Atlantis

naval officer who was powerless to respond in kind.

At that moment the two-way radio began to crackle, and York angrily punched the intercom so they all could hear.

“This is Seaquest.” York’s voice was barely controlled, almost a snarl. “Make your intentions clear. Over.”

After a few moments a voice came over the intercom, its drawling, guttural tones unmistakably Russian.

“Good afternoon, Captain York. Major Howe. And Dr. Howard, I presume? Our felicitations. This is Vultura.” There was a pause. “You have been warned.”

York switched off the receiver in disgust and flipped open a lid beside him. Before he pulled down the lever inside, he looked up at Jack, his voice now coldly composed.

“We’re going to battle stations.”

Within minutes of the klaxon sounding, Seaquest had transformed from a research vessel into a ship of war. The diving equipment which usually cluttered the deck had been stowed as soon as Vultura appeared on the scene. Now, in the hold forward of the deckhouse, a group of technicians in white anti-flash overalls were arming Seaquest’s weapons pod, a Breda twin 40 mm L70 modified to IMU specifications. The successor of the renowned Bofors anti-aircraft gun of the Second World War, the “Fast Forty” had a dual-feed mechanism which fired high-explosive and armour-piercing shells at a rate of 900 rounds per minute. The pod was concealed in a retracted shaft which was elevated moments before use.

In the hold all non-essential personnel were assembling beside Seaquest’s escape submersible Neptune II. The submersible would quickly reach Greek territorial waters and rendezvous with a Hellenic Navy frigate which would set sail from Crete within the hour. It would also take away the bull’s head rhyton and other artefacts which had come up too late for the final helicopter shuttle to Carthage.

York quickly led the group down a lift to a point well below the waterline, the door opening to reveal a curved metal bulkhead that looked as if a flying saucer was wedged inside the hull.

York looked at Katya. “The command module.” He tapped the shiny surface. “Twenty-centimetre-thick titanium-reinforced steel. The entire pod can blow itself away from Seaquest and make off undetected, thanks to the same stealth technology we used for the escape sub.”

“I think of it as a giant ejection seat.” Costas beamed. “Like the command module on the old Saturn moon rockets.”

“Just as long as it doesn’t send us into space,” Katya said.

York spoke into an intercom and the circular hatch swung open. A subdued red light from the battery of control panels on the far side cast an eerie glow over the interior. They ducked through and he pulled the hatch shut behind them, spinning the central wheel until the locking arms were fully engaged.

Immediately in front, several crew were busily preparing small-arms ammunition, pressing rounds into magazines and assembling weapons. Katya walked over and picked up a rifle and magazine, expertly loading it and cocking the bolt.

“Enfield SA80 Mark 2,” she announced. “British Army personal weapon. Thirty-round magazine, 5.56 millimetre. Bullpup design, handle in front of the magazine, versatile for confined spaces.” She peered over the sights. “The infrared four-times scope is a nice feature, but give me the new Kalashnikov AK102 any day.” She removed the clip and checked the chamber was clear before replacing the weapon in the rack.

She looked rather incongruous still in the elegant black dress she wore to the conference, Jack mused, but clearly she had more than adequate skills to hold her own in a fight.

“You’re some lady,” he said. “First a world expert on ancient Greek scripts, now a military small-arms instructor.”

“Where I come from,” Katya responded, “it’s the second qualification that counts.”

As they made their way past the armoury, York glanced at Jack. “We must decide our course of action now.”

Jack nodded.

York led them up a short flight of steps to a platform about five metres across. He motioned towards a semicircle of swivel chairs which faced a battery of workstations along one side.

“The bridge console,” he said to Katya. “It serves as command centre and a virtual-reality bridge, allowing us to navigate Seaquest using the surveillance and imaging systems topside.”

Above them a concave screen displayed a panoramic digital reproduction of the view from Seaquest’s bridge. The cameras were equipped with infrared and thermal imaging sensors, so even though it was dusk they could still make out the low shape of Vultura and the fading heat signature of its forward gun turret.

“Peter will review our security options.” York turned to Howe.

Peter Howe looked at the others ruefully. “I won’t beat about the bush. It’s bad, really bad. We’re up against a purpose-built warship armed to the teeth with the latest weaponry, able to outgun and outrun virtually any naval or coastguard vessel assigned to deal with this kind of menace.”

Jack turned to Katya. “IMU policy is to rely on friendly nations in this kind of situation. The presence of warships and aircraft is often sufficiently intimidating even if they are outside territorial waters and legally unable to intervene.”

Howe tapped a key and the screen above them showed the Admiralty Chart of the Aegean.

“The Greeks can’t arrest Vultura, or chase her off. Even among the Greek islands to the north she can find a route more than six nautical miles offshore, and the straits into the Black Sea are designated international waters. The Russians made sure of that. She has a clear run back to her home port in Abkhazia.”

He aimed a light pointer at their current position on the lower part of the map.

“By this evening the Hellenic Navy should have frigates positioned here, here and here.” He shone to the north and west of the submerged volcano. “The nearest is just under six nautical miles south-east of Thera, almost within visual range of Seaquest. But they won’t come any closer.”

“Why not?” Katya asked.

“A wonderful thing called politics.” Howe swivelled round to face them. “We’re in disputed waters. A few miles east are a group of uninhabited islets claimed by both the Greeks and the Turks. The dispute has led them to the brink of war. We’ve informed the Turks about Vultura but politics dictates that their focus be on the Greeks, not some renegade Kazakh. The presence of Greek warships near the zone is enough to put the Turkish Maritime Defence Command on high alert. An hour ago four Turkish Air Force F16s flew a perimeter sweep five miles to the east. The Greeks and Turks have always been friends of IMU, but now they’re powerless to intervene.” Howe switched off the image and the screen reverted to the view outside Seaquest.

York stood up and paced between the seats, his hands clenched tightly behind his back. “We could never take on Vultura and hope to win. We can’t rely on outside help. Our only option is to accede to their demands, to leave immediately and relinquish the wreck. As captain I must put the safety of my crew first.”

“We could try negotiating,” Costas offered.

“Out of the question!” York slammed his hand down on the console, the strain of the last few hours suddenly showing. “These people will only negotiate face to face and on their own ground. Whoever went to Vultura would instantly become a hostage. I will not risk the life of a single member of my crew in the hands of these thugs.”

“Let me try.”

They all stared at Katya, her face set impassively.

“I’m your only option,” she said quietly. “I’m a neutral party. Aslan would have nothing to gain from taking me hostage and everything to lose in his dealings with the Russian government.” She paused, her voice stronger. “Women are respected among his people. And my family has influence. I can mention a few names that will be of great interest to him.”