitt felt a jolt of excitement at the prospect of exploring a shipwreck that had lain undiscovered for over two centuries.
They followed the drop line that tailed from the buoy until reaching the bottom, at slightly over two hundred feet. At that depth, they had less than twenty minutes of bottom time.
Pitt spotted a dark shadow to their side and led the way, hovering a few feet off the muddy, featureless seafloor. His light showed a large pronged object. He swam closer and saw it was an anchor. Still secured by its thick chain, the black iron mass hung from a ruddy-colored hull. The anchor, like the wreck itself, was covered by a heavy layer of brown silt.
Pitt followed the anchor chain up toward the bow rail and turned his light across the deck. Despite the layers of silt, he could see the wreck was an old sailing ship in an excellent state of preservation. Giordino joined him as he kicked his way to a fallen mast and fanned away the sediment. Fragments of rope and sail lay on the deck, partially preserved in the oxygen-deprived water.