Atlantis

Jack peered at the screen again and suddenly slammed his hand down on the table. “Of course!”

Dillen could contain himself no longer and smiled broadly as he tapped one final time and the sequence appeared in reverse order. There was a sharp intake of breath as Jack saw at once what they were looking at.

“Extraordinary,” he murmured. “That disc dates more than two thousand years before the Bronze Age even began. Yet it’s the language of Linear A, the language of Crete at the time of our shipwreck.” He could scarcely believe what he was saying. “It’s Minoan.”

At that moment the intercom crackled on Seaquest and broke the spell.

“Jack. Come on deck at once. There’s activity on Vultura.” There was no mistaking the urgency in Tom York’s tones.

Jack leapt to his feet without a word and bounded onto the bridge, Costas following close behind. Within seconds both men stood beside York and Howe, their gaze directed towards the distant glimmer of lights on the horizon.

In the sea ahead was a faint disturbance, a swirl of spray that quickly became recognizable as Seaquest’s Zodiac. Soon they could make out Katya at the wheel, her long hair flowing in the wind. Jack grasped the rail and momentarily shut his eyes, the anxieties of the last few hours suddenly replaced by a flood of relief. Thank God she was all right.

Costas looked at his friend with affection. He knew his friend too well, that Jack’s entire emotional being was fast becoming wrapped up in their quest.

As the boat drew alongside and the outboards powered down, the air was filled with a new sound, the muffled roar of distant diesels. Jack snatched up the night scope and trained it on the horizon. The grey shape of Vultura filled the image, its hull low and menacing. Suddenly a surge of white appeared at the stern, a billowing arc made brilliant by the phosphorescence stirred up by the engines. Slowly, lazily, like an awakening beast with nothing to fear, Vultura turned in a wide arc and roared off into the darkness, its wake lingering like a rocket’s exhaust long after the vessel had been swallowed up by the night.

Jack lowered the scope and looked at the figure who had just scrambled over the side. She smiled and gave a quick wave. Jack spoke under his breath, his words only audible to Costas beside him.

“Katya, you are an angel.”

CHAPTER 7

The helicopter swooped low over the coastal mountains of western Turkey, its rotor reverberating in the deep bays that indented the shoreline. To the east the rosy aura of dawn revealed the rugged contours of the Anatolian Plateau, and across the Aegean the ghostly forms of islands could just be seen through the morning mist.

Jack eased back on the Lynx’s control column and flipped on the autopilot. The helicopter would unerringly follow the course he had plotted into its navigation computer, bringing them to its programmed destination almost five hundred nautical miles north-east.

A familiar voice came over the intercom.

“Something I don’t understand about our gold disc,” Costas said. “I’m assuming it was made about 1600 BC, shortly before the shipwreck. Yet the only parallel for those symbols in the outer band dates four thousand years earlier, on the second Phaistos disc from Crete.”

Katya joined in. “It’s astonishing that the language of Bronze Age Crete was already spoken by the first Neolithic colonists on the island. Professor Dillen’s decipherment will revolutionize our picture of the origins of Greek civilization.”

Jack was still elated by Katya’s success in defusing the confrontation with Vultura the evening before. Their deliverance had been little short of a miracle and he knew it. She said she had shown Aslan pictures of the Roman wreck Jack had dived on the week before and convinced him that all they had found were pottery amphoras, that the wreck was not worthy of his attention and Seaquest was only there to test new mapping equipment.

Jack was convinced there was more to it than this, more than Katya was willing or able to say. He had grilled her but she had remained tight-lipped. He knew only too well the shady world of deal and counter-deal, mafia trade-offs and bribery in which citizens of the former Soviet Union were forced to operate. Katya could clearly hold her own in this world.

The gnawing anxiety that had underlain the teleconference while she was away had transformed into an enormous zest to continue. On her return Katya had refused to rest and had joined Jack and Costas as they pored over the wreck plan and the next stage of the excavation far into the night, their enthusiasm driving them forward now they knew the project could carry on unhindered.

It was only her assurance that Vultura would not return that had persuaded Jack to undertake this morning’s flight. It was to have been a routine visit, a scheduled inspection of Seaquest’s sister ship Sea Venture in the Black Sea, but had now been given special impetus by reports of a startling discovery off the north coast of Turkey.

“What neither of you know,” Jack said, “is that we now have an independent date for the gold disc. It was emailed through while you were asleep.” He handed a slip of paper to Costas in the co-pilot’s seat. After a moment there was a whoop of delight.

“Hydration dating! They’ve done it!” Costas, always more at home with the certainties of science than theories which never seemed to reach any firm conclusions, was in his element. “It’s a technique refined at IMU,” he explained to Katya. “Certain minerals absorb a minute amount of water on their surface over time. This hydration rind develops afresh on surfaces that have been chipped or formed by man, so can be used to date stone and metal artefacts.”

“The classic example is obsidian,” Jack added. “The glassy volcanic stone found in the Aegean only on the island of Melos. Obsidian tools from hunter-gatherer sites on mainland Greece have been hydration dated to 12,000 BC, the final phase of the Ice Age. It’s the earliest evidence for maritime trade in the ancient world.”

“Hydration dating of gold has only been possible using very high precision equipment,” Costas said. “IMU has taken the lead in VHP research because of the number of times we find gold.”

“What is the date?” Katya demanded.

“The three bands of symbols were impressed in the middle of the second millennium BC. The estimate is 1600 BC, plus or minus a hundred years.”

“That fits with the wreck date,” Katya said.

“It could hardly be much earlier,” Jack pointed out. “The inner band is Mycenaean Linear B, which was only developed about that time.”

“But that was only the date of the symbols, the date when they were punched in the metal. It comes from the hydration rind on the symbols themselves.” Costas spoke with barely suppressed excitement. “The disc itself is older. Much older. And that central symbol was in the original mould. Any guesses?” He hardly paused. “It dates from 6000 BC.”

By now it was a sparkling summer morning, their view extending unimpeded in every direction. They were flying over the north-west promontory of Turkey towards the Dardanelles, the narrow channel dividing Europe from Asia. To the east it widened into the Sea of Marmara before narrowing into the Bosporus, the strait leading to the Black Sea.

Jack made a slight adjustment to the autopilot and peered over Costas’ shoulder. Gallipoli was clearly visible, the great finger of land jutting into the Aegean that defined the northern shore of the Dardanelles. Immediately below lay the plain of Hissarlik, site of fabled Troy. They were at a vortex of history, a place where sea and land narrowed to funnel huge movements of people from south to north and east to west, from the time of the earliest hominids to the rise of Islam. The tranquil scene belied the bloody conflicts this had spawned, from the siege of Troy to the slaughter at Gallipoli three thousand years later during the First World War.

To Jack and Costas this was no land of ghosts but familiar territory which brought back a warm glow of achievement. It was here they had carried out their first excavation together when they had been stationed at the NATO base at Izmir. A farmer had ploughed up some blackened timbers and fragments of bronze armour between the present coast and the ruins of Troy. Their excavation had shown the site to be the silted-up shoreline of the