He heard the shouts of the two assault team members as they stormed onto the bridge and threatened the lone crewman standing watch. Mankedo stepped back from the door, raised his weapon, and waited.
It took less than thirty seconds for one of the Russians to spot the wooden door at the rear of the bridge and fling it open. Mankedo fired a single shot into the man’s forehead and stepped through the door before the man hit the deck. The other assailant stood across the bridge with his weapon trained on the crewman but turned at the sound of the gunshot. He was a second late, and Mankedo pumped three shots into him. The Russian fired a wild burst into the ceiling as he collapsed against the bulkhead and slid to the deck.
“Grab his weapon and guard the bridge,” Mankedo ordered the crewman, then raced out the bridge wing door.
Had he exited the port wing, he might have spotted Mansfield retiring to the inflatable tied amidships. But he exited the starboard door, toward the sound of gunfire.
With most of its deck lights shot out, the Nevena was now as black as the sea. Only the underwater lights of the moon pool burned brightly, casting a warbly green glow about the stern deck. Dropping down a companionway to the main deck, Mankedo found two of his crewmen huddled behind a steel storage bin, firing aft. “How many are there?”
“Two or three on the stern,” a crewman said. “I think they’re pulling back.”
As if in retort, a short muzzle flash appeared on the aft deck, and a corresponding spray of bullets peppered the underside of the bridge wing above Mankedo’s head.
“Cover fire and advance,” Mankedo yelled.
His two crewmen popped up and fired toward the muzzle flash. As they did, Mankedo hugged the bulkhead and ran aft, advancing nearly to the moon pool. He stopped and initiated covering fire, shooting at some shadows near the stern rail, as his two crewmen advanced to his side. Th
is time, there was no return fire. As they caught their breath, Mankedo gave instructions for a final charge at the transom.
On the opposite side of the ship, Mansfield had dropped into the inflatable and radioed both assault teams to evacuate. He had lost contact with the men sent to the bridge and assumed the worst. The heavy resistance they had encountered began to weigh against the archeologist’s testimony. Perhaps the gold had been recovered and stowed somewhere on the ship. There was only one way to find out.
He reached beneath one of the bench seats for a heavy duffel bag and withdrew an electronic timer attached to a detonator and twenty pounds of plastic explosives. He set the timer for ten minutes and heaved the bag onto the deck.
The sound of someone approaching at a run sent him reaching for his gun and he looked up to see Sergei approach the inflatable.
“Quick,” Mansfield said, “toss that bag into the engine room.”
Sergei grabbed the bag and ran to an open hatch a few yards away. He heaved the bag inside and sprinted back to the inflatable as Mansfield started the electric motor and cast off. Mansfield gunned the motor and darted away from the side of the ship, sailing in a wide arc around the Nevena’s stern. He was just in time to watch the final firefight.
The two remaining Russians were climbing into the other inflatable when Mankedo and his men stormed across the deck, their guns blazing. One Russian tried to return fire but was cut down. The other managed to get the boat under way as bullets whizzed over his head.
From the other inflatable, Sergei knelt and swept the deck with a long burst of covering fire. Mankedo caught a grazing wound to his elbow, but that didn’t slow him. He ran to the rail and emptied his clip into the two black boats, which quickly melded into the darkness.
One of the crewmen approached Mankedo at the rail. “You’re wounded, sir.”
Mankedo ignored the blood dripping from his arm and stared at the lights of the distant spy ship. He spat over the side. “I want to know who they are!”
He was to never find out.
The two inflatables were nearly back to the spy ship when the detonator went off. A massive fireball erupted from the center of the Nevena, then a thunderclap sounded across the waves. The shock wave could be felt even at the distance of the small boats. Mansfield stopped the motor and watched as the salvage ship disappeared in a tower of smoke and flames. In minutes, the Bulgarian salvage ship broke in half and plunged beneath the waves.
The two inflatables eased back to the spy ship, where her captain stood on the deck fuming. Once the boats were hoisted aboard, he pulled Mansfield aside. “Four men! You killed four of my men and wounded a fifth!”
“I didn’t kill them, they did,” Mansfield said, motioning toward the Nevena’s former position.
“And a very subtle exit as well, not likely to draw any attention at all,” the captain said sarcastically. “I thought you were simply going to take the gold at gunpoint from some salvage thieves. Aside from potentially blowing our cover, you made that task a far sight more difficult.”
“I don’t think the ship has recovered any gold,” Mansfield said calmly. “I’ll dive it in the morning to be sure. If you have any further complaints, I suggest you take them up with the President.”
He turned on his heels and walked away, leaving the captain stewing. Reaching his cabin, he set his pistol on a bureau and rummaged through his suitcase for a bottle of Chivas Regal he kept wrapped in a sweater. He twisted off the cap and started to pour himself a glass, then thought the better of it, knowing in a few hours he would make another deepwater dive. He set the bottle next to a laptop computer, which he flipped on. An e-mail from Martina was waiting for him.
Captioned Cagliari, it contained a photo of a turquoise NUMA ship leaving the dock in Sardinia. The photo was centered on the ship’s bow, and Mansfield zoomed in to see the ship’s name. As he did, the figures of Dirk and Summer standing at the rail popped out at him.
Eyeing the twins, the normally restrained agent flung the laptop across the room, then proceeded to pour himself a double shot of Chivas.
66
The Black Sea was as flat as a billiard table when the two divers splashed into the dark green water. Neither hesitating at the surface, Pitt and Giordino descended within sight of an anchored shot line. The calm waters aided visibility, and they reached the one-hundred-and-twenty-foot mark before turning on their lights. A coarse, sandy bottom appeared thirty feet later.