Deep Six

The molten sun slipped below the western edge of the Aegean Sea as the ship cleared the Dardanelles and headed through the maze of Greek islands. The surface rolled under gentle two-foot swells and a hot breeze set in from the African coast to the south. Soon the orange faded from the sky and the sea lost its blue and they melted together into a solid curtain of black. The moon had not yet risen; the only light came from the stars and the sweeping beam of the navigation beacon on the island of Lesbos.

Captain James Mangyai, master of the 540-foot bulk freighter Venice, stood on the bridge and kept a close watch over the bow. He gave a cursory glance to the radar display and stared out the window again, relieved that the sea was empty of other shipping.

Since departing the Russian port of Odessa in the Black Sea, six hundred nautical miles behind, he had been extremely restless. Now he began to breathe easier. There were few tricks the Russians would dare attempt in Greek waters.

The Venice was in ballast — her only cargo was the gold shipment transferred from the Soviet government to Madame Bougainville — and her hull rode high in the water. Her destination was Genoa, where the gold was to be secretly unloaded and shipped to Lucerne, Switzerland, for storage.

Captain Mangyai heard footsteps behind him on the teak deck and recognized his first officer, Kim Chao, in the reflection on the window.

“How does it look to you, Mr. Chao?” he said without turning.

Chao read over the hour-by-hour meteorological report from the automated data system. “Calm sailing for the next twelve hours,” he said in an unhurried voice. “Extended forecast looks good too. We’re fortunate. The southerly winds are usually much stronger this time of year.”

“We’ll need a smooth sea if we’re to dock in Genoa under Madame Bougainville’s schedule.”

“Why the hurry?” asked Chao. “Another twelve hours of sailing won’t matter.”

“It matters to our employer,” said Mangyai dryly. “She doesn’t wish our cargo in transit any longer than necessary.”

“The chief engineer is making more wind than a typhoon. He claims he can’t keep up this speed for the whole voyage without burning up the engines.”

“He always sees black clouds.”

“You haven’t left the bridge since Odessa, Captain. Let me spell you.”

Mangyai nodded gratefully. “I could use a short rest. But first I should look in on our passenger.”

He turned over the bridge watch to Chao and walked down three decks to a heavy steel door at the end of an alleyway amidships. He pressed a transmit button on a speaker bolted to the bulkhead.

“Mr. Hong, this is Captain Mangyai.”

He was answered by the gentle creak of the massive door as it was pulled open. A small moon-faced man with thick-lensed spectacles peered cautiously around the edge. “Ah, yes, Captain. Please come in.”

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Hong?”

“No, I’m quite comfortable, thank you.”

Hong’s idea of comfort was considerably different from Mangyai’s. The only suggestion of human habitation was a suitcase neatly stowed under a canvas folding cot, one blanket, a small electric burner with a pot of tea, and a desk hanging from a bulkhead, its surface hidden under a pile of chemical analysis equipment. The rest of the compartment was packed with wooden crates and gold bars. The gold was stacked thirty high and ten deep in several rows. Some bars were scattered on the deck next to the open crates, the unsanded sides stenciled with the disclosure:

HANDLE WITH CARE

MERCURY IN GLASS

SUZAKA CHEMICAL COMPANY LIMITED

KYOTO, JAPAN

“How are you coming?” Mangyai asked.

“I should have it all examined and crated by the time we reach port.”

“How many gilded lead bars did the Russians slip in?”

“None,” said Hong, shaking his head. “The count tallies, and every bar I’ve checked so far is pure.”

“Strange they were so accommodating. The shipment arrived at the preset hour. Their dockworkers loaded it on board without incident. And we were cleared to depart without the usual administrative hassle. I’ve never experienced such efficiency in any of my previous dealings with Soviet port authorities.”

“Perhaps Madame Bougainville has great influence in the Kremlin.”

“Perhaps,” said Mangyai skeptically. He looked curiously at the piles of gleaming yellow metal. “I wonder what was behind the transaction?”

“I’m not about to ask,” said Hong, carefully wrapping a bar in wadding and placing it in a crate.

Before Mangyai could answer, a voice came over the speaker. “Captain, are you in there?”

He walked over and cracked the heavy door. The ship’s communications officer was standing outside in the alleyway.

“Yes, what is it?”

“I thought you should know, Captain, someone is jamming our communications.”

“You know this for a fact?”

“Yes, sir,” said the young officer. “I managed to get a fix on it. The source is less than three miles off our port bow.”

Mangyai excused himself to Hong and hurried to the bridge. First Officer Chao was calmly sitting in a high swivel chair studying the instruments on the ship’s computerized control panel.

“Do you have any ship contacts in, Mr. Chao?” asked Mangyai.

If Chao was surprised at the captain’s sudden reappearance, he didn’t show it. “Nothing visual, nothing on radar, sir.”

“What is our depth?”

Chao checked the reading on the depth sounder. “Fifty meters, or about a hundred and sixty feet.”

The awful truth struck Mangyai’s mind like a hammer. He leaned over the chart table and plotted their course. The keel of the Venice was passing over the Tzonston Bank, one of many areas in the middle of the Aegean where the seabed rose to within a hundred feet of the surface. Deep enough for a ship’s safe passage, but shallow enough for a routine salvage operation.

“Steer for deep water!” he shouted.

Chao stared at the captain, hesitating in bewilderment. “Sir?”

Mangyai opened his mouth to repeat the order but the words froze in his throat. At that instant, two sound- tracking torpedoes homed in on the freighter’s engine room and exploded with devastating effect. Her bottom torn in gaping holes, the sea rushed into her innards. The Venice shuddered and entered her death throes.

She took only eight minutes to die, going down by the stern and disappearing beneath the indifferent swells forever.

The Venice was hardly gone when a submarine surfaced nearby and began playing her searchlight on the fragmented floating wreckage. The pitifully few survivors, clinging to the flotsam, were coldly machine-gunned until their shredded bodies sank out of sight. Boats were sent out, guided by the darting shaft of light. After searching for several hours until all the debris was pulled aboard, they returned to their ship.

Then the light was killed and the sub returned to the darkness.

51

The President sat at the center of the oval mahogany conference table in the White House Cabinet Room. There were eleven men seated there besides himself. A bemused expression shone in his eyes as he surveyed the