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 mask 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.
Giordino activated a small video camera strapped to his rebreather harness and began filming details of the wreck as they worked their way aft. A pair of intricately carved cabin doors with glass inserts caught his attention on the main deck, while Pitt investigated a swivel gun mounted on the port rail. They were astounded at the condition of the ship, as most wooden shipwrecks disintegrate into a debris-strewn mound after just a few years. Seeing just a few metal fixtures, Pitt was certain the vessel was well over two centuries old.
The two met at the helm on the quarter deck, looking for the jackpot. Even if well-preserved, a wooden shipwreck with few known unique details was a difficult challenge to identify. The dead giveaway was the ship’s bell, often engraved with the vessel’s name.
They found the helm’s large spoked wheel still affixed and upright on its frame, but there was no bell alongside it. Giordino felt Pitt tap his arm and point to the main deck. A cone-shaped item lay on its side near the bulkhead. It had to be the bell, having fallen after the disintegrating mounting collapsed under its heavy weight.
Pitt beat his partner to the object, set it upright, and brushed away the sediment. Giordino had his camera ready as the silt settled and a bronze bell emerged, complete with Turkish lettering across its base. He filmed it from all sides, then turned and gave Pitt a thumbs-up.
Pitt checked his orange-faced Doxa dive watch and saw their bottom time had nearly expired. Motioning toward the surface, he waited for Giordino’s acknowledgment, then kicked up from the quarter deck. Shining his light a final time across the wreck, he hesitated at the sight of something on the aft deck. Giordino followed as he turned and swam toward the object, concerned by its human shape.
It was indeed a body, lightly covered with silt. Approaching from the side, Pitt swished his hand above it to remove the thin coating. The probability of finding a human body lying perfectly preserved on the deck of the frigate after two hundred and fifty years seemed astronomical. Still, he couldn’t help but expect an eighteenth-century seaman to emerge from the murk, dressed in a loose-sleeved blouse, pantaloons, and buckled shoes.
But as the water cleared, he instead faced the body of a blue-eyed airman, grimacing at him, in a twentieth-century flight suit.
14
The first thing Ana did was vomit.
The fear, tension, and stress, combined with the ship’s rolling, had sent her stomach into convulsions. A miniature cabin sink caught the discharge, and she was thankful for some running cold water to rinse her face. Feeling drained but suddenly calm, she took in her surroundings.
The locked, windowless cabin wasn’t much larger than a closet. A pair of built-in bunk beds competed with the washbasin for the room’s square footage. Her head still pounding, Ana shuffled to the lower bunk, lay on the wafer-thin mattress, and closed her eyes.
Her headache eased marginally, allowing her to weigh her circumstances. The salvage ship most certainly had recovered the highly enriched uranium. Why else would their boarding meet with such a vicious response? She winced as she pictured Ralin plunging into the moon pool. The bald, tattooed thug who ran the ship seemed capable of anything, brushing off the murder of her comrades like they were mosquitoes. If only the Bulgarian SWAT team had arrived. With an adequate team, things would have played out much differently. She knew she was at fault for rushing in without support. Now the port policeman and Ralin were dead. She fought back tears at the thought.
After a moment, she pried open her eyelids and stared at the dusty underside of the top bunk. She knew she was also doomed. As a witness to the others’ deaths, she wouldn’t be allowed to live. Ana took a few deep breaths, and the throbbing slowly eased from her skull, giving notice to a sharp pain in her backside. She was being jabbed by the points of the calipers she had pocketed on the bridge.
She pulled the device from her pocket, held it before her face, and touched its needle points. It wasn’t much as a weapon, but it could serve as a useful tool. She rose from the bunk and studied the cabin door lock. It was a simple dead bolt, keyed on both sides.
She stared at the lock, contemplating her choices. There was no sense in lingering. She had been thrown in the cabin as a temporary reprieve. She might have days to live—or just a few hours. There was no reason to wait and surrender to her fate.
Spreading open the calipers, she jammed one of its points into the keyhole and twisted and prodded. She labored for twenty minutes, realizing the rounded point was a poor candidate to pick a lock. She yanked out the calipers, threw them on the bed, and gave the cabin door a hard kick.
The door rattled with an encouraging sound. She leaned her head against the door and rapped it with the heel of her palm. There was a tiny echo, matched by a slight vibration on her hand. It was an inexpensive hollow-core door. Ana smiled at her luck.
She sat on the bunk for a moment, mapping her next moves. Her heart raced over the danger involved, but the greater risk was to do nothing. She listened at the door to ensure an empty corridor, backed across the tiny cabin, and took a deep breath. Sprinting forward in the confined space, she leaped up, extended her legs, and thrust her feet against the door.
The door splintered but held loosely together. Ana regained her footing and waited, expecting to hear a cabin door open and close down the corridor, but it was quiet. Then she gave the door another hard stomp near the handle. The door separated from the lock and flew open.